Thursday, August 28, 2003
Wednesday, August 27, 2003
dennis the menace
I met a little boy yesterday. His name is Dennis, but he looks like a five-year-old version of the character Malcolm from the television series “Malcolm in the Middle.” Brown-haired and green-eyed, he earnestly wishes his father weren’t angry with him so often, and that his parents would get along better.
He’s only momentarily serious though.
Mostly, Dennis is a hyperactive child who just can’t keep still. He fiddles with his belt buckle, sniffs interestedly at his sneakers, and rocks back and forth in his chair so that the wooden legs stomp against the floor. He reaches out for my croissant, loudly asks for a sip of my dark chocolate frappuccino (I apologetically deny his request, explaining that I have a cold), and skips through the coffee shop on his way out the door. Out on the sidewalk, and later in the car, he engages in perfectly-timed hip-hop-like moves that he proudly calls his “robot dance,” and brings me to laughter with an impeccably-delivered imitation of his no-nonsense kindergarten teacher (“Time to clean up! NOW!”).
He professes that he’s a quiet kid while at school, but I have reservations about believing him. As his backseat companion during the drive, I am witness to his active nature. Dennis likes twisting his body in wild contortions and shaking spasmodically. Exaggerated facial expressions are his specialty. Time and again, he rolls his eyes, gestures fiercely, and clasps his own neck with both hands as if in the throes of death.
“Not that way, silly!” Dennis admonishes when I hold the baby’s pacifier upside-down. Leaning over, he exhorts the baby (a girl) to “Wake up, buddy boy!” and performs his infamous “robot dance” to make her smile.
Throughout the drive, he repeatedly informs me that we’re going to the park so that he can “teach me how to be hyper.” “I’m not hyper enough?” I ask. “No,” he retorts, and dramatically throws out his arms. “I’m hyper all the time!”
“I can tell,” I say dryly.
Once we reach the park, he unbuckles his seat belt in a rush, leaps out of the car, and unhesitatingly grabs my hand. “Let’s go be silly and hyper!” he suggests. We race hand-in-hand across the grass and along the concrete walkway leading up to the playground, even as I laughingly protest that my flimsy flip-flops weren’t made for such exertion.
We swing across the monkey bars and race down the slides. We climb up the slides too, something that always gives me inordinate pleasure simply because it was disallowed back when I was in elementary school. It probably still is, for all I know. Dennis stands at the top of the curving slide, puts his fingers to his mouth, and lets out an ear-piercing wolf whistle before sliding down. Suitably impressed, I make him repeat the whistle, but fail miserably at imitating it.
We head over to the swings. Dennis insists on pushing me, screaming, “Yaaaaaaaaah!” into my ear every time I swing back towards him. I poke his scrawny five-year-old arm and commend him on his muscles. Eventually, he scampers off towards the grass, intent on showing me the squirrels. Crouched low to the ground, he carefully places one foot in front of the other, fingers at his lips. But the squirrels are a no-show.
His next mission, seemingly, is to pick every single dandelion in the park. He hands me the short-stemmed ones, keeping the long ones for himself because “he has bigger wishes.” I lazily blow at each dandelion he brings me, watching the seeds float away, while Dennis turns his back to me and performs his dandelion rituals in a more secretive manner. I watch him surreptitiously. Depending on the nature of each wish, he either scrunches up his face earnestly or giggles uncontrollably before huffing and puffing at his dandelions.
On the drive back, I am subjected to Dennis’s nonstop, twenty-minute-long recitation of what he supposedly has for breakfast every morning (he starts out innocently enough with pizza, hot-dogs, and cheese, before segueing into eyeballs, stinky socks, stop lights “way out in Las Vegas,” car seats, telephones, stinky shoes, speakers, people’s brains, and on and on and on), refusing to admit what he really eats. “Well I usually eat waffles,” I interject loftily. “So!” he snaps, stung into telling the truth, “I eat coco-puffs cereal. And I drink all my milk, too! So I’m better than you!” “Gotcha!” I laugh, but Dennis is undeterred, continuing on with his recitation of ludicrous breakfast choices. The entire process is accompanied, of course, by dramatic eye-rolling, wild gestures, and further demonstrations of the “robot dance.”
I never learned how to whistle as well as Dennis does. But I did teach him how to snap his fingers. Lord knows, I just may regret it.
I met a little boy yesterday. His name is Dennis, but he looks like a five-year-old version of the character Malcolm from the television series “Malcolm in the Middle.” Brown-haired and green-eyed, he earnestly wishes his father weren’t angry with him so often, and that his parents would get along better.
He’s only momentarily serious though.
Mostly, Dennis is a hyperactive child who just can’t keep still. He fiddles with his belt buckle, sniffs interestedly at his sneakers, and rocks back and forth in his chair so that the wooden legs stomp against the floor. He reaches out for my croissant, loudly asks for a sip of my dark chocolate frappuccino (I apologetically deny his request, explaining that I have a cold), and skips through the coffee shop on his way out the door. Out on the sidewalk, and later in the car, he engages in perfectly-timed hip-hop-like moves that he proudly calls his “robot dance,” and brings me to laughter with an impeccably-delivered imitation of his no-nonsense kindergarten teacher (“Time to clean up! NOW!”).
He professes that he’s a quiet kid while at school, but I have reservations about believing him. As his backseat companion during the drive, I am witness to his active nature. Dennis likes twisting his body in wild contortions and shaking spasmodically. Exaggerated facial expressions are his specialty. Time and again, he rolls his eyes, gestures fiercely, and clasps his own neck with both hands as if in the throes of death.
“Not that way, silly!” Dennis admonishes when I hold the baby’s pacifier upside-down. Leaning over, he exhorts the baby (a girl) to “Wake up, buddy boy!” and performs his infamous “robot dance” to make her smile.
Throughout the drive, he repeatedly informs me that we’re going to the park so that he can “teach me how to be hyper.” “I’m not hyper enough?” I ask. “No,” he retorts, and dramatically throws out his arms. “I’m hyper all the time!”
“I can tell,” I say dryly.
Once we reach the park, he unbuckles his seat belt in a rush, leaps out of the car, and unhesitatingly grabs my hand. “Let’s go be silly and hyper!” he suggests. We race hand-in-hand across the grass and along the concrete walkway leading up to the playground, even as I laughingly protest that my flimsy flip-flops weren’t made for such exertion.
