So, I’m taking the Mister from out in front of your name

Conversations and Encounters, NaBloPoMo2007

From the Textures & Textiles set, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

I’m sitting outside the Nordstrom’s fitting rooms – impatiently checking my watch, hating the idea of being in that specific store, and waiting for my friend, N – when a guy settles into the armchair next to me with a loud, long-suffering sigh. I look over in amusement.

He catches my glance, and shakes his head. “These are the most uncomfortable chairs I’ve ever sat in.”

I shift in my chair, and reply, “You know, I just might have to agree with you on that one.”

“What do you think this fabric is?” he asks, pinching the armrest distastefully.

“Fake velvet?” I venture.

He guffaws. “It’s FELVET!” He shifts around uncomfortably in the unyielding chairs, then throws up his hands. “That’s it, I’m writing to Mr. Nordstrom about this! There must be a Mr. and Mrs. Nordstrom somewhere. Excuse me, Mister Nordstrom…”

“…Your chairs SUCK. You let me know how that goes,” I say dryly.

“I need to lodge a complaint with Mr. Nordstrom about these felvet chairs,” he says loudly, angling his head at the saleslady in the vicinity. She looks at him coldly, then returns to assisting her customers.

A woman I take to be his girlfriend comes out of the fitting room, wearing a long green skirt with ruffles at the hem. “That’s the most unNicole-like thing I’ve ever seen!” he says disparagingly. “You sure you want to get that? If you take it off and throw it on the bedroom floor, you’ll never see it again. It’s CAMOUFLAGE!”

After she leaves, he leans over conspiratorially and whispers, “What did you think of her skirt?”

“Not bad, actually. Better than the velvet any day.”

He nods approvingly, then flags down a woman passing by. “Excuse me, we’re talking about these chairs. They’re covered in…in…fake velvet. FELVET! What do you think of that? It’s ridiculous, don’t you think?”

The lady laughs, shaking her head. Other women peer over the nearby clothes racks, and chuckle at his loud proclamations as well. Even the frosty saleslady actually cracks a smile.

The girlfriend exits the fitting room, no green skirt in sight. The guy springs up, glad to be rid of the chair. He waves at us all, then swoops off with his girl, talking to her excitedly. His exiting shot, as we hear it: “It was FELVET!”

While I was trying to condense everything that I meant in a minute or less

Glorious mundanity, NaBloPoMo2007

Not "HOT," apparently
“Smug expression on the slightly bow-legged bull in center front,” originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

While taking photos at Oakland’s Lake Merritt one gray afternoon, I zoomed in on this pier because I thought someone had spray-painted the word “HOT” on there, which I thought was the funniest thing in the world. Only when uploading the photos later did I realize that it actually says “AOT,” and I have no idea what the hell that means. Thanks a whole LOT for ruining my amusement, whoever you were.

[+]

The phone: Oh, how I hate it. But while I often cringe at having to call people, I love text-messaging as a form of communication. However, as Rockstar Extraordinaire, I have had to expand my phone’s vocabulary and add certain words to its repertoire, so that I don’t have to completely type them out every single time. Once, I tried typing CRACKHEAD, and the phone spit out SECONDODBTINO. Yeah, I don’t know either. Another day (and this mistake doesn’t even make sense), I tried to type GOES, and the cell phone came up with HEMP. Clearly, my phone is beginning to understand drug references.

Recently, I had to opt for “Add word:DAMN,” because I’ve been using it so often in text messages (for example, in regards to work-related evening meetings: “They damn well better have food there, is all I’m saying.”). I guess “damn” is an R-rated word for my phone.

Other vocabulary words of which my phone needed to be apprised: CRACKHEADED/CRACKHEADEDNESS, EDIBLICIOUS, VAT DIS DRAMA?, YAAR, VATEWER, FOBSTER, VAT USELESSNESS, LOWVE, HOLY FREAKIN’ SMOLEY, MON LAIVE, MUTHAFUCKLE.

How’s your phone’s vocabulary? Also, am I the only person who (besides my lapses into fobby-Desi vocabularly and sentence structure, of course) text-messages with perfect spelling and grammar, complete with precisely-placed commas (because to do otherwise would kill me)?

Brass Crescent Awards 2007

Blogistan and the Wide World of Webs, NaBloPoMo2007

By the way, did you know that the nominations stage for the Fourth Annual Brass Crescent Awards is going on right now? Yeah, I’m kind of outta the loop these days, too.

