Via Hypnagogica (and also Superhero Journal, within just a couple minutes of each other), here are some photos to make you smile:
Members of the Pillow Fight Club were out in full force in San Francisco at 6pm on Valentine’s Day.
Freakin’ awesome, man.
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The above photo was taken last Friday, while D and I relaxed on the steps of MLK Hall at UC Berkeley after the traditional post-jummah [Friday congregational prayer] lunch at Julie’s Cafe.
D was waiting for her housemate to pick her up, and I was waiting with her because when the sun is out in full-force like it was that afternoon, you can be sure there is nowhere else I need to be. I stretched out my legs and squinted into the sun. We talked about lots of things I can’t remember now, although I do recall regaling D with lots of stories about my childhood. I can talk about my childhood all day long, just so you know.
Once in a while, I would say, “The sun’s gone!” and we’d move over to another sun-splashed spot on the steps.
“You don’t have to stay,” D would say.
“No, I want to!” I said, because I was enjoying this – sitting on the steps, sitting together in the sunshine. And, besides, I had nothing else to do (as far as I was concerned).
Somehow, the photo reminds me of things I’m grateful for today, and, oh, everyday: My family, my health, (my relative wealth?), my friends who make such efforts to stay in touch even though I suck at returning phone calls or replying to their emails. All my jummah buddies – D, and my fellow headwrap fanatic M, and the crazykids W&F and their never-ending crowd of cousins – who make the Fridays spent in Oakland/Berkeley so much fun. The sunshine – and friends who will sit with me in the sunshine, and patiently scoot over with me when I obsessively follow the sun’s warmth as it shifts even if it means the sun will be directly in their eyes. Also, my brand-new super-flare jeans. (Yep, they’re so worth adding to the list.)
“When you were a kid,” asked D last Friday on the MLK steps, “what did you want to be when you grew up?”
After the slightest of hesitations, I answered, “A professional frisbee player.” D laughed and said that was the best answer she had ever heard.
I was completely serious. It’s true; that’s exactly what I had wanted to be. I remember throwing frisbees so far, and so hard that I would blister my father’s palm; he used to grimace in pain and drop all the frisbees he’d catch from my end. I used to dream about growing up and becoming a professional frisbee player and receiving accolades for my amazing frisbee skills. I had such grand ambitions, I laughed to D.
Since frisbee’s been out of the running for several years now, I seriously need to reevaluate what my next grand ambition should be once I grow up. This adulthood business is such a process.
[I’ve just gotten back from running errands. The girl at the bank wished me a “Happy Valentine’s Day!”
I almost rolled my eyes, but instead smiled and said, “Thanks! You, too!”
Besides, I was wearing red, so who was I to be making faces about Valentine’s Day? Must point out, though, that I was wearing red simply because it’s my favorite color, and not because I particularly care about St. Valentine and all this drama he’s created.
But it’s not worth antagonizing the Valentine’s Day-lovers, I’ve decided, because the bank was giving out free chocolates, and I’ve made it a sincere policy to be nice to those who have chocolate to offer.]
And a fitting end to this random post –
Just received an email from my other friend, D, who concluded with:
“One of these days we should just run away and do things we used to do, like look at a damn tree and start cracking up.”
A few evenings ago:
I have to go to the mechanic’s shop to drop off one of our cars. This means that we have to drive over in two cars, drop off one of them, and return home in the other. It’s about 10 p.m. already, and the mechanic’s shop is fifteen minutes away. Also, intriguing spy maneuvers are apparently involved, such as juggling the lock on the mechanic’s gate and then sliding open the gate in order to park the car inside. Finally, the mechanic’s shop is on some dark, narrow street filled with warehouses (aren’t they all?). The daddy-o is therefore quite reasonably – in his opinion – concerned for my safety.
He insists on going with me. I attempt to placate him by pointing out that the sister and I will be going together. He continues insisting.
“We’ll be fine,” I say.
My belief that the daddy-o is worrying far more than the situation calls for is demonstrated when he retorts emphatically:
“No! You haven’t had your karate lessons yet!”
(How could I argue with that? Mr. Miyagi ends up accompanying me.)
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[Since I seem to be on a roll with posting about blogger meetups and such, here’s another story.]
