Baji's (Olde Timey) Blog

Coda

2009-09-01T22:31:00.004-04:00

I know, I know, I said, "this is it," but this time I really mean it! I just wanted to let you fans know about two things.

1. The power of blogs is amazing! (Uh oh, I now have "The Power of Love" stuck in my head). Not only has it given me the opportunity to have newunions and renewunions with fellow bloggers and blurkers I had never met before, but it has reunited two friends who have not communicated with each other in forty-one years! A woman found my post about my family and managed to reconnect with my mother, with whom she was very close friends in Hong Kong and they had a lovely time catching each other up on four decades worth of news and gossip. SUCCESS! So you can give credit to this coda to the blog demise to Aunty Yasomi.

2. Stay tuned.

Gone, Daddy, Gone

2009-08-26T12:53:00.003-04:00

I think it's time for me to close up shop. After five and a half years, it's been fun, I've actually met a few outstanding folks, and I got a chance to write (whether creatively or not). So, let me know what your favorite memories are, give me your 411 if you want to keep in touch, and bid me adieu.

Method of Elenchus can suck it

2009-08-04T15:54:00.002-04:00

For those throngs of you who wanted to know how the cliff-hangery ending of our trip actually concluded, let me recap with:

(a) after hoofing it with our luggage from our hotel at Lexington Avenue at 49th Street to the High-line Cafe, we found the staff to be top notch, the decor cute, but the food crap (although Gojira was quite content with our crap scraps);

(b) the Upright Citizen's Brigade Theater is extraordinarily tiny compared to my conception of it (the exterior is, at least);

(c) the Empire Diner satiated my need for a decent cup of coffee (fancy cappuccino, actually); and

(d) despite their strong encouragement to order a plain cheese pizza, I was pleased with the mushroom and onion slice I got from NY Pizza Suprema (right across the street from Penn Station) ... even if my fellow Amtrak commuters were not.

The mini-vacation was great and we returned to great fanfare and enthusiasm when we got home (diaper needed changing! fish bowl needed cleaning! someone needs a nap!).

Since then, we've been back in the groove of things. The latest updates are that ZP is enrolled to begin preschool starting August 24th and he is very excited about it; ZP has finally gotten off the paci (not easy on any of us but after a week, we seem to be in calm waters once again); AP is getting heavier and faster and cleverer lately and loves to start her day by reciting the few words she knows: "flower! baby! daddy!"; TP has successfully caught at least four mice but, alas, none by stomperation and there is still at least one rogue mouse out there; I am going to the gym regularly but have already put a freeze on my account for the month of Ramadan.

I just got back from getting my eyes checked and everything is A-okay. There is always some trepidation associated with these visits (more so than the gum-gouging dentists or privacy-scoffing obgyns) because my mother has retinitis pigmentosa which is a genetic eye condition that, thankfully, neither my sister nor I have inherited. Although I like my opthalmologist well enough, he has this irritating manner of using the Socratic Method in our conversations:

Doc: "Well, it looks like your vision has not changed in the last three years. Do you know what that means?"
Me: "Ummm ... that's good?"
Doc: "Yes! It also means that you would make a good candidate for ... "
Me: " ... "
Doc: "Laser surgery!"
Me: "Ah, okay. Great."
Doc: "Have you ever considered it?"
Me: "Sure, but it's not high on my list of things to do. If I win the lottery, maybe. But otherwise, I don't think I'll do it now."
Doc: "If you ever did decide to do it, the first thing you would do would be ...?"
Me: "Do some research on it?"
Doc: "Yeah, but how would you know which doctor to go to?"
Me: "Ummm ... the internets?"
Doc: "Well, yeah, but what would you look for?"
Me: "I'd just research various services and providers."
Doc: "But how would you know which is best?"
Me: "I'd look at the user reviews."
Doc: "But what exactly would you look for?"
Me: "I'd look to see if someone said "this doctor totally butchered me and now I'm blind" and I'd take note."
Doc: (a little taken aback) "Uh, yes. But where else might you get a recommendation?"
Me: (finally getting it) "You, of course."
Doc: "Yes!"

He then went on to explain that he'd be happy to work with whomever I chose but if I chose someone he knew was not trustworthy, he'd bow out. It irked me so much because (a) he was wasting my time because I already said I wasn't interested in it right now and (b) the Q and A game was so annoying! I had enough of the Socratic Method in law school; I certainly didn't have the patience for it at an eye exam. I wanted to say, "just spit it out already so I can go!" but, instead, I politely listened and played along until I was finally allowed to leave. I treated myself to an iced mocha at Illy's as a reward and as a defense against the humid mid 90s that accosted me after I flew out of the office. Worth it.

My Dogs Are Barkin'

2009-07-17T14:01:00.005-04:00

"Keep your eyes closed."

"Don't raise your head to look at the clock."

"Stay in bed."

"Imagine you are floating and drifting and being super puffy like a cloud."

"Stop twisting and turning and being restless and just relax."

DAMNATION! 6:00 a.m. on the dot. Despite my every attempt to take advantage of the opportunity to sleep late, my brain refuses to let me sink back into sleep and propels me out of bed and into the shower so I can plot out the day: Meet the gang for brunch; split up and spend time with our respective peeps; reconvene somewhere for dinner. Since this is partially TP's birthday present/getaway, I let him sleep in since he seems to have no trouble doing so. I quietly get dressed, whisper a request for his coffee order, and let myself out. I scope the area for some non-chain cafe but end up at Starbucks nonetheless. After correcting the barrista's mistake in the order (unadulterated coffee is horrid unless one is in Italy/France/Spain where they know how to do it right), I snag a New York Times for TP and head back up to our room.

As I exit the elevator on the 19th floor, I hear the sound of running water. "Hmm," I think to myself, "I don't remember there being a sink or water fountain near the elevators . . . " I turn around to locate the source of the sound and before I can blind myself by throwing the hot coffee in my face . . .

*parental advisory: the following contains explicit language, partial nudity, and vomitriousness*

I see a disheveled, swarthy man with one hand steadying himself against the wall and the other hand directing a full-on stream of piss right onto the carpet. No lie. He was drunk or completely brain-addled but either way, he didn't even register my presence and blithely emptied his bladder directly in front of the emergency exit door. I beat a hasty retreat back to the room, picked up the phone, and called . . . who? Security? No listing. Maintenance? Um. Concierge? Why not; they are supposed to attend to all situations, right? I reported the atrocity and got a mild, "*sigh* oh boy, we'll send someone up right away" in response. I'm not sure if this kind of thing happens all the time, but I'm loathe to find out. Whether it was my outrage or the smell of coffee, TP finally got out of bed and shared his usual "what do you expect? the whole world is full of horrible people" reaction.

Even though we have plans for brunch, TP wants to fill his stomach with some food before he boards the subway. We all remember what happens when TP mixes caffeine with nothing and then takes public transportation. We shudder, shriek, and shiver at the prices listed at several nearby eateries before ending up at a deli across the street. They, too, get the order wrong but the food is edible if not forgettable and we shuffle our way over the metro according to schedule. Or so we thought. While we watch one train after another whiz by, it becomes very apparent to me that OUR train, the V train, is glaringly absent. Upon closer inspection of a tiny, weathered notice posted on a column halfway down the platform, I see that the V line likes to take weekends off. Thanks, NYC Transit. Thanks a lot.

Doing some mental gymnastics to figure out the next best alternative, TP and I race back to the main entrance, get a sketchy signal on our cell phones to let our three buddies (who don't really know each other but hopefully will enjoy each other's company until we arrive) know that we are running late, and reroute ourselves to take the first 4, 5, or 6 line that comes our way. We finally emerge in the Lower East Side, and sweaty and mighty late, we find our gang seated together at Supper. After some perfunctory greetings and small-talk, TP and Dullard take off to check out Dullard's new house in Brooklyn (sell out!) while HA and Gojira and I settle in for a nice, leisurely brunch. HA's Organic Pancakes with fresh fruit looked healthy and tasty, the bite of parmigiano and fennel I swiped from Gojira's Grilled Polenta and Poached Eggs was delightful, and my Spinach and Goat Cheese Omelet was perfect. Grade: A.

HA had to "dip" into work, so Gojira and I spend the rest of the afternoon hoofing it around the area. We, too, dip into here and there: the tight housewares shop, the overwhelming candy shop, a tiny apartment moving sale. I refuel with a Lemon Yummy cupcake from the Sugar Sweet Sunshine Bakery. Despite the numerous flies buzzing around, Grade: A.

I stop in for a visit with Gojira's roommate Dr. Clothilde who is absolutely charming and gives me a warm reception. To soak in some more of the unusually gorgeous weather, we stroll outside. We walk through hustling, bustling, stinky, dizzying Chinatown which makes D.C.'s version look like a crummy and immature diorama, parts of Little Italy, and Soho. TP rejoins us for a quick-that-turned-long visit to Pearl River (or Pearl Harbor) Mart where we pick up a few "thank you for watching our kids, for helping out, for everything that you do for us" prezzies for the family. Indulging my desire to check out the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Art, we find the tiny and slightly pathetic museum, get turned off by the clerk's sycophantic glomming onto TP (ignoring us girls ... which, actually, was a good thing) and forcefully relating the suggested donation of five bucks each, and high-tail it out of there. To reward ourselves for our quick getaway, we stop at the kiosky Il Laboratorio del Gelato for a scoop of dark chocolate and toasted sesame gelato for me (Grade: GOOD GOD) and a scoop of dark chocolate with amaretto for TP (Grade: why must you put that topping on when you KNOW that anything almond-flavored except actual almonds makes me want to vomit through my nose?).

Gojira, back in her no-nonsense, "it's called a New York minute for a reason" milieu, instantly hails a cab for TP so he can meet up with some more buddies. Unprepared, TP ends up tossing the rest of the gelato away which, in other circumstances, would be an indefensible crime, but in this instance, with the amaretto poisoning, was acceptable. I give a brief eugoogooly for the dark chocolate melting in the trash and drown my sorrows in a cappuccino at the shabby chic Cake Shop. Gojira and I spend our valuable, limited time together discussing family, food, and inane subjects [Gojira, what on earth did we talk about?! The only thing that I really remember was the story about your grandmother lamenting the fact that NYC still hasn't rebuilt what was left of the two houses].

We finally decide to give our tired feet some rest back at Gojira's apartment. Our dogs were barkin'! Mine from having the insoles of my shoes fall apart and torn out earlier and hers from having fallen down and busticating herself while in France. We chill out and spend the rest of the evening listening to the mix CD I made for her, taking turns keeping Dr. Clo company while she dines, and making plans for dinner. Other than speaking in foreign accents, reciting quotes or recommending books/movies/shows to each other, jeering and sneering at others and agreeing that we are the best and everyone else is the worst, most of our time spent together has always been and will always be about making plans for our next meal. TP joins us at last and we order some sushi from Ogawa Cafe. Quick delivery, buttery soft sushi, and proper bite-sized rolls. Grade: Eyes rolling into the back of our heads delicious.

Exhausted, TP and I take our leave from the jet-lagged but seemingly tireless Gojira and sit around waiting for our F line to show up and take us to Rockefeller Center. Several trains later, I point out that, yet again, our sleep-deprived noggins were empty and that the F line was actually one level lower than the platform upon which we had been semi-passed out. We catch the next car which has an unusual amount of piratey commuters on it and come out at network studio heaven. Even though we spent the majority of the day walking around, the stroll back to the hotel is a lovely one and we make it back just as the first drops of rain began to fall. A quick recon by TP to ensure nothing inappropriate was happening outside of the elevators and we are finally back in our room to wash up, eat the rest of the leftover gyro in the fridge, and call it a night.

[no photo of sushi available because we inhaled it too quickly]

I hear the train a comin'; it's rollin' 'round the bend

2009-07-13T15:37:00.003-04:00

After a lot of instructions and prep-work and battening and making of contingency plans for Nani and Babu and ZP and AP, TP and I caught Amtrak's Northeast Regional non-stop (except for the eight stops along the way) to New York. We managed to find two seats together in the Quiet Car where, despite the draconian rules, we used the cell phone and carried on extended conversations. It was so nice not to have to go through ultra unnecessary security, limit the amount of snacks (liquid or otherwise) on board, or have to cram your body and legs into a narrow seat in order to avoid getting brained by a metal cart. Train travel is the way to go.

We arrived at Penn Station and because it was an amazingly pleasant, incredibly sunny but not humid, "are you sure this is July?" day, decided to hoof it to our hotel. I admit, we did the typical gawking tourist thing when we caught sight of the Empire State Building, the Chrysler Building, the famous-named streets. How can you not? We kicked off our culinary trek through the city by grabbing lunch at Nirvana which was pricey (at least to our country bumpkin eyes) but worth it as TP tucked into TWO helpings at the buffet and I devoured the Murg Khaliyan -- Chicken chunks in cilantro and mint flavored yogurt marinade. Despite arriving ten minutes before closing time, we were seated, given fresh and hot food, and did not get any stink eyes from the staff when I ordered from the menu instead of digging through the buffet. Grade: A.

We checked into our hotel, consulted the map, conferred with some friends, and went right back out into the sunshiney day. We stopped at St. Patrick's Cathedral ("hmph, we have a cathedral too!"), Central Park ("hmph, we have a zoological park designed by Frederick Law Olmsted too!"), and the Museum of Modern Art which, as we gleefully discovered, waives its $20 fee on Fridays after 5 p.m. ("hmph, we have free museums too!"). We left the REAL touristy tourists behind and took the metro ... er ... subway to the Meatpacking District in the West Village (capital "V") to meet up with TP's high school friend Dullard. I had my one celebrity sighting ("TP! It's Debbie Downer!") and was pleased. We walked down to Los Dados and after seeing the crowd, decided to order something from the takeout-only taquería, foolishly thinking we'd get faster service. Tacos, sweet corn tamale, and tamarind juice were lazily prepared, fussed over, and finally delivered. Infuriatingly slow service (I can't imagine what the wait time for sit-down service would be) but decent food. Grade: B.

As the sun started setting, we found three empty seats overlooking the Hudson River and ate our dinner on the High Line, a former elevated freight railroad that has been rescued from demolition and redeveloped into a promenade plantée (fancy word for the elevated park). It was lovely to be able to put our feet up for a while and just absorb the view, the breeze, and the quiet. After a leisurely stroll up and down the railroad tracks and amiable conversation, we made plans for the next day, took the subway back, and returned to the hotel. Around 11ish, we were feeling peckish and decided to take advantage of the much touted convenience of being able to dash outside and grabbing something to eat from a local street cart. I washed up, put on my PJs, and got comfortable with the puffy pillows, cozy blankets, and remote control while TP ran out to get some juicy and tasty gyros and piping hot and crisp french fries. Grade: A. For both the food and the delivery man.

So, there's Day One, folks. Pix and the rest of the trip coming soon.

Vacation, all I ever wanted; Vacation, had to get away

2009-07-09T21:14:00.002-04:00

Trust me. I'll be calling in every other hour to check up on the wee ones and Nani and Babu to make sure everyone is eating, sleeping, behaving, and not destroying downtown D.C. while we Escape To New York this weekend. I will miss them, no doubt. But, at the same time, I can't wait. It will be the first time in three years that it will be just me and TP. The first time in three years we get to sleep in ... at the same time. The first time in three years that we will spend the whole weekend eating out and exploring and meeting friends without feeling rushed or anxious or exhausted. We got a great deal on Amtrak (thanks, LB!) which is nicer than the bus but cheaper and faster than the plane. I look forward to traveling with as many knives, ounces of liquid, and non-baby-related gear as i want! We also got a great deal on a hotel (thanks, KG!) and I hope they don't mind if we end up watching Phineas and Ferb on the fancy flat screen HDTV out of habit.

For anyone interested in meeting up with us (or just stalking us), here's where we'll be:

First stop on Friday night: Los Dados, where we may or may not meet up with The Dullard and another high school friend of TP's.
Brunch on Saturday morning: Supper, where we may or may not meet up with Gojira and my cousin.
Cupcakes at Sunshine, Coffee at Cake Shop and Gelato at Il Laboratorio del Gelato where we may or may not explode ala Mr. Creosote.
Relaxing in Central Park and perusing the Museum of Comic and Cartoon Arts if we have time and the weather agrees with us.

So long, suckers!

Newunion 09

2009-07-03T14:16:00.002-04:00

Hijabman, Yaz, and I met up early this morning for a quick breakfast (no, 8 a.m. is NOT too early for a root beer float) to kick off Newunion 09. The tentative all hands on deck meet up will be for tomorrow, Saturday, around 11 a.m. near Hijabman's booth followed by a tour of the Islamic Art exhibits. Be there or be square.

Revenge of the Pack Rats

2009-06-29T16:00:00.002-04:00

Following in my mother's footsteps, I am a fiend for collecting, keeping, and hoarding stuff. Pretty and sturdy boxes, old letters and postcards, bits of twine. Organized on good days, FEMA-labeled disaster area on bad days, I am loath to throw stuff away and so my stuff gathers and multiplies and takes over. On the few occasions I have culled through my stuff and thrown stuff out (when I got married and moved out of the apartment; when we moved into this house before ZP was born; when TP held me at gunpoint to clean up), it has been with a heavy heart and careful deliberation akin to a judge deciding the fate of a death row inmate. This weekend, however, my accumlator tendencies saved the day.

We were heading home for my cousin's wedding (see below) and I had everything and everyone packed, fed, and ready to go. We arrived at the airport, were directed to a "special" (read "snail's pace slow") lane, and approached the check-in desk.

Clerk: "How many passengers?"
Me: "Four but one is a lap child."
Clerk: "Do you have proof of age?"
Me: ---------
Clerk: "Do you have a copy of her birth certificate?"
Me: "No."
Clerk: "Do you have a copy of her immunization shots that would show her age?"
Me: "No."
Clerk: "Do you have anything at all that shows she is under two years old?"
Me: [rummaging through the diaper bag in hopes of finding some evidence, some shred of proof, some saving grace that would allow us to board without having to resort to TP's clever but complicated plan of purchasing an extra ticket and then getting reimbursed upon sending proof of age later] "AHA!" [pulling out a strip of plastic that was hidden in a side zippered pocket that had not been opened for over a year] "THIS is the medical bracelet I wore at the hospital when AP was born! See! It has her date of birth on it!"
Clerk: "Works for me."
Me: "SUCCESS! Pack rats of the world UNITE!"

Shaadi Time

2009-06-23T21:20:00.003-04:00

We are heading home to participate in, celebrate, and create new inside jokes at my cousin's wedding this week. I remember when that branch of the family came to live with ours having freshly and recently emigrated from the U.K., my cousins had the fiercest English accents. My memory not being what it used to be, I have come to recall that they had the thickest Cockney accents ever. They were regular Maurice Micklewhites, they were! I saw them grow up, test out various 80s hairstyles (my cousin was the first and only guy I knew who had a design shaved into his hair), and absorb the Southern Indiana cadence that they sport today. I can't believe that this guy (the one pictured below ... in the dungarees ... and his chest hair covered) is, in a matter of days, getting married. We wish him and his lovely fiancee happiness, health, peace, and wealth (in any order they choose). Mabrook, mubarak, and congrats!

Happy Birthday, LB!

2009-06-15T07:39:00.002-04:00

Happy Birthday, Lil Baji!

I know we have had our ups and downs, faced off with our respective weapons of choice (tattle telling/giant wax crayon candles), and listed each other as enemy combatants before we became best friends. But I'm so glad that we have been and have remained close for so many years now and that we get to see each other on such a regular basis. I can't imagine what my life would be like without you so involved in it. Thank you for being my sounding board, my advice-giver, my fellow bellowing karoke singer, my inside-joke-getter, my go-to-babysitter, my baby sister. I love you so much.

CYA (or as LB likes to call it, "CAY")

2009-06-05T11:20:00.002-04:00

I'm reading this book called "Intern" by Dr. [aside, whenever I write "Dr." I always hear "It's Dr. Evil, I didn't spend six years in Evil Medical School to be called "mister," thank you very much." in my head] Sandeep Jauhar. It focuses on the traumas and tribulations he faced on his medical career path and features the inner workings of the process and procedures of hospital life. Some parts are stomach-clenching, like when his forgetfulness led to a tube of HIV-infected fluids to spray everywhere and on everything in the room. Some parts are secret-revealing, like when he explains that when he checks the blood pressure of a patient, he counts the pulses in the wrist and then keeps pretending to do so while he counts the breaths so as not to make the patient self-concious and thus change breathing patterns. Some parts are disheartening and particular to the medical field but this part struck me as fitting for just about every job, including mine:

"There were set times on call when you could expect a flurry of pages, like when the nurses checked vital signs at 4:00 a.m. That was when they called about fevers. Your response was always the same: blood and urine cultures and a portable chest X-ray to rule out pneumonia—but sometimes you discovered that a patient was already on antibiotics or that blood cultures had been drawn every night for the past week, every single one negative, and then you had to decide whether you really needed to stick him again, but most of the time you did so anyway, not for the patient’s sake but for your own, lest someone fault you in the morning for not doing it. That was the sad reality of residency: much of the time you were ordering tests to protect yourself. “The endgame of life is so depressing,” I wrote in my diary. “Look at Mr. Fisher. Successful lawyer, Goldberg patient. Now look at him? Sick, febrile, dying of who-knows-what: cancer, TB, sarcoidosis? If you think about it, it could make all of life seem unworthwhile if, in the end, we end up dying in the hospital, awakened at 4:00 a.m. by a stupid intern trying to draw another set of blood cultures.”

