slip of the tongue I called up a local mechanic…

Conversations and Encounters

slip of the tongue

I called up a local mechanic early this morning because my car’s brakes needed to be looked at. When the guy answered the phone, instead of asking if the shop was open already for customers, I accidentally said, “Hi. I was just wondering if you’re awake already.” It took him what seemed like an entire minute to stop laughing. Fine, I admit it, I cracked up, too. It was inexplicably funny at the time, okay.

I don’t sleep, I’m weird. I sleep just enough, and I’m still weird. I love how I amuse myself. But hey, evidently I amuse other people, too. So that makes it all right.

What made you laugh today?

one for me, one for you I figured my mother nee…

Casa420 and Familia

one for me, one for you

I figured my mother needed a change of scenery, so last Friday I drove her up to Sacramento to visit the psycho soap-opera-drama familia, also affectionately known as the relatives. After all, there’s only so many times one can wander around the yard and talk to the rose bushes and geraniums, you know. Actually, that’s my dad’s line of expertise. But the daddy-o is also a social butterfly who spends literally hours on the telephone and enjoys telling his life story to total strangers he meets in the sprinkler-system aisle at Home Depot. My momma, on the other hand, is just a shy butterfly, and I decided she needed to get out of the house, and away from the isolation she sometimes feels, living as we do in the Bay and an hour away from close friends and family.

We took with us a box of pomegranates from our tree to dispense as a gift amongst the families (there are four). When we came home in the evening, we brought back with us two melons and a carton of homemade potato salad. (Sidenote: Damn, Somayya, that stuff was GOOD!)

Saturday, we decided to go harass the relatives again, and the daddy-o bought a box of dates for everyone there. We decided to leave just before iftar, so that we could make it back to the Bay in time for taraweeh. This, of course, made all the aunts extremely sad, because their primary goal in life is to feed everyone as much as they possibly can. So the fun part was, each of the four aunts put together a “care-package” for us to eat on the road, once iftar-time hit. We drove home loaded with dates, fruit, lasagna, kabob, samosas, french fries!, and bread. Not to mention, a bottle of water, two bottles of coke, and a jug of orange juice. And real glasses to drink out of. That one still makes me laugh. And they even gave us little containers of ketchup and chutney. Simply ingenius!

A while back, we had given our neighbors some pomegranates and persimmons from our trees, too. On Sunday, the across-the-street neighbors stopped by to thank us, and to rave about the pomegranates, which they had also shared with another neighbor down the street – “We were eating them as if it were candy!” They brought a plateful of dates (because they had “heard that tradition has it, Muhammad used to break his fast with dates”) and a container of hot lentil soup, thick with tomatoes, carrots, potatoes!, and tiny grains of unidentifiable-but-yummy rice. Perfect for this annoying cough-and-cold-combination I’ve got going on. Such nice people. I still remember that when they moved in the house across the street, years ago, their son and my brother hit it off, since they were the same age. They were also the most annoying little brats ever, and I’m not exaggerating by any stretch. Somehow, my brother grew up to become an art and film aficionado who makes exaggerated funny faces, delivers hilariously impeccable imitations of people, and can tell you anything and everything about seemingly every single movie listed on The Internet Movie Database, whether it’s good, bad, or ugly. And the neighbor boy grew up to become a thoroughly likeable guy, and is now away at college at UCLA. And even after so many years of marriage, his parents are still madly in love. You can tell by the way they look at each other. It’s so cute, masha’Allah.

Later in the day, the lady from next-door stopped by with a thank-you gesture in the form of walnuts and a bag of Fuji apples, both of which my dad actually loves. My family is always amused by the fact that, even four years after moving in, the couple next-door still has a constant stream of construction and remodeling going on. But we patiently bear the loud noise and the heavy-duty trucks that perpetually block our driveway, because every year around Christmas-time, she brings us a tin of English toffee without fail, and we have become obsessed with her English toffee, we admit it. I just can’t wait until December already.

