“another lonely highway in the black of night…”

So…

Good news: Final exams are over.
Better news: I have a whopping three days off.
Bad news: Monday, I start my second summer session (six weeks of two more classes).
Something I’ve just fully realized: I haven’t taken even one summer off in the past three years of college.
Something I already know: Yes, this probably isn’t normal. Hmm.

Highlights from my day:

Red Bull and Pringles: breakfast for the masses! Well, for the Yaz anyway. And hey, it kept me awake, which is the most I could ask for these days.

I say people get dumber as the week progresses. Or maybe it’s just me. For example: A friend and I dragged ourselves to the library after our first final exam, and stepped into the elevator so that we could go up to the third floor and study. She pressed the button and chattered away about the exam, while I tuned her out and came to the conclusion that it was indeed possible to sleep standing up. The elevator doors closed, then opened a couple seconds later. I decided to open my eyes, only to realize we were still on the first floor. She pressed the button again. Same thing. Hmm, I thought. I looked on in detached interest as she repeatedly jabbed at the first floor button with her index finger, then her balled-up fist. It must have taken us a good minute to understand why the elevator wasn’t going anywhere, even though the doors were repeatedly opening and closing. I reached out and pressed the button for the third floor, and we laughed maniacally, slumping against the elevator walls as the doors closed once more and the elevator finally got going.

I know, I know. We’re such geniuses. The best part was the expression on the faces of the people studying on the first floor, who watched this whole drama with amusement and probably thought we were freaks.

And then I stepped out onto the third floor of the library, only to be greeted by a group of friends springing out of their chairs to serenade me with, “You…are…so…beautiful…to…me…” I’m sure I looked just as baffled as the other people studying in the vicinity. Actually, the look on my face was probably more like, What the hell??

Crackheads, all of us. My theory is, final exams and lack of adequate food and sleep (and the resulting exhaustion) make people act stupid. Just ask me, I’m a great example.

Oh, another friend and I got busted for eating Pringles in class. Halfway through my second final exam, I decided that I needed nourishment, so I nonchalantly decided to finish off whatever was felt in my Pringles canister. My friend and I passed the Pringles back and forth between us, unconcernedly munching away, and the rattling of the chips inside the canister was probably the only sound in an otherwise silent room filled with students scribbling away in their blue books, brows furrowed in concentration. Finally, our professor just couldn’t take it anymore, so she wandered over, smiling apologetically, and placed her finger over her lips. “Shhh, you’re making too much noise,” she admonished. I grinned unrepentantly and shoved the Pringles back into my bag, while my friend struggled not to laugh aloud. It was a total kindergarten moment. Ohh, the good ol’ days…

So yeah, I have three days off. No more hiding away in the cold, cold library, studying for twelve hours straight. No more driving home at midnight on dark, empty freeways, struggling and praying to stay awake. No more pulling all-nighters and forgetting to eat.

But what am I going to do, you ask? Lounge on the sofa and read novels. Have real conversations with my momma, instead of the exhausted monosyllables I use on my way in and out the door, late at night and early in the morning. Chill with my Shereenay, who starts classes at Cal in mid-August, meaning we’ll be seeing each other even less than we already do. Sit on the lawn or out in the courtyard, and soak up some sun to get rid of all the cold that's seeped into my bones. Eat dinner with meine Familie. Curl up on a comfy chair and flip through the piles of books I read to my preschoolers. (Everyone should read kids books. Trust me.) And if I feel like being really nice, I just might even go outside, pull some weeds for my daddy-o, and help him transplant geraniums (it's as easy as 1-2-3: just poke the stems into the ground. Voilà! Geraniums make life so uncomplicated). And I better not forget to oooh-and-aaah over my dad's latest pride and joy, the new shed we’ve just gotten built out back. He jokes that he’s going to buy me a desk and a sofa and stick ‘em in the shed, and that way I can study at the desk and pull all-nighters and crash on the sofa out there. In the shed. Amidst the fertilizers and gardening tools and the lawnmower, I’m assuming. I feel so special.

Three days. Have I mentioned sleep yet?

“food” and “good” are spelled similarly for a reason, ya know

Usually, I roll my eyes impatiently and jerk away in annoyance when people try to fuss over me. But there are still people who, no matter how deceptively sweet they look, can out-do me in stubbornness and nag me without annoying me. Now that takes some major skill, I say.

Take this friend of mine, for example. We have finals this Thursday. She constantly nags me for not studying enough, shakes her head in despair on the occasions when I fail to show up for lecture, and tells me I talk too much whenever we do manage to study together. What nerve. :) Last week she handed me an index card outlining our tentative study plan for finals, on the back of which she had scrawled, “For Ms. Smarty Pants Yasmeen, even with ditching!” I laughed, because she had spelled my name wrong, and drew an arrow to the top corner, where I rewrote it. She just shook her head ruefully and said, “Don’t forget to pay as much attention to the front side, okay?”

