I have no resolutions/for self-assigned penance/for problems with easy solutions

Just a little while ago, I was standing in the boys' department of Target, making mind-boggling decisions regarding whether to buy boys size-small t-shirts in packs of three or five - for myself, of course, since little boys size-small t-shirts fit me very nicely, I've recently realized. Actually, I've decided to take over the whole boys department, and the mens for that matter, too, because my dad owns the thickest, comfiest, warmest pair of socks I've ever worn in my entire life. So I'm all set: boys t-shirts + mens socks = very warm Yasmine. I'm still a strong proponent of toe socks though, don't worry.

I love Target, I really do. But every time I go there, I run into people I'd rather not. For example, today, while checking out the rack of t-shirts, a young woman of Indian ethnicity approached me, bearing a clipboard and pen.

"Would you like to sign up for a Target card?" she asked. "You get 10% savings on all purchases."
"No, thanks," I said politely. "I already have one of those, and I never even use it."
She looked at me curiously. "Where are you from?"
I mentally rolled my eyes. "Do you mean my ethnicity, or nationality?"
"Nationality."
I grinned. "I'm American."
"Oh," she replied, flustered. "Ethnicity, then."
"Pakistani."
She squinted. "You look sort of familiar—"
"—Yes, I know," I cut in impatiently. "It's because you asked me the exact same questions the last time, too." Her eyes widened, and she immediately turned and scuttled away without another word, while I stood there wondering whether to laugh out loud or be horrified at my rudeness.

Okay, so I admit it, I'm such a mean and difficult person to deal with. And the fact that I know it and still carry on with my deliberate obnoxiousness probably makes it even worse a thing. But I've never been particularly successful at making or fulfilling New Years' resolutions, so who cares. The fact is, I just hate being pigeonholed, and it seems to happen wherever I go. So there's my justification.

I bought my sister a pack of Truffles from Target though. And she loves me now. So maybe I turned out okay after all. Sort of.

slow days

Okay, so I know I'm slacking off on the updating. This winter break has made me realize that I have a greater store of interesting/weird stories when I'm actually in school.

During my remaining week-and-a-half of break, I desperately need to:

- Pay some mechanic hundreds of dollars to replace my car's valve cover gasket, distributor-o-ring, and rear break pads and rotors - whatever half of those things even mean
- Get traffic school out of the way
- Finish planning and verify/finalize all details regarding a workshop for my internship
- Sell back my textbooks so I can make some easy money again

I'm sure I'm forgetting a few things, but who cares.

Meanwhile, I've been spending lots of time sleeping, to prepare for future all-nighters during this winter quarter coming up. Oh, and I made my sister give me a hair cut yesterday. Nothing has recently given me more gleeful satisfaction than watching half of all my hair lying in dark swirls on the bathroom tiles. I've been so impatient with it lately that I was almost all set to grab a pair of scissors and chop it all off myself, but the last time I tried that method I was about 8 years old and I ended up with inch-long bangs framing my forehead. Not so great an idea.

And I've read about 5 books in the past week. Right now I'm in the middle of Life of Pi, by Yann Martel. Many thanks to Yaser for mentioning it on his site so long ago - I've had my eye on it ever since, finally bought my own copy in October, and have been recommending it to everyone even though I didn't have time to make it beyond the first 50 pages until now. Pi practices not only Hinduism, but also Christianity, and Islam. Such a cool kid. He's my new hero, besides MacGuyver.

What you can do, if you're oh so bored:

- Read that book. Seriously.
- Read my archives. (Don't go beyond the summer. Really.)
- Read all the weblogs I've linked. (I think I've practically linked everyone and their mother. Good Lord. And, yes, I read all those sites regularly. No wonder I'm such a slacker.)