Bartering is so much fun, didn’t I tell you?

680 to the 80 to the 113

Hit the Road

February 2001: During my freshman year of college, driving home late one night, I got pulled over on a dark, empty stretch of freeway for going 85 miles per hour. “In a rush to get somewhere?” asked the highway patrolman, face set in implacable lines. I was so rattled and nervous that I blurted out, “I was just in a hurry to get home.” He raised his eyebrows skeptically, and I was moved to clarify, defensively, “It’s been a long day, and I’m just looking forward to getting home as soon as possible.”

He asked me where I was coming from. I gave him the name of my university, and watched his face light up. “They have one of the top medical schools in the country!” he exclaimed. I cautiously nodded in agreement. That was back when the thought of attending medical school still held magical appeal for me, and I wondered whether the influential name of my university could get me out of a speeding ticket, too. But, much too soon, his face closed up, reverted to its uncompromising highway patrolman look, and he gruffly ordered me to sign my name on the dotted line. “Try to slow down,” he warned. “You were going 85 mph in a 65 mph zone.”

September 2001: I was driving through the college town where I go to school when a police car turned onto the street right behind me. I was traveling at 35 mph, the posted speed limit, so I had nothing to worry about. Then the freak of nature started tailgating me, so I nervously sped up, and the tailgating continued. By the time he switched on his flashing lights, I wasn’t nervous anymore; I was just pissed off. I glared as we both pulled over and he sauntered over to my car. “Do you make a habit of tailgating people for eight blocks before you decide to pull them over for speeding?” I snapped. He smirked through my open window and replied innocently, “I wasn’t tailgating you.” He ticketed me for going 45 mph in a 35 mph zone. As we drove away, I remember my friend, D, objecting from the backseat, “It’s because of the way you were dressed, I know it! It was because of your hijab!” “Shut up, D,” I said irritably. But, really, I should have contested that one; I just couldn’t be bothered to do so at the time.

This morning: Forty miles from home, I raced through a curve and sufficiently intimidated the Hummer in front of me into switching lanes. That’s right, sucka! I gloated silently. If you can’t handle the fast lane, get outta my way! I thought that was pretty slick: I made a Hummer move out of my lane! Therefore, I’m so cool. My arrogance was extremely short-lived, however, because five seconds later a highway patrol car came out of nowhere, red and blue lights flashing in my rearview mirror. Damn, here we go again, I thought.

This guy turned out to be the nicest, most sympathetic highway patrolman yet. Not that that really helped me, though. “Can’t you just let me off with a warning?” I pleaded. He smiled benignly, but shook his head quite firmly. “You were following that Hummer pretty aggressively,” he said. “I’m really giving you a break here, by not issuing you a separate citation for that, too.” I decided to just give up at that point. So now I have a yellow citation marking me for going “75+ mph” in a 65 mph zone. Actually, I’d had my cruise control set at 80 mph ever since I hit the freeway, but, really, who’s counting? And, you know, I’m starting to think my debate skills are worthless. Sure, they help me excel academically, but what good are they if I can’t even effectively argue my way out of a speeding ticket? That’s just plain messed up.

So, yeah, I guess I spoke much too soon the other day.

“Yasminay!” cried my father with delight as I walked in through the door tonight. “How was your day?”

“Oh, it was wonderful,” I replied breezily, “except for the part where I got a speeding ticket.”

He took the news so much better than I had expected. He didn’t so much as bat an eyelash, and I didn’t receive the frosty lecture I had been anticipating. Praise the Lord. Two years ago, I got stern warnings and unsympathetic ultimatums about what would happen if I ever got another speeding ticket during my college career. Either my dad has mellowed out since then, or all those du’as I tensely recited on the way home tonight did the trick. I like to think it’s the latter. Then again, I didn’t mention the Hummer. But I love my daddy-o, I really do. I’m still constantly surprised the parents haven’t decided to give me away to the Salvation Army. Really, I would have, long ago.