So, once upon a time (early last summer), I somehow got totally hooked on reading a whole bunch of weblogs written by law students and recent law school graduates studying for the Bar Exam. In retrospect, this is really funny considering the fact that I never was, nor have any inclination towards being, a law student. (My father, by the way, has recently resumed his mission to convince me to apply to law school, but we’ll ignore that for the time being.) Regardless, the weblogs were fascinating – and I think this is the point where all those erstwhile law students stab me for using the word “fascinating” in conjunction with the Bar Exam.
Anyway, last week, I decided to stop being such a lurker and comment in reference to the Muslim parking garage and Mission food places mentioned in a post by maisnon, one of my law stalkees. To keep things even, and in line with my brand-new, shiny-clean Screw the stalking philosophy, I also commented on the Cheese Grater rap-related post by another one of my favorite law stalkees, Chai of the Chat&Chai weblog.
In reply, Chai sent me an email that afternoon that started off with, “Hi Yasmine, I know that you just started commenting, but I’ve been lurking on your site for a few months now.”
I stared at my computer and burst out laughing in amazement. What are the odds? In closing, I was invited to dinner with Chai, maisnon, ads, and brimful. I recognized all the names, since not only had I been reading Chai’s and maisnon’s weblogs, I’d also been stalking the other lovely ladies for a long while now, having originally come across everyone’s weblogs through ANNA‘s, I believe.
I was honored to be invited, and this was too good a meetup opportunity to pass up. So, last Friday evening, off I went to dinner at Lime in San Francisco.
Finding parking was such a process, but I managed it after circling the block several times and finally seeing the side of a building emblazoned with “PARKING FOR LIME LOUNGE & RESTAURANT.” Oh, okay. Well, why didn’t you say so? I parked my car and glanced around.
Ditzy Moment #1: I figured the parking lot must obviously be adjacent to the restaurant, but a few minutes of confusedly walking up and down the street made me realize that I had figured incorrectly. Obviously. So I gingerly crossed the random left-turn lanes and walls and tracks lining Market Street and made my way to the other side.
Checking out the numbers on this side of Market, I realized this was where Lime should be. A few more steps led me to Lime, or, at least, a glass window with the restaurant’s name, and then nothing but a wall. Ditzy Moment #2: I stopped in confusion, not sure where to proceed. The guy standing in front smiled at me. I smiled back, and said sheepishly, “Umm, I’m looking for a way to get in there.” He grinned, stepped aside, pulled on the door handle that had been hidden behind his back, and opened the door with a flourish. The door that looked like a freakin’ WALL. I muttered my thanks and darted inside, where I found Chai and ads already waiting. We were soon joined by maisnon and brimful.
Re. Lime: The food was amazing. We ordered a whole bunch of small plates, and then passed them around, sharing, which definitely gave a dinner a lovely, close-knit feel. The place had LOUD music, colorful lighting, and a bar lined with mini televisions screens. Oh, and mini TVs in the restrooms also – something I kept exclaiming about, because I just couldn’t get over it. Pretty inter’sting.
The waiter asked if we were ready to order. Enter Ditzy Moment #3: When my turn came, I glanced down at the menu, glanced back up at the waiter, and announced, “I’ll have the zucchini, umm, fri-iiii-iii – ?”
“Frites,” said Chai helpfully.
“Yeah, those!”
It was hilarious. And now I know how the word “frites” is pronounced (clue: Not like the word “fries,” apparently). Good lookin’ out, buddy!
Re. Bloggers: The lovely ladies were totally friendly and welcoming. I remember lots of jokes and laughter, which is always a good thing when you’re meeting people for the first time. I initially felt a little bit out-of-place and a lot over-awed, not only because I was surrounded by a corner of Blogistan I would never have imagined I’d even have a chance to meet in person, but also because they’re such smart and successful women that it only reminded me I still need to do something constructive with my life. When Chai turned to me with a wide smile and asked, “So, what’s your story?” the best I could do was sputter in embarrassment, “Umm, I don’t really have any interesting stories.”
Sadly, I didn’t get to join my fellow bloggers on their quest for dessert (I know, it’s INCONCEIVABLE), but it was a beautiful evening spent in the company of inspiring women, nonetheless.