It goes like this:
“The Awards will take place in two phases. First is the nominations phase, where readers nominate their favorite blogs in each of several categories. All submitted nominations will then be narrowed down to a maximum of five nominees per category, as selected by [Brass Crescent Awards] judges. We will then have the final voting round on [the Brass Crescent] site.”

* Nominations open Friday, October 26 to Friday, November 9, 2007 [that means tomorrow is the deadline for nominations]
* Polls open Friday, November 16 to Friday, November 30, 2007

Nomination categories:

– Best Blog
– Best Non-Muslim Blog
– Best Design
– Best Post of Series
– Best Ijtihad
– Best Female Blog
– Best Writer
– Most Deserving of Wider Recognition
– Best Group Blog
– Best MidEast/Central Asian & Best South/Southeast Asian Bloggers

You don’t have to be Muslim to nominate or vote. Check out the website for a detailed description of each of the categories. And then nominate your favorite weblogs. There are lots of rockstars out there.

Infiltration and brainwashing: You have a thousand serious moves

All-Star Crackstar Squad, NaBloPoMo2007, NineToFive outside the 925, Rockstar and Crescent

Chessboard (ii)
A chessboard awaits potential players in an Oakland park, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

The Lovely L Lady asked me this evening, “So, what do you do during this meditation?”

“Well. I just close my eyes and concentrate on dua [supplications] and dhikr and any other prayers I have memorized.”

“Oh, good,” she said in mock relief. “I thought maybe you’d gone and joined a cult, or something.”

[+]

How funny is it that, just a few days after I posted about my dinner/meeting at the Tandoori Cafe, I ran into one of the women at the Wednesday gathering tonight? They’re even infiltrating my meditation sessions now! The best part is, I couldn’t even be exasperated or annoyed. All I could do was throw my hands up in surrender, and laugh. Thanks, God; I always knew You had a sense of humor. Clearly, you’re the one winning in this sublime chess game we’ve got going on.

Someday, the light will shine like a sun through my skin

All-Star Crackstar Squad, Conversations and Encounters, NaBloPoMo2007

Mid-day meditation
Mid-day meditation, orginally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

From Wednesday, September 26, 2007:

D text-messaged me again late on Tuesday night: Can we please go to meditation group tomorrow? She is in graduate school now, and I detected a hint of desperation.

So, we did. And it was beautiful, as always. D drove down from Vallejo, S came from San Francisco. I had been nervous about how to integrate the Ramadan iftar (the breaking of the fast) into the meditation gathering, but it wasn’t much of an issue at all, since the former was at about 7pm and the latter began at 7.30. My favorite little coffeeshop by the post office was closed, so I stopped by at Starbucks – much to my own self-disgust – to pick up a slice of coffeecake and some fizzy clementine-flavored juice to fortify myself beforehand, in hopes that this would be enough food for me to hold out until the 9.30pm dinner. And it was – much more than enough, actually, since my stomach seems to have shrunk over the past couple of weeks, and a simple serving of fruit and a small helping of salad are enough to fill me up.

I was so focused on my own iftar. It humbled me to remember, much later, that Mrs. Mehta – who opens her home to host the gatherings every Wednesday evening – fasts that entire day, even as she provides home-cooked dinners for the dozens who show up at her doorstep and meditate in her den.

Meditation-time is in darkness again, which is comforting to me. The first time I went to meditation during a Spring month, sometime back in early 2005, I was blinded by the sun directly in my eyes and got lost and missed my exit off the freeway. The previously-familiar streets became strange and unrecognizable in daylight. But once again, sunset is earlier now – it was almost completely dark by 7.30, and I was reminded of those November evenings nearly three years ago now, when I first began attending the Wednesday meditations, driving there in two hours with minimal traffic so that I could sit in silence with like-minded individuals whose company brought me such joy.

Their company still brings me joy, whether they are people I know or not. Every Wednesday that I attend, there are new faces and stories and reflections and smiles. And what brings me even more joy is that this is really the first year I’ve regularly made a habit of telling others about the Wednesdays. To see the level of interest people have expressed in attending – and to see my friends follow through and actually attend – always make me smile inside on the days leading up to the Wednesdays…and even on the days after the Wednesdays, such as this morning, when a friend – who, it turns out, lives in the South Bay and regularly meditates himself – messaged me out of nowhere with,

Do tell about the meditation sessions. What have you been doing? I’m curious.