I find it interesting that I have yet to receive a speeding ticket in the Bay Area. Perhaps it’s because we’re all aggressive drivers here, relentlessly in a hurry and on the go. And I can’t help it if I’m a speeeed freeeeak – I’ve got places to go, things to do, people to see, too. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Traffic school coming up, I guess. I’m semi-excited about that, actually. My last traffic school instructor was so hilarious, my stomach ached from laughing. And that’s really the best kind of laughter in the world, you know. I gotta hunt up her number again, even though I remember her last words to me, two years ago, were, “I better not have to see you in here again!”

Anyway, moral of today’s story: Hummers are evil, evil machines. Yes, they are, and you know it.

multiple choice Felt like updating, but I’m maj…

Rockstar and Crescent

multiple choice

Felt like updating, but I’m majorly exhausted, as evidenced by the fact that I made it to Taraweeh at the masjid for the first time in a week, and then kept dozing off while standing in prayer. Terrible, isn’t it?

I need lots of sleep, and you all could use some constructive breaks from my psycho randomness, I’m sure. So, speaking of masjids, Javed has put together a survey entitled “Muslim Women and the Mosque.” The survey’s pretty self-explanatory, but you could also check out his post here.

So, ladies: Take the survey.

Ladies and gentlemen alike: Feel free to share your thoughts and experiences on the matter, either in my comment box or Javed’s, or both. His is more reliable though, seriously.

I’d post some of my own observations on the subject, but all this yawning is hampering my attempts at coherent writing. My jaw’s about to pop, I swear. I’ll get to commenting about this tomorrow, insha’Allah.

Good night, y’all.

Bartering is the way to go

Glorious mundanity, Suckool

For iftar today, I ate a kit-kat bar and three mini Reese’s peanut butter cups. But wait, don’t worry, there’s still more left. I have here at my elbow: one king-sized Snickers bar, two mini Snickers, five mini Reese’s peanut butter cups, and a pack of Mambos (they taste just like Starbursts). Yes, this is my life as the weird college student who’s all-too-often stuck inside the computer lab typing up papers while turning down the free iftar (real food!) held at the local masjid down the street. I mean, who in their right mind would make conscious decisions like that?

What I really want right about now is a slice (or two or three) of pizza, and a cold water bottle, but I’ve just rummaged through my wallet, and considering the fact that I have merely $0.71 in there, that’s a pretty ambitious goal at the moment. Dammit, I shoulda cashed in my paycheck this morning.

I’m supposed to be working on a paper. Instead, I’m contemplating what I consider a brilliant idea (these epiphanies always occur when I’m supposed to be immersed in academic pursuits, you notice?). In the spirit of interactive weblogging, let’s have a bartering session. I’ve always been fascinated by the concept of bartering: I give you something, you give me something of comparable value in return. So nice and simple. It’s still practiced in many parts of the world, you know.

So, let’s trade. I’ll give you all my candy bars. I’ll even walk around the corner and down the hall and get you a blue raspberry slurpee, because that I can afford on $0.71. Ooh, I even have some cashews. And a mini-stapler, lots of highlighters, and a couple of legal pads. If y’all are nice, I may even give away my headphones and my beloved TI-83 graphing calculator (dead battery included). But that’s stretching it. Or not. Depends entirely on you.

In return, what do I get?

Y’all can barter with each other, too.

How ‘bout it?

[Apologies to all those of you reading this while fasting. I know how you feel, I really do. I’ll brace myself for hate-mail, but meanwhile join in on the fun, okay?]

who, me? I’ve just managed to sneak hot chocola…

Glorious mundanity

who, me?