We swing across the monkey bars and race down the slides. We climb up the slides too, something that always gives me inordinate pleasure simply because it was disallowed back when I was in elementary school. It probably still is, for all I know. Dennis stands at the top of the curving slide, puts his fingers to his mouth, and lets out an ear-piercing wolf whistle before sliding down. Suitably impressed, I make him repeat the whistle, but fail miserably at imitating it.
We head over to the swings. Dennis insists on pushing me, screaming, “Yaaaaaaaaah!” into my ear every time I swing back towards him. I poke his scrawny five-year-old arm and commend him on his muscles. Eventually, he scampers off towards the grass, intent on showing me the squirrels. Crouched low to the ground, he carefully places one foot in front of the other, fingers at his lips. But the squirrels are a no-show.
His next mission, seemingly, is to pick every single dandelion in the park. He hands me the short-stemmed ones, keeping the long ones for himself because “he has bigger wishes.” I lazily blow at each dandelion he brings me, watching the seeds float away, while Dennis turns his back to me and performs his dandelion rituals in a more secretive manner. I watch him surreptitiously. Depending on the nature of each wish, he either scrunches up his face earnestly or giggles uncontrollably before huffing and puffing at his dandelions.
On the drive back, I am subjected to Dennis’s nonstop, twenty-minute-long recitation of what he supposedly has for breakfast every morning (he starts out innocently enough with pizza, hot-dogs, and cheese, before segueing into eyeballs, stinky socks, stop lights “way out in Las Vegas,” car seats, telephones, stinky shoes, speakers, people’s brains, and on and on and on), refusing to admit what he really eats. “Well I usually eat waffles,” I interject loftily. “So!” he snaps, stung into telling the truth, “I eat coco-puffs cereal. And I drink all my milk, too! So I’m better than you!” “Gotcha!” I laugh, but Dennis is undeterred, continuing on with his recitation of ludicrous breakfast choices. The entire process is accompanied, of course, by dramatic eye-rolling, wild gestures, and further demonstrations of the “robot dance.”
I never learned how to whistle as well as Dennis does. But I did teach him how to snap his fingers. Lord knows, I just may regret it.
Labels: Conversations and Encounters
Monday, August 25, 2003
eh?
- I was supposed to have finished reading a four-hundred-page book last week so that I could use it as the major reference for my paper that’s due Thursday. Too bad I haven’t even made it past page eighty-five or so. And my all-nighter vampire child skills are declining rapidly. Thus, the answer to all my problems: Cranberry-raspberry juice and Pringles. Yayyee!
- I need to go on a road trip soon. I’m feeling antsy these days. I guess my regular 120-miles-a-day commute just ain’t cutting it. Yes, I know, I’m an overachiever, what can I say.
- Earlier today, I looked down at the floor with marked interest, watched a little lizard lazily unfurl its tail, and remarked offhandedly, “You are so not cool.” I then went back to setting the table for dinner. It took me about a minute to fully realize what I had just said, at which point I started laughing. Well, hey, at least I’m now talking to lizards, instead of conversing with the voices in my head. That’s an improvement, no? (I think my ummy got rid of the lizard.)
- A friend just deigned to reply to my email from two months ago with the comparatively abbreviated response: “That was one of the coolest emails I have ever gotten... So vivid and esoteric and random and somehow just plain mind-bogglingly coherent. I’m speechless.”
(I had to go look up “esoteric” in the dictionary. Shh, don’t tell.)
- And my annoyance of the day: Why, oh why, is it so difficult to find a 7-Eleven or any other convenience store that sells blue slurpees? Dude, all I’m asking for is a BLUE slurpee. I don’t care if they have vanilla-, strawberry-, Pepsi-, or tropical-punch-flavored slurpees. I want a blue one. For reals. That’s the only kind that matters, I say. I don’t even care what flavor the blue slurpee happens to be, so long as it’s blue. It’s all about the color. Don’t ask me to explain. If you loved blue slurpees, too, you’d know what I’m talking about. All you non-blue-slurpee-lovers…*tsk*
- And after that rant, I desperately need to go and pretend I’m being productive.
- I was supposed to have finished reading a four-hundred-page book last week so that I could use it as the major reference for my paper that’s due Thursday. Too bad I haven’t even made it past page eighty-five or so. And my all-nighter vampire child skills are declining rapidly. Thus, the answer to all my problems: Cranberry-raspberry juice and Pringles. Yayyee!
- I need to go on a road trip soon. I’m feeling antsy these days. I guess my regular 120-miles-a-day commute just ain’t cutting it. Yes, I know, I’m an overachiever, what can I say.
- Earlier today, I looked down at the floor with marked interest, watched a little lizard lazily unfurl its tail, and remarked offhandedly, “You are so not cool.” I then went back to setting the table for dinner. It took me about a minute to fully realize what I had just said, at which point I started laughing. Well, hey, at least I’m now talking to lizards, instead of conversing with the voices in my head. That’s an improvement, no? (I think my ummy got rid of the lizard.)
- A friend just deigned to reply to my email from two months ago with the comparatively abbreviated response: “That was one of the coolest emails I have ever gotten... So vivid and esoteric and random and somehow just plain mind-bogglingly coherent. I’m speechless.”
(I had to go look up “esoteric” in the dictionary. Shh, don’t tell.)
- And my annoyance of the day: Why, oh why, is it so difficult to find a 7-Eleven or any other convenience store that sells blue slurpees? Dude, all I’m asking for is a BLUE slurpee. I don’t care if they have vanilla-, strawberry-, Pepsi-, or tropical-punch-flavored slurpees. I want a blue one. For reals. That’s the only kind that matters, I say. I don’t even care what flavor the blue slurpee happens to be, so long as it’s blue. It’s all about the color. Don’t ask me to explain. If you loved blue slurpees, too, you’d know what I’m talking about. All you non-blue-slurpee-lovers…*tsk*
- And after that rant, I desperately need to go and pretend I’m being productive.
Labels: Glorious mundanity
Sunday, August 24, 2003
when all else fails...
U: ok...hey:
U: Do you think it'd be odd if I became so well-off, like real comfy in life
U: I mean not having to answer to anybody...
U: And then I started dressing like a pirate
Yasmine: hmmmm
Yasmine: Pirate?
U: You know, eye patches, do-rags on the head, and shredded shirts
Yasmine: Why a pirate?
Yasmine: Eye patch and all?