I joke that every time I go now, I have a different “entourage.” Why did I keep it to myself for so long? People love these gatherings just as much as I do – it’s something to be shared.

After dinner last night, we all stood around and chit-chatted, as always. Nipun dispensed hugs and highfives and pats on the back, as always. I laugh to myself whenever Nipun wanders by and throws an arm across my shoulders or gives me an exuberant little side-hug. It reminds me when I first began attending the Wednesdays; that was the year I wasn’t shaking hands with – much less, hugging – guys, and I’d politely fend off the highfives and hugs that came so naturally to Nipun. “I’m sorry, I keep forgetting,” he’d say, laughing (with Nipun, there is always laughter).

Last night, we talked about Karma Kitchen and the Disco Dishes write-up. (So many rocking stories! I can’t believe I haven’t made it there yet.) Afterward, I stood in the Mehtas’ hallway, talking to S, and was interrupted by Nipun calling out my name as he walked by. “Yes?” I asked.

He pointed. “Smile Cards!”

To my surprise, D was already there. While S and I talked, D had already joined the assembly-circle around the square table that unfolds so amazingly, and was busy chatting away with new friends and sponging envelopes closed. I inserted myself into the circle and joined the effort. Some of us counted Smile Cards in batches of ten, some of us inserted them into pre-addressed envelopes, some closed the envelopes, others added stamps. There is so much love in these simple tasks. It’s never about the numbers. And that’s the beauty of it.

Two years ago, D was the first person to ever accompany me to the Wednesday meditation. That evening, she took one look at the items (notes, magnets, cards?) on the Mehtas’ refrigerator and said, “They’re Gujarati!”

“How can you tell?” I asked.

“I just know.”

When I retold this story in the Mehtas’ kitchen last night, Nipun laughed and punched us in the arm and said, “Gujaratis are known to be the most generous, you know.”

We laughed and nodded, Of course, and I remembered the same night, two years ago, driving home with D sprawled in my passenger seat, smiling to myself as she babbled loudly and excitedly in Gujarati to her mother at the other end of the phone: Mom, I met this family, and it was so beautiful, I felt just like I was home!

“How do you meditate?” I had asked D then, baffled. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

“You just kinda concentrate on your breathing.”

“How?”

All these years later, I still don’t know what to do with myself as I sit there for an hour.

But, somehow, the silence and stillness are always enough.

And the food, and the sharing of stories, and – always – the laughter.

[+]

The photo accompanying this post is one of my favorites, and I’ve wondered for months when I would add it to the weblog. It seemed fitting for this entry. And I never talk about the post titles (most are song lyrics, some are lines of poetry), but this one is from a piece by Brian Andreas at StoryPeople, a rockstar website which I love.

Talking at the tandoori cafe

NaBloPoMo2007, NineToFive outside the 925

Sunshine seating at the New Tandoori Cafe, San Jose
Sunshine seating at the New Tandoori Cafe, San Jose, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

I had dinner tonight with two women I met a couple of months ago at a work-related event. They somehow took a liking to me, and expressed interest in meeting up sometime. Sure, I said, thinking, New friends! After some back and forth, we finally managed to coordinate schedules. By the time this evening finally came around, I was tired and wanted nothing more than to just head straight home after work, but I take dinner plans too seriously to back out on a whim. Plus, I reminded myself, New friends! So, I went.

We met up at the New Tandoori Cafe in San Jose, and marveled at all the menu options while I explained the details of Desi food: aloo naan, chicken pesto naan, garlic naan; tandoori salmon; chicken tikka masala and chicken tikka boti; pakoras and samosas and all the usual Desi(-American) fare. Food ordered, we sat back and made small talk and questioned one another about our lives. Born and raised in Germany, one of them had moved to the United States when she was 26. The other was Japanese, and had immigrated to the U.S. in her early twenties. “So, were you born here, or in Pakistan?” asked the German woman.

“Here,” I said. “In Berkeley.”

“Oh. So you don’t know what it’s like to be different, then.”

