Category Archives: Resident Rockstar

"Who was that masked man, anyway?"


Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

This image was something I had quite a bit of fun putting together yesterday. [Click for a larger view, and to read the notes, even though, after all this time, I’m sure you already know why I specifically picked those photos.] I was inspired by Jamelah’s montage to submit my own to this week’s Challenge pool about introductions. Only now, squinting at this a day later, I realize that I neglected to include anything related to FOOD. Disgraceful! I mean, it’s not like I’d taken photos of french fries or blue raspberry slurpees anyway. But cranberry juice! Tiramisu! Pretty drinks! Fried wontons stuffed with cream cheese! How did I manage to bypass all these photos when attempting to sum up my life into nine squares? Man, we need to work on this. I gotta get with the program already. How does one get with the program, by the way? Do you know?

Meanwhile, speaking of things you know, did you know Jamelah has a weblog? Why, yes, she does indeed, and you need to go over and read it, because she writes some of the freakin’ funniest stuff I’ve had the pleasure of reading during the past couple of months. Not only does she like gelato and french fries (and blue slurpees and kind of cranberry juice) – therefore, we are friends forever, that just goes without saying – but she has also written an awesome post entitled, How to Rock: A Guide, and nothing, and I do mean nothing, is more rocking than that, buddy boy.

So about that 25 thing… (Again)

You know what’s annoying? When you write an entry and post it, and then later, while cleaning up your desktop, come across a file containing an already-half-written entry (actually, bullet points) that you were planning on posting for that event but then forgot all about. And since the already-posted entry in question was two posts ago, it’s kinda stupid to go back and edit it and add in the other bullet points now. I s’pose I could just skip this, but I’m one of those lame people who have a public weblog but no private, offline journal in which to keep track of such things, so what the hell am I supposed to do with this entry if I don’t post it here? Yeah, really.

So! I present Part 2, necessitated by my own nonchalance and ambivalence towards such days. Freakin’ hell, mon.

5. Voicemessage from the crazy D, whom I miss so, so much: “I hope it really is your birthday. ‘Cuz I think, March 1st? Right? Right? If I’m wrong, call me back and let me know what day of the month it is.”

6. My neighbor who lives two streets down is a rockstar. So is the neighbor who lives on my street, who brought me pretty flowers.

7. By the afternoon, typing the following with one hand while scrolling through voicemessages and laughing my ass off at D’s, above: Friends keep calling me, which means I HAVE to answer my phone. I’ve been on the phone more today than I have been in the entire past month or two or three. Leave me alone, peoples! Just kidding, this is good progress for my anti-phone habits.

8. Things to smite: The wild turkeys who insist on blocking my street, and since the road is so narrow, I can’t even get around them.

9. It was indeed gorgeously sunshine-y all day, just as I had asked. God loves me!

10. Clay Friel [via Guri]:

“I hope that I can laugh through all phases of life,
live to a very ripe old age,
and leave the body behind
like slipping off a tight shoe.”

I think it’s a good sign that a lot of the age-related estuff I’ve come across recently has all been about laughter. That alone tells me this is going to be a rocking year.

For March 1st: So about that 25 thing…

All I know is that I don't know nothing. And that's fine. Reassurance
Originally uploaded by yaznotjaz. [Click to read in the original sizes]

Actually, I don’t really have much to say about the 25 thing, except:

1. The poetry in the photos above really resonates right about now. [Click the photos to read.]

2. I don’t feel 25. Actually, I never felt 23 or 24 either, or anything older than 20, ever. In fact, when I met up with Elysium for dinner in the Mission a couple weeks ago – the day after my birthday, no less – one of his first questions was, “How old do you feel?” and I think we decided 12 was a good answer.

3. Which is why this quote by Anais Nin, saved in my email drafts months ago for just this purpose, is so fitting:

“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”

4. My brother’s birthday was two days ago as well (and my sister’s nine days before mine and our mother’s four days before that). On the afternoon of my birthday, driving to Berkeley so the three of us could watch a film at the Pacific Film Archive, I demanded of the brother, “What do you want for your birthday, buddy?” because I’m a firm believer in getting people exactly what they want/need, as opposed to random, pointless gifts. And mainly because, umm, I lack creativity when it comes to shopping for others.

“But it’s your birthday!” he protested.

“Vhatever. So what do you want?”