Can you relate? Does your job have a CYA culture too?

I'm the Ugliest Guy On the Lower East Side

2009-06-03T16:48:00.002-04:00

For the first time in three years, TP and I are planning a weekend getaway consisting of just the two of us and no kids. We are looking for a cheap place to stay around the Lower East Side of NYC and would think that the dead of summer would be tourist repellent. "Cheap" for TP means $75 a night but for me is less than $125. No luck thus far. Any suggestions, recommendations, etc.?

"Good evening, Ms. . . . uh . . . Hwowrsha?"

2009-05-28T13:00:00.003-04:00

Normally, I automagically delete any forwarded emails that have nothing to do with my actual friends and family. I can't stand the threats (forward this to ten of your friends or these baby kittens will die), the rumors (you'll get breast cancer if you use antiperspirant!), the general inanity (look at these weird pictures of the Madonna on a piece of toast!). But today I got one that appeared helpful and potentially satisfying. Or so I thought. I can't stand telemarketing calls (I know I may be alone in this but I stand firm on the matter). Sometimes, I am polite and say, "thanks but I'm not interested and please take my name off of your call list goodbye" and hang up. Sometimes, I hand the phone over to ZP or AP who are delighted to take the call. These tips seemed so clever and made me rub my hands together Mr. Burns' style. Good old www.snopes.com ruined my glee but does provide the real tips. Please forward this to your loved ones or they will get bitten by mosquitoes.

Harbinger

2009-05-26T16:41:00.003-04:00

My hair has gotten more than its fair share of attention in its years. While waiting patiently for a haircut, the phrase "your hair is so thick!" inevitably was uttered at each and every single appointment. I call it my mujahideen hair because it can be so wild and unruly as it struggles to defy rubber bands, conditioners, and gravity, especially on humid summer days. Whenever I happen to let the beast out of its confines, I get remarks on how different I look with my hair down.

My locks have gone from jet black to reddish brown. Recently, a new shade has made an appearance. When I was pregnant with ZP, I found a single white hair. When I was pregnant with AP, I found another single white hair. The other day, I found my third white hair. Uh oh.

Robot Roll Call

2009-05-22T06:49:00.002-04:00

ISNA's annual conference is being held in DC this year. Who is attending? Report!

4 real

2009-05-17T20:46:00.001-04:00

Happy (official) Birthday, ZP!

Everything Old is New Again

2009-05-12T10:39:00.004-04:00

This appears to be the Summer of Before in the entertainment industry. There are only so many sequels you can churn out and although prequels are certainly not a new phenomenon, it seems like there are more than the usual amount this season:

The latest incarnation of Battlestar Gallatica (which itself is a sequel of sorts to the original 1970s version) ended recently (*weeps*) and Caprica has just come out to show us what life was like "before the fall." Young Adama is likeable enough, but the young Cylon needs some work.
Although we've seen what Picard was like when he was a headstrong youth, we haven't seen a young Kirk or wee Spock before . . . until J.J. Abrams got his hands on the Star Trek franchise and offered his take. Young Scotty is, of course, my favorite.
Speaking of J.J., his show Lost is also taking a trip down memory lane. Well, a trip down, up, across, double-backed, and splintered off. Wee Ben, wee Miles, and wee Charlotte running amok on the Island while their older selves are plotting, surviving, and/or dead.
After the Last Stand, the X-Men folks decided to reminisce and review the origins of its mutants beginning with one of our favorites, Wolverine.
Wedged between The Sarah Conner Chronicals and The Terminator, we pick up the story line of the rise of the 'bots in Terminator Salvation.
Ever wonder about the background, history, and origin of G.I. Joe's nemesis, the Cobra Organization? Wait until August and find out in the Rise of the Cobra.

I always enjoyed The Young Sherlock Holmes and was tickled by the antics of a young Indy. We have already been introducted to baby Darth Vader and teenage Hannibal Lecter. I wonder what's next on the plate. I'd love to see Ripper or the pre-Firefly war or anything Joss is willing to dish out to me. Who would you like to see suffering through teenage angst, hormones, and heartbreak?

Happy Birthday, ZP!

2009-05-05T11:14:00.004-04:00

Dearest Beast/Zoo Zoo/Zonks,

It's still over a week away, but this will give your fans a chance to get a jump start to say:

Happy Third Birthday! Now that you have put your twos, and the terribleness that goes with it (right? no more tantrums? no more inappropriate shrieking? no more "I wanna do it mySEEELLLFFF!!! rants? RIGHT?), behind you, let's take a look back at your achievements and milestones, shall we?

Your Second Day of Birth was attended by your new and oh-so-permanent baby sister. You were wary of her arrival, which was accompanied by the arrival of Babu and Nani and thus linked, and decided to condense all of your confusion and worry and jealousy and heap it all onto one person - Nani. You shunned her, you avoided her, and you would studiously avert your eyes from her whenever she happened to be cuddling AP. You also decided to intensify your adoration and need for your father. If he so much as dared to lift AP for a quick smooch or even a cursory inspection, you'd rend your clothes apart, beat your chest, and devise your very first self-made sentence ever: "put! baby! ziza! DOWN!" Thankfully, with LB, KG, Babu, Aunty C, and, when you let her, Nani lavishing affection, presents, and love on you, you eventually calmed down and came to accept this interloper into the family. It helped that she never tried to play with your toys, never really made much noise, and actually was kinda cute. She is now old enough to start encroaching on your territory and although there are some skirmishes that do not go as well as planned, you are generally pretty careful around her and try not to lash out when she scratches or bites or swats at you. For that, I thank you.

You finally graduated out of jarred baby food, but you still never really took a liking to kid or adult food other than a few, select choices: oatmeal or cereal for breakfast, pollo con arroz and some fruta for lunch, and whatever we could force down you for dinner (yogurt with honey, pizza, PB&H sandwich). The closest thing to a vegetable we could get you to eat is potatoes in the version of french fries and those are just tubers anyway.

Despite your desire to be a monkey, a train, or a robot, your personality has established itself quite squarely as "policeman." You are adamant about others following the rules, obeying your directives, and pretty much doing what you say when you say it. On our trip to Georgia, you not only reprimanded some kids who were running down the walkway to the plane, you also warned everyone around you that "we're in the plane; you have to be quiet." You nearly put me in time out when I insisted that a picture of a baby on LB's fridge was you and not your sister ("NO, MOMMY! IT NOT ME!") Your vocabulary has jumped by leaps and bounds and you are a quick study for any words that further your goals, nefarious or otherwise. When you abused your power over viewing countless episodes of whatever on youtube and were told that you could no longer do so because "the computer is broken," you stored the slogan away until bathtime when you regretfully announced that you couldn't take a shampoo shampoo because "the tub is broken." Your writing skills and drawing skills have also gotten better, thanks to countless reams of paper and crayons, chalk and the Magna doodle (which you stood on until it cracked and started oozing some clear liquid and we had to toss it away. . . R.I.P. Magny!)

One day, the day after our return from a trip to Florida (where we watched the historical inauguration and you familiarized yourself with the man named Obama who is always on the cover of Daddy's paper and who is the only one allowed to touch THAT switch on the heater), Tia decided that you were old enough to lose the diapers and go straight for the underwear to get some boot camp potty training. On the one hand, I was happy to have the help, happy to know that it would mean one less baby's butt mooning me several times a day, and happy to see you move to this next level of development. On the other hand, I was terrified that you'd balk at it as you have with pretty much everything else until you are darn well good and ready, terrified that our 40 year old Persian carpet and our brand-spanking-new couches would be stained and destroyed beyond all repair, and terrified that you would burn the house down. I decided to take some half days at work so that I could be on call for the meltdowns, mayhem, and mania that was sure to come. To our astonishment and relief, it all went pretty smoothly. You were already familiar with "the frog," you were excited about your new undies, and you were offered treats as rewards for each successful visit. The first day was tense but successful (it helped that Tia ran you up to the toilet every half hour or so whether you said you had to go or not) and by the second day, not only did you avoid any accidents during the day, you even emerged from your room after a good night's sleep completely dry. We were floored.

We had some sad moments this year when your great-grandfather passed away. When you found me in tears, you patted my knee and ran for a tissue. You asked me, "why you crying like me?" I told you that I missed Nani and Babu and you sympathetically nodded and said, "I miss them too. 'Sokay, 'sokay, they're coming!" When that made me smile, you asked, "you happy? I'm happy." And I was - because of you. During those times when you drive me insane with the silence-killing questions ("Mommy, what are you doing? what are you doing? what are you doing? Mommy? Mommy? Mommy?") or the demands (after feeding, bathing, and reading you 27 stories before bedtime, tucking you in, and giving you cuddles, you begin your mantra of "I want Daddy." ) or the boisterousness that comes with a two-year old boy (throwing, hitting, running, falling, yelling, screaming, never sleeping), I remember that. I remember the times that you give me unsolicited hugs and smooches. And the times you help me make bread, sort the laundry, and bring AP a toy when she cries. And the times you make clever observations (such as the time I was reading a book about Peter Rabbit jumping into a watering can. I explained that the watering can was used to water the garden, like you did with Nani last summer. You looked it and said, 'yes, it's for flowers. and for my body' which is what you call your bottom). *dies*

And so, my lovely, loving, lovable boy, we wish you a happy birthday and best wishes and all that jazz. Cue the clip show!

GOJIRA!

2009-04-30T14:32:00.002-04:00

Gojira is coming! Gojira is coming! AAAIIIiiiii . . . iiiiii . . . iii.

Agenda:

Friday: arrival, Ben's Chili Bowl for some chili cheeseboigahs and fries, home
Saturday: Breakfast (either force TP to make spanish tortilla or get brunch somewhere or both); lunch with LB and KG followed by birthday party for Maggie Jane (ain't no party like a two-year-old party); Kotobuki sushi for dinner
Sunday: [radio edit]
Monday: Breakfast at Tryst or the Diner or Open City; return to Union Station and grab some of Vaccaro's cannoli to go.

Hmmm. It appears that your entire visit will be based up and revolve around food. That okay with you? Yeah. Thought so.

Tourist In My Own Backyard

2009-04-23T18:27:00.000-04:00

I spent most of yesterday playing hooky. Work was annoying me and with my flexible schedule and stellar history, I decided to take the day off and meet up with a friend. I walked from Adams Morgan to Georgetown's harbor and appreciated the flowers and trees still in bloom, the crowdless sidewalks, and the streaming sunshine on the way. I stopped at the recently renovated Second Story Books in Dupont Circle to peruse the latest arrivals and see if I could find copies of books I am interested in reading but for which I am not interested in paying full price. I ended up buying two books for my friend.

I treated myself to a lovely cup of mocha at Illy Cafe that I enjoyed all the way to Georgetown.

After visiting the Old Stone House and sitting in the wisteria-blooming garden for a while to soak up some rays, I headed over to the C & O canal. I watched two horses pull a boat through the canal until they reached the lock gates and then watched the Amishly-dressed folks go about heaving and hoing to get the boat down to the next level.

I walked to the Potomac River to enjoy the nearly empty waterfront where. I loitered in the stacks of yet another bookstore until my friend finally called to let me know she was ready for lunch.

We strolled over to the LEED certified Founding Farmers where we had the popcorn of the day (what was it sprinked on there? chipotle? bbq? chaat?) as an appetizer followed by perfectly made crab cakes, whipped yukon gold potatoes, and limeade.

We caught up, made fun of each other, and exchanged prezzies. We fought over the bill (par for the course), promised to visit Tunisia next summer when her beach house was complete, and said our goodbyes. I haven't had a day off in D.C. where it didn't involve going grocery shopping, getting someone's hairS cut, or running errands in what seems like forever. It was a gorgeous day and completely recharged me. As DCist put it so nicely:

D.C. can be a wondrous place for tourists. It's got magnificent architecture, history, museums, and bustling streets and sidewalks. There are people from all over the world, homeless people, military folks in uniform, police, politicians, black squirrels, and lots of well-scrubbed young people. There's the Metro, the Mall, and more. And it's tourist season, so maybe those fanny-pack wearing throngs standing in front of the escalators are just awe struck, rather than annoying. The greater D.C. metropolitan area can be too much to grasp sometimes. It can be amazing.

Happy Earth Day

2009-04-22T11:02:00.003-04:00

When I started law school, I was often asked, "what kind of lawyer do you want to be?" As a first year, I had no idea. None of us really did. We took courses in contracts, property, and torts but we had no definite goal of "I'm going to be a criminal litigator" or "I'm going to be a tax attorney." Unlike college, you don't proclaim a major or a focus in law school. You aren't even permitted to take anything but the required courses for the first year and a half (with, perhaps, one or two electives). So it wasn't until nearly my third year that I dabbled in Environmental Law with Professor Richard Lazarus. Unlike the stodgy, dusty, boring case law and historical treatises we were inundated with in classes such as Civil Procedure (just watch My Cousin Vinny and you'll know enough to get by) or UCC, the facts, issues, and impacts we studied in Environmental Law caught and held my attention. It didn't hurt that the professor was engaging and enthusiastic about the subject too. It was around then that I first really learned about Earth Day. Previously, it was just another day to hold some sort of celebration or have an excuse to party in the quad. I took several other environment-themed courses and by the time I graduated, I decided that this was the field in which I wanted to practice.

After graduation and passing the bar exam, I came bright-eyed and bushy-haired to Washington, D.C. for several reasons (including the fact that I wouldn't have to take another bar exam to practice here and that I had free housing for 6 months), one of which was that there were more opportunities to find a legal position in environmental law here than most places. Here is where the acronym-frenzied organizations such as the DOJ's ENRD, the EPA, the ELI, the EDF, the WWF (not to be confused with the previously a.k.a. WWF) resided. I tried my luck with government agencies, private law firms, non-profit organizations and papered the city with my resumes and writing samples. I volunteered at the National Audubon Society. I wanted to use my shiny new legal skills to save natural resources, to protect cute and fluffy critters (the ugly, slimy ones could go to hell), to do something worthwhile and noble and good. I loved environmental law; but it did not love me back. I worked at a small law firm for a few years in which one partner focused on money-paying, steady, cut-and-dry contracts and corporate law while the other partner dabbled in pro-bonoish, erratic, but passionate environmental law. It was the field of the latter that pulled me into the firm, but it was the reality and solidity of the former that kept me there. Eventually, the firm needed to pay the bills by taking on more of litigation and negotiation cases and less of the altruistic but penniless clients. I still wrote briefs on behalf of organizations seeking to protect nature and strengthen standing environmental laws, but, by necessity, I began to gain more experience in contracts, intellectual property, and employment laws. By the time I became a partner myself, the environmental-focused part of the firm was all but gone.

I am pretty happily employed in the field of intellectual property. The pay is decent, the research is interesting, and I can work from home where the hours are flexible and the dress-code even more so. I can assist well-meaning but helpless entrepreneurs seeking protection for their goods and services. I can lay the smack down on arrogant know-it-alls who try to weasel or bully their way into getting their unacceptable trademarks through. But on days like today, Earth Day, I do wonder what my life would be like if it took me down the emission-trading, brownfields, smart growth path.

System D

2009-04-14T14:42:00.004-04:00

"Ahh ... Le System D!" he said with a smirk, and a warm expression of recognition. For a moment, I thought I'd stumbled across a secret society-a coven of warlocks, a subculture within our subculture of chefs and cooks and restaurant lifers. I was annoyed that what I had thought to be an ancient term from kitchens past, a little bit of culinary arcanum, was in fact still in use, and I felt suddenly threatened-as if my kitchen, my crew, my team of talented throat slitters, fire starters, mercenaries, and hooligans was secretly a hotbed of Trilateralists, Illuminati, Snake Handlers, or Satan Worshippers. I felt left out. I asked, "Did you say `System D'? What is `System D'?"
"Tu connais ... you know MacGyver?" replied my sous-chef thoughtfully.
I nodded, flashing onto the idiotic detective series of years back where the hero would regularly bust out of maximum-security prisons and perform emergency neurosurgery using nothing more than a paper clip and a gum wrapper.
"MacGyver!" pronounced my sous-chef, "CA ... ca c'est System D."

From The Nasty Bits by Anthony Bourdain

Okay, maybe I am not as creative or crafty or clever as Bourdain and his ilk, but I like to consider myself as having a mommy version of resourcefulness or débrouillard.

One kid claims to have to use the bathroom while the other is screaming her head off from teething pains and doesn't want you out of her sight? Sprint up the stairs, lugging both of them, and use one hand to situate one on the plastic frog to do his business and the other to steady the baby in the baby tub to chew on a rubber ducky that has been nicely chilled from sitting on the tiles.

Trying to bake some bread while simultaneously watching both bored children? Give one child her choice of a dozen kitchen utensils to bang around and gnaw on and give the other the very important, very big boy task of measuring out the flour and sugar, of picking out the pre-cut cubes of butter, of whisking everything together all while ensuring that the kitchen doesn't end up completely shrouded in ingredients.

Baby's hair getting in her eyes and LB refuses to let you cut it (but doesn't understand that it completely impairs her vision) and baby is getting frustrated by it but you can't find her cute little butterfly hair clip? Binder clip will work in a pinch.

Mommy's little helpers getting extremely demanding in the offer to help with the laundry but they keep unfolding the folded stuff as quickly as its folded? Toss all the underwear and socks in their direction and instruct one to match up whatever he can while the other plays peek-a-boo with the unmentionables that end up on her head.

I've yet to achieve the status of Grandmaster Débrouillard of my parents who have considered using airplane's headrest cloth as an emergency diaper or who fashion wagons out of box lids and rope; but, I'm getting there.

Reuse, Recycle, Repost

2009-04-10T16:56:00.002-04:00

I was trying to tell ZP about God the other day. Have you ever tried to talk to a nearly-three-year-old about any topic, let alone something like this? You have to put aside your impressive vocabulary and explain things in the most basic terms and with the simplest of words. The result was that I ended up with a choppy concept about someone living in the sky and making a bunch of stuff like flowers and clouds and him. It reminded me of David Sedaris's attempt to explain the traditions of Easter in another language. With that religious holiday right around the corner, I thought it would be nice to revisit this old friend:

Jesus Shaves by David Sedaris from "Me Talk Pretty One Day"

"And what does one do on the fourteenth of July? Does one celebrate Bastille Day?"

It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise designed to promote the use of one, our latest personal pronoun.

"Might one sing on Bastille Day?" she asked. "Might one dance in the street? Somebody give me an answer."

Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays alongside a scattered arrangement of photos depicting French people in the act of celebration. The object was to match the holiday with the corresponding picture. It was simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to the use of the word they. I didn't know about the rest of the class, but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.

Normally, when working from the book, it was my habit to tune out my fellow students and scout ahead, concentrating on the question I'd calculated might fall to me, but this afternoon, we were veering from the usual format. Questions were answered on a volunteer basis, and I was able to sit back, confident that the same few students would do the talking. Today's discussion was dominated by an Italian nanny, two chatty Poles, and a pouty, plump Moroccan woman who had grown up speaking French and had enrolled in the class to improve her spelling. She'd covered these lessons back in the third grade and took every opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. A question would be asked and she'd give the answer, behaving as though this were a game show and, if quick enough, she might go home with a tropical vacation or a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer. By the end of her first day, she'd raised her hand so many times, her shoulder had given out. Now she just leaned back in her seat and shouted the answers, her bronzed arms folded across her chest like some great grammar genie.

We finished discussing Bastille Day, and the teacher moved on to Easter, which was represented in our textbook by a black-and-white photograph of a chocolate bell lying upon a bed of palm fronds.

"And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone like to tell us?"

The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, "Excuse me, but what's an Easter?"

Despite her having grown up in a Muslim country, it seemed she might have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. "I mean it," she said. "I have no idea what you people are talking about."

The teacher then called upon the rest of us to explain.

The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. "It is," said one, "a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and . . . oh, shit."

She faltered, and her fellow countryman came to her aid.

"He call his self Jesus, and then he be die one day on two . . . morsels of . . . lumber."

The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.

"He die one day, and then he go above of my head to live with your father."

"He weared the long hair, and after he died, the first day he come back here for to say hello to the peoples."

"He nice, the Jesus."

"He make the good things, and on the Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today."

Part of the problem had to do with grammar. Simple nouns such as cross and resurrection were beyond our grasp, let alone such complicated reflexive phrases as "To give of yourself your only begotten son." Faced with the challenge of explaining the cornerstone of Christianity, we did what any self-respecting group of people might do. We talked about food instead.

"Easter is a party for to eat of the lamb," the Italian nanny explained. "One, too, may eat of the chocolate."

"And who brings the chocolate?" the teacher asked.

I knew the word, and so I raised my hand, saying, "The Rabbit of Easter. He bring of the chocolate."

My classmates reacted as though I'd attributed the delivery to the Antichrist. They were mortified.

"A rabbit?" The teacher, assuming I'd used the wrong word, positioned her index fingers on top of her head, wiggling them as though they were ears. "You mean one of these? A rabbit rabbit?"

"Well, sure," I said. "He come in the night when one sleep on a bed. With a hand he have the basket and foods."

The teacher sadly shook her head, as if this explained everything that was wrong with my country. "No, no," she said. "Here in France the chocolate is brought by the big bell that flies in from Rome."

I called for a time-out. "But how do the bell know where you live?"

"Well," she said, "how does a rabbit?"