I felt a flash of annoyance. “Actually, I know exactly what that’s like.” I elaborated a bit, then added, “I didn’t become comfortable with who I was until during college” – the end of college, I didn’t add. I studied the brightly painted, stuccoed map of South Asia on the Tandoor Cafe walls. In large black letters, the multicolored countries are labeled Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Sri Lanka. I think there may be countries missing from the map.

We talked about our families, faith, life in the Bay Area, travel and education, the work we do. They wanted to hear about the Chicago conference from which I just returned, so I filled them in. Dinner arrived, and we dug in. Midway through the meal, one of the women said, “So, we wanted to invite you to our event…” and pulled out an invitation letter and a flyer. Something inside of me deflated a little. I should have guessed. This wasn’t a friendly, let’s hang out and become friends meal. It was all about work – projects and programs and events and meetings and networking. And there is absolutely nothing negative about the work that each of us does, as far as I’m concerned. But I should have known our little dinner was going to be about this, too.

In a word, it was disappointing. Over the past 16 months, I have grown accustomed to seeing the boundary lines between my personal and professional life become blurred and less defined. There is some satisfaction in this – knowing that I’m meeting like-minded individuals, all of us fighting the good fight; knowing that I’m doing something constructive with my life. But it also means that my personal has become my professional. It means that when I talk about the work I do, I have to bring in the full history of who I am and what I stand for; it means that when I make new friends, we automatically begin brainstorming ways for our respective organizations to work together; it means I vent about work to my family and close friends nearly everyday, yet can’t bring myself to walk away because I know that what I do is important.

Can I just, for God’s sake, attend a meeting or program and not get pulled into telling “my story”? How did my story become inextricably caught up with who I am professionally? I thrive on hearing other people’s stories, but I’m tired of having to talk about myself, and explain myself, and put myself out there every single day, including all the evenings and weekends that get tied up with work-related projects. It’s exhausting.

But I took the pretty invitation and flyer, assured them that I would check my calendar and do my best to be there, asked some questions about the program and expressed how honored I felt to be invited. Which I did. But still, it was disappointing to feel that they had perhaps invited me to dinner not necessarily because of wanting to know me on a personal level, but because they were interested in who I stood for professionally. Which is close to who I am personally. See, I confuse myself. And it brings up a good question: Do I want my life separated into tidy compartments, with no fear of cross-contamination? Isn’t it better this way, where everything is fluid, and flows together? Honestly, I don’t know.

At the end, as we said our goodbyes, one of the women exclaimed, “You give the best hugs!”

“So I’ve been told,” I laughed, then added in my best scary voice, “Bone-crushing!“

Only half the lights are out

Blogistan and the Wide World of Webs, NaBloPoMo2007


Things to write in: ROCKING, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

I don’t even know why I’m doing this to myself, since I hate deadlines and writing under pressure, but I’ve decided to jump on the bandwagon and try my hand at this one-post-a-day drama for the entire month of November. And just look at me and my references to drama – I’m already feeling disgruntled about this whole thing. Not only that, it’s already eleven minutes to my first deadline. Clearly, the next twenty-nine days are going to be filled with much fist-shaking and gnashing of teeth. But I realized today how much I miss this lovely, clean space of mine, and what a waste it is to mentally compose weblog entries while brushing my teeth or driving to work but never post them, and how ridiculous it is that I now consider it perfectly normal to post every 1.5-2 months or so, when, years ago, I’d apologize for four days’ silence.

I remember Maria once mentioned making time for the things one enjoys doing, so here’s my attempt. To make it easy on myself, the length may vary (three sentences! two paragraphs!), and the accompanying photos we’ve all become so used to will actually be optional. The focus, it seems, will be on words and their regularity, not so much on subject matter. Quality may suffer, I foresee, but who knows, I may yet surprise myself. Stick around, though, please – we’ve got lots of catching up to do. You bring the gelato, I’ll provide the sunshine, and why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to lately? I’m a bit out of the loop these days.

This is my November 1st placeholder post. Stay tuned, rockstars.

Lights in the sky are holes in the floor of heaven

(3)BeautifulThings, Links to love, Rockstar and Crescent

Ramadan Mubarak!
From the Ramadan Cookie Project 2006 photoset, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz

To state the obvious, since everyone is talking and blogging about it these days, Ramadan is here! Has been here for a couple of weeks, actually. How are we nearly halfway through the month already?