So, the moral of the story – at least, for my future reference – is: Stop being such a stalker. Lurk less, comment more, make your presence known when you appreciate someone’s writing. Who knows, the bloggers whose sites you’re lurking on just might be lurking on yours as well. And then they’ll invite you to dinner! (I’m a big fan of food. And bloggers. And blogger meetups involving food.)
Oh, and I never did get to see Chai reenact her “I HATE THE CHEESE GRATER!” rap in person. Blast!
As a closing commentary of sorts to previous post [which you should perhaps scroll down to read first], I should add that I got plenty of teasing from my buddy S about “blobs” and “blobbing” in the weeks following our hangingout session with Anjum.
It’s difficult to explain to those who neither blog themselves nor read weblogs (blog-lurkers, or blurkers) that I find blogging extremely fascinating and addicting, that it allows me to organize my thoughts, celebrate the mundane that makes up my life, hone my writing, and share my stories with an audience that probably doesn’t even know what I’m doing (or not doing) with the 80-90% of my life that I don’t even blog about – an audience that seems to appreciate my little stories nontheless, even if I don’t share anything of consequence most of the time.
Recently, I mentioned that I have been blogging for three years now, and, again, it would take too long to discuss why exactly I’ve kept at this when I’m usually so easily bored and distracted that I end most projects even before fully beginning them. Suffice it to say that I don’t maintain this weblog as some form of self-centered aggrandizing just because I have the power to click a button and suddenly “self-publish” my thoughts to the web – but, yes, sometimes I do think I have something amusing or pseudo-profound to share, and you crazy people out there actually take the time to respond to it.
Which is my point: For me, the weblog is all about the people it’s brought into my life. People like you, and you, and yeah, you over there in the corner who never comment but I know you lurk around here, yep. I’ve never met most of you, but that’s okay, although it does rock my world when I do meet some of you. The weblog’s brought a lot of sweetness, and countless beautiful people, into my life. I still haven’t forgotten the outpouring of comments and emails after this post, for example. Oh yeah, and the random little emails once in a while, too, for which I’m massively sorry if I still haven’t responded to yours. I’m getting to it. Like, a year late. Or something. And, sometimes, we catch each other on AIM or MSN or your instant messaging stalking devices of choice, and then I get fun opportunities to underscore why exactly my screenname is crackfiendserene.
I was thinking recently of all the people I’ve been privileged to meet in person, simply because I have a weblog. Anjum, of course, who is wonderful to hang out with, and I wish she lived in California all the time. HijabMan, who came all the way across the country simply because, and who leaves random songs on my voicemail. Through his vast network of friends, I’ve been blessed to meet other amazing people as well: D, my jummah buddy extraordinaire, who makes going to Oakland every Friday something to look forward to all week; SI, one of the sweetest and most genuine people I know, who sends me texts and emails exhorting me to come to DC for cherry blosson season; M, who appreciates headwraps like few others do.
There’s 2Scoops, one of the rare people I actually love talking to on the phone, even though it takes us weeks to get ahold of one another. Maria, who is beautiful and brilliant and yet so humble. Baji’s sister, LB, who laughed so much and was so easy to connect with that I told her it felt like I had known her for years. When my friend, the lovely L lady, went off to DC for a semester-long internship, I was quite comfortable sending her off with Baji’s contact info; that she returned to California with stories of hanging out with Baji and Najm and the rest of the East Coast crew just made me appreciate Blogistan even more.
And, of course, through the same sort of online presence, although it wasn’t through blogging, I also met my favorite “psychopathic maniac” SS, which, in turn, allowed me to eventually meet Mark, Dipti, Nipun, Viral, and Guri – people who are so beautifully inspiring on a daily basis that my words will never do them justice.
The “internets” have widened my world considerably, while simultaneously allowing me to realize what a small space the world really is.
The other day, I read something by Goethe that made me think of this weblog:
To know someone here or there
with whom you can feel there is understanding
in spite of distances
or thoughts expressed –
this can make life a garden.
I’m grateful for all of you. Here’s to gardening, kids.
S felt it was necessary to add to the glorious architecture, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.