So I decided to be serious and actually attempt to study. But I had barely stepped inside her apartment yesterday evening and dropped my stuff across her sofa before she shoved a plate under my face and directed me to the kitchen, where she watched me narrowly to make sure I helped myself to everything. Everything being, garbanzo beans, samosas, fried chicken, and something that sort of tasted like kabob, but wasn’t. Whatever it was, it tasted good. And that’s all that matters. Washed down with several glasses of ice-cold water. A bit later, she offered me mangoes, then ice cream. It's not as if I had a choice; she made sure I ate it all. I guess she's not amused by the fact that I constantly forget to eat throughout the day. Either that, or I just don't make time for meals.

Then we studied. Actually, she studied, while I ended up falling asleep over my notes. And she let me sleep, which is unarguably a refreshing change from other friends whose goal in life is to poke me with their mechanical pencils whenever such a situation occurs.

When I decided it was time for me to leave, I just smiled indulgently as she argued that it was stupid of me to drive all the way home to the Bay Area at midnight, when I’d only be turning around and driving back up at 6:30-ish for my 8 a.m. class anyway. I’ve been through this scenario with dozens of people over the past three years. There are some things I’ve learned to just smile at and give up on explaining.

She even made me promise I’d call her when I reached home, so I did. Good thing I did, too; the crazy child was in a panic wondering if I’d make it home without falling asleep at the wheel.

Now I’m sitting here eating the two slices of strawberry shortcake she sent me home with. Yes, two slices. And I’m eating them both all by myself. Right now. Delayed gratification has never been one of my strong suits (edit: Please note that I am talking about food here). And I guess I must have been absent from kindergarten the day they talked about sharing. But it’s all good. You know, I’d love her anyway, but all this food she loads me down with is such a nice added bonus. Alhamdulillah for people who care.

I’m still glad I came home. It’s so much cooler down here. Which means I’m wearing my fuzzy socks again, because I’m weird like that, a fact that we’ve already established numerous times, I’m sure.

By the way, the stars are looking really beautiful tonight. I was watching them on the way home. You should go outside and see, too.

And there are deer on my street.

run-on sentences are so much fun

Has anyone been noticing that my posts are getting shorter and shorter? I was scrolling through some of my archives early this morning, looking for things to do to stay awake, and the fact that I was half-asleep and struggling to write a coherent paper did not put me in a good mood in the first place. So I read through my archives and rolled my eyes at some of my posts and thought sourly, Paragraphs, woman; paragraphs! And why the hell do you sound like you're drunk or on crack? It should be illegal for anyone to be that hyperactive. Brevity, you crazy child; it's all about brevity. I say talking to yourself, aloud or not, is normal. But talking to yourself in the middle of the night can be a bitter experience. It's all about scornful self-deprecation then. Writing research papers does not put me in a nice mood, you see. Good thing I got a few hours of sleep, and went to my halaqa session and fiqh class. It helped put things in perspective.

So I was tearing my room apart the other evening, trying to find something I never came across in the end. Instead, I found nostalgic stuff like wrinkled letters, cheesy birthday cards, old report sheets from elementary school (I got an "excellent" in reading back in first grade), stuff like that. The cutest thing was a pile of letters I wrote to my father when I was seven years old and in first grade, and he was visiting Pakistan for a few weeks. Here's one:

By yasmine to Daddy
Hi daddy I am yasmine. How are you. Did you get to pakistan on friday March 25? Are you in pakistan now? We all miss you. Daddy sometimes Nasser is a bad boy. He is a bad boy all the time. He fites with me and Shereen. And we do not like Nasser when he is a bad boy. Love yasmine

I sat there on the floor, surrounded by mountains of boxes and folders and books, and laughed so hard I had tears pouring out of my eyes. It's always such a hilarious experience, revisiting my childhood. But I still don't understand why I could capitalize everyone else's name and not my own, though. Here's another cute, albeit extremely repetitive, one:

Dear daddy. how are you. we are fine. how are you? do you like your Easter vacasin? How is pakistan? do you like it? we all miss you. We are in Sacramento for one week. we all miss you. how many more weeks do you have laft now daddy? we are all fine. how are you? are you having a good time? we are all fine. I am fine now too. love yasmine

You know, I really do amuse myself. And I'm such a sentimental fool, too. I can't help it.

Now I have to go fix this paper I worked on last night. Someone explain to me how I managed to write an eighteen-page paper that was supposed to be fifteen-pages max. I guess this is the part where I do amazingly technical things like change the double-spacing to one-and-a-half-space, and fiddle around with the margins. Maybe I'll even make the font half a size smaller. If I'm lucky, no one will be able to tell. What the heck.