I wasn’t fasting on Monday, so I took a slice – actually, two slices – of chocolate fudge cake with me to the office, because we all know that of course chocolate fudge cake totally counts as lunch. Late in the afternoon, when I finally remembered that I wasn’t fasting, I ducked into the kitchen to grab my little styrofoam container of cake. It wasn’t until I had polished off the entire slice that I realized the second slice was missing.

For a split second, I thought I was imagining things, that perhaps there never was a second slice. But then I remembered cutting two slices and deliberating at my kitchen counter at home about how to best place them into the same container. The most amusing part about this whole thing is that the culprit removed slice#2 so carefully and deliberately that it was as if it were never there – no smudges of frosting, no suspicious crumbs.

Days later, I still haven’t figured out who the culprit was. Clearly, someone needs to be stabbed – but one does not discuss stabbing sessions during Ramadan, and, in any case, the whole situation makes me laugh, anyway.

[+]

So, here we go, since we haven’t done this in a while:
Beautiful things: The Ramadan Edition

one. Before Ramadan even began, J texted me about hanging out in San Jose. I warned him that hanging-out sessions in the near future would not be involving food, due to the upcoming Ramadan. His sweet response reminded me why I love that kid so much:

“Es okay, you always fill my tummy with laughs, love, y joy.”

two. On the morning of the very first day of Ramadan, D text-messaged me with, “Eid mubarak!”

I collapsed theatrically into my chair at work, and laughed for a good minute straight.

My co-worker-in-crime turned around curiously. “What’s going on?”

“Eid mubarak!” I announced grandly, then laughed again and tried to think of how to tactfully reply. I texted D back: “Thanks so much, my love! Eid is actually at the very end, when the month is over and we celebrate. The thought is appreciated, though. I love and miss you!”

A minute later, my phone buzzed again: “Forgive my religious ignorance. Ramadan mubarak. Happy fasting.”

I replied: “I love you! And I bet you know more Muslim greetings than I know Hindu ones. We’ll work on me next time I see you.”

three. Driving home from work one evening during the beginning of Ramadan, I thought I spied a kufi on the head of the driver in front of me. I found my suspicions were correct when the little boy in the backseat fidgeted around and turned his head in profile, so that I could clearly see the gold-threaded embroidery winding along his white cotton cap, too. This made me smile, especially because it was close to sunset and I was anxiously watching my clock and the sky for signs of iftar time (the breaking of the fast), and I wondered if they were doing the same.

four. No matter how much I love music, I always try to take a break from it during Ramadan and listen to recitations of the Quran instead. My favorite recitation these days is Surah Layl, as recited by Saad al-Ghamidi. I play it on repeat, listening over and over, trying to memorize the verses. How can you not love this voice? [Translation] My hands-down favorite recitation by al-Ghamidi is Surah Yaseen (chapter 36). I have listened to the same one for years, especially on difficult days, chanting it sometimes under my breath and sometimes loudly until my throat is raw. It never fails to soothe me.

five. The lovely A wrote:

The first time I went to tarawih last week after Isha I turned and there was Yaz smiling at me. I felt so much better all of a sudden.

I am not a very good friend, I admit it. I never answer phone calls, I suck at giving advice (I just don’t know what to say. Also, I am impatient), and sometimes I deliberately tune people out over instant messenger or in person when they start lamenting about their issues and dramas, or otherwise talking too much about themselves. The only sort of advice I can really be counted on is, Okay, let’s get the hell over it already and move on, and that’s because that’s the one I always use on myself. But who knew all I had to do was smile at people? And not just at any people, but at my friends, and that that would be enough to make them feel good and make me feel – having read her post – as if I had done something constructive with my day? [Sidenote to A: I never tune you out, I promise!]

six. One evening last week, I met up with my beautiful halaqa ladies for iftar in San Ramon. [Halaqa = circle of learning/youth group/study circle. We usually meet Sunday mornings.] Dinner consisted of burritos and tacos and chips and salsa at Chipotle – an example of an American Ramadan at its finest. After breaking our fast, we headed out to the parking lot in shifts of 2-4; AF had laid out her raffia-type mats in one or two rows next to her little Volkswagen Golf, and we prayed solo, concrete beneath our feet, sky directly overhead. All the earth is a place of prayer and prostration, indeed. Times like these, I can’t help but smile and remember the Dawud Wharnsby Ali song, All the Crazy Spots. It was lovely.