He scribbled something in the backseat for a few minutes, then passed a sheet of paper forward to the passenger seat where I sat. The top half of the sheet contained a list of books he wanted (he’s a man after my own heart, yes, he is); the bottom half contained the following poem for me:

Birthdays are the first days of our life’s travels
Tho’ our sight might unravel
and daggers may jab our arteries
It’ll never be hard to see March, annually.
And if you plan to last long
and pass on wisdom for your next of kin
Make sure you instill in them the intent
to invent ways to keep you amused,
‘Cuz without you, what would they do?

Apparently the brother knows me better than I thought he did. Because of course I keep people around based only on their amusement purposes. Stop being funny, and we just can’t be friends anymore.

Bastages! (Stealing words from Baji)

Nothing brings one’s (read: my) mood down like logging into an old Yahoo! email account and realizing it was deactivated because I hadn’t logged in for four months. Yeah, like your 1GB of space helps me now, Yahoo!, when I’ve been using GMail as my primary email account for nearly two years.

Thanks a lot for deleting all my emails. BASTIDS!

I can get over losing other people’s emails. What I really hate is the thought of losing my own words – all those hundreds of emails I CCed/BCCed to myself at the Yahoo! account in question, using it for nothing else except as an outbox of sorts.

It’s equivalent to what I’d feel like if I were to lose my childhood journals or everything I’ve written on this weblog over the years (which reminds me that I should figure out a way to back up all these posts). Fittingly enough, that email account was exactly like this weblog, if this weblog were updated compulsively: It was a daily “sent mail” chronicle (in some cases, a multiple-times-a-day chronicle) of my life over a period of perhaps the most difficult eighteen or so months I can recall, through a series of emails to selective friends, but mostly to one friend who, at the time, probably knew me better than friends I saw more regularly.

If you’ll forgive the self-pity and over-dramatic tone of this post, it’s a bit devastating to know that all those emails I sent are irrecoverable, gone forever. It’s one thing to live life without documenting it. It’s quite another – in my opinion – to put so much time and effort into sharing stories, amusing anecdotes, quick bursts of inspiration, and then have it all disappear one day without having a say in the process.

You could point out, I guess, that if those pieces of writing really mattered all that much, I would have made a conscious effort to check up on them more often. Who doesn’t log into an email account for four months? (Truthfully, it had probably been closer to a year.) Well, I don’t, when friends move on and lives change and friendships shift and new things take the place of old and life is neither necessarily better or worse, just different in a good way. I don’t make it a point to obsessively check in on my writing – I just like knowing it’s there. There are three years worth of archives for this weblog, for example. I haven’t revisited most of those old posts, but I like knowing they’re there.

So, yeah, I hate losing my words. Gotta back up this weblog damn quick.

Tryin’ out my new toys

I have moderately severe hearing loss.

What that means is, if you were standing right in front of me and I weren’t wearing my hearing aids, I wouldn’t be able to hear a word you were saying.

I’ve worn hearing aids since I was eight years old. When I was younger, I got a new pair every couple of years. I’ve had my last pair since I was fifteen, which is eight years, in case you’re not sure how old I am.

If any of this is a surprise to you, it’s okay. As I’ve mentioned before, I have friends who didn’t find out about my hearing loss until a year or two after they first met me. I have friends who still don’t know. I have other friends who knew, and then forgot. It’s not a big deal.

For the friends who do know, the reactions vary. Actually, so far, most people are more of the “oh, okay” type, deftly continuing the conversation without any unduly embarrassing reactions. I like this type of indifferent response, to be honest. Then there’s people like my high school friend K, who was so charmingly intrigued by the concept of hearing aids that she couldn’t stop exclaiming, “That’s so cool!” and asking endless questions. That was actually the best response yet. She’s a pre-med mechanical engineering major, and every time we get together, she has a new idea for hearing aid inventions: Waterproof hearing aids! Hearing aids with built-in radio stations! Personally, I’d like my hearing aids to take notes for me while I nap in class. I’m talking pen and paper here, peoples.

A few weeks ago, I glanced over at my friend S‘s open textbook while he was studying for his final exams. Spotting something about auditory processes, I naturally stopped to read. When I got to the part where the passage mentioned lip-reading, I exclaimed, “Hey, people with hearing loss do that!”

“What?”

“Lip-reading,” I explained. “If you have hearing loss, like I do, it’s kinda like you need to see what you’re hearing. So lip-reading is important, as you watch people while they’re talking.”

“Wait, I didn’t even know you have hearing loss.” S was kind of dazed, I think. Me, I’m the nonchalant, flippant kind: “Dude, why else do you think I have such issues with you and your damn mumbling?”