It’s a sad testament to my slacker tendencies that not only have I neglected to write about my Blogistan meetup with Anjum about a month ago, but she has updated about her first California trip a couple of times already, and then she was back in the SF Bay Area on a second business trip, and I still haven’t gotten around to writing about our hanging-out sessions from a month ago. Talk about major laziness, man. Stab me already.
But I had long ago promised Anjum I’d post my version of our meetup(s), so here it goes, in all its rambling glory thanks to hastily scribbled notes and bullet points, but organized into paragraph-form so late that I’m probably not doing it justice.
[Oh, and in case you haven’t figured it out already, check out Flickr for some of the photos from our Berkeley/SF hanging-out sessions.]
TUESDAY, JANUARY 3rd: Anjum arrives in the Bay!
This is after about a week of us exchanging emails and phone calls. At one point, Anjum left me a voicemessage that ended with, “Umm, what’s going on with all the flooding out there?” I sent her emails warning her to bring whatever clothing she considered suitable for rainy weather, because it damn well wasn’t sunshine-y at this end. Oh, and in regards to phone calls – to be honest, I must confess I can’t recall even one single time I answered my phone when Anjum called. This was not deliberate; the reception around here sucks. But I bet it started to seem highly suspicious after the first, oh, four or five times.
The first thing that happened after I parked my car at the Oakland Airport (to pick up Anjum) was that I somehow set off my car alarm. You’d think, after owning the new car for four months at that point, I’d have learned all these fancy schmancy nuances regarding car alarms and such by now. Apparently not. The first week I got the car, I set off the alarm an average of three times a day. I guess setting it off just once in January (so far) was progress then. While I was pressing all the buttons on my keychain and cursing under my breath, a guy walking by called out, “Try locking your car, then unlocking it with your key!” So I did. And it didn’t work. But then the alarm inexplicably stopped blaring ten seconds later while I was still pressing the keychain buttons at random. So I breathed a sigh of relief and continued on my way inside the airport to wait for Anjum, who took a while getting out, but that was okay, because I highly amused myself by reading the warning signs regarding what one should absolutely positively not take on planes while one is traveling. Sadly, all I remember is the fact that paint-thinner is a no-no. Just don’t do it, kids.
While driving Anjum to her hotel in San Ramon, she glanced out the window at one point and exclaimed, “Palm trees!”
“Where?!” I said. “We have palm trees in NorCal?”
So we had a good laugh over that, because apparently there are palm trees around here, it’s just that I never notice them unless they’re as abundantly in-your-face as the palm trees in Southern California.
FRIDAY, JANUARY 6th: Jummah in Oakland, Hangingout session in Berkeley
PrincessPrettyPants picked up Anjum in San Ramon, and they drove up to meet with me and my sister in our hometown, where they jumped in my car and we raced through Highway24 to my favorite masjid for jummah in Oakland. While driving through Oakland, my sister turned to the backseat and asked Anjum, “So, how’re you liking California so far?” Anjum mused that California folks don’t seem to be in as much of a hurry as East Coast-ers, rushing around less.
My sister misheard rushing as washing. “You mean, like, hygiene?” she exclaimed, horrified.
I started laughing. “Not washing less, buddy, rushing less!”
Jummah [the Friday congregational prayers] were rocking, as usual. Afterward, we headed over to Berkeley for lunch at Julie’s Cafe (where PPP had wayy too much fun with the hot sauce), then to the Oddball store down the street (where I saw gems like this and this), then to the Berkeley Hat Co., where I was totally busted for taking photographs of – among other things – PPP trying on funky purple beanies with pom-poms attached. Somewhere in between, I saw a store display of children’s rain boots, and exclaimed, “I want those! Galoshes! That would be so awesome!”
PPP shook her head. “I never want to see you wearing a pair of those, you hear me?”
“Whaaat? I could totally pull it off!”
“No, Yazzo, even you couldn’t pull that off.”
Props to Anjum for putting up with our mass craziness, because when we crazy Cali kids hang out in a group, we are insane.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 7th: Hangingout session in San Francisco
This was the best day ever. I invited my friend S to come hang out with me and Anjum in San Francisco – basically, because I had originally invited him to Jummah the previous day and we planned it out a week in advance, but he overslept on Friday and then sent me an apologetic text message (“Good morning, I just woke up looking at the time, I don’t think I will make it to the Bay but can I come up tomorrow or Sunday to make up Friday please”). I laughed at the sheer audacity of flaking out on people at the last minute through text messaging, then called S to yell at him, made him feel sufficiently guilty, and then graciously invited him to hang out with us on Saturday, because I am so kind and forgiving like that.