It was a decent point, but at least a rabbit has eyes. That's a start. Rabbits move from place to place, while most bells can only go back and forth--and they can't even do that on their own power. On top of that, the Easter Bunny has character; he's someone you'd like to meet and shake hands with. A bell has all the personality of a cast-iron skillet. It's like saying that come Christmas, a magic dustpan flies in from the North Pole, led by eight flying cinder blocks. Who wants to stay up all night so they can see a bell? And why fly one in from Rome when they've got more bells than they know what to do with right here in Paris? That's the most implausible aspect of the whole story, as there's no way the bells of France would allow a foreign worker to fly in and take their jobs. That Roman bell would be lucky to get work cleaning up after a French bell's dog -and even then he'd need papers. It just didn't add up.

Nothing we said was of any help to the Moroccan student. A dead man with long hair supposedly living with her father, a leg of lamb served with palm fronds and chocolate. Confused and disgusted, she shrugged her massive shoulders and turned her attention back to the comic book she kept hidden beneath her binder. I wondered then if, without the language barrier, my classmates and I could have done a better job making sense of Christianity, an idea that sounds pretty far-fetched to begin with.

In communicating any religious belief, the operative word is faith, a concept illustrated by our very presence in that classroom. Why bother struggling with the grammar lessons of a six-year-old if each of us didn't believe that, against all reason, we might eventually improve? If I could hope to one day carry on a fluent conversation, it was a relatively short leap to believing that a rabbit might visit my home in the middle of the night, leaving behind a handful of chocolate kisses and a carton of menthol cigarettes. So why stop there? If I could believe in myself, why not give other improbabilities the benefit of the doubt? I accepted the idea that an omniscient God had cast me in his own image and that he watched over me and guided me from one place to the next. The virgin birth, the resurrection, and the countless miracles -my heart expanded to encompass all the wonders and possibilities of the universe.

A bell, though, that's f***ed up.

I always feel like somebody's watching me. Who's playing tricks on me? I always feel like somebody's watching me. I can't enjoy my tea!

2009-04-07T13:47:00.003-04:00

Today, I was investigated by the U.S. Government. Granted, living in D.C. and having watched way to many spy thrillers, I suspect that I'm always under surveillance, that my phones are tapped, and that my mail is pre-read. I've already been fingerprinted on several occasions, had to fill out lengthy and personal questionnaires, and have had my turn at the super special VIP treatment at the airport. However, today's investigation was live and in person. I was asked about my loyalty to the country ("would you be willing to bear arms for a foreign government?") , about my proclivity for travel ("you have traveled quite a lot!"), and about my sex ("are you a male born after 1960?").

I had to explain that although I listed "Wales" as my place of birth on one form, the drop down menu on another form did not include "Wales" and so I chose "United Kingdom" and apologized for any confusion that may have caused (apparently it caused a lot of confusion because I was asked about it on three separate occasions). I was asked if anyone I knew would say that I was NOT reliable, trustworthy, of good conduct and character, or capable of holding a position of public trust (I answered with a hesitant "no?"). I was asked if anyone had any blackmail material they could use against me (well, do you?). I was asked if that was a regular coffee I was drinking (it was a mocha).

So, just as a heads up, if some white dudes with sunglasses and dark suits show up at your door and start asking you questions about me, just don't tell them about my blog. Or my facebook page. Or my flickr account. 'Kay? Great.

By The Power of Attorney! I Have THE POWER!

2009-04-06T22:27:00.002-04:00

My mother needs to have a Power of Attorney attested to by the Pakistani Embassy. After getting zero help from the Pakistani Embassy (whose enviable hours are 09:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m. M-F) on instructions, I called the U.S. State Department and here are the following steps to take to have the Power of Attorney attested by everyone under the sun:

1. Fill out and notarize a Power of Attorney (POA).

2. Send the notarized copy of the POA, a cover letter, and a self-addressed stamped envelope to your state's Office of Secretary of State, Authentications Department. The cover letter should include: your name, address, phone number, email address, indication that the notarized Power of Attorney is enclosed and that you require attestation in order to have the document attested for use in Pakistan. If there is a fee, be sure to include it as well.

3. When that comes back to you, send the notarized and attested copy of the POA, a cover letter (can be the same as above), and a self-addressed stamped envelope to:

US Department of State
Authentications Office
518 23rd Street, N.W.
SA-1
Washington, DC 20520

Also include the $8 fee by check or by money order made out to "Department of State". Turnaround time is 5 to 7 business days. Phone# 800.688.9889

4. When THAT comes back to you, send the notarized and double attested copy of the POA, a cover letter (can be the same as above), your National Identity Card or Pakistani passport and $8 (see below) to:

Consular Office, Embassy of Pakistan,

3517 International Court NW

Washington, DC 20008.

Also include the $8 fee by cashier's check or by money order payable to the Embassy of Pakistan. Send one extra copy of the Power of attorney for the embassy's record if you like. Turnaround time is 7 business days. The application must only be accompanied by US Post Office self addressed pre-paid express mail envelope. Please use the flat rate envelope (current cost : $ 16.50). Do not use Metered stamps. We do not accept any other form of return mail. PH. 202-243-6500, FAX: 202-686-1534

There. I've done my pro bono work for the day.

"Everybody, MOVE!"

2009-04-03T14:46:00.002-04:00

I have been attending the American Bar Assocation Intellectual Property Law Conference for the last few days and have learned/had forgotten several things:

Hotel coffee often tastes burnt and is undrinkable but if you add a packet of hot chocolate mix to create a home-made mocha, it is not half bad.
Although knowledgable and articulate, Patricia E. Hong, Partner, Plumsea Law Group, LLC, does not know how to pronounce the word "skirmish" and perpetually pronounced the word as "squirmish" which made me squirm each time she did so.
Susan Scafidi, Visiting Professor of Law, Fordham University Law School is a great speaker who had interesting things to say and has a sense of humor that is rarely seen at these kinds of events.
No matter how fast I walk, how busy I look, or how studiously I ignore people around me, I can't walk down the street free of suggestion.
I have become very spoiled working from home and had a low threshold of tolerance for the thunderstorm I had to run through during my commute today. The intensely bright, sunny day that followed the thunderstorm made up for it.
I had forgotten how much I could read on the Metro with no distractions or errands or other matters to occupy my time.

Customer Appreciation Day

2009-03-30T14:29:00.003-04:00

I don't consider myself overly sentimagical but the outpouring of love and support and laughs and condolences this week has made me rethink my position on Hallmark cards. I am thankful for everyone's comments, phone calls, and thoughts and prayers. I may not say it very often, but I do appreciate it when someone takes the time out of an assuredly busy schedule to reach out and offer some words of solace to me. So, me beloved bloggers and commenters, this one goes out to you.

*mwah*

Uncle Bhai Jaan

2009-03-25T09:14:00.004-04:00

Inna lillah wa inna ilayhi rajioon. My Grandfather died today. "Nanaji". "Uncle Bhai Jaan". "Bhatti". The last few months had been physically difficult for him, especially after the latest stroke and coma. He awoke to find my parents there and had a nice few weeks with them, but his ability to communicate was greatly hampered. He passed away in his sleep.

He was the bearer of puns, anecdotes, and trivia. As an award-winning journalist, he was the master wordsmith of the family. With his steel-trap mind and his shelves of photo albums, he was the holder of the oral and pictorial family history. He always had a love of the good stuff: fatty foods, chocolaty treats, sneaky salty snacks. He could recite poetry that he learned as a child, drop names and dates of events that occurred decades before, and relate a joke about nearly any topic at hand. He had traveled around the world, lived in many countries, and documented his hilarious observations for the enjoyment of others.

He was deeply religious and loved his gigantic family with all of his heart. Like his father before him, he held a good education as the most important thing to give to his children. He wrote copious letters to family members (first, on onionskin thin airmail with carbon paper between the sheets to make multiple copies; later, on e-mail), he drafted volumes of newspaper articles, he edited books. During a school break one year, my teacher had given me the homework I would have missed while visiting Pakistan and he sat down with me to make sure I did it - even demanding that I clean up my chicken-scratch handwriting at the time. He loved to tinker, to invent, to improvise (hard to find the light switch in the dark? Get some glow-in-the-dark paint to outline the switch!). A chronic bibliophile, he passed his love of words to me. He came to my wedding and LB's wedding. As he got older, his strength began to fade (upon being hurried out of a car, he exclaimed, "I AM NOT AN ACROBAT!"), but his wit and humor never did. I'm so thankful that the last time I saw him, he was showering ZP with love. He was not just my Nanaji. Just like I am everyone's Baji, whether related or not, he was everyone's Bhai Jaan or, to their children, Uncle Bhai Jaan. He loved and was loved in return. May Allah (swt) bless his soul, show him mercy and love, and reward him for his good deeds. Ameen.

Inbox

2009-03-24T12:33:00.002-04:00

As you may know, I work for the government. We all wear non-descript clothing, have drab attitudes, and generally plug away until we can retire. The interoffice emails are usually pretty humdrum too:

The Non-Duty Hours Legal Studies Program and the Non-Duty Hours Technical Studies Program. This suspension became effective on Monday, March 16
Recent TWAH deployments opened up several exterior offices on the 5th and 6th floors.
OCIO will be performing emergency maintenance to EFS Web starting Friday, March 20, 2009 at 12:01 a.m. until 3:00 a.m., Friday, March 20, 2009. During this time, EFS Web will be unavailable.

But, today? Today, we got this! Yee haw! Sometimes, I quite dig living in this federal city.

Special effects explosion to occur in Washington, D.C. on March 25

The Metropolitan Washington Council of Governments has issued an
advisory that there will be a special effects explosion on Wednesday, March 25,
between 9:30 a.m. and noon on the Potomac River near Key Bridge in Washington,
D.C. The explosion is being filmed as a scene in a new television series
entitled “Washington Field” highlighting the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s
elite District field office.

In the scene, which will be shot just north of Key Bridge near Jack’s Boathouse, one of six nearby sculling boats will be depicted as being destroyed. The fire ball resulting from the explosion is expected to last about two seconds and reach 20 to 30 feet high. Please be advised that the boat will not actually be destroyed, that all explosive materials will be vaporized, and there may be a small plume of smoke. The sound will be a low thud, not a loud bang.

The Department of Homeland Security, the Washington, D.C. police and fire departments, and the Washington Airports Authority have been alerted. Traffic delays due to the filming are expected to be minimal.

Inmate Mail

2009-03-16T17:19:00.002-04:00

TP has set me to task - Clean. Up. Your. Office. Or. Else. And so I came across a lovely letter from Yasminay from five years ago. And so I came across some incriminating photographs of TP from his early surly years. And so I came across a few letters from prison. What's that? You've never had an article written about and photograph featuring you in the Washington Post and then received a mysterious letter (right around the height of the anthrax scare) from a prison inmate as a result? Just me, huh? How about that . . . .

Sunday, March 17th, 2002 3:40 p.m.
Asalaamu Alaykum, Ms. [Baji],
Proceeding from the verses of Allah's Book . . . (Al-Quran), I am writing you and sending you this letter card as a cheerful piece to keep you smiling and beautiful. I liked the picture that I saw of you and your cute little sister so much, I decided to make this card. Smile! I hope that it found you at peace [edited from "piece"] with yourself, healthy and strong, focus and feeling charming and very special, [Baji].

Notwithstanding,
My name is Mustafa Umar [etc.] and I am Muslim, who have been truely interested in corresponding and communicating with you every since I saw your pretty name and face in the (Wash. Post) Apartment section of the news paper . . . But it took me to develope the courage to write to you, [Baji], and to ask your permission to write to you and establish a friendly dialogue with you. And with the hope that you and I can be very good friends. On a peaceful, moral and spiritual level. You look so intelligent and strong minded in your photograph hugging your sister, that your smile made me feel good. I've been lonely all of my life in America and one day, Insha'Allah, I will change that. But I would like for you to know that I would love to meet you some day and I pray that you'll give me an honest chance to get to know you as much as I would like for you to get to know me and for all that this is worth, I pray that you won't have any negative hangups about being friendly toward me.

Sister [Baji] -- I don't know if you are a Muslim or not . . . there are so many people born in med-eastern and arab countries who have arabic names . . . but are christians and Jews . . . who hate Muslims and every since 9-11-01 Muslim started really hating each other. Inspite of the New World Order. Most people put all the Muslims in a poor catagory . . . even the people who have arabic names like your are unjustly discriminated against for your name sake. Which is so insane and childish. But if you have experience any ill favor or disrespect for being who you are which no-one can change. Learn to treat it as a compliment . . . Because, regardless, of what the the people in this world put you through . . . you are as beautiful as your name and thoughts and can't no-one take that away from you. So hold on Allah is Akbar and He is leading on and the victory is Allah.

[Baji] . . . when I look at your photo . . . I see a woman that I would love to talk to and I pray that you are as friendly as you look. But more than anything, as beautiful in heart as you are in form.

So Stay. Beautiful.

Omar.

P.S. I would love to hear from you I'll sned you a photo. Please write me back.
Thank you [Baji]. Salam!!

[editor's note: all spelling and grammar appear as written in the letter except the [Baji] part where he used my real name and that freaked me out and annoyed me b/c I HATE it when people over use your name, especially your real name . . .]

[editor's note: a follow up letter from my buddy Omar appearing a month later included questions regarding my ability to cook as well as homework in reading some articles he included]

Pandi's 'Pinions 2009

2009-03-11T15:10:00.004-04:00

It's been a while, I know. I've been in hibernation and babysitting Baji's wee ones is no small task. But I have managed to work in a movie here and a book there. So, without further ado, here's the latest installment of Pandi's 'Pinions.

Slumdog Millionaire: I'll be honest with you. The soundtrack is rockin', the story is compelling and exciting, and Dev Patel is adorable with his gushing but sincere appreciation for his limelight circumstances. Nonetheless, I can't say that it is an Oscar-worthy movie. It was fun. It was entertaining. But was the fairy tale yarn more important or eye-opening or prestigious than the others? Perhaps I'm not being fair since it wasn't until half-way through the feature that I got confirmation (from KG seated to my left) that my cousin (seated to my right) was wrong and the movie was not based on a true story which meant that every other flashback left me shaking my head and muttering, "no way" or "yeah, right" or "gimme a break." Once I was aware that it was fiction, I enjoyed it much more but it was hard to shake the initial resentful response. One scene I did love was the montage of the kids on the train. I think I just have a thing for Bollywood train dancing scenes. Quick shout-outs to Tropic Thunder (hilarious), Wanted (good mindless bullet-curving action) and Across The Universe (love the Beatles covers) and shout-downs to Into the Wild (excellent book but trudgy movie), The Visitor (as TP described it: "I listen to NPR and I like world music so I like this too"), and Leatherheads (I liked it better the first time I saw it when it was called Bull Durham).
The Wire: I don't have HBO and I barely have time to watch shows in real time but thanks to a combination of Netflix and KG's mom, I managed to watch the full series of The Wire. It took a few months, but it was totally worth it. At turns depressing and gritty and nightmare-inducing (what if ZP turns out to be a corner boy?! interro-I'll-kill-him!) and yet beautiful and hopeful and funny (Omar Little rules). Set in nearby Baltimore, the series was more than just a "cop show" as it delved into themes involving criminal/police hierarchy, the inner workings of the public school system, the good intentions paving the way for the politicians. The butterfly effect is in full force and the show makes you consider the show long after the credits as you think back and realize that [spoiler alert - highlight to read] if Herc had sent Randy to Bunk like he was supposed to, then Randy wouldn't have been labled a snitch and have lost his foster mother to a vengeful fire AND the investigation on Marlo would have been wrapped up earlier not forcing McNulty to take such drastic measures which in turn affected the race for Governor etc. Now that's edutainment.
Music? Thanks to fellow bloggers, TP, NPR and others, here are a few new (to me) tunes that get the Pandi Thumb's Up: The Heavy's Colleen, Getatchew Mekuria & The Ex & Guests Aha Begana, Black Kids' I'm Not Going to Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You.
True to the New Year's Resolution, I have forbidden Baji from purchasing any new books and am going through the ones on the to-read shelf. When You Are Engulfed in Flames by David Sedaris had some classic hilarity and, like the misleading cousin mentioned above, I can't help reading his material without his measured voice in my head which is great because he's a good narrator -- even in there. Unaccustomed Earth: Stories (Vintage Contemporaries) by Jhumpa Lahiri is about half way complete but I feel safe in recommending this to anyone who wants to read about the ABCDs growing pangs. I've finished nearly three whole pages of The Wordy Shipmates by Sarah Vowell but her wit and clever ability to make you learn about history through pop culture references will guarantee the completion and enjoyment of this book.

That's it for this installment! Stay tuned for the next time (which, now that the government has cut our bonuses and thus work is decreasing and free time is increasing, may not be too long from now).

REALTOR®

2009-03-05T12:38:00.004-05:00

Today, a fellow trademark examiner asked me for some advice about an application I had refused based on the fact that REALTOR® is a registered trademark and therefore this person (who was not the National Association of Realtors) could not have it. When she called in a rage to have me explain each and every problem that was wrong with the application, I did so. She then demanded her money back. When I advised her that once the filing fee has been paid and an attorney has reviewed it, there is no refund, she decided to write a letter to the Commissioner For Trademarks. The walk down memory lane was so enjoyable that I thought I'd share the applicant's response with you for your viewing pleasure:

Dear Sir or Madam:

Please review your attorney's denial of this trademark and then return my application fee to me promptly. The reasons she gave were absolutely invalid.

By the sheer number of attorneys that contacted me wanting to represent me in this matter, it is obvious that you gave out my information without my authorization. Is this just another government scam to forward the American Bar Association's lobby? How disgusting. I will turn this matter over to my congress woman, Hilary [sic] Clinton to expose your corrupt practices if my money is not returned. Shame on you for robbing the small business owners of this country. Organizations like yours are why the American public deeply mistrusts our government!!!

When I realized what you were doing. I immediately withdrew the application, so please give back my much needed money. You have spent no time or effort on my behalf, so this should not be a problem, if you're honest.

Perviouslike on Heros

2009-03-04T09:56:00.000-05:00

Scene: Night, Interior, Claire's Bedroom

Claire: I love you, Mom.

Sandra: I love you . . . just the way you are.

Claire: I just wish I could be normal. Then maybe things would have been different between you and Dad.

Sandra: Honey, things between your father and I were troublesome long before you came along.

*brakes screech*

*glass breaks*

Come on, writers. "Between your father and I?" Really? Happy National Grammar Day!

Overheard in DC

2009-03-03T15:37:00.003-05:00

I love the "Overheard in D.C." segment on DCist. Cracks. Me. Up. Just the other day I heard "I can't be telling you "I love you" 27 hours a day!" Do we have a glut of these folks simply by virtue of being a slack-jawed yokel tourist hot spot or is this city a dummy-magnet? Any gems you've come across lately?

Her Majesty

2009-03-03T12:17:00.000-05:00

[to be posted on March 8th but I can't wait that long]

Happy One Year Birthday, AP! A year ago, you made your grand entrance onto the world's stage. Back then, your claim to fame was your calm, your delicateness, and your shock of jet black, Gund-soft hair. You were oblivious to the jealous machinations of your older brother, the power of your hypnotic eyes, and the fact that you were wearing hand-me-down newborn clothes chosen from the baby boy section. Your growth and personality development since then have been staggering. Your talking skills are dwarfed by your singing skills (this is currently your favorite song) which, in turn, are dwarfed by your pantomime skills (the vehemence with which you point for the object of your desire or express your dislike for something is enough to shake the barrettes right out of your hair). You love bathtime because it's the only time you really get one-on-one attention and are guaranteed a song or two if not an entire medley complete with Daddy and ZP bringing a guitar in and serenading you while you lounge in bubbly warm water.

It's a hard knocks life for you with The Beast on the prowl and many is the time your head has met the business end of a Thomas the Tank Engine train. But as he finally understood that you were not taking over his stuff (Daddy included) and you were here to stay, he has been pleased and proud to announce himself your big brother, your protector, your secret giver of extra vittles. Your willingness to eat, let alone eat exotic foods, still astounds us. We were burned so badly by Dr. No that every time you lean forward and open your mouth for masala channa or banana or haleem or cottage cheese, we are blown away.

Alas, your wonderful sleeping habits of laying in a crib and drifting off have fallen by the wayside, in part because you sleep earlier than ZP and have to be cloistered from his super sonic night time screeching rituals and in part because we spoiled you and you got used to sleeping next to me on the bed while holding my hand. As you are getting older, you are becoming more aware of injustice (ZP yanking a toy out of your hands and running away), the comings and goings of people (if Daddy doesn't pick you up the moment he walks in the door, there is hell to pay for everyone), and the superhero-like level of hearing you have (the moment the television turns on, you whip your head toward it before the picture even hits the screen). Such a girl, you are quite eager to dole out hugs, you are happy to lay your head on someone's shoulder, and you are extremely adept at giving smoochies. If you ever find a monkey within grabbing distance, you are more likely than not to plant a nice, loud, wet one on its head. Like your brother, you like to be scared, you like to be tickled, and you like to travel.

You have changed our lives and made them fuller and richer. You are a joy to your grandparents, aunts, uncles, and friends. You are healthy, clever, and have excellent taste in parents. We love you to pieces, even when, and sometimes especially when, you lord over us with your regality. Happy Birthday, me wee lass! Enjoy this limited-time-only clip show in your honor!

Amused or Offended?