Hey, I did all of the above on my university admission essay. It worked, didn't it?

>>Just to add:<< One of the things that was really, really instrumental in helping me stay awake last night (as I moaned and groaned and groused about my paper—to myself, of course) was Waleed's blog (Half Past Nomad), which was periodically updated (every 30 minutes) as he participated in the Blogathon2003. Faiza, Yaser, and Adnan also guest-blogged. Four amazing writers (say, Masha'Allah ;)) whose blogs I'm constantly checking for updates, steadily posting on one blog over a 24-hour span. How slick is that?

It'd be nice if you sponsored Waleed...your money goes towards a great cause (I think sponsorship's still open for another 24 hours or so). If not, hey, go read Waleed's blog and commend him and the guest bloggers for all their awesome and inspiring efforts anyway. That's the least you could do. :)

even red bull can't make me do this

I paused before making a right turn on a red light this morning, giving the right-of-way to a young guy who was bobbing his head in time to whatever was blasting out of his Queen-Amidala’s-hairdo-sized headphones.

He acknowledged me with a brief wave of thanks as he crossed through the intersection, then went back to enthusiastically playing his imaginary drums. While riding his bicycle. Hands-free.

I couldn’t help but grin at his retreating back as he continued down the street. And I’m so jealous. Not only do I lack the balance and coordination I’m assuming is required for riding a bike hands-free, but I’ve also never possessed that amount of hyperactivity so early in the morning. Especially not when I’m running on only two hours of sleep, as I am right now.

So I just went and bought myself four candy bars. Let’s see if this’ll do the trick.

Yes, I’m a girl without restraint; what can I say.

"sometimes sanity takes vacation time on me..."

I've just turned in what could be, by my standards, quite accurately categorized as the worst paper I've ever written in my life (this includes anything I wrote in elementary school too).

Funny thing is, I don't even give a damn.
And that, indeed, is the key to true happiness and a lifetime of minimal stress: not letting the trivial get to you.
How 'bout you go practice that for today.

Actually, I need to practice my own philosophy right now, because I'm sitting in the computer lab, struggling to keep my temper in check as this couple next to me goes over their online Spanish homework really, really loudly. I'm seriously contemplating bopping them over the head with my nice, shiny Pringles container if they keep it up for much longer. At least it'll make me laugh, and that's all I'm after today.

Got another paper due today: ten pages, in by 4 p.m. That's five hours. And I haven't even started, yo. You think I can pull this off? Send some du'as my way. :)

Just a couple notes:

- Lots of du'as out to Sana, who'll soon be leaving for the Deen-Intensive's al-Rihla Summer Program being held in New Mexico. I'd like to go next year, insha'Allah. Zaytuna's proximity to my own home has allowed me to appreciate the institute's impact on the lives of Muslims here in the Bay Area. Much of our Muslim presence and involvement in the Bay stems from Zaytuna and the amount of effort that Shaykh Hamza Yusuf has put into educating our community, both Muslim as well as non-Muslim, about Islam. So Rihla is my goal for next year, insha'Allah. I'd ask Sana to smuggle me along in her luggage, but considering the fact that I'm closer to New Mexico than she is, the logistics might not work out. :) In any case... Sana: May your experiences at Rihla increase you in knowledge and guidance, and enhance your love for Allah SWT and the Deen. And may we all, insha'Allah, be blessed with similar opportunities to further our Islamic knowledge. Ameen.

- In case you missed it, go read the short story that Abez has written. Masha'Allah, the sister's got amazing writing skills. :)

Okay, the Espanol-homework people are gone, so I can go back to eating my Pringles instead of giving in to my kindergarten reflexes and using the canister as a potential weapon. And, oh yes, the paper...

Be good, kiddos. Fi aman'Allah.

random thoughts from the week where every day seems like a monday—and it’s only been 2 days so far…

I think it should be illegal for brand-new flip-flops to cause blisters. I mean, geez, I bought ‘em cuz they looked comfy. How was I supposed to know I’d be grimacing in pain while walking (uhh, limping) all over campus today?

I like napping outside on the benches in the library courtyard.
I also like napping in the comfy chairs inside the library.
I did both today, because I’m in love with naps.
I think I’d nap my life away if I could.
If the university offered a degree in napping, I could graduate with high honors. Stop laughing. My family would be so proud; I just know it.

I also think it should be illegal for guys to grin suggestively at me on the freeway. Keep your eyes on the road in front of you, buddy boy.

Every girl should know how to check oil and coolant levels in her car. And tire pressures too. Because I said so. Stop being such a girl, geez.