S drove down from Sacramento and met me at the BART station so we could take the train into SF together. He had never ridden the train before, and professed to feeling freaked out about this. I told him to suck it up. “Man up!” as Somayya says. Besides, he was wearing his Superman t-shirt, and Superman is not supposed to be afraid of measly things like trains. Once on the train, S busted out with his Treo and started photographing the interior. I told him to calm down with that a bit, since brown people taking pictures these days is cause for such drama, mygod. Then I took the Treo away from him and started checking my GMail, even though I had done that right before leaving the house. Once I figured out how the tiny keyboard worked, I teased him, “Oh, so this is why I’ve been getting text messages in complete sentences from you lately! I thought maybe you were just turning into me, or something.” I may never pick up my phone or return calls in a timely manner, but at least I’m famous for text-messaging in full sentences, with perfect spelling and grammar.
After that, we commenced bickering about phone calls – S accused me of never returning his calls, while, in my defense, I explained that if I’m in a “not picking up the phone or returning calls” mood (which is most of the time), I’m ignoring not only his calls but also everyone else’s. This cheered him up considerably. “Oh, okay,” he said. “So it’s not me, then. You just have psychological problems.”
“Yeah, I think that sounds about right.”
We met up with Anjum outside the Powell St. BART in San Francisco, and from there made our way down to Union Square. I was delighted to see how quickly S and Anjum got along – S, like Somayya, has a habit of making fun of people as a way of showing his love, and Anjum not only took it in stride with good humor, but she dished it right back, so that in no time the two of them were all making fun of one another as if they’d been friends for years. A recurring theme of conversation throughout the day was S’s Superman shirt, ironic because Anjum and I kept accusing him of being “SO SLOW!” Anjum, fearless East Coast-er that she is, would surge right ahead and cross the street in a split second, while S and even I hesitated and looked both ways and checked the lights and signals before proceeding. Clearly, we need to work on our jaywalking skills. Pedestrians need to take back the streets!
At one point, Anjum and I ducked inside the Mocca cafe not only to check out the pretty food but also for old time’s sake because this was the spot where Baji‘s sister, LB, and I had met up for chocolate mousse cake and a little bit of hanging out at Union Square back in September2004. However, we decided to move along to the Ghirardelli store for ice cream sundaes, but S and I were really in the mood for root beer floats, and no one seemed to have ’em.
We decided to skip the food for the time being and move on to a bookstore, where Anjum browsed postcards and I found a wombat book that would be perfect for DeGrouchyOwl. I was super excited about this, and had to take a photograph. As Anjum and S continued their own browsing, I wandered down to the lower level of the bookstore, where I was delighted to find the Glamour magazine article on WOMEN WHO BLOG. While I was skimming the article, Anjum and S came by, so I gleefully pointed out the article to Anjum, who had heard about it already, too.
“Blog?” said S confusedly.
“Yes, you know, weblogs,” we said. “That’s how we meet, through our weblogs.”
“What?! I thought you were two were related or something!”
We burst out laughing and explained about the weblogs a bit more, but S wasn’t feelin’ it. He just gave us Why would you do THAT? sort of looks.
At the register a few minutes later, while Anjum was paying for her postcards, S patted me patronizingly on the head. “It’s okay, Yasmine, you’re a nice blob.”
“A what?”
“Blob. Blog. You know. What you guys do. Blobbing.”
I rolled my eyes.
We wandered around some more. Anjum was on a quest to find a post office, of which there is apparently one in the Macy*s department store, of all places. Every time we went up and down from one level to another, S, who was quite comfortable chillin’ in one spot, kept asking “Why do you keep walking on the escalators?” to which I would retort, ” ‘Cuz I’m not a lazyass like you.” To which he told me how short I am, because this is his favorite thing of which to remind me.
While Anjum stood in line at the post office, S and I went off to amuse ourselves with the plethora of other stuff available at Macy*s: disgustingly expensive fresh-baked bread in animal shapes, Mango-A-Go-Go smoothies from Jamba Juice, and vending machines that dispensed quite another form of (eye)candy altogether: iPods and their accessories!