I’ve just managed to sneak hot chocolate (with whipped cream!) into the computer lab, which, let me tell you, is no small feat, considering the fact that the hawk-eyed computer room consultants stare at me suspiciously every time I nonchalantly saunter in and out. I find the level of observation they direct my way inexplicable and strange, unless of course it means I’m smirking far too much for their comfort. I can’t help it; keeping a straight face when I find something amusing is just beyond me, and sneaking in hot chocolate is amusingly clever, if I do say so myself. One of these days, though, I’ve got to work on acquiring that deadpan, blank-faced look. I’m terrible at relating funny stories or incidents aloud, because most of the time I’ll start laughing in the middle of the story, and my audience/victim of the moment has to sit there all (im)patiently while I hold my stomach and nearly fall off my chair laughing. My delivery is usually all off. Meanwhile, I guess I’d be wary and watchful, too, if I kept running into someone who smirked half as much as I do, and was as inherently sarcastic as I am. Ooh, two more goals to work on for Ramadan. Grand.

So what rebel-child stunts have you all been up to lately? Share the stories, spread the craziness, give me some ideas to implement in the future. Sharing is caring, and all that jazz. Uhh, I mean, Yaz.

and, finally, we get with the times I’m in love…

Glorious mundanity

and, finally, we get with the times

I’m in love.

With my brand-new high-speed wireless cable internet connection.

I’d marry it if I could, yes I would.

And all this in the midst of Ramadan, too.

Lord, grant me the strength and discipline to refrain from trivialities and time-wasting.

Meanwhile, I’ve figured out how to network all the computers.

This seems kinda hacker-ish, I say. Oooh…

rain, rain, go away

All-Star Crackstar Squad, Loss and laments and letting go

I helped pick out a bouquet of flowers today.

As a single, random act in and of itself, buying flowers really isn’t all that hard. “Ooh, look, these are so pretty,” we said, and grabbed an armful of three different types. As the lady took apart the bunches of flowers and skillfully re-did them as one large bouquet, I idly wondered just how scandalized my gardening-obsessed father would be if he knew I couldn’t, for the life of me, name those flowers without their identifying tags. We remembered we needed a card, too, so we wandered over to the back of the store and stared in bewilderment at the choices available, flipping them open and reading them aloud, then impatiently shoving them back in the stacks. “What about this one?”…“Here’s one I like.”…“What do you think of this?”…“Nah…” Finally, we just grabbed the simplest and plainest card in the aisle, and ran.

We agonized over the message itself, muttering to one other, “I don’t know what to write!”, the pen changing hands as we stood in the parking lot, the car’s trunk a smooth writing surface for the card we stared at blankly.

We drove fast on freeways still drying from the morning’s rain, the roads / mountains / bridges / water passing by our windows in a blur, four close friends in a three-car-caravan, leaving behind us abandoned classes and cancelled appointments. Alone within my car, a sheet of lined paper with hastily scrawled directions lying across my lap, I glanced repeatedly at the bouquet resting on the seat next to me and wondered whether we had bought the right flowers, whether we had written the right words, whether mere flowers and words were enough. What should have been a 75-minute drive under normal conditions was compounded by some more rain, a little bit of hail, and the fact that we got lost once, too.

But none of that was the hard part.

The hard part was meeting her gaze levelly as she entered the room – was hugging her tight and whispering, “I’m so sorry about your mother” – was seeing her look so calm and collected when I can’t even begin to fathom the magnitude of the pain I know she feels inside. Later, I drove home with the beginnings of a headache, and alleviated it a bit by listening to the Burda, the moonroof tilted upward to let in cold air even though it was drizzling outside. Watching the miles of cars ahead of me crawl through rush-hour traffic, I thought of my mother and father and brother and sister, and how she has none of those now.

For the love of God, go let your mother know how important she is to you.

if you’re happy and you know it, then your face will surely show it

Conversations and Encounters

(a.k.a. corrupting the youth of tomorrow)

I was starting to feel old for a while this morning. And you know that never happens.