Someone explain to me why I spent almost a dollar on a cup of cold milk to go with the $2.99 tiny slice of yummy cheesecake I gobbled down in thirty seconds at Borders. Okay, so I was starving. But, dude, I could have bought about four servings of french fries with that amount of money.

Actually, the only reason I resorted to cheesecake and milk was because the guy behind the counter at the Borders café was doing a horrible job of explaining all those frappuccinos and mochas and lattes and whatnot to me. Somehow, I got the feeling he didn’t know any more about coffee than I do. And I don’t know jack at all.

The concept of non-fat anything scares me. Food is meant to be enjoyed, okay?

Someone needs to invent a program that would ensure that slacker college students like myself can’t access any internet websites beyond those they specifically need for research purposes. Why else would I be blogging when I have two papers due Thursday?

Guess who has final exams next week? Guess who’s not worried yet, for some reason? If time slowed down a little, though, that’d be really nice.

Little, rectangular, yellow-orange gradient sunglasses make the world a nicer and happier place. You heard it here first.

I need to stop automatically slipping my sunglasses on when I get into my car at night. Child, there is something wrong with you.

University license plates frames are horribly, jaw-droppingly overpriced. Even if they are logo-ridden and shiny and elegant and impressive-looking.

I like fuzzy socks. And, yes, I am wearing fuzzy socks. Fuzzy socks cheer me up.

My dad thinks my inability to deal with cold temperatures is actually a mental thing. It’s all in your head, he says, tapping his temple and shaking his own head.

I say it’s cold. Leave me alone. And I'm wearing a sweater because shivering hampers my ability to think coherently and write brilliant research papers. Or so I like to believe.

I like being me—stupid new flip-flops, slacker tendencies, and all.

Alhamdulillah.

who would’ve known silence could be so loud

So I’m sitting here chillin’ when I’m supposed to be working on two papers that are due Thursday (all together now, Booooo! Thumbs down forever). I am instead, oh-so-conveniently, responding to emails, typing away on AIM, and debating the merits of pasting in the html code for this Haloscan commenting system I’ve had for months and yet never used. The weirdest part about all this is that I can’t hear anything. This crazy heat, and the fact that I keep my hearing aids on nearly 24/7, is wreaking havoc on my ears this summer. Impatient child that I am, I've just flung the hearing aids onto my desk, given my ears a good scrubbing with cold cold water, and curtly informed my family that I am unavailable for conversations for at least the next hour. None of which, of course, stopped my father from asking me, from all the way across the room, after numerous exaggerated waves and other gestures to get my attention, what the name of UC Berkeley’s School of Law is. I squinted at his face. I read his lips. I said, King. Then I said, No, Boalt. God knows which it is. [Actually, it is Boalt School of Law.] Daddy-o just sat there and laughed. I think he’s both amused at and impressed by my lip-reading skills. Either that, or he’s still secretly plotting to convince me to become a corporate lawyer. I'm assuming his MBA dreams for me are out of the picture, at least for now. As if I'm not a confused enough child as it is.

I keep thinking something’s up with my keyboard, because I can’t hear my fingers banging away as usual. Then I keep reminding myself it’s me, not the keyboard. Wack-o to the max, that’s me. What can I say.

But there’s still something extremely strange about chatting on instant messenger and not hearing the steady typing I usually associate with the computer. It’s like having a real, live conversation without hearing your own voice. Which I’ve also just done with my father. It would actually be pretty nice and peaceful, if only I didn’t keep having paranoid thoughts that someone’s trying to conduct a conversation with me without my realizing.

cute cute cute...

There is nothing quite so adorable as hearing a little pre-schooler ask hopefully, "Do you want to hold my hand?"

Even if he did call me "Jasmin."

our world is a sad, sad place...

...and what are we going to do about it?

Umar asked me to publicize the situation in Uzbekistan on my blog. Unfortunately, I don't know enough about the subject to be able to discuss it at length, but you all really should go check out his post to get an idea. We need to better educate ourselves about things like this, myself included. Take a good, hard look at the accompanying photos, and think about how carefree our own lives are in comparison.

Here's an article from the Guardian that gives an overview of the whole situation, and here is one more. Go read.

Reminds me that we need to make progress on our community website/blog endeavor, since the whole point of that was to educate each other about issues similar to this... And you did click on all those links, right? I hope so.

day is done, gone the sun,/from the hills, from the lake, from the sky...