More walking: We ducked into Anthropologie, where I decided that any store that sells a pair of pants for $165 is damn overrated. Also, I got Anjum and S to take pictures of me with Anthropologie’s humongous shopping bags, which seemed almost as big as I was.
Back out to the street: we witnessed the cablecar turnaround, some street dancing, and a reminder about how much Jesus Christ loves us.
We stood waiting in the long line for our turn on the next cablecar, which took us to Fisherman’s Wharf, by which time we were hella hungry and dying for some food. S supposedly knew of a good clam chowder place, so Anjum and I just followed his lead. Along the way, we passed some monkeys who made me think of Baji, and an earring shop at which Anjum and I did double-takes, waffled, and glanced at each other uncertainly before deciding, “Alright, let’s go in!” So we checked out all the gorgeous dangly earrings to our hearts’ content while S waited patiently, then we went and got some clam chowder from Boudin’s and saw even more animal-shaped bread.
At the end of the meal, I offered Anjum some of the orange-flavored Trident gum that I love. She chewed it for a second and exclaimed, “This is what your car smells like!” I remembered I had been chewing it the evening I picked her up from the airport. Well, if my car had to start losing the new-car smell, as far as I’m concerned the next best thing would be for it to smell like oranges.
We walked around Fisherman’s Wharf for a while longer, taking pictures of each other taking pictures, checking out the lazy sea lions, marveling at the ships and ferries and the little white sailboats. Soon, I had to leave, so S and I said our goodbyes to Anjum, leaving her at the wharf because she wanted to stay for a view of the impending sunset.
S and I walked back to the cablecar stop, and I did some bread-watching from the street along the way. Also along the way, while I was walking along and in mid-conversation with S, a homeless man sitting on the sidewalk shoved a potted bush in my face while screaming, “YAAAAAHHHHHH!”
I jumped in surprise, then yelled, “What the hell!”
S was doubled over in laughter. So was the homeless man.
I was not amused. I punched S in the arm. “What kind of damn friend are you? That wasn’t freakin’ funny!”
“It was!” he gasped, still chuckling. “You totally didn’t see it coming. He made you jump!”
“Well, he freakin’ scared the hell out of me! God!”
We got on the cablecar heading back to Union Square. The car was crowded and I had no handhold, so I reached up and grasped the closest thing I saw – the wire above my head. “Don’t pull that unless you want to get off!” said the cablecar man quickly.
“Here,” said S, “hold on to this.”
I looked up at the metal bar he was gesturing to, and laughed. “Do you seriously expect me to reach that? There’s no way I’m going to be able to reach that!”
He offered his arm as a handhold, but I stubbornly stood my ground, and somehow we made it back to Union Square – with glorious views along the way – without me falling off the back of the cablecar. Then we descended the escalator at the BART station, got on the next train to the East Bay, and then drove back to our respective homes.
The end!
Sorry, my wannabe English/Comparative Literature-major tendencies wouldn’t let me bypass all this drama without making use of such an obvious pun. Apparently, I’m not the only one.
Truthfully though, I’m damn tired of the drama – of the emails, the articles, the conversations with friends regarding this mass chaos and fury all over the world. Also truthfully, I’m pissed off at Muslims who feel that engaging in such acts of violence (hurling gasoline bombs? smashing windshields? throwing missiles? Thanks, buddies, you’re really helping yourself and the rest of us look good) is justifiable. Calm the hell DOWN, people.
[For those of you who’ve been living under a rock lately, check this, there’s a wikipedia entry already, with a description of the cartoons in question here.]
So, not only because I’m tired of it all, but also because I’m not smart, analytical, and articulate enough to write up a real deal post on this topic, I’m sending you off with links yet again. Many of the weblogs I regularly frequent have already written about this, so go visit.
– Basit’s post is my favorite, because I’m feeling quite desensitized myself
– Yaser’s post is succint and to the point, something I always find admirable about him because I don’t have that quality, sadly
– Abhi at Sepia Mutiny: The Danish cartoon controversy: A contrast in protests
– Baraka at Truth&Beauty: Merry Go Round
– Safiyyah: Stupid Cartoons, Even Stupider Reaction
And for you slackers who are too lazy to click over to the weblogs I highlighted, here’s a beautifully apposite Rumi poem that Baraka appended to her abovementioned post:
When you see the face of anger
look behind it
and you will see the face of pride.