2009-02-17T15:45:00.002-05:00

From the files of LB:

-----Original Message-----
From: Augusta
Sent: Tuesday, January 06, 2009 9:33 AM
To: Brian
Subject: FW: website details
Brian,
Please look over the show information provided by "LB" at PBS, it is below her contact info. Let me know when you get a chance and I will confirm it with her.
Thanks,
A :)

-----Original Message-----
From: Brian
Sent: Tuesday, January 06, 2009 10:51 AM
To: Augusta
Subject: RE: website details
Augusta -
Careful, if I'm not mistaken - I think "LB" is actually of the "male" gender. One of those Muslim names, ya know? I don't know for sure, but he/she has already probably encountered some confusion - part of the territory WHEN YOU LIVE in the U.S. right?
Brian

From: Augusta
Sent: Tuesday, January 06, 2009 9:50 AM
To: Brian
Subject: RE: website details
I talked to her on the phone, it's a lady. She speaks clear as a bell English! :) SCORE!!
A :)

M is for Mystery

2009-02-17T09:48:00.002-05:00

Coma. Comma.
Then what?
I don't know
which is worse.

Coma.
No pain.
No joy.
No suffering.
No ecstasy.
No worries.
No chocolate.

Comma.
, but then he had a miraculous recovery!
, but then he had a successful recovery!
, but then he recovered.
, but then he woke up . . .
comma. ellipse.

Coma. Comma.
Then what?
I don't know
which is worse.

Uncle Bhai Jan

2009-02-15T16:56:00.004-05:00

My Nanaji (Grandfather on my mother's side) was born in Hong Kong, has been an army man, a Japanese prisoner of war, graduate of a poultry farming course, and a journalist -- not your typical Pakistani resume. He has traveled the world and written tomes about his observations at home and abroad. I think his sense of travel adventure, along with his sense of humor, are what I inherited most from him. This is not to say that the other side of the family doesn't have its share of cut-ups. It's just that their sense of humor leans towards the fart jokes, the ribald limericks, the reverse prank calls. My Nanaji's sense of humor was more light-hearted and a constant presense in his every day life: any time there was a lull in the conversation (or even when there was not), he was at the ready with an amusing anecdote, a riddle, an outright jokey joke.

A few days ago, my Nanaji suffered a stroke. He seemed to be in stable condition for a while and managed to drink some milk, chat with my Dadaji, and go out for some fresh air. But he is in his 90s. He has already gone through one quadruple bypass surgery, he has been feeling weak for months, and his prognosis was not good. My parents were vacationing in Florida and when they got the news, booked their tickets, packed one handbag each, and headed to Pakistan for a few weeks. They arrived at 3:30 a.m. and planned to visit the Naval Hospital where my Nanaji was being cared for later that morning. Apparently, the situation has taken a turn for the worse and some time during the night, he slipped into a coma. Nothing is certain. Nothing ever is. My father is consoling the family by gently reminding them that at least in a coma, he feels no pain, no suffering, no agony.

Please pray for him. May Allah (swt) bless his soul, show him mercy and love, and reward him for his good deeds. Ameen.

**UPDATE: your du'as seem to be working - he is out of the coma and is eating, sleeping, and chatting with friends and family. Thank you and keep 'em coming!

Abandon Brain Cells, All Ye Who Enter Here

2009-02-10T15:34:00.002-05:00

In response to several suggestions/requests on various topics, I present to you the following:

1. Horsepower is not the only thing it takes to go fast. A car’s power-to-weight ratio is a huge factor, and it’s overlooked far too often. Think about it: 400 ponies should give you great performance. Definitely true in a lightweight sports car, but 400 ponies in a lumbering tour bus, not so much. Same horsepower, different vehicle weights, different power-to-weight ratios. It’s calculated by dividing the horsepower by the vehicle curb weight. The result equals the number of pounds each horsepower has to motivate -- the lower, the better. Improving a car's power to weight ratio involves reducing the overall weight of the car and increasing its ability to produce horespower and torque. By eliminating unnecessary accessories and replacing existing parts with lightweight alternatives and by allowing the engine to burn fuel more quickly, you will be able to increase your car's performance.

2. Batman is the best because unlike other superheroes who can fall back on their God-given/Gamma-ray-given/Spider-bite-given/Alien-given powers, Batman has to rely solely on his wits, his cunning, and his own human strength. Yes, he has money, but what he chooses to do with it in conjunction with his self-reliance and his love for the city and its inhabitants is what lifts him above the rest. He has to fight evil in the form of villains but also the darkness within; which means every time he chooses to defend the good or beat back his own vengeful wrath to avoid killing mercilessly, he is winning a battle . . . a jihad, so to speak. Wait a minute. Is Batman a Muslim?

3. Owl - possibly because she is so smart, has big eyes, and is most active at night?

Chai - because she likes chai?

2 Scoops: As far as my ailing memory serves me, I remember that one of the first times LB and I met "Najm" (now my cousin in law! see what happens when I like you? I make you part of my family!) and "Taha," (which i guess makes THAT the first ever blogger newunion), we were a little hesitant and just sort of took it easy at the beginning to get to know one another. Solidifying my permanent "Baji" status, I treated everyone to sushi in Georgetown and then to ice cream at Ben & Jerry's. We all got in line and Taha had some difficulty choosing just one flavor. By then (a whole hour into meeting each other) we were comfortable enough with each other for (a) him to plead to his new baji if he could have two scoops and (b) me to agree. He was so freaking excited about having two scoops of ice cream that, as we stood outside of the store and watched his unbridled glee and enthusiasm spill willy nilly, his nickname was born.

Icubaji: Five years ago, when I was first introduced to the world of blogs, I decided to create my own. The name "Baji" had already been taken by some ignorant fool who clearly did not know that I am the one and only Baji around. Toying around with some variations, I recalled a time when a bunch of us drove from Louisville to Florida one year and the young cousin of my friend picked up a toilet paper roll, used it as a spyglass, and excitedly exclaimed in a childish, lispy shriek, "I thee you, Baji!" Voila.

4. Trademarks are not the same as copyrights or patents so stop asking me about the latter. If you want to trademark a word or design or both, you should file the application through TEAS PLUS (which is $50 less than regular TEAS) online. If you are already using the mark in commerce and can submit a "specimen" (i.e. evidence of use such as a tag or label for goods or an ad or website for services), then you should go under 1(a) which is use-based. Otherwise, if you go under 1(b) for intent-to-use, you'll have to pay $100 down the line when you do, eventually, start using the mark in commerce. There is no need to hire an attorney UNLESS there is some complication (such as someone already using the same or similar mark in commerce for the same or similar goods/services or the mark is descriptive of the goods/services or the mark is scanalous pandalous, etc.). If there IS a complication, the USPTO will let you know and you can decide at that point whether or not to hire an attorney to respond. More info, can be found on the USPTO's website. If you want to try to search the public records yourself to see if anyone is using the mark, you can use TESS which is also on the USPTO's website.

5. Abez: Her Scrabble skills are lethal. Her baking skills are world renowned. Her web designing skills are wicked (this blog case in point). Her "Right Brain/Left Brain" dialogues would leave me rolling in the aisles. Her brief but exciting visit to our humble abode was too short. Her generous heart, strength of will and faith, and sense of humor are a source of inspiration and joy to others - whether she knows it or not.

Your turn. My mother is on the search for a new, simple, inexpensive computer. Suggestions?

Turning Japanese, I Really Think So

2009-02-03T12:50:00.003-05:00

There is a small travel agency down the street that specializes in arrangements for travel to and from Japan. Recently, presumably because there was not enough demand for trip arranging in this day and age of travelocity, orbitz, etc., they pushed the agency part into the back and renovated the rest of place as a Japanese grocery store. I stopped by there yesterday to stock up on Pocky Sticks* and ended up perusing the entire contents (they boast something around 700 items) of the store. It reminded me of a miniature version of the mega-grocery store H Mart. It reminded me of my desire to visit Japan (with Gojira who, hopefully, will advise me on what is a soap dispenser and what is an air freshener). It reminded me of this excerpt from David Sedaris's "When You Are Engulfed in Flames" about his trip to the grocery store in Tokyo:

We went there twice yesterday and found ourselves completely lost. The milk I recognized by the red carton and by the silhouette of the cow, but how do you find soy sauce when everything on the shelves looks like soy sauce? How do you differentiate between sugar and salt, between regular coffee and decaf?

There was an abundance of "chicken flavored" items, a smattering of "salad flavored" items, and the rest was a mystery to me. In the end, I could only buy a few other goods that I recognized by the photograph on the packaging or else by the English translation. Again, score one for subtitles!

*We are in the midst of Toilet Training Boot Camp for ZP and one thing that seems to work is offering Pocky Sticks as a reward for each successful trip to the bathroom. Half a stick for number one, a whole stick for number two.

mi mi mi!

2009-01-31T20:16:00.003-05:00

20 things about me. Actually, 25 things to appease those who have not yet read this.

1. I tried to have short hair in my youth but after being confused for a boy on several occasions, I resolved to keep my hair long. I usually had it all the same length except one time when I ran a "Speed Buggy" over my head, got the hair tangled up in it, and ended up with bangs and another time when I tried to use a spiky curling iron on my hair, got the hair tangled up and burned in it, and ended up with bangs. Now, I'm just used to it. Unfortunately, that hasn't made the mistaken assumption about my gender stop - at least when it comes to the online world.

2. The most amazing things I've seen in my life include the synchronicity of a bajillion prayer-goers at Mecca during Hajj (it's like a choreographic dream), the vastness of the Grand Canyon, and the birth of me wee ones.

3. After reading "The Princess Bride," I became obsessed with William Goldman and read everything he had ever written, even an instructional book on how to write screenplays.

4. I used to look down on people who cursed freely and frequently because it indicated to me a lack of imagination and an attempt to sound cool. However, there are times when certain words or even entire phrases go through my head - when someone bites me and draws blood, when someone punches me in the bosom, when someone cuts me off in traffic. One of the more creative invectives I have heard was from the movie "Citizen Ruth." Classic.

5. I used to hate baths. When my mother would send me upstairs to take a bath, I'd run the water in the tub and sit at the edge and read a book for what I thought would be the equivalent time it would take to clean up. I think the stink lines that emanated from my body tipped my mother off.

6. I once walked from the bridge connecting Cairo to the island of Zamalek after spending several hours in the claustrophobic museum through the hottest part of the day under a brutal sun because LB argued with the taxi driver over a few cents and forced us to get out and hoof it back to her dorm.

7. I have visited nearly 30 countries. The only country in which I was not, at least once, mistaken for a native was in China.

8. I have a blog. I have had one for five years now. I considered dumping it time and time again, but always seem to keep it alive nonetheless. Sometimes I read other people's blogs to educate myself. Sometimes to laugh. And sometimes to get annoyed or mad. Deliberately. I can't stand the author or the writing or the subject matter but I just keep visiting it because I'm in the mood to be put out. I believe the correct term is "maddy waddy."

9. I have eclectic tastes. In books (the bookshelf sports classic literature next to the trashiest romance pulp next to graphic novels next to hip, irreverent fiction), in music, movies (I'll be just as likely to see a foreign film as I will a sci-fi film or a Desi fillum or a stupid comedy or a brilliant documentary or an animated film), etc.

10. I envy my sister's gift of organization and creativity.

11. When I was in college, I stopped wearing a wrist-watch. I used to have a pocket watch that hung from my neck by a leather strip. In law school, I had a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle watch that, when flipped open, would say, "It's pizza time" or "Cowabunga, dude" (I can't remember which). I have a Rolex that I wore for a while but now it's sitting in a box while my cell phone does double duty.

12. I will always prefer being hot over being cold. If not for the mosquitoes, I could have it be summer almost all year long.

13. When I got my first video game console (Atari), I played Space Invaders so much that I developed a blister on my thumb from clutching the joystick so tightly with my sweaty little hands.

14. I watch TV with the closed captioning on and DVDs with the subtitles on because I don't want to miss a thing. It all started after 9/11 when the constant roar of helicopters above and police sirens below prevented me from hearing anything.

15. [cribbed from upyernoz] When I was growing up, my parents made me take all kinds of lessons. I took tennis lessons, swimming lessons, piano and flute lessons, ice skating lessons, ski lessons, golf lessons, cooking lessons, sewing lessons, painting lessons (the last three from my mother). I never became a good tennis player, swimmer, flute player, ice skater, skier or artist, but I did learn how to have a whole bunch of disparate hobbies and to do them all half-assed.

16. As athletic and fit as I used to be, I hated to run unless it was towards something (a base, a ball, a goal) or away from something (another person, a bee, my sister). Now, I just hate exercise all around.

17. I have met Mohammed Ali and he has been to my house.

18. When I was in high school, one of my best friends got me hooked on "Days of Our Lives" to the extent that I'd tape it so I could watch it when I got home from school. Now, I can't stand more than a minute of it and I can't even see what I found so compelling about it.

19. When I was in high school, another one of my best friends and I used to listen to Dr. Demento followed by Dr. Ruth on the radio on Sunday nights and discuss what we learned during study hall the next day.

20. Death only scares me in that I worry what will happen to my husband and kids without me to boss them around and take care of them.

BONUS FIVE
(for those of you non-facey types)

21. I know "The Lord's Prayer" by heart because I attended Catholic school for three years.

22. I have had to get my fingerprints taken so many times now that I've lost count. The most recent time was a few weeks ago. You'd think with all the CSI-type techmology out there, they'd already have copies or access to a database that has my prints already.

23. When I concentrated really hard on something, I had a tendency to bite my lips (I've now since stopped that habit) or chew the inside of my cheeks (working on it). Upon reading the final book in the Dark Tower cycle by Stephen King, I think I may have been close to biting my way right through.

24. I have low blood pressure. In my youth, if I got up too quickly, I would often get dizzy and, on occasion, faint. One time, I fainted in a bathroom in college and the floor was filthy and disgusting but felt so cool to my cheek that I just lay there for a while. One time, I was praying during Hajj and I fell right smack down on my face and the impact forced my glasses to busticate my nose. One time, I had just had an appendectomy and I had to use the restroom and as I was fainting and sliding down the pole that held my IV, the nurse right outside my door saw me and helped me back to the bed.

25. I never thought I'd see the day when the President of the United States and I share a name.

Gruesome but Necessary

2009-01-27T21:25:00.002-05:00

I'm working on my will because naming a guardian for my kids has been on my mind for a long time now. Not so much the naming but the preparing of the documents to make it all nice and legal and binding. It's been well over a decade since I took Estates and Trusts in law school and so I'm just surfing around for (free) samples of wills before I decide on what I'm going to cobble together. FYI, www.nolo.com is THE BEST when it comes to explaining legal stuff in non-legalese. One of the ISNA-sponsored ones contains this gem:

Should I die as a result of murder, I direct that the adjured murderer, principal or accessory in the murder shall be disqualified to receive any part of my estate.

I sooo want to add a "DUH!" to the end of that provision. Maybe I'll include it in the addendum. Consider yourself warned! If you murder me, you absolutely positively will NOT get your bloody mitts on my Buffy, The Vampire Slayer Series DVDs.

g-tastic

2009-01-26T14:05:00.003-05:00

I have finally moved into the 21st Century. Stop. After seventeen years, I'm letting go of my AOL account. Stop. I have gotten a g-mail account. Stop.

I have also learned (thanks, KG) that in order to access the feed to this hallowed blog, you have to enter "http://icubaji.blogspot.com/atom.xml" into the reader because just the name alone doesn't cut it. Something to do with my web designer/sensai using someone else's template and all sorts of wacky code mix-ups ensue. That is all. End transmission.

Gotta Get BACK in TIIYYYEEEEmmmme

2009-01-22T12:28:00.005-05:00

As the rest of the nation takes the first, joyful steps towards the bright future, we seem to be stumbling back in time. First, in an effort to save money, I rented the least expensive car which turned out to have neither power locks, nor power windows, yet ironically had satellite radio. When we arrived in Venice, we found out that the house's water system had been corroding over the years and whenever the hot water was coursing through the copper pipes, much of it was leaking through pinholes throughout the line, up through the base of the house, and into the carpets. This meant that each person was limited to about 5 minutes of hot water before the cold set in. No problem, we thought, we'll just make do with lightening showers. Alas, after day two, it became apparent that hot and cold alike needed to be shut down. In anticipation of being able to do laundry, we made do with packing only one suitcase for the four of us. Now, however, no washing machine. I remember finding these lovely sunshiney yellow dinner sets from Villeroy and Boch that we were planning on using for the great home-made dishes Mom would make. Now, however, no dishwasher - mechanical or human.

The worst of it, though, was the near disappearance of bathroom niceties. We had gotten so used to being able to use the facilities whenever we wanted, to stroll in wearing nothing but a robe, to wash our hands, hair, teeth, etc. at will. My parents are very friendly folks and when news of our "disaster" and "catastrophe" as my normally-sedate father put it reached the neighbors' ears, they immediately offered their guest bathroom. We took them up on the generous offer to allow us to troop through their house at all hours of the day and night to luxuriate in their hot and cold running water. We used a garden hose in the back to fill up two Home Depot neon orange buckets so that we could have water to boil or at least warm up to wash our hands and a few dishes when needed. Just our luck, historically sunny Florida decided to turn nasty and temperatures dropped into the 40s and 30s. This meant that not only did we have to get fully dressed with sweaters, socks, and shoes to use our "outhouse" (technically, it was outside of our house so the title fits), but we had to heat up the water in the buckets because it was nearly frozen.

We bought paper plates and utensils. We bought bottled water. We were miserly with our water rations. The plumbers came for two hours the first day and accomplished nothing. We should have harnessed the water from the steam coming out of our ears if we had the energy to do so. The next day, the plumbers returned and by the evening, we had one working toilet, shower, and sink. We were ecstatic. Tomorrow, we may even have a running kitchen sink and even a working washing machine. By the end of the week, we should have completely entered the 20th century. To give you an approximation of our joy at not having to brave the frigid cold just to go number one, I refer you to the great exuberance of the inauguration attendees you see on the news lately who, with tears in their eyes, exclaim that, "I didn't think I'd see the day."

Obamapalooza

2009-01-12T11:09:00.002-05:00

With the threat of marrow-freezing weather awaiting us as it does every winter, we decided to hightail it to Florida to visit my parents for a week and bask in the sunshine. Deciding to take advantage of the three day weekend afforded by MLK Day, we booked our tickets for mid-January. January 17th to the 24th to be exact. This was back in November. Before the election results had come out. Before we understood that Inauguration Day fell on January 20th. Before we realized that we'll be in retirement mode while everyone in town (and many from out of town) would be in the midst of Obamapalooza. Do'h!

I try to console myself by remembering that it is unlikely we'd be able to participate in any of the history-making events occurring in our backyard since we have two wee ones, we have little tolerance for the cold, and even less tolerance for tourists. I'm glad that we can celebrate vicariously through family and friends who intend to be in attendance for the insanity. But I can't help but feel wistful that I'll be missing out on the various activities planned for that week. We live about a mile from the White House and probably could have seen the parade. We may have run into Oprah. We could have heard Bruce Springsteen play for free. We could have mingled with leather fetishists. Ah well. We'll get dressed up and have our own Toddler Ball. We'll prepare our own speeches ("Ask not what Mommy can do for you . . . "). With homemade meals (mmmm . . . haleem), a chance to show the kids the beach, and an entire week of fun in the sun, I can't really complain. Except, you know, for the complaints recited above.

Get Off My Lawn or I Will Commence With The Fist-Shaking!

2009-01-06T13:24:00.003-05:00

In my youth, I was pretty easy-going and not much disturbed me. The image in my head of the young me is that I sort of floated through life, oblivious to much, pleased by the little things. I find that as I get older, I am more easily annoyed. Granted, I don't have the bottomless well of rage and sense of indignity to which some have easy access and upon which some seem to delight in drawing (*sidelong glance at TP*). But, there are certain actions, statements, behaviors, whatnot that get my dander up and I can actually feel the red indicator in my crotchety meter rising. Here is a "How to annoy Baji" primer for those of you who like to live dangerously:

Clip your nails in a public place. Whether it's on the Metro or in a conference (I've witnessed both), it is completely unacceptable for you to snip pieces of yourself and let the chips . . . err . . . clips fall where they may. Are you seriously so important and busy that you don't have time to groom yourself in the privacy of your own home? I don't want to see you filing your nails (ugh, nail dust entering the atmosphere and into my nose and lungs!), trimming your cuticles (blech, bits of skin discarded on the floor right in front of me), or cutting your fingernails (each clip clip clip successively louder than the last until I want to jam an emery board into my ear to stop the sound . . . or better yet, into YOUR ear).
Position yourself directly in front of the elevator doors and just assume that it will be empty upon opening. It's not that difficult to stand to the side, wait a beat, and then enter. Sometimes these folks plant themselves in front of the doors while people (i.e., me) try to exit and they either don't move aside or, even worse, try to board before everyone has disembarked. For those people, I utilize my "what to do if a mountain lion attacks" skills and try to make myself appear as large as possible to make them back up or go around.
Stand in line at the store with only some of your items while your partner-in-crime continues shopping and dropping off items at her leisure. This happened to me at the ghetto CVS up the street one day and when you have a cranky two-year old and a hungry baby waiting patiently but just barely, the last thing you want to deal with is waiting for Shaniqwa to saunter back with some detergent she just saw was on sale while Latisha holds up the entire line and disregards the anxious teller's comments about moving it along.
Board the Metro while I'm on it. This may seem like an overbroad and vague activity but invariably, I am annoyed by someone doing it. It's not that I want to deny anyone the opportunity to use and support public transportation. It's just that so many people do it in such a head-banging, foot-stomping, loud-voiced, stankonia way. They sit right next to you when the car clearly has other open seats. They cough and sneeze directly onto your head and don't bother with the niceties of covering their mouths or wiping their hands before they grasp the handrails. They try to take up more than their allotted seat. They try to talk to you when you are clearly reading and don't want to be disturbed. They open up the newspaper to its full wingspan despite the fact that you are blanketed by it in the process. Occassionally, they fall on you. For more information, please visit this site.
Ignore me and my attempts to give you cuddles and smootches but wait until the precise moment that I'm getting someone else to drink her milk and go to sleep and then pounce and demand something (attention, your own milk, an episode of "Sunny Day," anything) and start this new version of communication called "screaming" that you have developed an unnatural fondess for and try to use at every inopportune opportunity.
Wait until the last second to ask me to review and edit something you've written and demand a response ASAP even though you have known about your deadline for days, weeks, months.
Ask me if I'm pregnant when I'm already toting an infant around. Or toting nothing at all. I am well aware of the leftover baby fat encircling the girth of my belly. I just want to purchase my groceries and/or enjoy the dinner party and then go home. The next time someone asks me that, I'm going to punch them in the face and/or never visit again.