Yasmine: hahahahaha
U: Like a diff' pirate theme each day
U: One day, Red Beard
Yasmine: And this is, why?
U: Next day, One-Eyed Willy
U: And then one day, like Ol' Salty Dog
U: And Black Beard
U: I mean, just be a pirate
Yasmine: hmm sounds hecka fun yo
U: And since I'll be so well-off, no job or office to worry about
Yasmine: Now that would be the life
Yasmine: And all this wealth will come from your career in medicine?
Yasmine: As a doctor?
Yasmine: So these are post-retirement plans or what?
U: Well, I meant just hypothetically if I won the lottery or my long-lost uncle turned out to be a Saudi sheikh, etc.
Yasmine: ohhh
Yasmine: I see how it is
U: Yea. You know, just for the heck of it
U: Like pirates of the caribbean
U: One day a deck swabber
U: Next day a cantina-hombre
Yasmine: hahahaha
Yasmine: This is so funny
U: Another day, the cook
U: Then finally, ol' crusty Cap'n Crunch
U: One day go w/ the peg leg
U: Another day, the hook
U: But Allah wouldn't like mockery of the less fortunate
U: So I'd keep limbs non-parodied
U: :-[
Yasmine: Smart child
U: But, you feel me? I mean, to be so well-off and so untouchable, that you don't have to abide nor comform to society's niches or qualms
Yasmine: I don't do that anywayz
Yasmine: Conform, I mean
Yasmine: Drives my family and relatives insane
Yasmine: lol
U: To be able to say to my son, "Ahoy matey, you lil &#^$@"
U: Yea, BUT do YOU have a parrot and an eyepatch??
Yasmine: You sure your son won't be all traumatized?
U: And my son would then say, "Ol' piece of barnacle *$%^#, go walketh the plank!"
U: Oh, and the swords, wow
Yasmine: Dude, your family is gonna be psycho to the max
U: hahaha, you'll be the nutty aunt down the road, commited in the "institute"
Yasmine: Wonderful
Yasmine: You guys can have fun during visiting hours
Yasmine: Make sure you bring me some crayons
Yasmine: AND french fries
U: omg, i forgot
U: Fish n CHIPS!
U: LONG JOHN SILVER!
U: And everytime I say, "Where's my booty," everyone will go, "She's at the halaqa"
U: HAHAHAHA
Yasmine: Dude, what are you ON?
U: Booty = spoils, riches
U: But in a BET/ebonics sense, I'd be hip to the homies
Yasmine: Yeah, I got that
Yasmine: Insane in the membrane....
Yasmine: Loco en la cabesa...
U: To say the least
U: Mein Kopf ist sehr sehr WACK
Yasmine: Now that's a major understatement
U: (Deep in pirate thought)
U: (Mustache or beard?)
U: ahh, decisions, decisions, decisions
Yasmine: What did the voices in your head decide on that one?
U: hmm, man I dunno if a pious practising Muslim jigga can pull off a real-deal pirate
U: Man, watta bummer
U: Come on...
U: I can't wear jewelry
U: I don't swear
U: And my idea of getting liquored up is drinking too much Mountain Dew
U: Jeez, I built this immaculate dream, and now it's CRASHED
U: ok...hey:
U: Do you think it'd be odd if I became so well-off, like real comfy in life
U: I mean not having to answer to anybody...
U: And then I started dressing like a pirate
Yasmine: hmmmm
Yasmine: Pirate?
U: You know, eye patches, do-rags on the head, and shredded shirts
Yasmine: Why a pirate?
Yasmine: Eye patch and all?
Yasmine: hahahahaha
U: Like a diff' pirate theme each day
U: One day, Red Beard
Yasmine: And this is, why?
U: Next day, One-Eyed Willy
U: And then one day, like Ol' Salty Dog
U: And Black Beard
U: I mean, just be a pirate
Yasmine: hmm sounds hecka fun yo
U: And since I'll be so well-off, no job or office to worry about
Yasmine: Now that would be the life
Yasmine: And all this wealth will come from your career in medicine?
Yasmine: As a doctor?
Yasmine: So these are post-retirement plans or what?
U: Well, I meant just hypothetically if I won the lottery or my long-lost uncle turned out to be a Saudi sheikh, etc.
Yasmine: ohhh
Yasmine: I see how it is
U: Yea. You know, just for the heck of it
U: Like pirates of the caribbean
U: One day a deck swabber
U: Next day a cantina-hombre
Yasmine: hahahaha
Yasmine: This is so funny
U: Another day, the cook
U: Then finally, ol' crusty Cap'n Crunch
U: One day go w/ the peg leg
U: Another day, the hook
U: But Allah wouldn't like mockery of the less fortunate
U: So I'd keep limbs non-parodied
U: :-[
Yasmine: Smart child
U: But, you feel me? I mean, to be so well-off and so untouchable, that you don't have to abide nor comform to society's niches or qualms
Yasmine: I don't do that anywayz
Yasmine: Conform, I mean
Yasmine: Drives my family and relatives insane
Yasmine: lol
U: To be able to say to my son, "Ahoy matey, you lil &#^$@"
U: Yea, BUT do YOU have a parrot and an eyepatch??
Yasmine: You sure your son won't be all traumatized?
U: And my son would then say, "Ol' piece of barnacle *$%^#, go walketh the plank!"
U: Oh, and the swords, wow
Yasmine: Dude, your family is gonna be psycho to the max
U: hahaha, you'll be the nutty aunt down the road, commited in the "institute"
Yasmine: Wonderful
Yasmine: You guys can have fun during visiting hours
Yasmine: Make sure you bring me some crayons
Yasmine: AND french fries
U: omg, i forgot
U: Fish n CHIPS!
U: LONG JOHN SILVER!
U: And everytime I say, "Where's my booty," everyone will go, "She's at the halaqa"
U: HAHAHAHA
Yasmine: Dude, what are you ON?
U: Booty = spoils, riches
U: But in a BET/ebonics sense, I'd be hip to the homies
Yasmine: Yeah, I got that
Yasmine: Insane in the membrane....
Yasmine: Loco en la cabesa...
U: To say the least
U: Mein Kopf ist sehr sehr WACK
Yasmine: Now that's a major understatement
U: (Deep in pirate thought)
U: (Mustache or beard?)
U: ahh, decisions, decisions, decisions
Yasmine: What did the voices in your head decide on that one?