- It’s an unusual week when Somayya and I don’t have a conversation similar to the following at least a few times. Last night:

“We cooked chicken today!” she gleefully informs me. “Do you want some?”
I look at her blankly.
“Did you eat dinner already?” She stares me down. The steady death stare. No escape from this one. “You did eat something today, right? What did you eat?”
The death stare is killing me. I hurriedly put on my best “thinking face”…pursed lips, furrowed brow, and all. “Uhh, lemme see…”
She shakes her head and looks disapprovingly at me. I feel like a two-year-old. “You didn’t eat anything? Don’t tell me you went a whole day without eating anything! What the hell is—”
I hold up two fingers and wave them in front of her face. “I ate two cookies! And…and…oh! Two plums!” I sit back and grin sheepishly.
She rolls her eyes. “We cooked chicken,” she repeats. “Here. Eat it.”

- Today, I made her proud by going out to lunch and eating my fill of fish ‘n’ chips. My first time ever. Good stuff, man. Lots of tartar sauce and ketchup are essential. And here I thought fish ‘n’ chips existed only in London. California and the concept of fish ‘n’ chips just don’t fit. That’s some funky juxtaposition right there. Who even knew a tiny fish ‘n’ chips place existed in a cramped corner of that downtown area? Not me, that’s for sure. I found out today though, and I’ll be back, insha’Allah. But not this week, and maybe not even the next, because the place straight wiped me out in terms of whatever meager funds I had. I am now once more a broke college student, thank you very much. As a result, I am now accepting food donations via email and/or instant messenger. Any and all contributions will be enthusiastically accepted, I promise. Especially french fries. Err, I mean chips. And while we’re on the subject of chips, I bet all those people in Britain get their fish ‘n’ chips for some paltry sum, while I had to empty out the contents of my wallet for an order. That’s not fair, yo.

That’s it; I’m moving to London, next chance I get. I’ve always wanted to have a British accent anyway. This way, I’ll get the cool accent and my share of french fries. Sorry, I meant chips.

- One more thing: It’s taken me three years, but I’ve finally realized I’m not authorized to access my university library’s electronic journal databases from home. Damn. Smart one, aren’t I? So, this evening, I decided to resort to the old-fashioned method of researching: wandering up and down the library stacks on the second floor, peering at thick-spined books and journals containing fine print about child development, stretching up on my toes to reach for the ones on the highest shelf (I’m short, ok?). I’m too scared to even count how many books I dragged back down the elevator with me. Suffice it to say that when I staggered to the front end of the library with my armload of books and dropped them onto the circulation counter with a bang, the guy there didn’t even so much as blink.

Instead, he had the nerve to smile knowingly and ask, “Paper due tomorrow?”
Damn again. And here I had just been smugly congratulating myself on not looking as harried and desperate as I felt. I smiled back, a bit shamefacedly. “Yup.”
“And you’re starting it tonight, huh?”
“No,” I assured him. “I’ve already started. But I can’t access the database off-campus, so I need to take these books home. Either way, I can still turn this in next week and it’ll be okay.”
“Are you a good writer?” he asked.
“I hope so. I need to get this done and out of the way, quickly.”
“Is your professor a he or a she?” he asked.
“A she.”
He nodded sagely. “Turn it in tomorrow. Early. I don’t know why exactly, but that’s what always works with the female professors.” He shrugged at the look on my face. “Too bad it’s not a guy.”

Let me just say “Damn” one more time.

hey, i take breaks as a career, okay?

I was laughing at the messages on my tagboard yesterday. sHe posted, “um, Yasmine? It seems u have exams or tests every time. DO U EVER GET A BREAK????? U MAD, MAD, GEEKY WOMAN, give urself a breakkkk; sit back and relax!” [btw, I added in the commas, cuz I’m obsessive-compulsive like that. ;)] I’ve also been accused of “loving studyin’ so much, I’ve forgotten what breaks are” (thanks, Usman bro. lol). Not to mention the various digs by Sana, Sahar, and Mani. <--[heh, I guess this is the Yaz way of doing random plugs. Deal.]

Let me clear things up a bit for those of you who seriously believe that all I do is spend my days in the university library, madly studying away. Take yesterday for example: After four hours of sleep the night before, I went to my 8 a.m. class and b.s.’ed my way through an essay exam. After that, I wandered over the library to check my emails and surf the net for a couple hours. Then I took a nap on the comfy chairs, and woke up when my afternoon class would have been halfway over already. I looked at my watch, briefly debated between screaming and cursing, or going back to sleep, and opted for sleep instead. An hour later, I sat out in the sunny courtyard and ate my sandwich, then sauntered down to a computer lab and checked out blogs instead of writing a twelve-page paper that’s due Thursday. On his way to the Sacramento airport to catch his evening flight for a business trip, my dad called to ask if I was up for meeting him for ice cream or coffee. I groaned at coffee, but agreed to the ice cream, so he picked me up from campus and he, Somayya, and I spent a nice time having interesting conversations about life, death, and ice cream. [Somayya is my partner-in-crime, in case you’ve forgotten. We’re cousins by default, friends by choice. It works out very nicely, masha’Allah.] My dad never fails to amuse. He and Somayya always end up having the most hilarious conversations in the most deadpan way, something I, unfortunately, can’t pull off. I don’t know how to keep a straight face when I feel like laughing my head off instead. *sigh* Ah well though. ‘s all good, yo.