I'm sure there are eleventy bajillion more things to add to this list so just consider this Volume I and stay tuned. OR ELSE!

Hoppy Gnu Ears

2008-12-31T21:26:00.006-05:00

This New Year's Resolution, hereafter referred to as "The Rez," is made on December 31, 2008 between Baji and The Baby New Year.

Subject to the terms and conditions as set forth herein, Baji resolves and The Baby New Year hereby accepts Baji's resolution to perform services described herein from December 31, 2008 to December 31, 2009.

1. Baji's obligations:
In return for the compensation noted under "Compensation," Baji voluntarily agrees to perform services for The Baby New Year as described below:

(a) Get more sleep
(b) Get more kids potty trained
(c) Get more exercise
(d) Archive old family photos
(e) Document and update prior travelogues
(f) Roll over IRAs into current employment scheme
(g) Buy low and sell high
(h) Move to a location with more bathrooms throughout the house and fewer homicides in the back yard
(i) Play more Rock Band
(j) Organize the basement, the bedrooms, the brain
(k) Refrain from new purchases of books until the books on the "to be read" shelf (see addendum attached hereto) have been read . . . or at least cracked open. Caveat: the term "new" includes "used" books but does not include books that have already been purchased and are on the way.

2. Compensation
In full consideration of all services performed by Baji as described in The Rez, The Baby New Year will cut Baji a break here and there for completion of assigned tasks. Baji shall be exclusively responsible for the payment of all taxes incidental to the compensation paid for services performed, including but not limited to federal and state income, sales, or use taxation.

3. Standards of performance
Baji is hereby held to a standard of reasonable care and in the event that Baji does not complete or breaks the above referenced resolutions, The Baby New Year will determine the damages on a case-by-case basis but in all instances shall cut Baji some slack.

4. Compliance with law
Baji's performance of services under The Rez shall be in compliance with all applicable laws or regulations of the federal, state, local, galatic, and intergalatic government.

5. Modification of contract
No waiver or modification of The Rez or of any covenant, condition or limitation herein shall be valid unless presented in writing and signed by both parties or, in the presense of at least one (1) witness, agreed to with a wink and a nod.

6. Severability
All covenants contained herein are severable, and in the event of any being held invalid by any competent court, The Rez shall remain intact except for the omission of the invalid covenant.

7. Choice of law
It is the intention of both parties that all suits that may be brought arising out of, or in connection with The Rez will be construed in accordance with and under and pursuant to the laws of the District of Columbia.

8. Entire agreement
This contract contains the complete agreement concerning the services to be performed by the Baji and supersedes all prior agreements or understandings, written or unwritten. By signing The Rez, both parties acknowledge that they have read this contract, understood its terms, including the release, have had an opportunity to have legal counsel review this agreement, and have voluntarily accepted its provisions.

Executed this thirty-first day of December, 2008
/Baji/

/The Baby New Year/

Addendum
In reference to Section 1(k) of The Rez, the following photograph is made of record and may be amended from time to time.

Netflix Anyone?

2008-12-26T22:14:00.003-05:00

What's that, you say? You have a long couple of weekends and are looking for something good to watch but don't feel like braving the theater crowds? Here's a "top ten movies that I found very enjoyable but that you* may not have heard of" list for ye. You can thank me later.

Fear and Trembling: A Belgian translator attempts to fit into her new role in a Japanese corporation. Based on Amelie Nothomb's autobiographical novel. Whimsical, masochistic, twisted, and hilarious.
Kontroll: Brilliant and innovative drama of the lives of the Hungarian underground metro ticket inspectors; funny, dramatic, and clever with a pulsing, throbbing soundtrack.
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead: Best seen with an uber-nerdy B.A. in English under your belt and, possibly, a philosophy minor in your pocket.
Living in Oblivion: Dark, low-budget indie movie about the making of a dark, low-budget indie movie. Plus, Buscemi.
Croupier: Film noir crime drama starring the compelling Clive Owen. For a great double feature, try out I'll Sleep When I'm Dead as well.
Swimming with Sharks: The definition of "the boss from hell" played with utter perfection by Kevin Spacey in this black dramedy.
Kung Fu Hustle: I saw this for free at the Smithsonian and did not know what it was about but trust me when I say that my sides really did split.
8 Femmes: A French musical murder mystery comedy. Good pick for those who enjoyed Gosford Park.
Following: Yet another film noir that preceded the amazing, mind-boggling Memento.
The White Balloon: Heartbreaking and simple, it was my first introduction to the the Iranian film genre.

*excluding upyernoz, gunnar, and LB

Rock and Rolls of Fat

2008-12-10T12:50:00.003-05:00

All hands on deck! Sound the alarm! My post-pregnancy body is shot to hell and hasn't snapped back to its former lithe shape. I've started trying on occasion when I work up the energy here and there sometimes but sporadically to exercise. I bought some new joggers (my shoe size decided to join the rest of my sizes by kicking up a notch), got a membership to the nearby gym (sorry, "health and fitness club"), and a new mp3 player. Now all I have to do is get some high-energy tunes to motivate me to pause in my work, sneak past my kids, and get my heart rate up for something other than ZP throwing a train at AP. My taste in music is eclectic. The bulk of my music collection is indie-leaning but there are the odd tunes (world music, country, jazz, blues, rock, soul, etc.) mixed in. However, the ones that are "good to work out to" are few and far between. So I look to you, constant readers, to help a sistah out hyah. What music moves you and what music makes you move? In exchange for your bouncy tunes, I will break down the following acoustic, emo, retro tune for ye so you can be part of my indie world.

His Indie World
Mary Lou Lord

I don't think I fit into his Indie world
Guided By Voices and Velocity Girl
Eric's Trip and Rocket Ship, Rancid and Rocket from The Crypt
Bikini Kill and Built to Spill, it's plain to see that I don't fit

He says my songs are too deep and gloomy
He wishes that I could be more like Jenny Toomey
Just give me my Joni my Nick, Neil, and Bob
You can keep your Tsunami, your Slant 6 and Smog

"What's the story?" He says, "Butterglory"
I say, "what's the news?" He says, "the Silver Jews"
His heavenly hang-up is getting me down
And it's making me wonder why he's hanging around

Cause I don't fit into his India scene
Huggy Bear and Helium and Half-Japanese
Sebadoh and Sentridoh and Superchunk and I don't know
Doug and Lou and Calvin too and Kim and Kim and Kim and Kim

Yeah I’m stuck in the past and he's stuck on his four-track
But I can't get through to his one-track mind
I push play and record and a major chord
Maybe I’ll win his heart this time
Maybe I’ll win his heart this time

for yaz -- ole! (yeah, voila would be more appropriate but that's not the right language)

2008-11-26T07:31:00.006-05:00

May, 2000
[please note that this travelogue was written when the dollar was strong, the prices in Spain were cheap, and I was not familiar with this "linking" concept and digital picture hoo ha.]

Dear Constant Readers,
Yes, folks, it is that time of the year again. Time for another e-travelogue from yours truly. When I last left you, we were recovering from our adventures and tribulations south of the border, down Mexico way (for you Frank Sinatra fans).

I have recently returned from my latest trip to beautiful, sunny Spain. Madrid, Escorial, Valley of the Fallen, Toledo, Avila, Segovia, Grenada, Cordoba, and Sevilla. And now I present you with: TEN SITES IN TEN NIGHTS! (Actually, it is more accurate to say 10 sites in 10 days, but that is not as catchy and does not rhyme, so there you have it).

Cast of Characters:
Baji, our narrator, indie filmmaker, and on-the-road correspondent
LB, sister of narrator, our photographer, and queen-napper (yes, she even out-napped me);
Claudia, Discovery hotshot, master translator (she is from Chile and her language skills made our trip very smooth and manageable);
Anne, Discovery hotshot (part deux), traveling companion, birthday girl.

Day One: Madrid

The story begins with the four of us departing from Dulles Airport with seats so far back in the plane that all we had to do to get into the toilets was lean back. After spending a few hours berating myself for forgetting all my traveler’s checks back home (in a loving homage to my mother – ask her about Saudi Arabia), I got my first glimpse of Madrid, home to 2.9 meeeellion people. The air was clean and cool, the airport was well-maintained, and customs was a breeze. Our chatty cab driver whisked us to our hotel, NH Abascal, when, to our slight dismay, we found out that (1) rather than giving us two double beds per room, they set us up with one matrimonial bed per room and (2) none of the rooms were ready yet anyway and we had to come back in an hour. We explained that although we were friends, we were not such great friends that we wanted to share matrimonial beds, so after some re-arranging, we managed to snag two rooms with two beds each, but still had to wait an hour. We left our luggage in NH’s care and went out to seek sustenance. We staggered around, sleep-deprived, food-deprived, and map-deprived, and found a little dive restaurant near the hotel which was blaring some awful song by Tom Jones subtly titled “Sex Bomb”. We had our mediocre meal under the thudding monotony of the bass and then wove our way back to the hotel to address our first order of business: SIESTA!!!! Bear in mind that none of us had really slept for the last 24 hours, so LB and I conked out before the porter even brought out luggage back from the lobby. How sweet it is.

Minds refreshed, bodies showered, and clothes changed, it felt like a brand new day at 5pm. We familiarized ourselves with the Metro system (without managing to look like completely lost tourists), went down to Puerta del Sol (with which we became very well acquainted over the next few days), did some brief sight seeing, ogled the huge, beautiful ornate buildings and doors, and plopped down at a café for our first real meal. The food was great. Potato omelette (which Spaniards call “tortillas”), veggie soup, and very strong coffee. We had to get café con leche (coffee with milk) or else we would OD on caffeine as Spanish coffee closely resembles Turkish coffee in strength. Claudia and Anne had their first taste of paella (Spanish rice dish with a lot of other stuff thrown in). After dinner, we took a walk around the center to get our bearings. It was a gorgeous night which was a very fortunate thing as we had mistakenly appointed C and A to guide us back to the hotel and ended up walking in the completely opposite direction. After our legs were about to protest and go no further, we decided to take a cab back to the hotel and ended up seeing the same route we just walked whiz by. An inexpensive dollar a person ride later, we arrived back at the hotel where we made plans for the next morning over chamomile tea and more café con leche. We decided to take an 11-hour bus tour to Escorial, the Valley of the Fallen, and Toledo one day and a 9-hour bus tour to Avila and Segovia the day after that. We made do with our matrimonial beds (double beds promised for tomorrow) and slipped into a coma-like state.

Day Two: Madrid

Morning came much too early, but the Museo del Prado opened at 9am, so we forced ourselves out of bed, stood all too briefly under the wonderful shower provided by NH, and gobbled down our breakfast of freshly squeezed OJ, hot café con leche, flaky croissants, and some mystery cream-filled pastry at a diner near the museum. While we loitered near a statue of Goya and waited in line for the museum to open, Claudia chatted with some other tourists and found out about some fabulous bus tours offered for Toledo and Segovia. We paid our 500 pesetas (roughly $7) and tried to absorb as much Velazquez (famous Las Meninas or more formally, La Familia de Felipe IV), Goya (nightmarish Saturn Devouring One of His Sons), Greco (La Crucifixion), Bosch (freaky, mushroom-induced Garden of Earthly Delights), Rubens, Titian (chuckle if you remember Dan Akroyd’s sleazy character in SNL discussing famous paintings), and Raphael as we could.

Minds saturated with art (most of it bloody crucifixions, violent Greek mythology, and royal portraits), we broke for lunch. Unfortunately, we still were not prepared for how absolute the siesta-time is set and so had to walk far and wide before we found a restaurant that was open for business. We took an after-lunch stroll around the center of town (now understanding the lay of the land and recognizing our folly of last night’s meandering), checked out a long stretch of used bookstores, had some triple-chocolate ice cream bars for dessert, busted up some kids’ soccer game so that C and A could take some pictures of them, and then returned to the Museo del Prado for C and A to purchase some original oil paintings and meet the artist.

On the metro ride back to the hotel (we are now experts on the Madrid Metro system), we pumped some German kid for information on the local music scene. Siesta, relaxing showers, and pack up all the gear we had strewn around the rooms because the double beds came through! We moved our stuff to the new rooms, got dressed up (i.e. peeled off our dirty jeans and put on some clean, nicer outfits) and headed out to Prada del Sol. The first restaurant was out of cheese (go figure), and the second one (El Zorro) offered too much cheese. Rather than pull a Goldilocks stunt and look for a place where the cheese was just right, we filled ourselves up with quesadillas, guacamole, and chips.

We then set out to walk around the center of town in search of a hotel for the extra two nights we decided to stay in Madrid. But fate was against us. You see, although we had a slight idea of some festival to be held in Madrid during mid-May, we were not aware that we were going to be in Madrid RIGHT SMACK DAB IN THE MIDDLE of the Fiesta de San Isidro, “Madrid’s single greatest fiesta” which celebrates the city’s patron saint. The festival includes fairs, parties, fireworks, and musical performances. It kicks off Spain’s most prestigious feria, or bullfighting season, and all the hotels downtown were booked. Which means, we spent most of the night walking off all that cheese going from hotel to hotel to hotel (from luxurious to increasingly sketchy) asking if they had room for us for Monday and Tuesday nights. When we finally found one place that did have rooms available, we tried to ignore the empty lobby and the suspicious darkness around it and told them we would take it. We spent the next half hour (seemed like an eternity) standing in the cooling night waiting for a cab. We finally got one and returned to the NH hotel. Did I mention that by this time it was 3 a.m., some of our tummies were getting cranky over the intense cheese-intake, and we had planned to go on our first bus tour after three hours of sleep? No? Chalk it up to exhaustion and stay tuned to find out about the rest of the trip.

Day 3: Escorial, Valley of the Fallen, and Holy Toledo

Don’t ask me how we did it, but we managed to get up, dressed, and ready for the 11 hour bus tour by 7 a.m. While waiting for the transport bus to take us to the high-tech, AC tour bus at a nearby swanky hotel called Miguel Angelo, we asked if they had rooms for us for our last day in Madrid and much to our surprise, they did! Relief. It was expensive, but we’re worth it (as we toss our luxurious hair over our respective shoulders with a devil-may-care attitude). We settled down in our plush, reclining seats and looked out the huge picture windows as the bus tooled along to our first stop: Escorial. This palace/monastery is north of Madrid and served as the summer getaway for King Philip II. We walked through the Basilica, the Royal Palace, and the Royal Pantheons. The pamphlet the tour bus provided proclaimed Escorial to be “the eighth Wonder of the World,” but I have some reservations about that title (especially after seeing a fire-breathing Truckasaurus on ESPN). We strolled around the grounds, walked quickly around the tombs where almost all Spain’s monarchs since Carlos I rest in marble coffins, and peeked in during a service at the Basilica.

We four dawdled a bit longer than we should have at the end of the tour taking pictures and videotaping so that by the time we got back to the bus, we were met with obvious glares from our fellow tourists and a light reprimand from the tour guide (much gentler than the one that one of us – not me – received by one of the Escorial guards when she took some flash photograph of the tombs of the kings). We found out that this tour group was very precise on timing (I suspect the majority of them were Swiss) and that they had been waiting for us to get back. Oops. Desi Standard Time rules! We sheepishly took our seats and headed out to Valle de los Caidos, the Valley of the Fallen. This huge monument, a mammoth cross atop a immense, concrete shrine, was built by prison labor to commemorate the victims of the Spanish Civil War. More impressive than the gargantuan structures were the beautiful countryside and the still snow-capped mountains nearby. We soaked up some more Spanish sunshine and then managed to be the very first people on the bus to make up for our previous faux pas.

We drove toward Toledo, passing intensely green fields dotted with bright red poppies and purple spiky flowers along the way. LB and I managed to sneak in a siesta on the ride and awoke when we stopped for a moment to have lunch at a restaurant high on a hill with an amazing view of the city. Music was provided by the Tuna University singers (yes, that was their name) and C & A bought their CD and got their autographs. We spent the rest of the tour on foot as we walked through the narrow alleys and crowded streets to see cathedrals, churches, synagogues, and bridges built by the Moors. We saw some Greco paintings (learned that his real name was Domenikos Theotokopoulos, but since he was a Greek, the Spaniards just nicknamed him El Greco; he came to settle in Toledo after being rejected for being a court artist for Escorial). We saw Toledo’s Alcazar (Arabic for fortress) high on a hill and built in the 10th century. We toured a metal factory where they forge swords with damascene decorations made in gold and silver according to the Arab artistic tradition. C & A bonded with our tour guide and got his autograph in a book he wrote on his travels. He apparently had forgiven us for our tardiness.

Arriving back in Madrid, we took our second siesta for the day (can’t get enough of those), made arrangements with NH so we did not have to stay in the dank, suspicious Hotel Paris, and headed back to our headquarters in Puerta del Sol. After dinner at our regular restaurant (so called because it was the second time we ate there), we took a leisurely stroll and did some window-shopping. We were so lulled by full stomachs and the warm night that none of us could react quickly enough to prevent a thief from snatching an old man’s camera right out of his hands and running up the street and into the night. It happened so fast, we did not even know what was going on until it was too late. The old man took off up the hill after the thief and we spent the next few moments fuming, berating ourselves for not tripping the thief or tackling him, and creating scenarios where we managed to stop the snatching, save the camera, and save the day or where the old man managed to catch up to the thief and retrieve his camera (or, as Anne came up with: we tripped the guy so he bashes his teeth on the concrete . . . ouch). Because it was the Sunday night before the festivities for the Fiesta, the streets were pretty deserted and there was not much to be seen. We took a cab back to the hotel, rested our tired legs, and slipped into sleep, hoping that Claudia would get some measure of rest this night before she turned into the female version of Tyler Durden and started beating people up from the delirium caused by lack of sleep.

Day 4: Avila and Segovia

Woke up, got out of bed, dragged some combs across our respective heads, made our way downstairs and had a cup . . . of café con leche at the Nebraska Café nearby the bus depot in preparation for our 9 hour tour to Avila and Segovia. We exchanged some greenbacks for some pesetas (rate was about 180 pesetas to the dollar, but you can only get such a good rate at the banks which are only open from about 10 to 10:15 as far as we could tell) and scurried on board the tour bus so we could snatch the best seats. We learned from our trip the day before that the seats near the middle of the bus reclined more and were near the door so we could travel in comfort AND manage to be the first ones in and out of the bus this time. However, this group was a little more laid back and relaxed than the prior one, in which we struggled to keep up with the breakneck speed of the tour guide’s walk and talk.

We drove for an hour through Spain’s gorgeous countryside, again enjoying the rich green fields, dazzling red poppies, and bright sunshine. At a brief rest stop near Avila, Anne and I quickly used the surprisingly clean facilities to relieve ourselves of the mass quantities of coffee we imbibed while LB and Claudia used up the caffeine in their systems by kung-fu fighting each other in the parking lot near the bus. Avila’s main attraction were the 11th century thick, robust walls surrounding the city. The wall was built by Muslims and Romans and has been called one of the best preserved medieval defensive perimeters in the world. The city itself was not that impressive. We visited Santa Teresa’s Convent and loitered around the walls until the bus came to pick us up.

We drove for another hour to Segovia which was much more spectacular. But first, some adventures in bargaining for our friends. As soon as we got off the bus, several large women wielding hand-stitched table cloths, napkins, and the like swarmed towards us and started spouting off prices. Anne and Claudia, finding the goods much to their liking, became their main targets since I was busy listening to the tour guide giving us instructions on how we were on our own for lunch and then giving directions to the Cathedral and LB was busy snapping photographs of the incredible Aqueduct. They were caught up in the moment and ended up buying many of the goods for a price lower than they would have paid in the US, but higher than they would have paid if they had either walked down the street or shown their disinterest for the goods until the price fell on their own. We headed down the street to find a place to eat, but once they realized they could have gotten a better deal than they did, C & A stormed back to the women and demanded restitution. In the end, they walked away with better deals and lighter spirits, and we all lived happily ever after.