U: hmm, man I dunno if a pious practising Muslim jigga can pull off a real-deal pirate
U: Man, watta bummer
U: Come on...
U: I can't wear jewelry
U: I don't swear
U: And my idea of getting liquored up is drinking too much Mountain Dew
U: Jeez, I built this immaculate dream, and now it's CRASHED
Labels: Conversations and Encounters
Thursday, August 21, 2003
Another ditch in the road, you keep moving/Another stop sign, you keep moving on…
I lean back into my seat in the university library’s 24-hour room, wince at the unrelenting hardness of my wooden chair, and ruefully wonder what possessed me to study here. I think longingly of the small, private, third-floor room where I usually study: broad tables with polished black surfaces, muted voices, chairs with cushioned seats. But the main library itself is closed for the night, and this is my last resort in studying for midterms I’ve given no thought to ‘til now. The 24-hour room is long and narrow, harshly lit and crowded, filled with a cacophony of voices. Seats are scarce, stress levels are at their peak, and my innate need for personal space is regarded as inconsequential.
The lovey-dovey couple across from me can’t keep their damn hands off each other. I raise an eyebrow. They glance over, then look away, momentarily abashed. Less than two minutes later, they’re at it again. The girl next to me shifts in her seat, stretches, and tries to surreptitiously move my pile of books over with her elbow. I raise an eyebrow and shove them back into place as obviously as I can. She shrugs without looking at me. I sneer at her turned back and try to concentrate on the notes in front of me, but all the people at the next table reek of cigarette smoke, and this, now, I just can’t handle. I stand up, gather my stuff together, throw one last, collective glare at all offending parties, and wander out to my car.
Nothing beats driving home at nearly one a.m. on dark, empty freeways. Setting my cruise control, gulping down copious amounts of strawberry-raspberry juice, pressing the button to slide open the moon roof. Listening to the wind whistle through the inside of my car, marveling at the stars visible through my windshield. Comforted by Arabic nasheeds, words I don’t understand but which I’ve been playing over and over for the last week…because.
Because, these days, I feel guilty for switching on the radio. Because there are just some things that Matchbox Twenty and Third Eye Blind can’t help with, and my mother’s pain is one of those. Because I can speak of silly things and laugh at the mundane, yet tears have never come easily to me and neither has the ability to comfort those who cry, and so there eventually come moments when I find myself at a loss for words. Because just yesterday morning, rushing out the front door, not knowing where she was within the house, I called back easily, “Fi aman’Allah, Ummy; I love you!” but something made me turn back, and there she was, sitting there all along, weeping silently. “Oh, no,” I said, very quietly, in that initial moment of shock, then put down my books and bag and sank down beside her, holding her tightly, awkwardly smoothing back her hair, trying to murmur soothing things that probably made no sense, but what the hell anyway. And these days, when I come home and ask, “So how did your day go, Ummy?” she doesn’t smile and relate for me all the routine household news, but instead answers softly, resignedly, “It went.” And I lack the words to ease her pain and bewilderment, because I can’t even come close to understanding the magnitude of what she must feel.
And so, because of all these things, I drive home on dark roads, late at night, listening to Arabic nasheeds to calm my own heart instead. There’s just the star-studded sky, the hills I love…and me, contemplating the people I take for granted and the things I never expect.
I lean back into my seat in the university library’s 24-hour room, wince at the unrelenting hardness of my wooden chair, and ruefully wonder what possessed me to study here. I think longingly of the small, private, third-floor room where I usually study: broad tables with polished black surfaces, muted voices, chairs with cushioned seats. But the main library itself is closed for the night, and this is my last resort in studying for midterms I’ve given no thought to ‘til now. The 24-hour room is long and narrow, harshly lit and crowded, filled with a cacophony of voices. Seats are scarce, stress levels are at their peak, and my innate need for personal space is regarded as inconsequential.
The lovey-dovey couple across from me can’t keep their damn hands off each other. I raise an eyebrow. They glance over, then look away, momentarily abashed. Less than two minutes later, they’re at it again. The girl next to me shifts in her seat, stretches, and tries to surreptitiously move my pile of books over with her elbow. I raise an eyebrow and shove them back into place as obviously as I can. She shrugs without looking at me. I sneer at her turned back and try to concentrate on the notes in front of me, but all the people at the next table reek of cigarette smoke, and this, now, I just can’t handle. I stand up, gather my stuff together, throw one last, collective glare at all offending parties, and wander out to my car.
Nothing beats driving home at nearly one a.m. on dark, empty freeways. Setting my cruise control, gulping down copious amounts of strawberry-raspberry juice, pressing the button to slide open the moon roof. Listening to the wind whistle through the inside of my car, marveling at the stars visible through my windshield. Comforted by Arabic nasheeds, words I don’t understand but which I’ve been playing over and over for the last week…because.
Because, these days, I feel guilty for switching on the radio. Because there are just some things that Matchbox Twenty and Third Eye Blind can’t help with, and my mother’s pain is one of those. Because I can speak of silly things and laugh at the mundane, yet tears have never come easily to me and neither has the ability to comfort those who cry, and so there eventually come moments when I find myself at a loss for words. Because just yesterday morning, rushing out the front door, not knowing where she was within the house, I called back easily, “Fi aman’Allah, Ummy; I love you!” but something made me turn back, and there she was, sitting there all along, weeping silently. “Oh, no,” I said, very quietly, in that initial moment of shock, then put down my books and bag and sank down beside her, holding her tightly, awkwardly smoothing back her hair, trying to murmur soothing things that probably made no sense, but what the hell anyway. And these days, when I come home and ask, “So how did your day go, Ummy?” she doesn’t smile and relate for me all the routine household news, but instead answers softly, resignedly, “It went.” And I lack the words to ease her pain and bewilderment, because I can’t even come close to understanding the magnitude of what she must feel.
And so, because of all these things, I drive home on dark roads, late at night, listening to Arabic nasheeds to calm my own heart instead. There’s just the star-studded sky, the hills I love…and me, contemplating the people I take for granted and the things I never expect.
Labels: Casa420 and Familia, Hit the Road, Loss and laments and letting go
Wednesday, August 20, 2003
do it, just do it.
Another day, just believe,
Another day, just breathe,
Another day, just believe,
Another day.
Just breathe.
Breeeeeeeeathe...
Why is that always the hard part anyway?