Don't worry, I'm not going away for too long. Just a couple days, while I finish this book and be a little productive in other things. And I think I've somehow got roped into mowing the lawn this afternoon. I mean, really, what's up with that?

forget the village, it takes a halaqa

I’ve figured out a great way to form lasting friendships: Go ice skating. This is especially successful if you don’t know how to ice skate in the first place. After all, it’s practically impossible to remain dignified or reserved if you have little or no skating experience. After the people you go skating with haul you around the ice while you grip their hands and repeat, “Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” after they see you fall on your ass a bajillion times, after they laugh at you and take photos of you falling on your ass and then good-naturedly haul you back up to stand on slippery ice in shaky skates, there’s really no way to keep those guards up. You’re practically forced to build lasting friendships this way. After all, don’t forget, they still have those incriminating photos of you falling on your ass, you know.

Went ice skating with the halaqa crew a couple days ago. This was my second time, the first time being three years ago. Not that I retained any skills from the first time anyway. The first ten minutes were spent holding tightly to either S or M’s hands and gingerly gliding along behind them as they hauled me around the rink. After we went down the rink once, S turned around and led me down in the opposite direction. “Oh my God,” I screamed, as we whizzed through a streaming mass of skaters, “we’re going against oncoming traffic!” She couldn’t stop laughing at me. F was involved in holding onto the wall and mumbling, “Ohmygod, ohmygod…” M patiently responded with, “Ya Allah…,” while I was far more occupied with frowning at the ice and muttering, “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” I’m a great role model, what can I say.

I refused to lift my feet at first, because I was afraid I would fall. Needless to say, I fell on my ass several times anyway. “Oh, I get it!” I said excitedly to M, after the first fall. “If you fall on your ass, it’s not so painful, really.” I condescendingly patted F on the shoulder and advised, “Falling doesn’t even hurt. You just need to go ahead and fall the first time and get over it.” Served me right for my overconfidence, then, that when I fell the second time, it was hard enough that I got the breath knocked out of me. That was right before I started laughing and the girls crowded around to laugh and take photos. Later, when I had decided that taking cautious, tentative steps on my own was more useful than holding on to people, I made a halting, solo trip around the rink. I got better at it after a while, too. I made funny faces at all the little kids, cautiously dodged the parents, and enviously watched the 5-year-olds who whizzed by like pros. Jerks.

I was admiring the jeans of the girl in front of me – made up of light- and dark-blue patches – and thinking, “Hey, that’s cool, I want a pair like that!” when I fell again. Along came the good ol’ halaqa crew to my rescue, once again. In the resulting confusion as they tried to haul me back up, a couple more girls fell. My sister laughed and remarked, “It takes a halaqa.” I laughed, too. “I’m going to write a book,” I said. “Forget It Takes a Village. This one’s going to be called, It Takes a Halaqa.” I’m amusing, I know.

The best part, by far, was when we wrangled a bucket from somewhere, turned it upside down, and zoomed around the skating rink. M pushed me over the ice while I hunched my shoulders, laughed helplessly and held on to the bucket for dear life. After one turn around, she stopped and looked at me questioningly. “Let’s do it again!” I said. So we did. Fun times, yo.

I’ve been paying for all those falls though. Me, I don’t even know how to sit down correctly – sitting like a lady, as more proper people would call it. This is actually a problem, I’ve realized over the past couple of days. Every time I fling myself into a chair or sofa or the front seat of my car, my butt hurts, and my leg muscles cramp up. And rotating my arms and shoulders to wrap my hijab around my head in the mornings is semi-painful, too. But it was all well-worth it, don’t worry.

This is what M had to say about our day:

Doughnuts from Albertsons: $4
Getting into Iceland: $7
Renting skates: $3
Pushing a giggling Yasmine on the ice while she sits on a bucket: Priceless

Sometimes I can’t believe I’m at least 5 years older than some of these girls.