(Speaking of American Ramadans, you should watch this, if you haven’t already. [I haven’t yet either.])

seven. The lovely A just relayed the following to me over GMail chat:

Towards the end of taraweeh* today, the qari** kept taking long breaks after just two rakahs,*** and one of the aunties said it was because he was drinking green tea. I was like, man, hook it up.

* Taraweeh=nightly prayer during Ramadan, often performed in congregation; composed of either 8 or 20 (depending on how you roll) cycles of standing, bowing, and prostrating
** Qari=one who recites the Quran
*** Rakah=one cycle of prayer

eight. Conversation with Z over GMail chat, just a few days after Ramadan began (emphasis – in italics – is mine):

Z: How’s Ramadan going?
Yasmine: Ramadan is okay
Yasmine: Not really working on any self-betterment yet
Z: Happens when time is in short supply
Z: I guess it’s more what you do than how much
Yasmine: Yeah
Yasmine: But i haven’t been doing anything, really
Z: You could think
Z: I’m sure you have time for that
Z: Like a minute

[+]

Two Three totally rockstar and beautiful weblogs that I’ve been loving lately, and reading regularly (I would recommend you check out the archives on each of these):

– The Faith Divide, by Eboo Patel of the Interfaith Youth Core in Chicago

– Hungry for Ramadan, by Shahed Amanullah, who has previously brought us rockstar websites such as zabihah.com, altmuslim.com, and BrassCrescent.org

– CharityFocus weblog: An Incubator of Compassionate Action, by the rockingest rockstars ever

All facial hair should be ill-kept but not uneven

All-Star Crackstar Squad, Links to love

For Baji, my favorite robot monkey pirate
For Baji, my favorite robot monkey pirate, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

A few things, re. Talk Like a Pirate Day, which was on Sept. 19th (must mention them now, before I forget, because they amuse me):

one. My phone shows the following outgoing text message to Baji on August 11th, as I was walking down through San Francisco’s Chinatown (which is totally better than DC’s Chinatown) one afternoon:

Baji! Is today pirate day?! Interro-rarr! I keep seeing pirates everywhere!

two. My buddy, A, is perpetually bemused by my constant usage of the word “yaar” (sort of equivalent to “buddy” in various South Asian languages), and has been a good sport about sharing his confusion through emails progressing from May to August. Exhibit A:

you said “yarr,” made me laugh out loud. i pictured you on a boat yelling something at me and finishing it up with “yarr”….talking like a pirate and such.

Exhibit B:

when you write “yaar”, here is what i picture: you with an eye patch on, your finger in the form of a hook and a “pirate-ish” look on your face.

Exhibit C:

it’s friday, yaar. (finger hooked, voice lowered and walking on a peg-leg yaar.)

Exhibit D:

what language is “yaar”? i tried that this weekend and everybody i thought i was trying to be a pretentious pirate that talked all properly. dang the western world and their love for pirates, yaar.

three. My favorite pirate store is at 826 Valencia. Sadly, I have not been there yet, but here are a few of my favorite entries from the Store Log:

August 20, 2007
A customer bought a handful of mice — 6 to be exact — with a fistful of $2 bills. I mentioned to him he was a filthy, no good, lying, cheating excretion, and who is this …this Thomas Jefferson? Declaration of what? My mother? Why you…!

June 07, 2007
A gentleman lifted up the trap door that hides our toy snake.
“Why fake?” he inquired.
“You know, city ordinances,” I replied.
“Lawyers really do ruin everything,” he laughed.

May 03, 2007
Overheard in the store: My grandfather almost lost his eye a while ago. Apparently he mixed up the bottles for eye drops and superglue, and he squirted superglue onto his eyeball. At the hospital they just scraped it off and his eye was fine.

Glass eye book set? Anyone? Anyone? Don’t forget, though, the rules of the pirate store state, No haggling! Only bartering. So, stop trying to be all Desi, yaar.

Thrown to paper and wasted: I can’t even concentrate on this, it’s overthought, anticipated

NineToFive outside the 925

Hanging out at the art store
Hanging out at the art store, originally uploaded by yaznotjaz.

It’s never a good idea to blog about work, but I would just like to say: It’s not a part of my job description to waste time answering idiotic questions like, “What should I label this box? ‘Scratch paper’? Or ‘Scrap paper’?”

I am a very important person and I have much more valuable things to do with my time – like eating doughnuts for lunch.