We admired the 1st century A.D. Roman aqueduct which was made completely out of granite without a drop of mortar to hold up its 163 arches. We relaxed in the sun, ate our lunch, and headed up the narrow streets to the Cathedral. The Gothic Cathedral was very beautiful with intricate and sky-scraping spires and turrets on the outside and lots of shiny gold and stained glass on the inside. It was very cold (stone cold actually) and it was nice to thaw out in the sun as we walked to our next site, Alcazar. Segovia’s Alcazar (those of you who are paying attention get 5 bonus points if you remember what Alcazar means) impressed Walt Disney so much that he fashioned a similar one in Disneyland in California – Cinderella’s digs. The interior was decorated with exquisite tiles, rich tapestries, and gold, gold, and more gold that made the rooms look like jewel boxes. The view from Alcazar down the valley was amazing. We did some more sight seeing and then headed back to our tour bus which had been sitting in the hot sun for a few hours and was not as pleasant as it was before. We spent the majority of the drive back to Madrid taking one of our beloved siestas and awoke to find ourselves snarled in traffic as everyone tried to gain entry into the city for the big fiesta.

After some rest and relaxation (consisting of a steamy shower, Simpsons in Spanish, and another siesta), we trekked down to the fair. We strolled around the typical fair festivities such as bottle-knocking contests, bumper cars, and roller coasters. One ride cracked us up so much we stood there for about half an hour watching it: people climbed up on a long tube of foam with the head of a bull at the front and tried to stay on while the DJ played some rock music and triggered the bull to shift and jolt very fast to throw the riders off. Amidst laughter, screams, and a whole lot of smoke billowing out from some unseen jets, we joined the Madrilenos to enjoy the rides, games, lights and cotton candy. We watched the fireworks at midnight and then headed over to Joy, the popular club downtown. We got back to the hotel around 2 a.m. totally exhausted and had room service send up a extravagant fare of yogurt, cereal, and an orange.

Day 5: All Madrid, All the Time

Happy Birthday, Anne! We got to sleep in this day, but by sleeping in I mean we did not have to rise at the break-a-break-a-dawn. We got up early to head out to the Museo del Reina Sofia only to find out it is closed on Tuesdays. So shopping it is. LB and I roamed around Puerta del Sol, which was hopping now that we were there pre-siesta, and made our long, winding way to Plaza Mayor. We found an open bank to exchange more money (yes, it was 10:15), passed by the Royal Palace, and settled down at Plaza Mayor’s open square surrounded with cafes and markets. I finally had some paella, which was pretty decent, although that may have more to do with the fact that I was starving at this point than with the fact that it was something to eat. LB downed a couple cups of café con leche and we took it easy for a while watching the passers-by pass by. We found out from some Americans lunching nearby that there was going to be a free concert at Plaza Mayor that night as part of the continuing festival so we had our plans for the evening set. Claudia and Anne, meanwhile, were on their own shopping spree near the Museo del Prado.

We all met up at the hotel and tried to make hotel arrangements for Grenada (no problem) and Sevilla (problem). Apparently, Madrid was not the only city celebrating and having a housing shortage and most of the hotels we called in Sevilla were booked. We absorbed enough of the mellow Spanish mood to shrug off the responsibility for another day and headed out again. After some more shopping and walking and shopping and walking, we parked ourselves back at Plaza Mayor for the concert. As we sat outside sipping yet more coffee and listening to the music (which was disconcertingly more Irish sounding than Spanish sounding and even included a Weird Al Yankovic-like accordion player), the day turned into night. For the first time since we came to Spain, there was a brief storm, a burst of rain, and some thunder and lightening. Claudia leapt up to boogie with the other drenched dancers near the stage while we three remained quite content under the large café umbrella.

We toasted Anne’s birth and made her give a speech (see video). Then we sent her off to do some videotaping of the festival, the concert, and the lights only to have her return scant moments later with a bizarre mime following her. A worse mime I have never seen. His entire act consisted of smiling, nodding, and holding his hand out for money. We shooed him off and chilled for a while before heading off to THE BEST PLACE IN SPAIN (except for Alhambra). It was not a palace or monument. It was not a museum or plaza. It was not a cathedral or garden. It was (drum roll please) a chocolateria. To eat: golden, crispy churros (fried dough) to dip into mugs of deep, rich, dark chocolate. To drink: dense chocolate with a dash of whole milk. Heaven. The restaurant joined us in singing “Happy Birthday” to Anne and the waiter gave us a discount on the sinfully delicious snack. Buzzing on a sugar high and acting drunk, we wove our way to the center of town to head back to the hotel. Having a high tolerance for massive quantities of sugar, I was able to drift off with little effort. LB had a giggle fit for a while but also managed to sleep relatively swiftly. Claudia and Anne, however, later reported that they were up until the wee hours and if you want to know how they passed the time, you will have to ask them.

Day 6: Madrid to Grenada

Our last day in Madrid arrived so quickly. We packed up our belongings (which, for some of us, had doubled in size since we arrived), had our last breakfast at Café y Te, and dashed to the Centro de Arte Reina Sofia to catch Picasso’s famous Guernica. I latched onto a group of school children touring the museum so I could listen in on their guide’s explanation of the paintings; he was speaking in such simple words that even I could understand what he was saying about Senor Picasso and the history of the painting (representing the German’s bombing of Gernika in 1937). We checked out some other cool Picasso paintings (I really liked the horse with the zany buck teeth), Dali’s bizarre creations, and some Miro. Again, the fates were with us and the thunderstorm that began just as we entered the museum ended just as we left it. We made a bee-line to the bus station to purchase our tickets to Grenada (2000 pesetas each, about $11), raced back to the hotel to check out, retrieve our stored luggage, and zipped right back to the bus station in time to board the bus.

On this journey, we saw our familiar poppies, olive trees, and gentle rolling hills, but we also got a chance to see a unique site along the highway: silhouettes of giant black bulls. 2-D bulls, that is. It ends up that what we were seeing were clever advertising for sherry and brandy called “Toros de Osborne”. Made in 1957, they were almost all torn down due to a new law banning billboards near main roads, but public outcry and threats to go to the supreme court allowed the “bullboards” to remain and we got to see several of them on our trip south.

After a very comfortable five hour ride, we arrived in Grenada and went to the Hotel Washington Irving, so named because America writer Mr. Irving actually used to live in Grenada, and to be more specific, in the Alhambra palace when it was abandoned in the 19th century. The hotel was right outside the Alhambra. By that, I mean we had an unobstructed view of the palace’s red walls from our room, a stone’s throw away! The rooms were huge with FOUR beds in each room . . .perhaps to make up for the cramped matrimonial beds we had in Madrid. The hotel was built two centuries ago (meaning in the late 1800s) and the plumbing reflected it. Good ol’ fashioned pull-the-chain-to-flush toilets and hold-the-shower-wand-in-your-hand-while-you-shower shower.

LB and I walked down to the center of town and had the best meal at a Middle Eastern restaurant called Al Andalus. Falafel, kibbe, and hummmmmmmmus were so nice after being bombarded by all the Spanish jamon (ham). We sipped cappuccino while observing freaky hippies do their freaky hippie acts in the plaza. Juggling, guitar playing, hackysack kicking, dreadlock hair flying hippies. We made up various scenarios to explain the bizarre behavior of one hippie who was hovering around a car for about half an hour, checking out the lights, the tires, the doors, the lights, the doors, and the tires. We shooed off one of the many, many dogs looking in askance for some of our food and eavesdropped on the conversation behind us being held in Arabic. After the breath-taking hike back to the hotel (not breath-taking because of the scenery, but because the hill was so sharply inclined it ripped the breath out of our lungs), we called it an early night.

Day 7: Alhambra

Another bright, sunny day. We got up super early so that we could make sure we got tickets for Alhambra as all the guidebooks, websites, and literature warned us that tickets sold out within the first few hours of the day. Tickets in hand, we ventured out for breakfast since we were not allowed to enter until after 10am. We took the long, winding way around town in search of a place to eat until we ended up back at Plaza Nueva, the same plaza we were in the night before, scarfed down some croissants and café, and marched back up the hill.

Alhambra (Red Castle) is beautiful. Peaceful pools of water, meandering rose gardens, and towering palaces all within the fortress walls. We could have done without the hordes of tourists, but such was the price to gaze down onto bustling Grenada from the watchtowers and up into the snow-covered Sierra Nevada mountains. The Islamic architecture was so incredible and at the same time familiar. It seems like all Muslim art, architecture, and ambiance is, with slight variations, the same the world over. The balance between the intricate man-made marble and alabaster carvings and brightly painted tiles that adorned the inner walls of the palaces and the natural lush greenery of the rose gardens and hedges and the powerful mountains surrounding the fortress was awesome, in the traditional sense of the word. The gardens are an attempt (in my opinion, a very successful attempt) to depict the Quran’s description of paradise.

It was built in the 9th century as a fortress, became a Moorish fortress/palace in the 13th century, a mosque in the 14th century, a church in the 15th, a Renaissance palace in the 16th, an abandoned flophouse for beggars and thieves in the 18th, the focus of Washington Irving’s writings in the 19th, and finally the biggest tourist attraction in Spain in the 20th and 21st. The grounds are surrounded by neatly trimmed hedges, sparkling fountains, and a variety of trees: cypress, elms, yew, bay, and oak. Since we were lucky enough to be there in the spring, the gardens were overflowing with blooming roses, bougainvillea, and geraniums and the trees were spilling oranges from their branches. I cannot adequately describe the beauty and the calm of Alhambra. We left there feeling so tranquil, almost dazed, from the whole experience. I wish we could linger and savor the sights of the gardens and mountains, the smells of the flowers, and the sounds of the water and birds longer. Alas, the call of the worldly life (i.e. rumbling tummies) forced us to leave our paradise.

We refueled at Al Andalus again and then really delved back into the modern life by going shopping. Leather sandals! Fashionable clothing! Prints and postcards and posters, oh my! We returned briefly to our hotel which was in the midst of a struggle with electricity, as in there was none, stumbled around in the near-dark, and headed back down to the Plaza Nueva for dinner. LB and I, following Lonely Planet’s suggestion, went to a restaurant lauded for its vegetarian dishes. The fact that the place looked and smelled like a dive should have warned us. We ordered our food and when it came, my dish of steamed vegetables was completely flavorless except for some slight vinegary aftertaste and LB’s dish of tortilla (remember, that’s an omelette) was a vague, grey mass. We pushed the food around our plates a bit to make it look like we ate some and eventually called our waiter to get the bill. He expressed his surprise that we were finished so quickly and then, much to our embarrassment, tattle-taled to the chef who came out from the kitchen, enormous apron-covered belly first, to ask us what the matter was with the food! Thinking quickly, in much broken Spanish, I explained that it was really late (by now it was almost 11:30) and that our friends were waiting for us. He sort of accepted that explanation and left us in peace. We fled the restaurant, went in search of Claudia and Anne who had returned to their favorite restaurant for tapas, gave up on that search and instead sought out Zara (a hip Spanish store that we saw in Madrid and found out was in Grenada too) and eventually wandered back to the hotel for the night.

Day 8: Grenada to Cordoba

We spent our last day in Grenada racing down the hill, inhaling some hot coffee and croissants, doing some whirlwind souvenir shopping, and returning to the hotel to pack and catch a ride to the bus terminal. LB and I ran into Claudia and Anne several times during the morning rush as we prepared to head north to Cordoba and they prepared to head west to Sevilla. We spent a pleasant three hours driving to Cordoba in the comfortable bus seeing the olive trees, the mountains, and the Rio Guadalquivir and then caught a taxi to our hotel, Hotel El Conquistador. The streets reminded me of D.C.’s as they were rather winding and would occasionally turn into one-way streets without notice or become restricted streets that were only allowed to be traveled upon during certain hours of the day. The Hotel El Conquistador was located even closer to the famous Cordoba Mezquita, called one of the most magnificent of all Islamic buildings. Cordoba was actually the Muslim capital in Spain in 711 and in the 900s became the largest city in western Europe.

We tossed our luggage in the room, washed up, and headed out to survey our surroundings. We stopped at a nearby restaurant for tortilla patatas, gathered up our reserve energy and walked around and around and around until we reached the Plaza Tendillas and finally, after our country-wide search, found a Zara! We shopped, walked to the Juderia (Jewish quarters), and admired the huge gold doors of the Mezquita, which was all we could admire as the doors were closed. We took about ten giant steps to reach the hotel and treated ourselves to some much deserved napping. After only half an hour, the guest in the room above us decided to prance around the room in high heeled shoes and as we could not go back to sleep, we escaped the constant pounding by retreating outside and taking in the evening air. We walked around the Mezquita again, saw the Islamic Wheel (a huge, inactive waterwheel next to the Rio Guadalquivir), and had dinner of gazpacho (very yummy) before returning to the hotel. Shower, watch a little TV consisting of Simpsons, news, and then, God save us all, “Who Wants to be a (Spanish) Millionaire”. Around midnight, I heard some fireworks and celebrating going on outside, but I was just too exhausted to step outside to see this city’s festivities. The next thing I knew, it was morning.

Day 9: Cordoba to Sevilla

Now familiar with the city’s layout, we made our way easily to the Plaza Tendillas for breakfast and took our time wandering back to the Mezquita as it did not open until late morning. We peeked into a number of gorgeous patios that were filled with flowers in full bloom, flamboyant fountains, and sweetly singing birds. We returned to the Mezquita just as it was opening, student IDs in hand, and entered the mosque/cathedral. “Mosque/cathedral?” Yes. Adb ar-Rahman I founded the mosque in the 8th century and then the center was ripped out in the 16th century to accommodate the cathedral and a choir. It was very bewildering to see the combination of Islam (Arabic script, sweeping arches, and high domes) and Christianity (crosses, the ornate choir, and the chapel) in one building.

We wrapped up our stay in Cordoba by hitting a few more stores, seeing the silver district and checking out the tiles and leather goods. We had some snacks, filled our packs, and hit the tracks . . . railroad tracks that is. We were making our way to Sevilla to rendevous with Claudia and Anne by train rather than by bus. We boarded the luxurious passenger car and barely felt the train leave the station. The ride was so smooth, it was as though the train was sliding on oiled tracks. In an instant, we arrived in Sevilla. Planes, trains, and automobiles, check. Disembarked, taxied to the hotel, unloaded, and headed out to see Sevilla’s Alcazar. The entire complex is made up of rooms with outdoor patios. Although not as impressive as Alhambra, the gardens here are more peaceful and still extremely beautiful. We chilled for a while by the fountains, watched a troop of baby ducks swim around in one of the many pools, and stopped and smelled the roses. After such a hectic journey across Spain, it was so nice to walk lazily around the gardens and through the shopping center of Sevilla. We returned to the hotel via the longest way possible and met up with Claudia and Anne for dinner. We went to a fancy restaurant on the Rio Guadalquivir (same one that flowed through Cordoba). We reminisced over our adventures, perhaps drawing the attention of some other diners as we laughed hysterically about some of the misadventures, while about eight waiters stood by anticipating our dining needs and awaiting our orders. We settled all accounts, returned to the hotel, and did our final packing during our final night in Spain.

Day 10: Home again, home again, jiggety-jig

We bade Sevilla adieu in the early morning and boarded Span Air, the national airline. We came full circle by returning to Madrid, went through all the airport security and ticket lines, and tried to spend all the remaining pesetas we had on snacks. We were very lucky that we had such incredible weather during the entire trip. We got to travel all over the beautiful country during the most agreeable time of the year, experience the various festivals and celebrations, and have an all around wonderful time. Spain definitely made our top ten list.

El Fin

Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific

2008-11-20T14:11:00.004-05:00

My friend Ms. Moneybags lives in Paris and visits DC every year around this time. And every year, she asks me what kinds of ungents, salves, and hair care products I would like for her to bring me. Yes, that's right. I'm SO fancy, that I get my beauty products imported from France. Anyway, in keeping with the listology, I present you with Baji's Favorite Lotions and Potions (including the pedestrian domestic products):

Top Three Shampoos: Kiehl's Olive Oil Shampoo; Jacques Dessange Nutri-Extreme; Klorane Citron Pulp Shampoo. I think I switch out my shampoos every time one runs out but these three are among the best just because they smell good enough to eat.
Top Three Conditioners: Kiehl's Olive Oil Conditioner; Frederic Fekkai Glossing Conditioner; Klorane Nutritive Detangling Balm with Mink Oil. I have thick Desi hair (I mean, thick as in nearly every time I go to get my hairS cut, the barber/stylist/deaf drone comments on how thick it is) and I need super duper conditioners to tame my locks lest they turn into mujahideen hair.
Top Three Facial Washes: Evian's Affinity, Darphin Cleansing Aromatic Emulsion; Clarins Gentle Foaming Cleanser. I didn't say this list was cheap; it's just the stuff I dig.
Top Three Hand Lotions: Nuxe Reve de Miel; Klorane Creme Mains; Aveda Hand Relief. Key factor is that my hands feel moisturized but not greasy and slippery afterwards
Top Three Body Cleansers: Aveda's Energizing Body Cleanser; Fresh Index Pink Jasmine Body Cleanser; L'Occitane Olive Golden Branch Shower Cream. Makes me want to use the loufa puff to stretch out the life of the product (and my dollar)
Top Three Body Lotions: Santa Maria Novella Latte Per Il Corpo; Fresh Index Pink Jasmine Body Cream; Bliss Lemon + Sage Body Butter. Scent is ultimate deciding factor here because all the rest just goes down the drain anyway.

Your turn! Share your beauty secrets, faves, and wishlists.

Good Eats

2008-11-18T10:30:00.006-05:00

The year is coming to an end and that means all sorts of lists are on the horizon. What's that? You are coming to visit me in D.C. and want to know where a good place to eat is? Here is Baji's Top Eateries Around Town:

Best Brunch: Rosemary's Thyme Bistro. Not only is it around the corner from us, but the pide is smashing, especially when, on Sundays, they throw a couple of eggs on top.
Best 24-hour: The Diner. Not only is it around the corner from us, but the root beer floats are amazing, especially when coupled with hot, crispy fries.
Best historical attraction and good food: Ben's Chili Bowl. Not only is it right around the corner from us (do you see a theme here?), but it's a landmark, it has a panda out front, and it's the place where KG ate just before he proposed to LB!
Best sushi: Kotobuki. Bite-sized morsels that melt in your mouth and at a great price.
Best Ethiopian: Meskerem. Maybe not as popular as the shiny new but pencil thin Etete but at least my tummy doesn't hurt afterwards.
Best South Indian: Udupi Palace. It's a bit of a hike to get there, but the all-you-can eat brunch with free dosas makes it worth it.
Best Spanish tapas: Jaleo. One of our go-to hits that pleases everyone.
Best Vietnamese: Nam Viet. Haven't had a bad meal there yet.
Best Middle Eastern: Lebanese Taverna. Another crowd-pleaser that we often visit when money-bags parents are in town.
Best Pizza: Vace. and Two Amy's. Vace's pizzas have gotten a little saltier but they are still great when piping hot; Two Amy's is classically made and fantastic but more expensive and harder to park at.
Best Bagels: So's Your Mom. Alas, since What's-A-Bagel closed in Cleveland Park, the pickin's are slim, but the bagels (and sandwiches) here are great.
Best Afghan: Afghan Restaurant. What the name lacks in cleverness, the cuisine makes up for in taste.
Best Kebabs: Food Factory. See above.
Best Mexican: Lauriol Plaza. Can get pretty crowded but I've never had to wait long to get a table at the multi-storied restaurant and crowds (often) = good food.
Best Tex-Mex: Mixtec. A-Number one flautas.
Best Falafels: Amsterdam Cafe. Choose your own toppings, bring cash, and load up on fries.
Best French Toast: Open City. Not shy with the powdered sugar and creamy butter.
Best Italian: Al Tiramisu. Yeah, it's pricey but it's also pretty nice.
Best Seafood: Grillfish. Wide selection and since they specialize in fish, you can't be steered too wrongly as, say, if you visited one of those mix of cuisine joints.
Best Ps'ghetti: La Tomate. The other dishes are great too but I love their ps'ghetti.
Best Gelato: Dolcezza. *dies*
Best Spring Rolls: Thaiphoon. Crunchy and veggie.
Best Tea: Teaism. Lovely wares and calming atmosphere.
Best Coffee: Murky. Look past the drama and attitude and drink up.
Best Cannoli: Vaccaro's. Hands down.
Best Croissant: Patisserie Poupon. The plain ones are light and flaky and the chocolate ones have a generous slab of chocolate to satisfy.
Best Crepes: Cafe Bonaparte. There are actually two places in AdMo that are rated up there too, but the best I've had is at Bonaparte.

Uncle Bhai Jan

2008-11-13T23:44:00.002-05:00

My grandfather loves jokes. I mean, he LOVES them. He has shelves upon shelves of joke books, funny quotes, and compilations of humour (yes, he was raised under the British school system, so you get the extra "u"). He writes it, he recites it, he lives it. He's been on my mind lately and I came across this tidbit that I want to save here before it gets lost. Enjoy.

"The Flying Jogger" story

Approximately at 45 degrees across the street from our house is No.720, nicknamed No.420. . . Its inhabitants were a couple with 8 or 9 or 10 children---I don't know even after having them as neighbours for years--- naughtier than Satan.

One day as I was passing the house, I was surprised by a single jogger landing with a thud hardly a foot ahead of me. Thank God it didn't land on my head. I looked around but couldn't see anyone. I estimated that it must have come from the top floor of No.420, 30 feet above the street level. I speared it on my walking stick, carried it a few yards to our house, dumped it behind a hedge, and waited for a couple of days for some claimant to turn up but when no one came, I dumped the jogger in the garbage van when it visited our street.