And just re-reading how many times I’ve used the word “ass” in this post is making me giggle, too. Looks like my inner preschooler tendencies are alive and well. Then again, I would hope preschoolers had a better vocabulary than that. Based on my own experiences with them, preschoolers are far more amused by the word “underwear” anyway. Smart kids.

just another day in paradise

By the time I finished my last errand of the evening today, it was dark and raining. I came out of the grocery store squinting against the rain and fog and bright headlights that crawled across the parking lot. The man standing just outside the doors nodded and smiled at me. He was bundled up snugly against the cold: cap pulled low on his forehead, coat zipped up to his chin, thick gloves on hands that steadily rang the bell for whichever local charity he was representing, perhaps the Salvation Army. My gaze flicked away. I slowed down indecisively a couple feet away, pretended to ignore him, and tried to remember my parking spot. I realized that if I made a dash for it, I could be at my car in no more than three seconds. In spite of the rain pounding down on my head, I threw another cursory glance in the man’s direction. He looked back at me, watching me steadily as I hesitated. I thought of the sixty dollars worth of groceries in my shopping cart, the new shirt I had just bought myself and which I may wear tomorrow, the hot dinner waiting for me at home, and I was ashamed at myself for being so tempted to walk away, as I have so many times before. In exactly three seconds, I could be at my car. In exactly four minutes, I could be home…

“You sure picked a crazy evening for this,” I said, trying to maintain a hold on my shopping cart. “So much rain!”
He shrugged, grinning affably. “Can’t let a little bit of rain hold us back, you know.”
I tried to dig my wallet out of my bag, but I needed both hands, and my shopping cart was rolling away. “You gotta do what you gotta do,” I said absently, hooking my foot around the bottom of the cart.
He nodded, laughing. “You gotta do what you gotta do,” he agreed, and came over, holding onto my cart while I found my wallet and dropped the bills into the kettle.

You gotta do what you gotta do.

Sometimes, I wish I knew what I’m supposed to be doing. Or, even better, I wish that I were doing more, even if meant just standing outside in the rain and ringing a bell for some charity while holiday shoppers looked right through me. Sometimes, it's so easy to distance oneself from the front lines of human need.

"I believe that serving the best ends of humanity means getting out in the middle of it just as it is, not staying home writing checks and thinking hopeful thoughts. The world does not need tourists who ride by in a bus clicking their tongues. The world as it is needs those who will love it enough to change it, with what they have, where they are. And you're damned right that's idealistic. No apology. When idealism goes in the trash as junk mail, we're finished.

"In way one or another, I'm going back to kettle duty on the streets this year - literally or in some equivalent task... I will have to stand still for a while and see the world as it goes by. As I have gone by. It will give me a chance to listen for the far-off sound of a bell rung by a child in front of the Woolworth's store in Waco, Texas, one winter's eve. To imagine my father standing beside me. To see his face. To hear the bell of another kid clanging away in the rainy Seattle night. To see his face. And to turn and look at the window glass in the storefront behind me and see my own reflection. If you see me, put something in the kettle. Be generous. I'd hate to have to hit you with the tambourine."

- Robert Fulghum
Uh-Oh: Some Observations from Both Sides of the Refrigerator Door

Meanwhile, the Zaytuna Conference is tomorrow. Just the kind of focus I need.

[Flipping through my course notes the other day, I came across a long, scribbled list of things to do, dated sometime in November. This, of course, is how I effectively occupy my time during psychology lectures. Some of these items I do already. Many of them I want to do more often. All of them are concrete do-able things, none of them difficult, or so I believe. Try them out yourself, too. Let me know how it goes. Here’s half of it.]