Bring anger and pride
under your feet, turn them into a ladder
and climb higher.
There is no peace until you become
their master.
Let go of anger, it may taste sweet
but it kills.
Don’t become its victim
you need humility to climb to freedom.-Rumi
Off you go, children. Real post(s!) coming soon.
[Because even if no one sees your hair, there will still always be conversations nonetheless.]
* Last December, at home:
I walk into my room with my hair all tousled and standing up in weird waves and curls all over my head because I just took it out of the bun it’s been in for the past couple of days. Because my hair is naturally annoyingly straight, I view the crazy curls as a delightful change.
My mother, on the other hand, shakes her head in despair. Ey kay ayya, Yasmine? Jindoo dariyn vaykhh na zara. Banda akhhay, dunya thay thud kaday bhi vaalan ni kandee na maree. “What is this? Just look at yourself – one would think you’ve never in the world combed your hair before.”
I laugh. “That’s right, Ummy. You know I never do comb my hair.” She gives me a what kind of monster did I raise sort of look.
I am notorious amongst close friends for never (okay, rarely ever) combing my hair. I wash it, I dry it, I style it by putting it up in a bun again. But combing or brushing? Waste of time. Besides, the hair is so damn straight, it doesn’t really require any of that drama anyway.
Lately, I’ve flirted with the idea of chopping my elbow-length hair all off – like I did a couple of years ago – but it’s a nice anchor for the headwraps, and I really do love the headwraps.
Which brings me to the next conversation…
* Last Wednesday evening at Rasputin Music, Telegraph Avenue, Berkeley:
A man approaches me, grinning widely as if we’re long-lost friends. I stare warily. “Are those dreads?” he asks without preamble.
“Dreads?” I repeat stupidly. “Uh, no. No, I don’t have dreads.”
He raises his eyebrows and checks out my headwrap, wide-eyed. “Wow, you must have a lot of hair, then.”
I start laughing. “No, I don’t really, it’s mainly just the scarf that makes it all look so huge. Seriously.”
“Oh, okay, ’cause I saw you and I was thinking, ‘Man, that girl must have some serious dreads, or maybe she just has lotsa hair!’ “
“Nope, neither, just big scarves to work with, more like!”
We both chuckle, and I make a quick escape to the register to pay for my CD.
Later, I laughingly relay the conversation to my sister, as we settle down for dinner with the brother in Berkeley.
She and the brother share a glance across the table. “He was hitting on you,” she says bluntly.
The brother nods in agreement. “Yeah.”
I stare. “Well…grand,” I sputter. “Clearly, I didn’t notice that part. I thought he was just excited about the dreads.”
It’s kinda not fun when non-oblivious people point out those sort of things, you know.
It just ruins the story.
The title is meant to be ironic and tongue-in-cheek. So get off me. Via 2Scoops‘ contribution to the comments box for the last post, I present the following [click for larger image]:
I could write an entire post based around this – lots of deep analysis for why I have been blogging for three years now – but I won’t. Let’s just take the comic at face value and laugh, because it’s damn funny. “I am greatness personified.” That’s right!
Meanwhile, and in related news, I’ll soon turn my efforts towards reviewing Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World for all y’all. This is a movie that was, by the way, not really funny at all. And you know how easily amused I am, don’t you? I suppose I’ll just have to stick to comic strips.
I’m lazy and still working on writing about my meetup with Anjum – disgraceful, I know – but, meanwhile, here’s a long-ish post for you, about this past Monday, no less.
ONE. Taking a nap on the living room floor, smackdab in the middle of the pool of sunshine spilling through the front windows and onto the carpet. Specifically, falling asleep while reading Ivan Turgenev’s short novel, First Love, because that girl – Zinaida Alexandrovna – was so damn arrogant and annoying and self-satisfied that I just wanted to stab her. Or rip the pages out of the anthology. [Not so rocking: leftside arm- and shoulder-aches for the next day and a half. Did I mention I’m left-handed? This is problematic.]