A day later, Mr.420 met me and I told him of the incident, saying that I suspected one of his kids. He swore they were angels and it was unthinkable that they would do such mischief. I suggested he line them up wearing their joggers and the one having only one jogger should explain how come. He liked the suggestion and promised to do so. When he met me next, he said: "Bhatti Sahib, the kid is only five years old, so I suggest we excuse him this time." I agreed but told him that the jogger was now in the city garbage dump. "And Mr. 420, it was a size 8 shoe!"

1.21 gigawatts

2008-11-04T14:51:00.004-05:00

[note - tomorrow is going to be hectic so I'll just go ahead and future post tomorrow's blog entry today]

Whew! I'm so glad Obama won. I was nervous for a while considering how certain I was during the last election that there would be no WAY the Republicans would win. But now we have a new president in the wings and hopefully a bright future ahead of us.

Election Day was hectic. Up at 6 a.m. to shower, eat, and get the kids packed up for their flu shots/mist. ZP lucked out and only had to have a little spray in his nose. Poor AP had to have a needle jabbed in her tiny chubby thigh and after a slight delay, she let her displeasure be known to the entire office. After passing by the polling center (which is literally right behind our house) and seeing a slightly smaller line of voters, we dropped the kids off at home and I ran off to vote while TP, anxious about getting to work first, decided to vote later.

When I arrived at 10:15, I saw that the cluster of people outside were actually not voters at all but last minute advocates for the candidates. I called TP to come quickly because the line was actually only about 30 people deep. I had barely hung up the phone and opened my book when TP appeared behind me. A woman came down the line calling out, "Anyone K through R? Anyone S through Z? Come on up." Apparently the "A through J" folks were behind on their game. I was STILL standing in line when TP (with his fancy pants "P" surname) ran in, voted, and whizzed by. Why didn't I change my last name?! (interro-at-least-I-can-share-our-President's-name!). Eventually, I was permitted to enter, get my "I voted" sticker, and leave. The whole affair took about half an hour. I grabbed an everything bagel from Tryst, a free coffee from Starbucks (which I split with Tia), and ran upstairs to work (i.e. stare at the intense yellow and red leaves in my backyard).

How was your experience? And answer this for me: I have a theory that the "A to K" line was so long because as children, we folks with surnames towards the beginning of the alphabet were used to having to go first, stand at the front of the line, be called on before anyone else. The kids with surnames in the rest of the lower 15 letters were used to going in later. That's why the "A to K" line was long in the morning and, theoretically, the "K to Z" lines will be longer in the afternoon/evening. So where does your name fall and what time did you vote?

Worthy of a CV - "course of life"

2008-10-27T09:20:00.003-04:00

When you are looking for a job, you are required to craft a résumé with highlights of your vast experience and stellar education. You know what they want to hear, you have examples galore to bogart at will, and a few bullet points, fancy fonts, and margin enhancements later, you've got yourself a fine looking sample.

But what about the job for which you cannot prepare, you have nil experience, and you cannot fathom what is required of you? I'm speaking of the illustrious career (because it is a career) known as parenthood. What in my past made me think I was cut out for this? What skills, if any, have I accrued that will help me now? Where is my mind? If I had to present something in writing, I think I would include the following:

Utilized degree in law to negotiate with, argue with, and hand down judgment to equals and subordinates
Applied degree in English to read and translate books to those with the inability to do so themselves and tweaked creative writing skills to engage in storytelling in the oral tradition
Honed hand-eye coordination after years of experience with programs such as Space Invaders, Breakout, and Circus Atari in order to deliver nutrition in a precise and accurate manner to a moving and/or sealed object with minimal shrapnel and debris
Streamlined skills actualized by engaging in Taboo competitions in order to analyze and comprehend Toddler-Speak 2.0
Strengthened ability to overcome sensation of jet lag and still operate in a normal fashion after frequent international travel and engaging in unusual non-awake positions with multiple individuals in the same berth
Furthered voice training gained from roadtrip karaoke sessions with sibling in order to cantillate and to issue disciplinary edicts
Proficiency in sanitation management gained while employed at a medical office
Held position of culinary engineer with ability to prepare comestibles for the most fastidious of patrons
Displayed technical savvy in ability to operate complicated machinery such as the Comcast cable remote control to access Thomas and Yo Gabba Gabba On Demand
Developed expertise in employee relations by acting as manager in a law office and corporate setting
Improved ability to sit through countless repeats of cartoons and children's entertainment via own hours of television viewing
Entirely responsible for employees’ existence.

Windstar

2008-10-06T16:48:00.003-04:00

Since I'm too lazy to update anything new, here is something old.

If my failing memory serves me correctly, the Windstar Debacle unfolded as follows:

My family and I went to St. Martin for our good friend’s graduation on Saba Island. The boys and LB and I had arrived earlier than the girls, so we had already taken a tour of the town (all 15 minutes of it) and the beach. By the time the girls arrived with their parents, it was already evening. After dinner, the boys went their way (probably to get into some nonsense) and we girls went our own. LB wanted to show the girls the beach that was about a ten minute walk from our hotel. Despite the sun having long set, she boldly navigated the minivan we had rented, a Ford Windstar, along the road that led to the beach. Unbeknownst to her and not clearly visible in the dark, the road softly ended and just sort of merged and blurred into the sand.

We all got out of the van and enjoyed hearing the waves crashing and seeing the dark outline of the volcanic landscape under the moonlit sky. Since the girls had just come straight from the long flight from the US to dinner, they were tired and so we decided to head back. We piled into the van, LB turned the ignition and put the van into reverse and we sat there listening to the tires spin. And spin. And spin. LB stopped, put the van into drive, and we sat there listening to the tires spin. And spin. And spin. We all got back out and stood in a line looking at the van with the tires nestled snuggly in the soft, slippery sand.

Attempt #1: LB got back in and tried to rock the van gently. No luck.

Attempt #2: LB revved the engine while the three of us pushed. The only victory this time was that we learned how freaking heavy a Ford Windstar could be.

Attempt #3: We scoured the dark beach for driftwood, cardboard, anything to wedge under the tires to provide some traction. I think at one point someone even tried a few rocks. All we earned from that try was some scratched up skin and a few broken nails.

By now, it was nearly midnight. Out of ideas and fearful of KK’s fury with our treatment of the van (when I say he is a car lover, I mean HE IS A CAR LOVER), we opted not to call the boys to rescue us. Instead, we took the girls’ luggage out of the trunk and hiked across the street, the meadow, and a horde of blood-sucking insects to get to the hotel. One was exhausted and went straight to bed. The other had somehow acquired a huge gash on her face and was bleeding in a rather unladlylike manner. LB and I approached the desk clerk and with great chagrin asked him if he had any suggestions on how to unstick the van. With a bemused expression on his face, he said that he did not. “What?” I asked, not sure I was hearing correctly. “I don’t know what you could do other than what you have already done,” he responded. “Are you telling me that we are the first people ever to get a vehicle stuck on the beach?” He just sighed, shrugged his islandy shoulders, and suggested we wait until morning and then call the tow company.

That night, we girls got little sleep. LB was grinding her teeth all night and I had my internal alarm clock set to wake me up the moment the sun came up so I could call the tow truck over. When morning finally broke, we raced back to the van to await the tow truck. Typical Carribean time later, they finally showed up. They hooked the van to the back of the crane, revved up, and went nowhere. Yep. The tow truck got stuck on the beach too.

Activity on the beach started to pick up as the day progressed and a few lookee loos glanced over but offered no help. The local towers were at a loss at what to do. They were on their phones spitting out orders back to the homebase to send another rescue truck when one big, burly, beefy American and one skinny, denim-short-wearing American came by with their wives. They took one look at the scene, discussed the situation amongst themselves, and announced that they decided to take charge. Somehow, through a combination of brute force and something else which, for the life of me I cannot remember but it may have had something to do with deflating the tires a bit so that there was more surface contact between the tires and the sand, they did it. It turns out that they were farmers from Pennsylvania who were familiar with getting large farm equipment mired in the mud during the rainy seasons. So they put their all-American know-how to the test and succeeded in getting both the van and the tow truck out of the sand trap. YEE HAW!!! *cue “Proud to be an American” anthem*

Suffice it to say, we have never let LB forget the saga. Even now, whenever we are tooling along on the highway and see a Windstar chug alongside us, I’ll slide my eyes over to LB, LB will narrow her eyes into “DON’T TALK ABOUT IT” slits, and we will continue on our merry way.

Celebrate Good Times, COME ON!

2008-10-01T20:08:00.002-04:00

Thanks for all the birthday well wishes, gang! It was a much nicer bday than last year, no doubt. Anyway, Eid Mubarak, Happy Rosh Hashanah, and Happy Birthday George Peppard! I, too, love it when a plan comes together.

Conversations with ZP

2008-09-28T21:21:00.003-04:00

ZP the linguist

Backround: Our nanny has been teaching ZP spanish lately - numbers, letter, and words. She's teaching him that, "for Mommy, it's cow, but for Tia, it's vaca!" or "in English, it's one two three, but in Spanish, it's uno dos tres." He knows "mine" is "mio" and "cat" is "gato" etc. I've been trying to stick to it too, not only to help him remember, but to help me remember/learn. So, the other day, I was asking him about his eating utensil:

me: "What's this?"
zp: "It's a fork!"
me: "Yes! that's right! And what is it in Spanish?"
zp: (pause to consider and then tentatively) "Forko?"

*******************************************

ZP the engineer

Background: ZP's high chair has a toy attached to it that is in the shape of a crab with a plastic globe filled with little beads. He enjoyed shaking it but what he really wanted was to break it open and get the beads out.

zp: "Mommy, open it."

me: "I can't open it. It's stuck."

zp: "Get the scissors."

me: "No way!"

zp: (serious expression on his face): "They dangerous. You get hurt."

me: "Yes, that's right."

zp: (little wheels in his brain turning): "Get the hammer."

*******************************************

ZP the medical practitioner

Background: I was hungry after fasting all day and my stomach started growling and I automatically covered my belly with my hand (as though this would stifle the sound).

zp (concerned look on his face): "Mommy, wha happened?"

me: "My tummy is making noise."

zp: "You got hurt? It's okay. Medicine is upstairs!"

me: "It's okay. I don't need medicine, but thank you."

zp: (note: for some reason, this kid LOVES medicine, both in "lotion" form or in sweet cherry-flavored Tylenol/Motrin form) "Aw, Mommy got hurt. Look, I got hurt. (shows me his completely unblemished finger). Medicine is upstairs!"

Ghosts of Ramadan Past

2008-09-18T13:25:00.003-04:00

Me: "What time does the sun set tonight?
KG: "I think around 7:20 but I'll check on-line to make sure."
Me: "Well, yesterday it was 7:21 and it's been going down by two minutes every day so it might be 7:19."
KG's Mom: "I have never been in a room with so many people interested in the precise minute the sun sets!"
Me to myself and telepathically to KG: (I guess you've never fasted every day for weeks, have you?)

The exchange above got me reminiscing about past Ramadans. The first memory was of a time when we were all going to my parents' friends' house for Iftar one year. All of the adults were chatting and all the teenagers and above were watching TV. Mornings were always rough for me because I was just too tired to eat a pre-dawn hearty meal. The combination of a growling tummy and a Swatch watch that was so cool that its face had no numbers or marks or anything to pinpoint the minutes led me to go into an empty room and call the date-and-time phone number over and over again until it was time to eat. I think I was 14 at the time.

Then I started thinking about other Ramadan memories.

Like the time that Dad insisted on playing a Doctors v. Nurses Softball game in the middle of summer while fasting and how we, on the sidelines and in the shade, cheered him on as we simultaneously thought he was crazy.
Or the time we were in Pakistan that year and I was astounded with the topsy-turvy way in which the city would completely shut down during the day and be ablaze with lights and activity at night.
Or the time that I spent an entire day in bed reading "One Thousand and One Nights" or "Arabian Nights" because it was summer time and I was off from school and what better way to pass the day than in a air-conditioned room on your cozy bed with a book?
Or the times I had to explain to my friends in high school why I was spending our lunch break in the library rather than in the lunchroom.
Or the time I was on my own at college for the first time and managed to keep all the fasts by having a cheese omelet and a huge glass of chocolate milk every single morning.
Or the time my college roommate and I decided to get a jump start on an April Fool joke since it was so early in the morning that our victim would be too sleepy to figure out the prank we were playing [aside: that was the very last time I ever played an April Fool's joke. It totally backfired and I recently celebrated a milestone anniversary of 15 years of calling my victim up on April 1 and apologizing].
Or the time I was so touched that my new friends in law school woke up and treated me to pancakes for sehri despite the freezing weather and ungodly hour. [aside: hey, Jules, was that IHOP or Denny's or some other local St. Louis 24 hour diner?]
Or the time LB and I were driving to an aunty's house in Chesterfield and we were lost and running late and didn't know what time the sun was supposed to set so we just watched the sun actually set and broke our fasts in the car with some gum.
Or the times when Mom would mail, yes, U.S. Post Office or UPS mail, us aloo parathas and/or congo bars during Ramadan.
Or the time we had a Thanksgiving Ramadan in Georgia with special guest star cousins visiting from Pakistan where every square inch of the apartment was taken by a sleeping body but the chai and omelets were hot in the morning and the big party dinner was delicious at night. And the next night. And the next night.
Or the first Ramadan I shared with TP [aside: that was the year he read the entire Quran]
Or the first Ramadan I shared with LB alone [aside: that was the year I discovered that Sara Lee's All Butter Pound Cake made a fine contribution to sehri]
Or the days when I used to work in the same building as a bunch of Arabs (they were our clients) and we'd have an amazing, hot, instant iftar in the office every evening with falafels, stuffed grape leaves, lentil soup, hummus, kibbe, yogurt, and oh man, I need to stop reminiscing or else my drool will short-circuit my keyboard.

piehole

2008-09-16T18:52:00.001-04:00

ever have one of those days when you want to tell everyone to "SHUT IT!"?

Six of one, half a dozen of the other

2008-09-10T10:13:00.004-04:00

Happy Six Month Birthday, me wee one! I cannae believe that six months today, you came into my life.

Five months ago, you were a tiny bundle that was shuttled from person to person in an attempt to keep you from harm's way (i.e. your big brother). ZP was still in the throes of jealousy and the terrible twos which made for a harrowing time for all. In fact, your arrival heralded ZP's first full sentence which was repeated whenever he saw TP carrying you: "Baby Ziza DOWN!" You took everything, including ZP's shrieking and banging and general havoc-wreaking, with great aplomb and and composure. You were so very easy-going and undemanding. The visitors you received were astonished by your shock of hair, your saucer-sized eyes, and your rosebud mouth. You slept well, you ate well, and you actually enjoyed a good cuddle session.

Four months ago, you were your Nani's roommate to allow your poor bedraggled parents a moment of rest. You retained your lovely hostess manners while various relatives and friends came to visit and ooh and ahh over you. When ZP was born, we bought a new leather recliner. This time, we craiglisted my old IKEA couch away and replaced it with two bigger, microfiber Crate and Barrel couches so that Babu could sleep more comfortably. Your wardrobe grew exponentially as people took pity on you suffering the indignity of wearing some of ZP's hand-me-downs. Soon, his room was strewn with as many blue shirts as it was with pink dresses. Eventually, your grandparents had to return and you were left in the care of just the three of us.

Three months ago, the weather was nicer and we started taking you out for walks. As it is with most babies, the fresh air would knock you out. But for those brief moments before the stroll began, you would soak in the sights and sounds and smile. We thought that all infants were pretty much alike in the early months, but you proved us wrong. As energetic and volatile and explosive as ZP was, you were ladylike and gentle and sweet. ZP started taking an interest in you and actually acknowledged your presence instead of steadfastly ignoring your existence completely unless and until TP glanced your way. He even started to want to hold you and offer you some of his toys . . . to look at . . . for a short time. Your sleeping and eating habits were still a welcome surprise to us and we kept waiting for the other shoe to drop but it never did. Thanks for the sleep!

Two months ago, I cut my own heart out and returned to work full time with Tia taking care of you and ZP. It was so hard to do and the only thing that made it bearable was that I knew you were in good hands and that I was just a flight of stairs away. The first week was torture because every time I heard you cry, I wanted to drop everything and sweep you up. Actually, that did happen on more than one occasion (thank goodness my work is flexible enough to allow me to do so). But eventually, you warmed up to Tia and a routine was set and there was peace in the land again. During the day, you play nicely on your own or, when ZP isn't charging head-first into you, with ZP himself in that you observe him playing with his toys, dashing around in circles, and singing songs to you. In the evening, TP handles the ZP feeding duties (which I was more than happy to relinquish) while you and I have a little mother-daughter bonding session beginning in the tub, progressing to the couch for a quick dinner, and ending on the bed where we smile at each other, give each other some cuddles, and then pass out with trails of drool glistening on our cheeks.

One month ago, you took your first flight to Georgia for your Chai Khala's wedding. As expected, you were very well-behaved on the plane to Atlanta, in the van to Columbus, and throughout the wedding festivities. You were dressed in some pretty fancy finery that you Nani tailored for you out of some of our gently-used (i.e. old and didn't fit anymore) shalwar kurtas, saris, dupattas, you name it. While ZP was running amok with his uncles (from ages 5 to 7), you were content to lounge around with Nani and Babu and everyone who could get their hands on you. You took your first dip in a swimming pool/jacuzzi with Uncle KG and, much like your lavender-scented baths, you found it to your liking. The next week, you played the gracious hostess again when the wedding party arrived here for the second part. The evening drives to the parties when you were hungry and/or tired were not so much to your liking. Nonetheless, for the most part, you still displayed a good nature, a super wattage smile, and (once again differentiating yourself from your brother) a stunning preference for vegetables over fruit.

Now, you are half a year old. You just sprouted your first tooth. You have graduated to the 6-9 month clothes. You enjoy giving raspberries and are starting to babble a bit. You love gnawing on board books, trucks, and power tools. Alas, we celebrated your six month milestone with yet another doctor's visit in which you were pronounced a happy, healthy baby and then jabbed no less than four times as a reward. But the day is bright and sunny and pleasant enough to enjoy some time at the park which is where you are now. I love you, Aziza Baziza!

Age Ain't Nothing But A Number

2008-09-06T21:44:00.002-04:00

I'm curious. How old do you think I am? For those of you who already know me, how old did you think I was when you first "met" me?

fourth on fourth

2008-09-04T23:09:00.000-04:00

It's our fourth anniversary! Yep, it's been four years since the day TP and I got hitched in front of our family and friends. I wonder how many people realize what an eclectic mix of guests we had there.

We had Desi men married to American women, a Mauritanian man married to a Trinidadian/American woman, an American man with a Latino man. We had city folk, country folk, mountain folk, desert folk. We had Muslims and Hindus, Christians and Jews (hey, that rhymes!), Hard Core versions of each and then, on the other end of the spectrum, the Atheists and Agnostics. We had old (as in the second half of the 80s and I'm not talking about leg warmers, NKOTB, and mall walls) and young ("He's blocking the faaaaan!!!" during the khutbah at the nikkah comes to mind). We had doctors and lawyers as well as beauticians and metal workers (well, only one of each of those, but still). We had people whom we've known since they were born and people who knew our parents since they were born.

It was the last time I saw my Dadiji. It was the last time I had henna on my feet. It was the last time I fit into size small fill-in-the-blank. It was the last time I was alone. Happy Anniversary, TP! I dedicate this song to you:

Knuckles the dog what a very good dog you are
You're the best dog of all the other dogs by far

Raised to run the greyhound tracks
Down on the puppy farm
Retired and is now devoted
To protecting people from harm

Too slow to compete they sent him away
To the glue factory
Saved by a handicapped boy
Now everybody knows that boy is me

I am a blind and halting boy
Condemned to life in this wheelchair
Other kids will not play with me
But Knuckles the dog, you were always there

Knuckles goes to the nursing home
To visit the elderly
Abandoned by their own children
Knuckles lets them from their misery

Knuckles the dog what a very good dog you are
You're the best dog of all the other dogs by far

Knuckles the dog won't mind
He respects all forms of life
Dying now in my arms
To save me bravely gave his life

Put down by a chances bullet
That was meant for me
Knuckles the dog who helps people
Now you are forever free

Knuckles the dog what a very good dog you were x 2

Knuckles the dog
Knuckles it goes with you
When you explore

Just pull his chain
He'll go for a walk
He's your dog
For sure

Knuckles the dog what a very very good dog
Very good dog
You were

Knuckles the dog what a very good good
Good good very good very good dog
You were

Knuckles the dog what a very very very very very good
Very good very good dog you were

Knuckles the dog what a very good dog dog
Very good dog
Boy good dog you were

Knuckles the dog what very good very good very good very good
Dog you were

Knuckles the dog what a very very very very very very good dog you were!

Oh you'll never see my shade or hear the sound of my feet when there's a moon over Bourbon Street

2008-08-31T21:01:00.004-04:00

What this? Sensing the rise and set of the sun before it happens? Maintaining as near a deathlike stillness during the day only to have a burst of energy and devouring flesh (and veggies and grains and dairy) at night? Wandering around with my arm crooked over my face draped with my cape so as not to burst into flames when I step near daylight? Well, maybe not that last one. My vampire days are upon me again! It's been three years but I'm Ramadaning once again.

It will be an interesting experience because this will be the first time in a long, long time that I'll be at home while fasting. For the last few decades (pause. wow.), I've either been at school or working in an office where I've had to remind my boss each year of my new schedule or remind my co-workers why I couldn't join them for lunch or coffee. This year, I'll be cloistered in my home office with the ability to nap when I choose, to go grocery shopping when it's not crowded, and to avoid the commuting throngs that even on a normal day can be grating.