to-do list, part 1

- Smile at strangers. Watch their faces light up as they smile back.
- Buy a child a pack of crayons and a pad of construction paper. Spend an hour drawing or coloring with him/her.
- Color outside the lines. Autograph the drawing. Hang it proudly on the fridge.
- Show people they are loved. [Courtesy of Abez, who wrote a beautiful post about this once.]
- Sit outside and watch the butterflies flitting around. Sit still and don’t flinch at the bees.
- Go to a public park and spend some time on the swings.
- Strike up more conversations with total strangers.
- Walk around outside barefoot.
- Write real letters. Don’t forget to mail them, too.
- Laugh too loudly. When people look over at you, laugh louder.
- Feed the ducks.
- Don’t comb your hair for a day (or two, or three). Don’t care.
- Sing songs from your childhood, loudly and off-key.
- Buy a meal for a stranger.
- Write a letter to God. [Courtesy of Javed, whose letter I borrowed here.]
- Talk less. Talk more. Whichever is applicable.
- Lie down on the grass and stare at the sky.
- Take the back-roads. Get lost. It’s okay.
- Blow air-kisses.
- Pay for the car behind yours at the tollbooth.
- Speak in a voice different from your normal one, all day. [Courtesy of Chai, whose actual advice was, “Walk around everywhere speaking with a voice that is unbefitting your body type.” Absolutely hilarious.]
- Tell yourself you are beautiful. Believe it.
- Invest in flip-flops. Toe socks optional.
- Call up a long-lost friend.
- Give someone the gift of your time and undivided attention.
- Crinkle your eyes when you smile. Make it look genuine, not as if you’re squinting.
- Buy more fuzzy socks.
- Pick flowers for special people.
- Open the door for someone.
- Go on road trips. Drive safely.
- Volunteer. For something. Anything.

[If you have any to add, share 'em in the comment box.]

not what i was planning on posting about – but, hi, i’m back

Yesterday, we went to this wedding shindig thing about 90 minutes away. Although I’d been to fourteen weddings in the course of the eighteen months I lived in Pakistan, this was the first Pakistani wedding in the U.S. that I can remember attending. ‘Twas fun, even though we didn’t know most of the people. Actually, my sister and I did a great job of just walking up to people and introducing ourselves. We met lots of new cool people in the process. And whenever I got bored, I amused myself by playing peek-a-boo with all the little kids, or grabbing my sister’s arm and exclaiming, “Aww, look at that cute baby!” Lots of cute babies in attendance. My kinda event. But good Lord! – Pakistani women really need to get out of this immensely unattractive habit of staring, and soon. That I do not find amusing at all.

In hindsight, the most entertaining part of the evening was when I unsuspectingly got waylaid by a group of single-minded aunties. See, here’s how it happened: I walked down to the end of the room to hug a family friend and ask how she was doing. After she had moved on, I was about to take another step when I found my arm firmly grasped by some old lady at the table I was standing next to. Without slackening the grip on my arm, she jerked her chin towards the empty seat next to her, almost physically hauling me into it. Shocked and surprised, I was about to open my mouth to speak, but she beat me to it. As I jerked my arm out of her grip, she directed rapid-fire Urdu questions my way: “Where are you from? Some Muslim country? Do you speak Urdu?”

Oh, great, I thought. And as she and the three other women across from us stared at me expectantly, what came out of my mouth was, “Nahin, maala sirf ligga ligga Urdu raazi,” which, of course means, “No, I only know a little bit of Urdu” – in a mixture of both Urdu AND Pukhtu. Oh yeah, I’m amazingly slick, what can I say.

Thankfully, my sister wandered by just then and was put on the spot as well. The old lady stared at us, looking puzzled. “Where are you from?” she repeated. “Are you from a Muslim country?”
I almost laughed. “I’m from Pakistan,” I said, this time in real Urdu.

“Pakistan?” She peered closely at me. So did the three ladies across from us. “You don’t look Pakistani,” they said doubtfully.
“Really?” I said. “Where did you think I was from?”
“Maybe India?”
“No, I’m Pakistani.”
The old lady looked me up and down. “You’re from Karachi, aren’t you?”
“No,” I said, “I’m from _______.”
“___… What?”
“_______,” I repeated loudly, with as much patience as I had left. “It’s the name of a village in district Attock.”
“Ohh, Attock!” said the ladies across from us. “We’re from Behboodi [a nearby village]! What’s your father’s name?”
We told them. “Ohh!” they said again, now smiling widely all of a sudden. Everyone knows our father. I’m so glad we have some connections, otherwise I can see how this conversation could have degenerated into misunderstandings and lip-curled vicious remarks as soon as our backs were turned. Or maybe I’m just generalizing. Unfortunately, I do know far too many people like that, though.