He laughed, but still looked astonished, so I felt the need to elaborate a bit: “Yeah, I’ve worn hearing aids since I was eight.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

I laughed. “Why are you sorry? I’m not.” He shrugged sheepishly.

I’m just as normal as you are. Oh, wait, just kidding. I’m not sure just how normal you are. And this weblog contains ample proof that I’m not normal. So scratch that.

Levity aside though, hearing loss is really not that big of a deal. I’m a complex girl with a complex set of identities, but I’ve never even thought of identifying as hearing-impaired. I don’t know sign language, although my lip-reading skills rock das Haus. [You know all those silent scenes in films or television shows where the characters are conversing with one another but you as the audience have no idea what they’re saying because the sound is muted? I could tell you.] I’m lucky enough to so easily be a part of the hearing world that most people I interact with can’t even tell I wear hearing aids. Hearing loss impacts my life on a daily basis, but it doesn’t define who I am. And that’s okay.

I’ve always worn behind-the-ear (BTE) hearing aids. My last pair looked sort of like this, although not as up-to-date. A few years ago, I told my audiologist I wanted to switch to in-the-ear (ITE) hearing aids. While he was sympathetic to my request, he replied that my hearing loss was far too severe to be compatible with ITE hearing aids. My response was basically, Oh, hell no; fergitchu. So I visited a few more audiologists in rapid succession, and, guess what, they all told me the same thing. So I came home and sulked. And because I’m a silly girl with a notoriously stubborn bent, I decided I didn’t want new hearing aids unless I could get in-the-ear ones, and if I couldn’t get in-the-ear ones, then I didn’t want new ones at all. This reminds me of the eight-year-old Yasmine who resentfully refused to wear her hearing aids in an effort to prove she could hear perfectly fine without them. You see the logic?

A couple of months ago, after a visit to my ear specialist for my annual hearing exam, I went in to see my audiologist for a routine check-up. “So how old are your hearing aids again?” he asked, inspecting them.

I shrugged. “I’ve had them for about…oh, eight years, I think.”

“They’re ancient!” he said, horrified. “They belong in a museum!” I laughed.

Two days later, one of my hearing aids died. As in, completely. As in, this was not a battery issue. I took it as a sign to stop being so damn stubborn. I went back to my audiologist and laid out my case for wanting ITE hearing aids: I’ve never had a pair. I need a change. I realize they may not be compatible with severe hearing loss, but my next pair of hearing aids is going to last me for another 6-8 years and I don’t want to wonder, “What if I had tried the ITE ones when I had the chance?” ITE means more comfort: Sunglasses would be easier to slip on, headwraps wouldn’t scrape my ears as much.

The case worked. The ITE hearing aids were ordered, received, miraculously adjusted to fit my needs, and in beautiful working order. They look like this, and I’ve been wearing them since Wednesday.

It should be noted that while the new hearing aids are hella exciting, it doesn’t mean life is amazingly different. I’m hearing the same things, with the same clarity, so there’s nothing new there. Shopping for cell phones is forever going to be the same pain in the ass. I’m still going to have to go to sleep wearing at least one hearing aid if I want to hear my alarm in the morning. Although, most of the time, I don’t want to hear my alarm in the morning, which means I just rely on my mother to shake me awake.

But the new hearing aids are digital! Hi-tech! They have directional microphones! And multiple, personalized settings! I can tune out background noise! They’re small! And did I mention they’re in-the-ear? As in, for the first time in fifteen years, I can walk around hearing everything perfectly clearly without having something behind my ear. I never even realized I had so much free space behind my ears. Slick! LIKE OH MY GOD, BECKY, YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW.

I feel like Bionic Woman. Except I’m way cooler, because I’m Yasmine, and let’s face it, that means I’m just extraordinarily cool by default. Why, just the other day, Z said, “Yasmine, you’re so cool. I wish I had gotten to know you earlier, because maybe you could have taught me how to be cool, too.” Honest. Pinky swear.

There are many, many more exciting things about the new hearing aids (see above) than there are drawbacks, but unfortunately the drawbacks are major ones. I’m still not completely sure that these hearing aids are perfectly compatible with my cell phone-toting, headwrap-wearing lifestyle. And because I like my cell phone and headwraps, as well as efficiency, convenience, and, yes, optimal hearing when I’m making use of cell phones and headwraps, the jury has (sadly) pretty much come to a consensus that these machines ain’t here to stay. Next up, I’ve got my eye on these. Did you know you can pick your own colors? Slick!