Another day, just believe,
Another day, just breathe,
Another day, just believe,
Another day.
Just breathe.
Breeeeeeeeathe...
Why is that always the hard part anyway?
Thursday, August 14, 2003
so where's your focus?
By my standards, I haven't posted anything thought-provoking for a really, really long time. Seriously. So here's something I received as an email forward. Good story. Really short story, too. It's all about perspective, yo.
Once upon a time [okay, so I added that part myself, but pay attention], there was a very wealthy family. One day, the father took his son on a trip, with the firm purpose of showing him how the poor lived. They spent the next several days and nights on a farm, living with a family far out in the countryside.
Upon their return, the father asked his son, "How was the trip?"
"It was great, Dad."
"Did you see how poor people can be?" the father asked.
"Oh, yes," said the son.
"So what did you learn from the trip?" asked the father.
The son answered, "I saw that we have one dog and they had four. We have a pool that reaches to the middle of our garden and they have a creek that has no end. We have imported lanterns in our garden and they have the stars at night. Our patio reaches to the front yard and they have the whole horizon.
"We have a small piece of land to live on and they have fields that go beyond our sight. We have servants who serve us, but they serve others. We buy our food, but they grow theirs. We have walls around our property to protect us; they have friends to protect them."
The boy's father was speechless. Then his son added, "Thanks, dad, for showing me how poor we are."
And since we're on the subject of thought-provoking posts, go visit brother Jabir. Masha'Allah, he always has beautiful, calming posts. Short, to-the-point, and soothing. If there's one blog that's very instrumental in fixing my perspective, his would be it, alhamdulillah. Go visit for a while.
By my standards, I haven't posted anything thought-provoking for a really, really long time. Seriously. So here's something I received as an email forward. Good story. Really short story, too. It's all about perspective, yo.
Once upon a time [okay, so I added that part myself, but pay attention], there was a very wealthy family. One day, the father took his son on a trip, with the firm purpose of showing him how the poor lived. They spent the next several days and nights on a farm, living with a family far out in the countryside.
Upon their return, the father asked his son, "How was the trip?"
"It was great, Dad."
"Did you see how poor people can be?" the father asked.
"Oh, yes," said the son.
"So what did you learn from the trip?" asked the father.
The son answered, "I saw that we have one dog and they had four. We have a pool that reaches to the middle of our garden and they have a creek that has no end. We have imported lanterns in our garden and they have the stars at night. Our patio reaches to the front yard and they have the whole horizon.
"We have a small piece of land to live on and they have fields that go beyond our sight. We have servants who serve us, but they serve others. We buy our food, but they grow theirs. We have walls around our property to protect us; they have friends to protect them."
The boy's father was speechless. Then his son added, "Thanks, dad, for showing me how poor we are."
And since we're on the subject of thought-provoking posts, go visit brother Jabir. Masha'Allah, he always has beautiful, calming posts. Short, to-the-point, and soothing. If there's one blog that's very instrumental in fixing my perspective, his would be it, alhamdulillah. Go visit for a while.
Wednesday, August 13, 2003
the conversations i have
Somayya and I, wasting our lives away in anthro lab:
Somayya: What's a lower molar cusp pattern? And a dental arcade?
Me: I have no idea, dude.
Somayya: Didn't he just go over this in lecture today?
Me: Yeah, but I wasn't paying attention. Or maybe I fell asleep at that part.
Somayya: Great, that helps.
Me: I think the dental arcade has to do with the shape. ::Picks up a fossilized jaw:: See, this is U-shaped. ::Inspects it further:: Wait, is this a V-shape?
Somayya: We're so lame.
Me: Hmm.
Somayya: Actually, I'm the lamest one.
Me: I agree.
Somayya: You're less lame than I am, but still lame.
Me: Great, thanks.
Somayya: Okay, so let's move on to a different lab station. Do you want to go this way or that way?
Me: How 'bout we go this way? ::pointing at the door::
Somayya: Let's go.
So yeah, we left anthro lab a mere ten minutes after we walked in. We just sauntered right out, looking straight ahead, as nonchalantly as we had entered. And heck, don't tell me you could have sat there poking at Australopithecus anamensis and Sahelanthropus tchadensis fossils for an hour without getting bored out of your mind. But if you could have, more power to you.
As for Somayya and I, we went and slouched on a comfy sofa, sifted through an endless pile of childhood photos we had forgotten about, and laughed uproariously.
Good times.
Somayya and I, wasting our lives away in anthro lab:
Somayya: What's a lower molar cusp pattern? And a dental arcade?
Me: I have no idea, dude.
Somayya: Didn't he just go over this in lecture today?
Me: Yeah, but I wasn't paying attention. Or maybe I fell asleep at that part.
Somayya: Great, that helps.
Me: I think the dental arcade has to do with the shape. ::Picks up a fossilized jaw:: See, this is U-shaped. ::Inspects it further:: Wait, is this a V-shape?
Somayya: We're so lame.
Me: Hmm.
Somayya: Actually, I'm the lamest one.
Me: I agree.
Somayya: You're less lame than I am, but still lame.
Me: Great, thanks.
Somayya: Okay, so let's move on to a different lab station. Do you want to go this way or that way?
Me: How 'bout we go this way? ::pointing at the door::
Somayya: Let's go.
So yeah, we left anthro lab a mere ten minutes after we walked in. We just sauntered right out, looking straight ahead, as nonchalantly as we had entered. And heck, don't tell me you could have sat there poking at Australopithecus anamensis and Sahelanthropus tchadensis fossils for an hour without getting bored out of your mind. But if you could have, more power to you.
As for Somayya and I, we went and slouched on a comfy sofa, sifted through an endless pile of childhood photos we had forgotten about, and laughed uproariously.
Good times.
Labels: All-Star Crackstar Squad, Suckool
Monday, August 11, 2003
studying dead people (and not-so-dead ones, too)
So, because I know y’all are just dying to know, I’m taking two anthropology courses during this summer session: Anthro 1 and Anthro 2. Exciting, no? Half the time, I forget which is which. I go to class thinking we'll be talking about dead people, and the instructor starts lecturing on living ones instead. Highly confusing. For your information, ANT 1 is entitled “Human Evolutionary Biology.” I’m predisposed to hate it, simply because it reminds me too much of the Bio 1B course I took over a year ago, which was all about evolution, animal diversity, and classification. Bio 1B was horrid…I used to speed to make it to the 8 a.m. lecture on time, only to then sit in the back of the lecture hall and sleep for two hours. Come to think of it, I slept through many of the corresponding laboratory sessions too. Fun times, fun times.