TWO. Snail mail! Package from HijabMan, containing:
– Earrings from the Middle East! He had asked which I wanted more, flip-flops or earrings, and my shallow accessories-addicted inner rockstar told me to go with earrings, so I did. Because we all know I love dangly earrings. I can get flip-flops on my own anytime, but earrings from the Middle East? Lemme at ’em! So HijabMan sent me a photograph he had taken, I circled the earrings I wanted, and emailed it back to him with a note: “THE RED ONE IS MINE!” When I finally got them in the mail, my first thought was, Dayam, I have hella good taste. Alhamdulillah. Oh yeah, and I wore them right away, for the rest of the day. HijabMan is the awesomest. You should be his friend.
– Another mix CD from Baji, mix-CD compiler extraordinaire! Baji had given the CD to HijabMan to give to me when he visited California back in September. He forgot to hand it over, and the CD subsequently traveled with him around the world before making its way back to me. Baji will be so proud! This is a No-Theme CD, and it’s rocking. It also has TWENTY-TWO TRACKS, so it took me the better part of three days worth of errands all around town to get through it. I’m now listening to it for the second time, and loving it, because Baji has awesome taste in music, even though I didn’t recognize any of the songs (which says a lot about my taste in music, obviously). Baji, if I haven’t said this before, you’re my favorite rockstar. You’re lucky I’m not a boy and about ten years older (oh, and ten times smarter), or I woulda challenged TP to a duel and married you myself. I woulda!
…and it’s deja vu, because…
THREE. I ran into my brother the crazy artist at *gasp* the grocery store of all places. He grabbed my grocery list away from me: “Garbanzo beans? Oho, yaar! Chholay!“
I laughed. “Hey, speaking of chholay…”
His interest was piqued. “Naan ‘n’ Curry?” he immediately asked.
“No buddy, although, yeah, we should plan a Berkeley trip to eat at Naan ‘n’ Curry, too. But, hey, let’s check out that movie you really wanted to see.”
So now we’re coordinating plans to see Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World together, even though I warned him that the reviews I had read so far pretty much summed up the film as sucky. But I’ve got to see it for myself. Plus, I liked a bit of Shaheen Sheik‘s music in the past (back when no one knew who she was and her music was good), so maybe that’ll be some saving grace.
FOUR. Phone call from my favorite San Diego-an 2Scoops! Who always merits an exclamation point after his name (hey, I didn’t start it; I’m just agreeing) even though he is stubbornly weblog-less. Nearly five-minute-long voicemessage (“you know how we do”). Best line(s) ever, about the little kids who were – uhhh, praying? suuure – at the masjid during the same time he was:
“This one kid, I don’t know why he was dressed up like this, but he was wearing a karate suit, like, the white karate suit, and he had on a yellow belt and everything. And he would stand, and then he would kick to his right, and then he would stand, and then he would kick to his left…”
Apologies to 2Scoops if I mangled his story, but he talks so fast! (All the better to fit more hilarious stories into those five minutes, before he reaches the limit and the phone automatically cuts him off.) Also, hearing myself creatively addressed as “Y-to-the-AZZO” is enough to make me laugh for minutes on end, and people who make me laugh are my favorite people ever, and hands-down awesome by default. Seeeeeeriously.
FIVE. Discovering this slurpee machine! The only reason I haven’t been talking about blue raspberry slurpees on the weblog for months now is become I haven’t found any blue raspberry slurpees since last summer. Damn graduation. At least in college, I had a steady supply of such things. It’s enough to make a kid consider going to grad suckool. Anyway, remember I promised all y’all your very own slupee machines oh so long ago? That’s right! Vote for me!
SIX. Coordinating tentative dinner plans with Anjum, who is back in the Bay on business! [Actually, “tentative” is right; it’s probably not happening this time around. Aww sadness! We’ll make it work again, buddy!]
SEVEN. Checking out my friend H’s facebook profile, on which he had posted the following quote that he himself – such a smart man – had come up with:
“Realize that maybe living the moment is not all its cracked up to be, that perhaps we need to live not just for today but for tomorrow should there be one.”
Thank you, I needed that.
EIGHT. Email from my lovely friend, D. Best line ever: “Some days I wanna be a dude with a motorbike and no plans.”
Oh, me too.