My stupid Hotmail account and I are having issues these days. Even though my junk mail filter is set on “exclusive,” it still delivers junk mail to my inbox and maliciously sends important, real emails to my junk mail folder, or straight out deletes them. That’s soo messed up, I say. The last time I let Hotmail get to me, though, it freaked out everyone around me, so I’m just gonna ignore my email woes for now, and stick to Yahoo. At least Yahoo has interesting stories. For example: Yesterday I found an email in my inbox with the subject line, “This is not junk mail…please read…” I rolled my eyes, Suuuure, and almost pressed “delete,” but then I noticed that the name of the person who sent it was of Arab origin, which made me curious. Turns out they’re looking for an old classmate, a girl named Yasmine, about my age, who studied at the New English School (NES) in Kuwait. Hey, it’s not me. But interesting, nonetheless. Spread the word if you know her. lol.

Okay, so while I’m rambling away, I might as well add a story. Actually, not really a story; more like a reflection. I was driving home late the other night, blasting my radio and alternating between mentally making fun of and shaking my head in chagrin at all the cars on the road that needed their headlights replaced. [Btw, I’m going to do a whole post sometime this week about all the things that annoy or baffle me about other drivers. It might be kinda mean, so be prepared. Meanwhile, if you own a car, check to make sure your headlights are working, will ya.] Halfway home, I went around a sharp curve and my headlights illuminated a man standing at the side of the freeway, middle-aged, wearing a white t-shirt, his thumb held out in the usual hitchhiker’s plea. If it hadn’t been for the white shirt, I would have missed him, it was so dark. My first impulse was to slow down, to stop and ask if he was okay, if he needed use of my cell phone or a ride to a gas station. A split second later, I decided not to. It was eleven o’clock at night, on a dark, fifteen-mile stretch of freeway between the 680/80 interchange and the Benicia Bridge, the mountains on one side, marshland on the other, a stretch of freeway with minimal lighting, few cars, and no homes or gas stations in the vicinity. And if his car had broken down, I didn’t see one nearby, neither before or after the spot where he was standing at the side of the road. Which means he was a hitchhiker, I guess, although I don’t know why anyone in their right mind would want to engage in such an endeavor at a time like that.

So, yeah, I kept driving. I still had thirty miles to go before I reached home, and the entire way I went back and forth over my decision. And I felt bad. All the reasons that kept me from stopping (late night; dark, empty roads…) were also reasons why I should have helped someone if he were stranded on a freeway at that hour. Maybe his car had broken down somewhere off the freeway, on one of those empty roads nearby, and so he had ventured out onto the freeway to hitch a ride. I dunno. If my car broke down on the freeway late at night, I would hope that someone would have enough kindness to stop and help me out. The thing is, I'm sure someone would, simply because I'm a girl, and I don't look threatening at all. And to be honest, the only thing that really kept me from stopping and helping him is the fact that I’m a girl. I hate the fact that, as a girl in a situation like that, I have to distrust a man who seemed to need help, that I have to second-guess his intentions and refuse to help him, against my better judgement. Dammit. It’s really bugging the hell out of me, even though it's been several days. I hope he was okay though, insha’Allah.

Soo…I gotta go make some progress on this twelve page paper. Which requires research. Which I don’t want to do. So maybe I should just take another break. ;) But I don’t think that would be a great idea. Fi aman’Allah, y’all, and send some du’as my way.

butterflies and books

Okay, so one midterm down; now, a constant stream of midterms, research papers, and final exams planned for the next three weeks. How exciting. If I keep disappearing from my blog for prolonged periods of time, it means I'm pretending to study. Got it?

Hmm, I’m trying to think of interesting things to write, but I’m simultaneously thinking of the midterm I have on Monday, and trying to convince the evil voice in my head that b.s. skills are not an option for this one. Gotta crack those coffee-table decorations…err, I mean, textbooks. Yes, I still need to stop thinking of them as existing strictly for ornamental purposes.

So I’ve changed my preschool deal once again. It’s now on Friday mornings since, during the summer, that's the only day I'm free from classes. Today was fun primarily because all the boys wanted me to make them paper airplanes. I sat there hesitantly folding construction paper, uncertain about whether I even remembered how to make a paper airplane. But my first attempt flew all the way from one end of the room to the other, and that was all the proof the boys needed. Then the girls got into it too, and I have hereby been declared a “paper airplane expert.” So, anyway, I made a bunch of airplanes, and somewhere along the way I had to deal with one of the boys bursting into tears because he somehow got the idea I wasn't making him one after all. Little kids crack me up. They're soo cute though, masha’Allah. The funny part is, just sitting there making paper airplanes totally made my day. Crazy, huh? But very true. It's totally been making me smile all day. I can't help it; I'm a weirdo. It's all good though, because I can admit it, so that makes it normal. Slightly demented, is how I would put it. Hmm, I'm rambling, aren't I? Okay, moving along.