Another thing about ANT 1: I have been told the TA is considered to be cute. Based on last week’s lab though, he doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. That, says the Yaz, is not so cute at all. So there.
ANT 2 is about cultural anthropology. This, now, I can deal with. My professor (a woman) sports a tattoo of a horse on her upper arm, has spiky hair, and wears chunky-soled lace-up sandals that make me wince because they look like they probably cut off blood circulation in her legs. Interesting lady, and extremely articulate.
My ANT 2 TA wouldn’t really be considered a candidate for cuteness, I don’t think. He has a wild head of hair, a shaggy beard, and wears battered sneakers, raggedy jeans, and wool shirts that have obviously seen better days. He looks like a lumberjack, I say. He’s just returned from engaging in “participant observations” in Paraguay, so that may explain his appearance; who knows. Participant observation, as its name implies, is a methodological approach to learning about a culture; you both observe and participate. The TA says it’s informally known as “deep hanging-out,” and has to do with “going someplace where you don’t know anyone or the language, and acting like a complete idiot while basically trying to learn how to not become a complete idiot.”
He has a sense of humor, which is why I can safely categorize him as a cool dude. Not to mention, he’s a Canadian from Montreal. Sadly, he doesn’t say, “Eh?” though. Maybe not all Canadians say, “Eh?” I don’t know. I supposedly have dual citizenship, and I don’t even know jack about Canada. See, that’s just plain sad, yo. I can only pretend to know something or other about Prince Edward Island, and that’s pretty much the extent of my knowledge. Thank you, Anne of Green Gables and L.M. Montgomery.
So, hey, check this out: At the bottom of the syllabus for my ANT 2 course is a stern warning: “Students who fall asleep will be awoken by the student next to them, or by me.”
Great, just great.
It’s going to be a loooong six weeks.
So, because I know y’all are just dying to know, I’m taking two anthropology courses during this summer session: Anthro 1 and Anthro 2. Exciting, no? Half the time, I forget which is which. I go to class thinking we'll be talking about dead people, and the instructor starts lecturing on living ones instead. Highly confusing. For your information, ANT 1 is entitled “Human Evolutionary Biology.” I’m predisposed to hate it, simply because it reminds me too much of the Bio 1B course I took over a year ago, which was all about evolution, animal diversity, and classification. Bio 1B was horrid…I used to speed to make it to the 8 a.m. lecture on time, only to then sit in the back of the lecture hall and sleep for two hours. Come to think of it, I slept through many of the corresponding laboratory sessions too. Fun times, fun times.
Another thing about ANT 1: I have been told the TA is considered to be cute. Based on last week’s lab though, he doesn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. That, says the Yaz, is not so cute at all. So there.
ANT 2 is about cultural anthropology. This, now, I can deal with. My professor (a woman) sports a tattoo of a horse on her upper arm, has spiky hair, and wears chunky-soled lace-up sandals that make me wince because they look like they probably cut off blood circulation in her legs. Interesting lady, and extremely articulate.
My ANT 2 TA wouldn’t really be considered a candidate for cuteness, I don’t think. He has a wild head of hair, a shaggy beard, and wears battered sneakers, raggedy jeans, and wool shirts that have obviously seen better days. He looks like a lumberjack, I say. He’s just returned from engaging in “participant observations” in Paraguay, so that may explain his appearance; who knows. Participant observation, as its name implies, is a methodological approach to learning about a culture; you both observe and participate. The TA says it’s informally known as “deep hanging-out,” and has to do with “going someplace where you don’t know anyone or the language, and acting like a complete idiot while basically trying to learn how to not become a complete idiot.”
He has a sense of humor, which is why I can safely categorize him as a cool dude. Not to mention, he’s a Canadian from Montreal. Sadly, he doesn’t say, “Eh?” though. Maybe not all Canadians say, “Eh?” I don’t know. I supposedly have dual citizenship, and I don’t even know jack about Canada. See, that’s just plain sad, yo. I can only pretend to know something or other about Prince Edward Island, and that’s pretty much the extent of my knowledge. Thank you, Anne of Green Gables and L.M. Montgomery.
So, hey, check this out: At the bottom of the syllabus for my ANT 2 course is a stern warning: “Students who fall asleep will be awoken by the student next to them, or by me.”
Great, just great.
It’s going to be a loooong six weeks.
Labels: Suckool
Friday, August 08, 2003
calculus rocks my world…sometimes
Earlier this week, I spent a few hours helping proctor the math and chemistry placement exams that incoming freshman have to take in order to prove their eligibility for the introductory calc and general chem series. As a proctor, one basically checks ID, signs in these kids, passes out scantrons and pencils, gets them seated in an orderly fashion and in alternating rows in the huge lecture hall, and then sternly wanders around for ninety minutes while they tackle their exams.
Problem #1: I couldn’t act stern in such a situation even if my life depended on it, and the kids could totally tell I was finding the whole thing amusing. Problem #2: Once the amusement wore off (give me about ten minutes), the whole thing added up to two hours of sheer boredom.
I’ll probably be tutoring some of them in calculus this fall. I don’t know how it happens, but I usually end up with either the really quiet or the really hyperactive students. In the case of the really quiet ones, my goal in life is to get them to talk more, not only because I like talking and I think everyone else should too, but also because I refuse to stand up there and work out the answers for them while they scribble ‘em down. We need some interaction, yo. The hyperactive ones, on the other hand, just need to be toned down a bit. I remember my first group of hyper freshmen were hooked on finding the “perfect guy” for me. They spent about two weeks trying to convince me to hit on the MSA president. He’s a very, very nice guy, masha’Allah, but hitting on guys is just not my thing at all, much to their exasperation. So when that failed, they bombarded me with questions about arranged marriages in Islam, and decided they were going to be on the lookout for perfect man for me and personally arrange my marriage. Needless to say, it was always a challenge to steer them towards calculus and away from my…uhh…lack of relationships.