“So if you’re from _______, why don’t you at least know how to speak Hindku?” demanded one of the women. The sudden shift from agreeableness to disdain and condescension was too much for me. “I do speak Hindku,” I said with obvious annoyance, gladly reverting to fluent Hindku. “Perhaps if you had started off this conversation with Hindku, we wouldn’t have been having so much trouble.”

The old lady next to me, being a fluent Urdu speaker and a non-villager, was feeling left out of the loop of things by this time. She grabbed my arm again to direct attention her way, moving her hand in a circular gesture to signify my headwrap and scarf. “Why do you wear those so tightly?” she asked. “Doesn’t that cause you any takleef [trouble/annoyance/inconvenience]?”
I resisted an impulse to roll my eyes. “No, it doesn’t cause me any takleef,” I said impatiently, stuttering through my limited Urdu once more. I was trying to explain the concept of hijab to her, and my reasons for wearing it, but my limited Urdu was getting in the way. Not only that, I was distracted by the ladies across the table loudly asking each other, as if we weren’t even there - “Are they single? Or married?”
My sister retorted loudly, “No, we’re not married. We’re in college.”
A few seconds later, we finally managed to escape.

Yes, that was an interesting exchange. As we walked away, my sister laughed, “They probably think we’re so stuck-up – we were trying to speak Urdu with the village women, and talking about how we go to college.”
“Good!” I said irritably. “Serves them right for putting me on the spot like that.”
Usually, I’m known as the queen of sarcastic rejoinders and cold comebacks that result in flustered, embarrassed silence, but it’s awfully difficult to tell someone off if you don’t even speak the same language.

Later in the evening, a girl asked me, “Where are you from?”
“Oh, I came up from the Bay Area,” I replied, my standard response all day, since the majority of the wedding guests were from local towns.
“No, no,” she said, “I mean, what country?”
“Pakistan.”
‘Really?” she said in surprise. “I thought maybe you were Kashmiri. Or Palestinian.”

Hi, my name is Yasmine, and I think I’m starting to have an identity crisis already.

Oh, and the evening only served to confirm that I still need to learn now to gracefully accept compliments. I’ll get it right one of these years, don’t worry.

I’ll put that on my to-do list. Right up there with speaking Urdu without making a fool of myself.

official statement

I have final exams this week, and am therefore taking a break from weblogging. Not necessarily other blogs, but definitely mine at least. Knowing me, I'll probably still be lurking around blogs anyway; just don't take it personally if I refrain from commenting. Anyway, at the moment I desperately need the focus and freedom of studying intensely for prolonged periods of time without the added distraction of composing weblog entries in my head, which is something I've been engaged in doing far too often for my own good this quarter. [And, damn, that was one heckuva run-on sentence!] Du'as are much appreciated, as always. Much love, peace, and good health to you all. Stay out of trouble, kiddos.

someone please pass the remote control

Went to see my ear specialist this morning. Now I feel like my world has been invaded by that great entity called Sound. Hearing, the good ol' third sense - 'bout time I went and got it balanced out. Problem is, now all I really want is some sort of technological device for volume-adjustment. I mean, really - the soft sound of my feet as I walk across a carpeted floor, the now-enhanced jarring crash of my lunch dishes as I stack them on the counter next to the sink, the low dripping coming from the bathroom faucet that leaks, the beeping and hammering that signify on-going contruction at the neighbors' house next-door. Do I really need all those little, semi-annoying noises in my life? Or maybe they're all good things. I need a day or two to get used to this. And a volume button, too. Pass the remote already, yo.

fake post III - what i did yesterday, blah blah blah (the standard is really decreasing, or what?)

I've finally figured out that I am certifiably insane. (No kidding?) Yesterday, I used one of my breaks from class to stop by a little market and buy some fruits and vegetables for home. I love the place. Run by a Mexican family, it’s practically a little hole in the wall, but the produce is amazingly cheaper than the price I’d have to pay at a grocery chain. I still need to get used to referring to cilantro, though. I grew up calling it “green coriander” - as opposed to ground coriander, you see. Grocery stores, however, call it “cilantro.” Okay. And for those people who are yet having difficulty grasping the concept of persimmons, there was a nice helpful sign stating, “Eat it just like an apple!” So there you have it.