Did a lot of coloring at the preschool today. Crayons are the love of my life (after french fries), in case you didn’t know. There’s nothing quite like balancing precariously on those tiny wooden chairs and madly scribbling away, elbow-to-elbow with 4-year-old artists-in-the-making, to make you feel good. They kept passing me the red crayon, too. What cute kids, see? In between drawing butterflies and flowers for all the girly-girls, I was inundated with requests to make even more paper airplanes. One boy came up behind me, flung his arms around my neck, and said plaintively, “Yasmine....” I said, “Yes, Noah?” He smiled sweetly. “If you make me a paper airplane today, I'll be very proud of you...” It was so cute. The kid already knows how to push people's buttons. And he's only 4. So I made him one too, of course. I mean, how could I resist the whole concept of a 4-year-old being proud of me?

And yes, I love being easily amused; it’s such a skill. Everyone should practice it. If you haven’t yet cultivated the art of being easily amused, I think you had better get to it, yo.

On the way home, I stopped by a used bookstore and bought ten books for seventeen dollars. Very slick, I say. Of course, I’ve read most of them already, but that’s the whole point. I only buy those books which I’ve already read and appreciated enough to want my own copy. I’m seriously in need of at least two more bookcases though, since I have books piled on the floor, crammed into the only bookcase, stashed under my bed and inside my dresser drawers, and even flung somewhere into the far recesses of my closet, I believe. *sigh* They should formulate a twelve-step program for me. “Hi, my name is Yasmine, and I have a problem. I can’t stop buying books, man.”

Alhamdulillah for chill days.

school blues, OR: studieren macht keinen spass

The long weekend was spent doing nothing more productive than reading novels and stubbornly refusing to drive anywhere, meaning that I hadn’t been behind the wheel of my car in three whole days. That’s a big deal for me. Which is why today’s 120-mile round-trip commute to and from school exhausted me enough to want to crawl into bed when I returned home this evening.

But we can’t be doing that, because guess who just figured out she has a midterm exam on Thursday? Guess who still hasn’t gotten jack done in terms of studying? Guess who needs to go back to productive all-nighters and nasty energy drinks? And guess whose definition of “productive” at the moment consists of composing a blog post and talking on AIM? Me-me-me…pick ME!

So yeah. School is always such drama when it comes to me, since I’m constantly changing my mind about things. Actually, that probably goes for me and life in general, too. I remember, when I was a little girl, my two greatest goals were to become a professional Frisbee player and to marry MacGuyver when I grew up. Very simple, yet definite, ambitions. I really wonder when everything became such a process.

Had a nice day though, alhamdulillah. I was planning on studying in the university library between classes, but it was so cold in there that I just had to escape. Air conditioning and I just don’t get along in most cases. So I went out to the library courtyard, and had the huge expanse all to myself. Threw my stuff across a wooden bench, put my feet up, munched on a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich—haven’t had one for years, but they’re growing on me again—and amusedly watched a pair of birds squabble over the bread crusts I sent their way (yes, seems like I’ve retained some kindergarten habits when it comes to pb&j).

It was an unordinary day by any standards, but the couple of hours out in the sunshine cleared my head. This, too, shall pass, and all that. Insha'Allah.

forget “dear abby”; this man knows his advice

“You ask whether your verses are good. You ask me. You have asked others before. You send them to magazines. You compare them with other poems, and you are disturbed when certain editors reject your efforts. Now (since you have allowed me to advise you) I beg you to give up all that. You are looking outward, and that above all you should not do now. Nobody can counsel and help you, nobody. There is only one single way. Go into yourself. Search for the reason that bids you to write; find out whether it is spreading out its roots in the deepest places of your heart, acknowledge to yourself whether you would have to die if it were denied you to write. This above all—ask yourself in the stillest hour of the night: must I write? Delve into yourself for a deep answer. And if this should be affirmative, if you may meet this earnest question with a strong and simple “I must,” then build your life according to this necessity; your life even into its most indifferent and slightest hour must be a sign of this urge and a testimony to it. Then draw near to Nature. Then try, like some first human being, to say what you see and experience and love and lose…