But I’ve got ’til Wednesday to enjoy these ones, and meanwhile, I’m in love. With the new hearing aids, I mean.

As L would say: Whoop, whoop.

i am – Twenty-three days of sunshine and nights…

i am –

Twenty-three days of sunshine and nights of rain and eyes that crinkle above wide smiles. Twenty-three picnics on the lawn, footraces, cart-wheels, twenty-three summersaults that go awry. Scraped knees and bandaged elbows, sticks and stones and rosebush thorns. Loud laughter and raised eyebrows, twenty-three dismissive glances and tears left unshed.

Twenty-three plans unmade and to-do lists undone, empty freeways late at night, twenty-three forked roads that beckon, embolden, bewilder. Twenty-three caustic comments and spontaneous hugs, twenty-three rejoinders and amused, knowing glances shared across a crowded room.

Twenty-three moving boxes and storage sheds and new houses that ultimately became homes, twenty-three friends found and lost and found again, twenty-three notes written in a left-handed scrawl. Twenty-three rain puddles and detours, delicate bubbles and funny faces, twenty-three questions with no answers. Twenty-three red bandannas and blue nail polish and hair perpetually, defiantly uncombed. Twenty-three pairs of flip-flops for long, narrow feet, and fuzzy socks for cold tiled floors.

Twenty-three radio stations and albums of alternative rock and tapes of Pukhtu songs. Twenty-three prayers and regrets, twenty-three words left unsaid and words said too easily. Twenty-three phone calls unanswered and letters unsent and gestures unacknowledged. Twenty-three rebellions and road trips, glossy photographs and bills blithely left unpaid. Secrets kept, secrets untold, voices heard and ignored and resisted.

Twenty-three drawings scattered about the room – artistic abilities untouched, untapped, abandoned for years. Twenty-three pairs of black pants and red shoes and fringed scarves that sparkle in the sunlight. Yellow-lensed sunglasses and rolling green hills and waves of fog, blinding white.

Twenty-three eucalyptus trees and California poppies and twenty-three midnight games of hide-and-seek on the vast, green lawn. Twenty-three libraries housing endless stacks and shelves of books, coffeehouses offering hot chocolate and cushioned chairs, Austrian bakeries with mosaic-tiled courtyards glittering in the afternoon. Twenty-three dialects from twenty-three villages, and the simple, steady, strong roots of family heritage.

Twenty-three triumphs and failures and long, numbing nights that bleed into glorious dawns.

[p.s. Look! The Bean posted an awesome entry all about me. I love it.]

i don’t cry every time i bleed/my eyes are dry, but they’re bloodshot

i don’t cry every time i bleed/my eyes are dry, but they’re bloodshot

When it comes to saying “I told you so,” my parents have ample reason to patronize me with their variations of that phrase. This I freely admit. My mother mournfully shakes her head and says, “Didn’t I tell you so?” whenever I neglect my laundry and then race around frenziedly bemoaning my lack of clean clothes, whenever I oversleep and leave home late for school, and whenever I unconcernedly wave off her entreaties to clear the messy dining room table, only to have unexpected guests show up at our home soon afterward. My father stares sternly and says, “How many times do I have to tell you?” whenever I’ve missed a deadline despite his nagging, whenever I forget to pay my bills and my cell phone service gets cut off, and whenever I ignore his reminders to take my car to the mechanic for a tune-up.

Don’t you hate it when people are right all the time? Very maddening, not to mention embarrassing.

My father also says, “I told you reading in the dark would ruin your eyesight. You should have listened to me.” This refers to all my years of growing up, during which basically all I did was read books, except for minimal breaks for meals and sleep. No matter which house we were living in during any given time, I was always easy to find: Sitting on the floor of my bedroom, leaning back against my bed, poring over one novel or another. I read very fast, and, back then, I used to read about one book a day. My dad would wander by my room, knock on the open door, and peer into the gloomy recess, scowling at the dimness I was so unaware of, then snap the light switch on for me. I’d jump in surprise, startled by both his presence and the sudden flash of light, and look up, squinting, to see him frowning in the doorway. “Yasminay,” he’d say with ill-contained exasperation, “how can you even see? Turn some lights on! You’re going to ruin your eyesight this way, reading in the dark.” Looks like the daddy-o was right. Once again.

I got my first pair of eyeglasses in fifth grade. The frames were turquoise and purple, and I hated them, even though they were solely my own choice. I don’t even remember wearing my glasses, except for the first day. My classmates were duly interested, then just as quickly unconcerned. But I still hated my glasses, and rarely wore them, if ever.