As for me being insane – I gathered together my baskets of fruits and vegetables, and made my way to the register. As I passed by the ice cream cart, I suddenly had this inexplicable craving for ice cream, so I bought myself one of those yummy ice cream bars. Got in my car, and there I was, driving along back to campus. And, in case you’ve missed it, I absolutely hate the cold. So I'm all bundled up in my sweater, a scarf wrapped twice around my neck, the heat's turned on to the max, my teeth are chattering like crazy, and I'm just chomping on this cold, frozen ice cream bar. Hilarious. I just had to laugh at myself. It was one of those moments when you want to pick up the phone and call a friend and say, "Guess what I'm doing right now?" so that they can tell you what a psychopath you are. But, between the steering wheel and the ice cream bar, my hands were otherwise occupied, so… So yeah, it’s okay.

At around 5pm, we drove from campus to Sacramento for an MSA banquet at Sac State. Took us only a half-hour, which isn’t bad considering the numerous times we got lost. But hey, we made so many U-turns that they cancelled each other out, and so theoretically it shouldn't count at all. Great philosophy, no? Gorgeous campus, by the way. Re-cap of the evening: Ate amazing food, laughed with beautiful people, bought a Longing for the Divine wall-calendar (highly recommended), watched/listened to two people take shahadah, took lots of group photographs because I was coerced into doing so and also because it doesn’t take much persuasion for me to flash the cheesy grin.

Not-so-hot highlights: Hearing far too many people exclaim over how “tired and stressed” I supposedly looked. Someone accused me of potentially “ruining other people’s forthcoming smiles” if I kept up the exhausted face. As if I were purposely cultivating the expression. (Excuse me? How tired would you look if you had slept an average of 2 hours/night all week and had just finished seven papers?) Also: The event, though impressively well-organized, was just too long. Imam Zaid Shaker, the keynote speaker, was scheduled for the end, and spoke at length about “bringing the Muslim community together,” or something to that effect. I feel that a speaker of his caliber could have done well with a better topic. Not his fault though, because he went along with what they gave him, and they should have given him a better topic. I don’t know what. Don’t ask me right now.

By 9pm, halfway through Imam Zaid’s speech, we decided to leave. My 90-minute drive home wasn’t looking too appealing at the moment, especially considering how tired I was. Gave my friend Jason a ride over to his place, and on the way we talked about the shahadahs we had witnessed that evening. He brought up the hadith regarding the fact that a convert is considered, by his conversion to Islam, pure and free of any previous sin - all his previous sins are wiped out entirely (Saheeh Muslim #121). “Remember, when I took my shahadah last year, what you said to me when the imam told me that hadith?” he asked.
“No, what did I say?” I replied curiously.
He laughed, “You said, ‘I’m jealous!’”
Hey, I’m still jealous. I wish I could have clean slate like that.

Funny, I had forgotten that envious remark of mine though. What I remember instead is having an MSA girl approach me the morning after Jason’s shahadah to ask boldly, “So, don’t take this the wrong way, but we were just wondering… About your friend - did he become Muslim for you?” I remember my jaw dropping at her audacity, then recovering enough to raise my eyebrow and reply coldly, “I would hope he had far better reasons than that,” then turning and walking away.

I don’t understand girls, especially not the exaggerated soap opera drama-queen endeavors and unnecessary/misplaced nosiness that seems to go with being a girl. I’m just not cut out for it. I shoulda been a boy, I’m telling you.

fake post II: conversational highlights

Yesterday evening, my cousin shook his head and said, “You know how some mothers abandon their newborn babies in cardboard boxes in front of church-doors or hospitals? I really think that’s what we should do with you, too.”
“Yeah, but I’m sort of beyond the newborn phase already,” I retorted.
He rolled his eyes. “You’re 22 going on 4. It’s the same thing.”

Later in the evening, after a conversation about something or other, he leaned across the table and said menacingly, “You repeat one word of this to anyone, and I will personally donate you to the Salvation Army.”