The incoming freshmen always stand out like eyesores. Their mere physical presence would scream “Summer Advising!” if their nametags weren’t already printed with the same. They wear lanyards containing their dorm keys and brand-new ID cards, and stand slack-jawed inside the library foyer, staring round-eyed up at the soaring ceilings. They look both ways before crossing the street, and sincerely believe that the more bags you carry with the university bookstore logo, the cooler you are. They’re in love with campus food. Even more, they’re in love with the general idea of being a college student. They wear nothing but flip-flops, shorts, visors, and t-shirts imprinted with their own university logo, and glare at those sporting Sac State, UCLA, Cal, or St. Mary’s gear as if they’re engaging in blasphemy. They feel it’s their inherent obligation to be walking ads for their college. Gosh. And to top it off, they show up a whole half-hour early for placement exams, too. My goodness, talk about enthusiasm.
Can you tell I enjoy poking fun at freshman? S’all good. I haven’t forgotten I used to be one too, although I honestly, positively am not guilty of any of the above. Seriously. Especially not the looking-both-ways-before-crossing-the-street part, that’s for sure.
Most of the freshmen just looked plain dazed and confused. And were obviously in awe of us upperclassmen proctors. Dude, why is it that all these fresh-faced, eighteen-years-old, I-just-graduated-from-high-school-two-months-ago kids look so young? I didn’t feel that young when I graduated. But I guess I must have looked that young and round-eyed, too, when I started college, whether I knew it or not. Hmm. One year left to my undergrad career, and my perspective’s all wack. Great.
To get back to the proctoring deal… The fun part was signing them in, because I enjoyed glancing at their nametags and seeing if I recognized their hometowns. Many were from the Bay Area and Southern California. Many more were from places I’ve never heard of. One guy’s nametag proclaimed he was from “Frisko!”, rebellious k, hyper exclamation point, and all. That caught my attention, because as a Bay Area resident, he broke one of our unspoken yet cardinal rules: no one from the Bay would be caught dead calling San Francisco, “Frisco.” We call it “the City,” with the same mixture of affectionate possessiveness and cliquish awareness that we use in referring to UC Berkeley as “Cal.” In both cases, without fail, those from outside the Bay have to ask for clarification.
And back to the boy: Besides breaking one of the main Bay insider rules, he also swiped four pencils from the box containing extras for those who didn’t have any. I was sent to get at least three back from him, since we were short on pencils and some kids didn’t have any. “Nice collection you’ve got there,” I observed dryly, as he unrepentantly held them out to me. “I know, isn’t it?” he said, and grinned impudently. Smart-aleck.
Kids these days. *tsk*
Earlier this week, I spent a few hours helping proctor the math and chemistry placement exams that incoming freshman have to take in order to prove their eligibility for the introductory calc and general chem series. As a proctor, one basically checks ID, signs in these kids, passes out scantrons and pencils, gets them seated in an orderly fashion and in alternating rows in the huge lecture hall, and then sternly wanders around for ninety minutes while they tackle their exams.
Problem #1: I couldn’t act stern in such a situation even if my life depended on it, and the kids could totally tell I was finding the whole thing amusing. Problem #2: Once the amusement wore off (give me about ten minutes), the whole thing added up to two hours of sheer boredom.
I’ll probably be tutoring some of them in calculus this fall. I don’t know how it happens, but I usually end up with either the really quiet or the really hyperactive students. In the case of the really quiet ones, my goal in life is to get them to talk more, not only because I like talking and I think everyone else should too, but also because I refuse to stand up there and work out the answers for them while they scribble ‘em down. We need some interaction, yo. The hyperactive ones, on the other hand, just need to be toned down a bit. I remember my first group of hyper freshmen were hooked on finding the “perfect guy” for me. They spent about two weeks trying to convince me to hit on the MSA president. He’s a very, very nice guy, masha’Allah, but hitting on guys is just not my thing at all, much to their exasperation. So when that failed, they bombarded me with questions about arranged marriages in Islam, and decided they were going to be on the lookout for perfect man for me and personally arrange my marriage. Needless to say, it was always a challenge to steer them towards calculus and away from my…uhh…lack of relationships.
The incoming freshmen always stand out like eyesores. Their mere physical presence would scream “Summer Advising!” if their nametags weren’t already printed with the same. They wear lanyards containing their dorm keys and brand-new ID cards, and stand slack-jawed inside the library foyer, staring round-eyed up at the soaring ceilings. They look both ways before crossing the street, and sincerely believe that the more bags you carry with the university bookstore logo, the cooler you are. They’re in love with campus food. Even more, they’re in love with the general idea of being a college student. They wear nothing but flip-flops, shorts, visors, and t-shirts imprinted with their own university logo, and glare at those sporting Sac State, UCLA, Cal, or St. Mary’s gear as if they’re engaging in blasphemy. They feel it’s their inherent obligation to be walking ads for their college. Gosh. And to top it off, they show up a whole half-hour early for placement exams, too. My goodness, talk about enthusiasm.
Can you tell I enjoy poking fun at freshman? S’all good. I haven’t forgotten I used to be one too, although I honestly, positively am not guilty of any of the above. Seriously. Especially not the looking-both-ways-before-crossing-the-street part, that’s for sure.
Most of the freshmen just looked plain dazed and confused. And were obviously in awe of us upperclassmen proctors. Dude, why is it that all these fresh-faced, eighteen-years-old, I-just-graduated-from-high-school-two-months-ago kids look so young? I didn’t feel that young when I graduated. But I guess I must have looked that young and round-eyed, too, when I started college, whether I knew it or not. Hmm. One year left to my undergrad career, and my perspective’s all wack. Great.
To get back to the proctoring deal… The fun part was signing them in, because I enjoyed glancing at their nametags and seeing if I recognized their hometowns. Many were from the Bay Area and Southern California. Many more were from places I’ve never heard of. One guy’s nametag proclaimed he was from “Frisko!”, rebellious k, hyper exclamation point, and all. That caught my attention, because as a Bay Area resident, he broke one of our unspoken yet cardinal rules: no one from the Bay would be caught dead calling San Francisco, “Frisco.” We call it “the City,” with the same mixture of affectionate possessiveness and cliquish awareness that we use in referring to UC Berkeley as “Cal.” In both cases, without fail, those from outside the Bay have to ask for clarification.
And back to the boy: Besides breaking one of the main Bay insider rules, he also swiped four pencils from the box containing extras for those who didn’t have any. I was sent to get at least three back from him, since we were short on pencils and some kids didn’t have any. “Nice collection you’ve got there,” I observed dryly, as he unrepentantly held them out to me. “I know, isn’t it?” he said, and grinned impudently. Smart-aleck.