Two years later, I was on my way to Pakistan, where I lived for the next eighteen months. I didn’t wear my glasses there. I never once thought of them, much less needed them. I find that interesting, considering the fact that, once back in the U.S., I sat in the front of the classroom and still had to squint at the board every day during my eighth-grade German lecture. How did I manage to progress from almost normal vision to blurriness just in the short time it took me to fly from Islamabad to Sacramento? My theory is that Pakistan, with its vibrant colors and no-nonsense people, has a solid, steady visual clarity all its own. You don’t really need glasses there, so long as all your other senses are working.

Once back in the U.S. though, my vision seemed to go downhill. My German teacher noticed me squinting at the blackboard, and suggested I get my eyes checked. “No, no, I’m fine,” I assured her, and switched tactics – I’d stand right in front of the blackboard and copy down her notes before class began. She gently but firmly kept nagging me to go in for an eye exam. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being nagged, so I stubbornly stood my ground for a few months. Finally, I went home one day and announced glumly, “I need new glasses.” So off we went. Gold-rimmed frames this time. First, turquoise and purple; now, gold. What was I even thinking? I don’t know; don’t even ask me. Another new pair a few years later – brown frames this time.

For the past two years, though, I’ve been wearing contact lenses, and couldn’t be happier. I can walk around in pouring rain instead of having to remove my glasses or constantly wipe at them. I make wudhu without, again, removing my glasses. I can wear regular sunglasses instead of having to order a separate pair of prescriptive ones. Best of all, I can see clearly out of the corner of my eyes, instead of having to turn my whole head. Sidelong glances are much easier with contact lenses. This, you see, is imperative for those of us who spend quite a bit of time driving. When you’re on the road and your vision sucks, there is a significant difference between checking your blind spots while wearing contacts, and doing the same while wearing glasses. With contacts, you signal, quickly glance over your shoulder, and switch lanes. So smooth. With glasses, you signal, glance over your shoulder and realize your glasses don’t cover your entire field of vision, especially that corner-of-the-eye area. So you squint to bring things into sharper focus, then finally switch lanes when it seems safe. It doesn’t require perhaps more than an extra second. But one second is a huge span of time when you’re on the freeway, traveling at about 75 mph.

Those of you who wear glasses regularly are probably raising your eyebrows and muttering, “What is this girl talking about? Glasses are fine. I’m fine with glasses.” Well, good for you. You’re a rockstar. I, on the other hand, have been commuting 120 miles a day, 5 days a week, for the past 3 years and 4 months, and trust me, I know the difference between checking my blind spots with contact lenses and with eyeglasses. I’m going with the contacts for this one.

Nonetheless, I ordered a new pair of frames a while back, and finally got them picked up last week. My sister wryly observed that the level of excitement I’ve displayed since then is usually reserved for the arrival of contact lenses by other (more normal) people. But I can’t help it – I’ve finally found a pair of frames I’m in love with: thin, black, and rectangular. They suit me as no other frames have in the past. Plus, they match everything – after all, 3/4 of my wardrobe is black.

But the reason I currently love my new glasses so much is due to a bit of verse by Dorothy Parker, that sardonically witty American author and critic. The lines made me laugh when I first came across them, almost a decade ago. These days, I’m just hoping she knew what the hell she was talking about:

Men seldom make passes

At girls who wear glasses.

Good riddance, is what I say.

someone please pass the remote control

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.

“Given a chance to truly express yourself, you can change the world.” (Well, so says the box, at least.)

(This one is for LA, who emailed me recently to say she had thought of me while cell-phone shopping, and who struggles far more than I could ever even know. Much love, peace, and strength to you, always.)

Sometime last week, my dad decided to switch wireless plans, and went out and splurged on brand-new, shiny cell phones for Shereen and me. “It’s cute,” I said, inspecting it dubiously. New cell phones never inspire much excitement in me the first time around. Not before I’ve tried them out myself, that is. And sure enough, I wandered around the courtyard sing-songing, “I can’t hearrrrrr youuuu,” to Shereen, who stood inside and dialed my new number, her own cell phone held to her ear.

So I went on a mission a few days ago. To the wireless store. To fulfill my dad’s expectations that I will indeed find Perfect Cell Phone Number Three on my own, and to get my fourth wireless number in three years. Such drama. Trust me, you don’t even know.