“…Save yourself from general themes and seek those which your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, passing thoughts and the belief in some sort of beauty—describe all these with loving, quiet, humble sincerity, and use, to express yourself, the things in your environment, the images from your dreams, and the objects of your memory. If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches; for to the creator there is no poverty and no poor indifferent place. And even if you were in some prison the walls of which let none of the sounds of the world come to your senses—would you not then still have your childhood, that precious, kingly possession, that treasure-house of memories? Turn your attention thither. Try to raise the submerged sensations of that ample past; your personality will grow more firm, your solitude will widen and will become a dusky dwelling past which the noise of others goes by far away…”

::Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

bambi was here + random musings from everyone’s favorite rebel child

- The most exciting thing to happen today was that a deer found its way into my front yard this evening and started munching on the rose bushes. I was too delighted by the spectacle to do anything other than remain seated at the dining room table, stare out the window, and go, “Awwww…” Shereen finally opened the front door, snapped a photo, and shooed it away. Darn. The other afternoon, Shereen tells me, we had a procession of turkeys in our courtyard: a mother and about ten baby turkeys. Apparently one of our neighbors keeps them as pets. Interesting, ain’t it? I’m not sure exactly where the deer live though, but if you drive down our winding road after dark, they’re often found standing in the middle of the street, only to gracefully leap out of the way in the face of the bright headlights bearing down on them.

- I figured out a great way to work out without dwelling on how tired you are: Stick a rock album in your discman, turn it up really loud (that’s a must, to get the full effect), and watch some extreme auto-racing show on t.v. Who ever knew that stuff was so interesting and entertaining? I was so mesmerized that I ran almost three miles on the treadmill without even realizing it. And it’s much easier to tell who’s winning in a car race rather than in a golf tournament or tennis match. I watched Andre Agassi play someone in tennis the other morning, and I had noo idea what was going on. I finally figured out Agassi won when I saw a flashing box at the bottom of the t.v. screen, reading, “Winner: Agassi.” Yes, I have skills. Shut up.

- I need to cut down on the vampire hours once again. I stay up late, and don’t get jack done. Pointless. I seriously haven’t studied at all since my summer classes began two weeks ago. I speed the sixty miles to campus every morning, barely making it on time for my 8 a.m. class, and then struggle to stay awake. In between yawning my head off, staring bleary-eyed at the PowerPoint presentations, and scribbling down notes, I munch on cookies and doodle on my friends’ notes. Then I head to the university library, prop my feet up and nap on the comfy chairs for two hours, join Somayya for a work-out, go to my afternoon class (repeating the morning’s yawning and bleary-eyed routine), head to the library, and take another nap. Then I come home and eat dinner and waste time checking emails. I haven’t even opened my textbooks yet. Better believe it. Maybe I should just leave ‘em closed. They’d make pretty nice coffee-table books, I think. Good for decorative purposes.

- Funny how, these days, I spend all my time in the library sleeping. Usually, I’m more occupied with doing stuff in the library that you're not supposed to. For example, checking emails on the library computers, even though they’re strictly meant for research. Not that that's ever stopped me in the past. A couple of weeks ago, I was sitting there nonchalantly checking my emails, when one of the librarians walked up behind me and said disapprovingly, “You know you're not allowed to check your emails here. I'm going to have to ask you to sign off.” I answered, “Oh, really?”…looking all innocent, as if there weren't ten signs plastered all over each computer telling me the same thing. ‘Twas funny though. But I'm back at it again. Old habits die hard, ya know. I do all kinds of stuff in the library that you're not supposed to. Like, EAT. That's another no-no, but I do it all the time. What makes it even funnier is I usually sit in plain view of the circulation and information desks, and if they looked up at just the right moment, they could catch me stuffing a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup into my mouth. But they never do. What can I say? I'm a rebel child. I eat Reese’s and bagels in the library, sneak in water bottles, check my emails and talk on AIM on the research computers. And since I always sit at the front tables, I end up distracting all those good-intentioned people who actually walk in here to study, of all things. I'm like, "Studying? What's that??" It's such a crazy life, being The Yaz.

- Speaking of Reese’s, everyone needs to go read Shereen’s post about vanilla extract and vanillin. Both of these ingredients in your dessert of choice are a major no-no. Go find out why.

- So I’m sitting here trying to make headway on an assignment due tomorrow: an outline for my Infancy & Early Childhood Development class. Basically, we have to use the theories and concepts learned in this course to write a paper about raising our own hypothetical child, from the prenatal stage up to age five. Sounds interesting, no? The only problem is, I’m afraid I’m going to end up with some majorly whack rebel child, a mini-me, so to speak. *sigh* I’m laughing right now, recalling the day I told a friend about my wild escapades and crazy insanities as a child. He just shook his head and deadpanned, “You’re lucky your parents didn't leave you at the Salvation Army.” I think, compared to my childhood, my experiences these days are relatively tame. Let’s just consider that a good thing.