Kids these days. *tsk*
Labels: Suckool
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
so i wonder when they’re going to start paying me for taking naps
Late-Night AIM Conversation (OR, the Things I Say When I’m Half-Asleep):
Ben: but I want money
Ben: it's nice for buying things
Yasmine: no way? is that what it's for?
Yasmine: wow, I'm so glad you told me
Yasmine: cuz I was thinking maybe you're supposed to eat it or something
Yasmine: or feed it to the cat
Ben: I bet it'd be taasty
Ben: or make good kindling for fires!
Yasmine: yeah, for reals. I should try that out next time
Ben: so what're you doing up so late?
Yasmine: working on a scholarship application
Yasmine: cuz I ate all my money, and now I need more for tuition
Yasmine: I did it bassackwards... I shoulda paid the tuition first and then eaten the leftovers
Yasmine: *siiigh*
Ben: hindsight is 20/20
Yasmine: true true
Yasmine: I need to remember that for next time
I just found out the other day that my application for a $3,000 scholarship was actually, surprisingly accepted. Surprising, because it was rejected last year. And lazy child that I am, I just resubmitted the exact same letters of recommendation and personal statement as last year. The only things that changed a bit were my transcript and resume.
yayyeee babyyyy.
::ahem::
Alhamdulillah.
It'll come in handy, that's for sure. Especially since the UC's are seeing a 30% fee increase starting this fall, and my father has already been paying for all my tuition, fees, parking permits and books out of pocket for three years.
I’ve also managed to make over a hundred dollars by selling back to the university book store about a dozen books from various classes I took last year. I feel so rich I don’t know what to do. Two days ago, I didn’t even have enough change to buy a measly candy bar. Now, wandering around with a hundred dollars in cash makes me feel just plain…whoa! It’s a pretty cool whoa! feeling though. And, so far, all the fun ideas stemming from my newfound wealth seem to involve food, in one form or another. Or maybe I could just go shopping. But I’m not that girly. Shopping, for the most part, bores me. Unless we’re talking about grocery shopping, of course. Then I could disappear for hours, and you’ll most likely find me in the bakery or the deli.
The man who scanned my books couldn’t believe some of the prices. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when one of my used human development textbooks came out to forty-six dollars. “I think it’s too much,” he said a bit grimly, “but I’ll still give it to you.” I laughed. “If I were buying it, I’d agree with you,” I said. “But since I’m selling it, there’s no such thing as too much.”
Which is why I’m still kicking myself for not having had the presence of mind to sell back all my general chemistry, biology, and organic chem textbooks from freshman and sophomore year, as soon as I had finished the series and before they went and changed the books on me. My annoyance and frustration towards all those classes from hell could have been eased a bit if I had received some monetary compensation for my efforts. ‘S all good though.
Funny thing is, most of my English and comparative literature anthologies and novels are still stacked in unsteady piles at the foot of my bed, perfect candidates for a model Leaning Tower of Pisa. I’m far too attached to those to even consider selling them back. To answer your question, Faiza, I like to joke that I’m a wannabe English major. I seriously thought of English or CompLit during my second year, but I like what I’m currently studying too much to go back to those. After all, there’s only so many papers I can write without going insane, and I’m already considered certifiable enough as it is. :)
Late-Night AIM Conversation (OR, the Things I Say When I’m Half-Asleep):
Ben: but I want money
Ben: it's nice for buying things
Yasmine: no way? is that what it's for?
Yasmine: wow, I'm so glad you told me
Yasmine: cuz I was thinking maybe you're supposed to eat it or something
Yasmine: or feed it to the cat
Ben: I bet it'd be taasty
Ben: or make good kindling for fires!
Yasmine: yeah, for reals. I should try that out next time
Ben: so what're you doing up so late?
Yasmine: working on a scholarship application
Yasmine: cuz I ate all my money, and now I need more for tuition
Yasmine: I did it bassackwards... I shoulda paid the tuition first and then eaten the leftovers
Yasmine: *siiigh*
Ben: hindsight is 20/20
Yasmine: true true
Yasmine: I need to remember that for next time
I just found out the other day that my application for a $3,000 scholarship was actually, surprisingly accepted. Surprising, because it was rejected last year. And lazy child that I am, I just resubmitted the exact same letters of recommendation and personal statement as last year. The only things that changed a bit were my transcript and resume.
yayyeee babyyyy.
::ahem::
Alhamdulillah.
It'll come in handy, that's for sure. Especially since the UC's are seeing a 30% fee increase starting this fall, and my father has already been paying for all my tuition, fees, parking permits and books out of pocket for three years.
I’ve also managed to make over a hundred dollars by selling back to the university book store about a dozen books from various classes I took last year. I feel so rich I don’t know what to do. Two days ago, I didn’t even have enough change to buy a measly candy bar. Now, wandering around with a hundred dollars in cash makes me feel just plain…whoa! It’s a pretty cool whoa! feeling though. And, so far, all the fun ideas stemming from my newfound wealth seem to involve food, in one form or another. Or maybe I could just go shopping. But I’m not that girly. Shopping, for the most part, bores me. Unless we’re talking about grocery shopping, of course. Then I could disappear for hours, and you’ll most likely find me in the bakery or the deli.
The man who scanned my books couldn’t believe some of the prices. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when one of my used human development textbooks came out to forty-six dollars. “I think it’s too much,” he said a bit grimly, “but I’ll still give it to you.” I laughed. “If I were buying it, I’d agree with you,” I said. “But since I’m selling it, there’s no such thing as too much.”
Which is why I’m still kicking myself for not having had the presence of mind to sell back all my general chemistry, biology, and organic chem textbooks from freshman and sophomore year, as soon as I had finished the series and before they went and changed the books on me. My annoyance and frustration towards all those classes from hell could have been eased a bit if I had received some monetary compensation for my efforts. ‘S all good though.
Funny thing is, most of my English and comparative literature anthologies and novels are still stacked in unsteady piles at the foot of my bed, perfect candidates for a model Leaning Tower of Pisa. I’m far too attached to those to even consider selling them back. To answer your question, Faiza, I like to joke that I’m a wannabe English major. I seriously thought of English or CompLit during my second year, but I like what I’m currently studying too much to go back to those. After all, there’s only so many papers I can write without going insane, and I’m already considered certifiable enough as it is. :)
Labels: Bibliothek, Suckool