I’m probably somewhat of a disgrace to deaf and hard-of-hearing people. (Not that I know any others in real life.) But I don’t know sign language, although my lip-reading skills rock das Haus, thank you very much. I barely, vaguely know what a TTY device is. I absolutely refuse to use a T-coil loop and headset with my cell phone. And my idea of “hearing aid compatible” varies widely from that of cell phone manufacturers, I’ve discovered.

“What do you mean your phone’s not hearing aid compatible?” asked the girl at the wireless store, when I went back to return the phone my dad bought me. “It should be.” She showed me the top of the box. “See? It says ‘TTY compatible.’ It should be working just fine.”

I sighed. “Well, it’s not, because I don’t use a TTY device. I just switch my hearing aid to the T-coil setting, hold a phone up to my ear, and talk. And I can’t do that with this one, because all I hear is a rushing sound.”

She called over a co-worker for advice. He suggested the T-coil loop and headset because those would allow better volume control, an idea that may have some merit, but which I flat-out dismissed as “too much of a process.” For your information, I have three earrings and a hearing aid in each ear, not to mention my head-wrap and outer scarf, and glasses/sunglasses if I choose to wear them, rare as those moments are. My poor ears. There’s no room around there for headsets and things, geez.

“Trial and error then,” he advised. “It’s messy, but it works.” He shrugged nonchalantly, and walked off whistling. I rolled my eyes at his retreating back, and turned my attention to the cell phones the girl brought out for me to try.

Basically, I sat there with my regular cell phone in one hand, switched off, and called my voicemail from the endless phones she handed me to try out. If I could hear my voicemail greeting nice and clear, then good. If not, the trial phone was relegated to the “doesn’t-work” pile. And let me tell you, there didn’t seem to be anything but the “doesn’t-work” pile.

Did you know Siemens is one of the best-known manufacturers of hearing aids? I learned this when I was eight years old, and I didn’t realize until quite recently that they make cell phones as well. And I’d like to know why their cell phones don’t work with my hearing aids; I really would. Especially since their phones look so slick. How wrong is that.

“That must be so frustrating,” said the girl carefully, neutrally, watching my face as I sat there, my eyebrow raised impatiently, listening to endless repetitions of my own voicemail greeting, shaking my head and passing the phones back to her, only to pick up the next one. I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the lengthy process involved in my picking out a cell phone, or if she meant hearing loss in general, but I decided to go with the latter. “Not really,” I answered simply. “I forget about it most of the time.” And I do. I don’t know if she quite believed me though.

The co-worker dude stopped by later to check up on how we were doing. He seemed to be shocked at the ever-growing pile of “not-working” phones, and my casual manner of testing them. “You guys,” he drawled, “I don’t believe this. Come on, have you even thought of using the volume button on the side of the phone?” The girl looked sheepish, but I didn’t like that condescending tone I detected. Hell, I didn’t particularly like him at all. “What, you seriously believe that wasn’t the first thing I thought of?” I snapped. He shrugged and wandered away again.

Would you believe that after going through a towering piles of at least two dozen phones, there were only two that worked? It came down to this and this. Even then, I was so obsessive-compulsive, and so used to failure by then, that I had to re-try each of them several times, just to make sure. I can’t even begin to tell you how unbelievably tired I am of hearing my own voice say, This is Yasmine. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. Maybe I should record a new voicemail greeting. Something mean-spirited and along the lines of, Stop calling me, dammit. Leave me alone. Hang up. Go away. My friends would absolutely love it, I know. It’s just the kind of thing they’ve learned to expect from me. But my daddy-o calls me quite often from the road, too, and ends up leaving hilarious rambling mushy lovely messages for me, and he just won’t be amused. Darn.

So the wonderfully patient girl (bless her) gave me more information about the two phones that worked. And I came home and thought it over for a couple days, and then went back last night to actually buy one of them. The girl was gone, but I took a seat, leaned my elbows on the counter, and explained my situation to a nice helpful guy working there. He stared at me, baffled. I raised an eyebrow in amused expectation. When people stare so bewilderedly, so confusedly, they are about to say something hilarious. This I have always found to be true. In this case, he waved his hands around in the air and stuttered, “But…but you’re hearing me perfectly fine right now.” I laughed. “The power of hearing aids,” I said, somewhat sardonically. I then played some eeni-meeni-minee-mo (not really), and came home with this phone after all. (I laugh everytime I look at it. It’s so…flat!)

And then Shereen and I played around with ring-tones, and that probably requires a whole separate post of its own.

[Now go read LA’s post, because it’s so sad and beautiful and eye-opening that I’ve had it stuck in my head all day.]