It happened this morning, while I was sitting on a little wooden chair reading to my cute preschool kids. We were making our way through a story about a farmer who planted what turned out to be the most enormous potato in the world. Problem was, he couldn’t dig it out of the ground on his own. I like interactive reading, so the kids were having major fun calling out the story sequence here: the mouse pulled on the cat, who pulled on the dog, who pulled on the daughter, who pulled on the wife, who pulled on the farmer, who pulled on the potato. And wouldn’t you know it, the potato finally came out! ::round of applause:: The townspeople dropped by, bringing salt and pepper and butter and forks and knives. They washed and baked the potato, cut it all up and ate it, and then stood around talking about how good it was. The last page of the story showed the farmer and his wife and daughter smiling widely at this happy ending, their thumbs and index fingers joined in a circle, their other four fingers slightly curved.

The preschoolers looked on in puzzlement. “So what did they think of the potato, you guys?” I asked. They scrunched up their faces and looked even more confused. I held up my right hand, my thumb and index finger joined together. They followed suit. “You’ve never seen this before? Really, no one? What do you think it means?” One little boy, staring at his own hand, hazarded a guess: “Really small?”

I started laughing. “You guys have never seen the A-okay sign before?” They shook their heads. “It means, A-okay, like, everything’s okay. Everything’s good. A-okay.” Of course, “A-okay” was the new favorite word for the rest of the hour. But, dude, I thought everyone knows the A-okay sign. Or am I really that old? Whoa. (Just for the record, I don’t use the A-okay sign in real life. Yeah, I guess that would be kinda old-school. Or not?)

And then, while all the girly-girls went off and played dress-up – with long aprons, feather boas, and enormous hats – and poured pretend-tea, I opted to play with the guys, as usual. I shoulda been a boy. Ha. We made paper airplanes, held matchbox car drag races on the classroom floor, and had some messy times with play-dough. I love play-dough. There’s nothing like sitting elbow-to-elbow and molding play-dough to make my day. Plus, all the boys presented me with play-dough hearts. Yes, I feel all special now.

As I was leaving, I leaned down to say good-bye to one of the boys. (Hair closely cropped, he looks like a cross between David Beckhham and Lance Armstrong. Seriously.) He looked me right in the eyes and advised gravely, “Be careful out there.” I just nodded seriously while struggling to keep a straight face.

Oh, and my morning at the preschool only confirmed a suspicion I’ve had all along: 4-year-olds think “underwear” is the funniest word in the whole entire world. They can – and will – chant the word for hours, laughing non-stop at the sheer ludicrousness.

what? what? what? Just got done spending almost…

Suckool

what? what? what?

Just got done spending almost two hours checking out 115 tables worth of college/university reps extolling the virtues of their respective graduate school programs.

After all those questions descriptions conversations brochures pamphlets smiles quizzical glances handshakes endless filling-out of information cards, I have only two things to say:

– If I thought I was even anywhere remotely close to figuring things out, I was pretty damn wrong.

– And, you know what, forget next June; that fifth year is sounding pretty appealing all over again.

Graaaaaand, as Seher would say. Add in some intonations/inflections of sarcasm frustration dejection confusion annoyance bitterness tension chaos (did I mention confusion?), and there you have it, Yasminay the perpetually confoozid child. Great. So, Seher-woman, don’t worry, you’re not the only confused one out there.

Life is such a process sometimes. Geez.

[Update: This evening, I went to a lecture that opened my eyes and made me think. I went out to dinner with an crazy group of friends who made me laugh ’til my stomach hurt – and you know that’s the best type of laughter. The crescent moon out there is looking absolutely beautiful – go see. I feel better now, because insha’Allah I can handle this, too, just like everything else. And if I still decide to go ahead with a fifth year, big deal. Random ladies will still think I’m in high school, and the high school kid who bags my groceries every week will still persist in calling me “Ma’am.” And one of these years, I’ll figure out what I’m trying to do with my life. Meanwhile, blue raspberry slurpees are the key to happiness. Go buy yourself one, too. You know you wanna.]