Who needs enemies anyway, when you’ve got such loving family members?

Also, on a random note - (couldn’t resist posting this one) –

L: Are all Pakistanis as cool as you?
L: =)
Yasmine: Oh, of course not
Yasmine: I’m the exception to the rule
L: Sadness
L: haha
Yasmine: =)
Yasmine: Why am I cool all of a sudden?
L: Because I haven’t met that many cool Indians and Pakistanis
L: I thought I was being open-minded
L: But they suck arse as roommates
L: FRIGGIN EGG
L: They're horrible to live with
L: oh lordy
L: I believe in karma
L: I musta done something
L: To get these fools
[…]
L: I see you more as Canadian than Pakistani
L: Because so far all the Canadians I’ve met are nice

[There, all you Canadians can feel vindicated now.]

i'm telling you, it's not us, it's them

The amusing things I find when I'm supposed to be writing a half-dozen papers:
Babelfish Adds Canadian and American to Translation List
Kinda reminds me of Chai's Dec. 1st post, and the resulting comments. [By the way, what's up with the jacked-up permanent-links on all these new Blogger templates?]

Okay, yes, I'm done procrastinating, thank you for asking. For now, that is.

[I just felt the need for some sarcasm, that’s all]

driving-related annoyances

- Driving with your foot propped up on the dashboard, or your leg out the window – Why do you feel the need to do this? I don’t understand.

- People with handicapped stickers/placards on sports cars so tiny I bet even I could barely fit in ‘em – So where exactly do you fit your cane or wheelchair, if you don’t mind my asking?

- “Forget world peace; visualize using your turn signal.” I’m sure you’ve already heard this, and I think it’s great that you’re utilizing your turn signals. But, really, I can’t stop laughing at you for using the right turn signal to merge into the left lane. I’m sorry, but that’s just plain dumb.

- People who own fast cars and don’t drive them to their full potential – You constantly annoy me. Yes, I know I drive fast, but if I pass your Corvette or Ferrari on the freeway, I think there’s something wrong with this picture.

- Driving barefoot – You’re just weird, I say. Especially when you drive with your bare foot out the window. Tell me why this is necessary again?

- Stalking me on the freeway – This is not the best method for trying to hook up with me. Really. Not that I’m particularly interested in getting hooked up anyway. But whether you follow me for 15 miles or 30, you need to get a life. And stop waving your cell phone at me. Why the hell would I even seriously consider giving you my number? And even if I did (and I wouldn't), what am I supposed to do – scribble it down on a post-it pad and throw it out the window? Oh, please.

- Turn your headlights on, you crackhead, instead of driving in the glow left by other drivers’ lights. Conserving your own headlights won’t do jack for you – if I smash into your car in the middle of the night because I didn’t see it, it’ll be your own fault. Stop crying already.

- At the other end of the spectrum – If you drive one of those huge monster pickup trucks, turn off your high-beams, you jerk. If you’re a mile behind me on the freeway and your high-beams are still shooting through my back window and killing my eyes whenever I glance in my rearview mirror, I’m not going to be amused. After all, I don’t see any reason why I should be wearing sunglasses after dark; do you?

- I don’t think you should be madly flossing away while you’re driving. If I look in my rearview mirror and see both of your hands stuck inside your mouth instead of on the steering wheel where they belong, yes, I am going to freak out.

- If you’re one of those cute little old ladies driving at about 50 mph in front of me in the fast lane on the freeway, stop wagging your finger and throwing disapproving glances at me from your rearview mirror. I am going to smile in amusement at your lack of intimidation, and at your obstinate refusal to get out of my way, but it won’t stop me from tailgating you or finding other ways to get around your car.

- For all the guys who work at the gas stations where I periodically stop to fill up my car: Stop asking me if I’m Indian or Pakistani, Italian or Palestinian. Next time, I’m just going to tell you I’m from Zanzibar, and let you stay confused. (This goes for all you bank clerks and 7-Eleven people, too. But that’s another story.)