So with that, I bid ye a Ramadan Mubarak! I'm going to look in the mirror to see just how sharp my incisors seem to have gotten today . . .

Stuck Between Stations

2008-08-19T13:19:00.003-04:00

I just returned from my cousin's wedding in Georgia where the food flowed freely, the laughter was unconfined, and the hulla gulla was in full force. It's quite a different experience participating in a shaadi when you have kids, especially when both of them are two and under. At LB's wedding, ZP was still just a massive 9th month mound in mah belly so although my movements were slow, at least they were free. At my cousin's wedding in Islamabad, ZP was on the loose but under the watchful eye of TP, LB, KG, and everyone else while AP was just a reasonably-sized 6th month mound in mah belly. This one, however, had me and anyone I could convince to help running around to care for them while I simultaneously tried to be a part of the festivities as much as I could. I found myself straddling two worlds:

On the one hand, I was in the "Aunty" category. On the plus side, I had a valid reason for not hitting the dance floor because I was trying to keep an eye on ZP busting his moves but hopefully not busting his head. I was excused from heavy labor such as "bring the coffee table up from the basement and put it on the truck" or "decorate the entire tent with the yellow and turquoise streamers" because I had to be available for AP duty at a moment's notice. I was unfettered by propriety and was confident enough to sneak an entire raspberry chocolate cheesecake out of the freezer during the middle of the mehndi so that my cousins, my mother, and I could dig into it before it was all gone or forgotten. On the negative side, I missed out on the shoe-stealing tradition because I had to leave early to put the kids to bed. I couldn't put mehndi on my hands because I had to have them free to grab/carry/wrestle ZP to the ground and lasso him up when needed (although I didn't see any opportunity to do so anyway, so just as well). And I couldn't take as many pix as I wanted to because my attention was constantly divided between the parties and my duties.

On the other hand, I still seem to be in the "kid" category. I was in charge of matching up sets of churiyan (bangles) for the guests (this post was previously held by a 13 year old). I was giggling maniacally with my cousins by the pool and at the wedding about the stupidest but funniest stuff as we kept trying to outwit each other or make increasingly absurd comments about the guests/family/everything. "Line thee, cross ho gai." I still got a fashion critique about my outfit from an older aunty which was completely unnecessary but so predictable.

So where do I fall in the spectrum? Am I the aunty who maintained a lengthy conversation about threading versus waxing or child-rearing while the others were doing chores? Or am I the kid lugging in 50 bags of groceries while a perfectly capable and healthy couple of young men are lounging around reading magazines or napping? I guess I am both. Jack of all trades, master of none. A chameleon who can blend into any crowd. In the end, I am, and always will be, "Baji." The title allows me to boss people around but still (hopefully) be fun to be around. The title grants me access to all doors and groups. The title suits me. Don't you think?

two turntables and a microphone

2008-08-13T15:24:00.003-04:00

Well, a microphone of sorts, at least. I'm heading out to the durrrty South and I think I'll take a cue (drat, if it was a queue, at least I'd get the 10 points for the Q . . . um, I think I've been playing Scrabble/Scramble/Scrabulous too much these days) from degrouchyowl and hand the mic over to you. That's right, you. You, the reader and/or blurker. All two of ye. Ask me something you've been curious about, want to hear my take on, or are too lazy to research and I'll respond. *tap tap tap* Okay, this thing is on. So, begin!

objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are

2008-08-11T15:59:00.004-04:00

I sold part of my youth this weekend. No mas Cressie. I knew this day was coming, I even blogged about it earlier, but it didn't really hit me until I pulled her away from the curb for the last time. I followed TP blindly and just relied on his brake lights to send the message to my brake and accelerator foot (not to be confused with my regulator foot), while my mind hurtled back to days gone by. Sixteen years. Sixteen shiny-turned-dull, countless tune-ups, tire changes, touch-ups, busticated this, bashed up that years. If that doesn't spell out how much I like my stuff and dislike change, I don't know what would. I've given up my college days futon for a proper bed, my milk crates for a lovely bookcase, my upturned cardboard box with a pretty patterned tablecloth to disguise it into a coffee table for nothing. But I've held on to Cressie for a long long time. I even gave up the chance of getting a Mercedes in order to keep Cressie!

As I drove up 13th Street to deliver the title, keys, and goods to some Craigslist stranger, I couldn't stop the feeling of nostalgia overwhelm me. I listened to mix cassette tapes on long drives, I engaged in ear-piercingly loud fights with LB (where the backseat passengers would get anxious and try to make peace between us only to find themselves the victim of our arguments because, unbeknownst to them, we quite enjoy fighting with each other), and I have criss-crossed various cities and always arrived home safely in this car. THIS is the car that had a carpet sample in the trunk so that the inevitable salaan dish that would spill over wouldn't stain the trunk itself. THIS is the car that LB argued with Mom about not losing the back of her gold earring only to lose the back of her gold earring in. THIS is the car that I fell in love in, drove to and from the courthouse after our wedding, drove to and from the hospital after our kids were born.

It has ZP's artwork in white crayon in the back. It has a Clarksville, Indiana sticker on the license plate holder. It has sixteen years of memories. When some sappy romantic song popped onto the radio, you know the kind - the ones that have no meaning until you are feeling utterly sentimental and then suddenly it seems as though every lyric speaks volumes and is exactly what you are going through right now - I almost felt tears well up (and I'm not a tear-welling-up kind of gal). I caught TP waving his hand and looking at me in the rear view mirror. I half-heartedly waved back and hugged the steering wheel and mouthed, "MINE!" He shook his head, waved back more energetically, and smiled and I realized, yes, I was saying goodbye to my past, but I was following my future. Veevee held my husband, my toddler, and my infant. I'm sure she'll have just as many high adventures and poignant memories before too long. She won't be Cressie, but she'll do. I believe I saw several smashed Cheerios and my Stephen Malkmus CD on the floor under the seat already. . . .

No, Thank you.

2008-08-07T03:46:00.002-04:00

From a review of a local Korean joint:

"If you want a little bit of everything, try the bibim bap. It's a mix of bulgogi beef, sauteed eggplant, mushrooms, zucchini, lettuce, watercress, pickled daikon, and bean sprouts, topped with a fried egg. You mix the veggies and meat with gochujuang — a Korean hot sauce — and rice to create an incredibly fresh and hearty meal."

I'm sure it's a far cry better than black pudding. But still, I'll pass.

liars

2008-08-05T14:41:00.002-04:00

Whoever said m&ms "melt in your mouth, not in your hands" did not try to eat them during a summer in Washington, D.C. Also, I think it's high time that the fine folks at Mars (does that make them martians?) should start issuing special edition Dark Chocolate Pistachio m&ms. I'll take my finder's fee in cold hard cash with the bonus fee for the first million sold in the form of Dark Chocolate Pistachio m&ms.

We are Family, I Got All My Sisters With Me

2008-08-02T20:15:00.008-04:00

Think we are related? We may be! This is a summary of the break down of "Important Dates" compiled by my grandfather. The actual list is quite long and includes things like "attended 10 days Poultry Farming course in Poultry Development Centre, Rawalpindi" and "underwent piles operation in Hong Kong." So, um, just the highlights, yeah?

1800 Hamlet set up by Mohammed, Gujjar "Ladi" of Ludhiana and Nek Mohammed, Gujjar of Kharian - "Ladi" + (Khar) "ian" = "Ladian" at 32 deg. 49 min North Latitude, 74 deg. 05 min. East Latitude.
18?? Ladian looted and destroyed during declining years of the Mughals
1822 Ladian rebuilt and rehabilitated during Sikh rule
1823 Ladian and surrounding land gifted by Punjab-Kashmir Maharaha Ranjit Singh to Hindu Faqir Anand Devadasi
1844 Kashmiri families in Village Dev Draggar, District Baramula near Sri Nagar, Kashmir, migrated to District Gujrat and settled in Villages Ladian, Bhurchch Basoha, Sidh, Kharana, Uda. Abdul Shakoor, (son of Mohammed Jaffar Bhatti of Dev Draggar), came with his sons Abdul Salaam and Lassa, to Ladian
1857 First War of Independence ("Indian Mutiny")
18?? Second War of Independence ("British-Sikh War) at Chelianwala, Gujrat
1889 Babuji, son of Nur Din, born in Ladian, Tehsil Kharian, District Gujrat
1897 Mamaji, daughter of Ham Din, born in Bhurchch Basoha, Tehsil Kharian, District Gujrat
1908 Babuji and Mamaji married in Ladian
1911 Babuji joined Royal Naval Yard Police in Hong Kong
1916 Sir Ellis Kadoorie School for Indians established in Soo Kan Po Valley, Hong Kong
1918 Nazir Ahmed born and lived at 13-A Shaukiwan Road, Hong Kong
1920 Mohammed Shariff born
1920 Nazir Begum born and lived at No. 1, Praya East, Wanchai, Hong Kong
1922 Aziza born
1923 Aziz born
1924 Sardar born; Fazal Karim born
1925 89 marlas of land (1 1/8 acres of land) bearing Khasra No. 335, originally property of Allah Ditta Gujjar (alias "Tala Bala") transferred in Tehsil Kharian Revenue Records to Nur Din's sons
1928 Rashid Begum born
1933 Bhattis instituted civil action in Gujrat against government for correction of caste and won
1934 Foundation laid of Bhatti Manzil, Ladian
1934 Nazir rejoined Queen's College, Hong Kong because underage for Hong Kong University until 1935 at which time he joined HKU
1935 Razia born (or 1941?)
1940 Nazir and Aziza married in Hong Kong and Nazir joined the HK Police Reserve
1941 Nazir selected by China Command Interviewing Board for commission in Indian Army; Nazir, Aziz, and Sardar arrested by Japanese, and released
1942 Nazir joined as Chief Security Guard, S.S. Kaisyu Maru; Gulzar born; Aziz joined but also arrested by Japanese police and released (wha?)
1942 Dad born
1943 Nazir joined Hong Kong Harbour Guards
1943 Bashir left Macau for Kwang Chow Wan, arrested by Japanese, brought to Macau and then to Hong Kong and taken to Stanley Prison, tried by Japanese military court and executed by Japanese in Hong Kong
1944 Nazir arrested by Japanese, imprisoned by Japanese in Stanley Prison, Hong Kong
1945 Gap Road house bombed by U.S. B-29s and family took refuge in abandoned house on Stubbs Road, Mount Cameron
1945 Nazir released by Japanese and family (except Nazir and Aziz) went to Macau until the end of WWII and then returned to Ladian
1946 Babuji retired from Hong Kong government service and Nazir and brothers joined Royal Indian Air Force with basic training at Arkonam, Madras
1947 Mom born
1948 Nazir completed training and posted at Drigh Road, Risalpur, Chaklala, Peshawar, Quetta, Drigh Road, Mauripur
1956 Nazir selected for commission in Pakistan Navy and arrived in PNS Himalaya for training then arrived in PNS Sind as Supply Office
1959 Nazir promoted to Lieutenant
1959 MARTIAL LAW (I) - General M. Ayub Khan
1964 Nazir arrived in Embassy of Pakistan, Peking
1965 India-Pakistan War began; Aziz martyred on BRB Canal front, Lahore, and awarded Nishan-e-Haider posthumously
1966 Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution in China began and Mom's schools were closed
1968 Mom and Dad married; Babuji and Mamaji performed Hajj
1970 Yours truly born (but this family tree and timeline lists only the important events for the men of the family and so the illustrious and auspicious occasion is not marked)

Simplified Family Tree

Family of A. Salam born in Kashmir

Karam Din
Ramzan
Hasan Din
Nur Din
Ilam Din
Sahib Din

Family of Nur Din born in Ladian

Imam Din
Ahmed Din
Abdullah
Ghulam Ali
Rehmat Bibi
Sutlan Ali
Nawab Ali
Ghulam Ali
Nizam Din
Niyamat

Family of Abdullah born in Hong Kong

Nazir Ahmed
Nazir Begum
Bashir Ahmed
Aziz Ahmed
Sardar Ahmed
Rashid Begum
Rashid Ahmed

Family of Nazir Ahmed Bhatti born in Pakistan

Rafeeqa
Khalid

Family of Rafeeqa Bhatti born in Ladian

Baji
Lil Baji

Family of Baji born in Wales

So what say you? Any gaps to fill? Any questions? Any announcement to make such as, "Baji! You really ARE my Baji! Check it!"?

PSYCHO-BILLY CRESSIDA

2008-08-01T20:21:00.006-04:00

Yeah, so the two-car family isn't working for us. We live in a micro neighborhood with limited zoned parking that is patrolled by a rabidly enthusiastic parking enforcer. We just bought a newer (but not new), more spacious, safer, more fuel efficient, stereotypical Volvo station wagon. Alas, the time has come to bid my beloved Cressie adieu.

Although she was not my first car (which had two flat tires within the first couple of months and a failing distributor which made a typically 4 hour drive from St. Louis to Louisville turn into a grueling stop-and-go dangerous 8 hour drive), Cressie has been my car for ages. Sixteen years, to be exact. She's old enough to drive her own car! She shuttled me back and forth between law school and home. She waited patiently while I shopped, ate, and partied. She carried me to my current stomping grounds and has survived the scrapes and dings and harsh weather and potholes for which this city is notorious.

One weekend, she was getting LB, Gav, and me to NJ to see Radiohead in concert. Another weekend, she coasted her way to NY with a side trip to Baltimore to pick up Aunty N who settled into the nest of pillows and blankets in the back seat and slept the whole way. LB and I shared her for a while when we were both working at the Discovery Channel. Then TP and I shared her for a while when his car was totaled (thankfully with neither of us in the car at the time). And now, I have to give her away because it's just too complicated and unnecessary to maintain two cars. I'll miss her smooth ride. I'll miss her tight turns. I'll even miss the busticated antennae that left us with only local radio to listen to and the temperamental CD player that would selectively play mix CDs at her own whim. Good luck to ye, lassie. I hope your next owner loves you as much as I do.

My favorite word

2008-07-31T22:18:00.000-04:00

Word of the Day for Wednesday, July 30, 2008

sesquipedalian \ses-kwuh-puh-DAYL-yuhn\, adjective:

1. Given to or characterized by the use of long words.
2. Long and ponderous; having many syllables.
3. A long word.

He's crafty - and he's just my type

2008-07-30T14:28:00.003-04:00

"Black cookie! BLACK COOOOKIIIEEEE!!!!"

TP and I have an ongoing battle involving the timing of snacking. TP's idea of dinner, when he hasn't concocted some gourmet meal worthy of the Food Network, is to stand in front of the pantry doors and nibble on this and nosh on that. To my inevitable evening inquiry of "what do you want for dinner?" his equally inevitable response is, "Oh, I'll find something." That's all well and good for this grown man who fended quite well for himself long before I came into his life. For ZP, however, it's another matter.

Back in the days when ZP would eat next to nothing, TP would offer him ANYTHING just to get him to eat. When he discovered that ZP quite enjoyed chocolate chip cookies ("cookies and the dots") or the Chocolate Raspberry Milano cookies ("black cookies"), it became a habit of TP's to offer him cookies anytime he entered his line of sight. Cybermom is always amused at catching ZP imitating his father and opening the pantry doors and gazing at the cornucopia of cookies and crackers and snookies and snackers within reach before deciding on one and hefting it over to us to open for him. I keep up the threat of "if you give him cookies before dinner, then YOU are in charge of feeding him dinner" because I'm tired of being the villain, of fighting with ZP to eat a morsel of a proper meal, of being the object of sidelong glances when TP quietly confides to ZP, "no, Mommy said you can't have that." But in the end, I take pity on TP and ZP and end up doing the whole song and dance routine to get ZP to have some dinner before he implodes.

Last night, our little family unit was gathered in the kitchen and while I was chatting it up with AP, ZP tried to whisper something to TP in his most charming, adorable two-year old way. TP laughed and then told ZP to ask Mommy. Chagrined that his father was ruining his attempt at subterfuge, he trained his sights on me and with a plaintive look and super grin asked, "Mommy? Cookies?" He took my hand and with guided-missile accuracy aimed it at the bag of cookies that were juuuuust out of his reach. I sighed, glared at TP, and had to say, "No, not yet. After dinner." He kicked up a little fuss but then backed down to regroup. Not a moment later, while I was taking my plate into the dining room, ZP said, "Mommy. GO UPSTAIRS." while dragging TP's hand over to the pantry. CHEEKY MONKEY! I can't believe he is already at that stage where he tries to outwit his parents. The next thing you know, he'll be asking me if he can watch some crappy TV because he knows I'll say yes when Daddy tries, "no." REVENGE!

Gelaterrific

2008-07-28T09:39:00.003-04:00

KG just bought a gelato maker. So guess what we did this weekend. Thus far, I can say that the coffee gelato (despite the gritty Haitian coffee bean crunch) was my favorite - thick, creamy, and caffeiney. The cantaloupe came in second place because it was not as creamy but I don't believe the fruit-based ones ever really are. The bronze medal was handed out for banana - not because it didn't taste good - it did - but while various melons and loupes are tasty when cold, bananas are not that appetizing chilled. It reminded me of the frozen banana we had to eat in a Chinese airport because that was all that was available at the kiosk at 7 a.m. At least this gave me the chance to say affirmatively that I don't like cold bananas, whether a la carte, with ice cream as a split, or even in gelato form. Even so, it met the requirement to taste like the fruit and be gelato so I can't say too many bad things about it.

On Sunday, we walked over to the Dupont Farmer's Market where tried DolceZZa's lime cilantro (sharply tart and zingy) but ended up buying the lemon basil (sweetly tart and complexly flavored). Apparently, this gelato is Argentine style, meaning it contains no eggs but is creamier than Italian gelato. That somehow seems counter-intuitive because I would have thought that more eggs would make the gelato thicker and denser, but what do I know? I think next week I'll give avocado honey orange a spin but at $6 a half-pint, I'll take a little taste test first.

To assist KG in future gelato laboratory experiments, I present in easy-to-read form the grades I handed out for the various dishes we sampled in Italy:

Amaretto, B (given by TP although almond-flavored anything (except actual almonds) makes me want to vomit through my nose and so I would have given it an F-)
Chestnut, B
Tutti Frutti, F
Perfumo di Sorrento, A
Lemon, A+ valedictorian
Tiramisu, C-
Mint, C+ but can make up grade during summer school
Dark Chocolate, I think you know the grade for this one
Peach, A+
Cannoli, A-
Walnut, B
Fig, A
Zuppa de Ingles, A- but with some extra credit homework, a potential A.
vanilla cherry, C-
coconut, B
profumi di sorrento (citrusy), A
vanilla, B plays well with others. listens carefully. completes homework assignments
pistachio, B
watermelon, B-
strawberry, A
chocolate, A+
sicilliana, A
egg nog, D

First of Many

2008-07-25T09:56:00.004-04:00

New rule: No naps for anyone before 10 a.m. or past 4 p.m.

Exception to the rule: I may nap any time I please and for as long as I please.

Yesterday was a beautiful, uncharacteristically pleasant July day. The kiddies spent a lot of time outside to enjoy the sunny day and apparently were so full of energy that they didn't nap until 3 p.m. and didn't wake up until 5 p.m. Even though TP and I took them for a nice long walk around the neighborhood in the evening, they didn't sleep until nearly 10 p.m. We thought we had a nice routine going where I give AP a bath and her last feeding by around 9 p.m. while TP does the same for ZP so that everyone is in bed and either snoozing or on the verge of snoozing by 9:30 with AP waking up only once and then going right back to sleep until a decent 6 or 7 a.m. Alas, last night was wayyy out of whack. AP got up at 2 and then again at 3 and then again at 5. Meanwhile, ZP woke up at 4:30 and despite my efforts to get him to go back to sleep, he stayed awake and wanted milk and Daddy and Wiggles and "downshtores" and "upshtores" and more milk and "sientata, Mommy" and "hold the baby" and OH MY GOD I WANT TO PASS OUT! The nanny is here now and after about a solid hour of tag-team wailing, all is suspiciously quiet. I didn't hear the door open so I'm guessing everyone finally petered out and collapsed out of sheer exhaustion. I think I'll do the same. I'll start the new rule tomorrow.

Rear Window meets Broken Windows

2008-07-24T13:42:00.004-04:00

"Jeff, you know if someone came in here, they wouldn't believe what they'd see? You and me with long faces plunged into despair because we find out a man didn't kill his wife. We're two of the most frightening ghouls I've ever known."

-- Rear Window

Working from home has vast rewards. No exorbitant gas prices to pay. No schedule on when to shower or eat or get dressed. I can visit my kiddies downstairs when I get a free moment as well as do the laundry, make some dinner, and maybe even watch a movie or show (current Netflix arrival: The Wire, Season One). As long as I get my work done, I can make my own hours. Sometimes, however, I do run into computer glitches that take a while to repair. So, while I am on hold with the help desk and imagine some Nick Burns type messing around with my virtual laptop, I can play Scrabulous, I can catch up on e-mail, and I can stare out of my window.

My window overlooks my backyard with its beautiful dogwood, two fig trees, some gourds that TP hung up as decoration, and various greenery which is quite lovely in the spring. It also overlooks my neighbor's yard on one side with its showroom quality selection of flowers, benches, and a grill atop a nice, warm wooden patio. It also overlooks my other neighbor's yard with its patchy weeds, cracked cement, and apparently an invitation for bums, vagrants, and potential thieves to come and make themselves comfortable. One day, I was privy to a youth using the fence as . . . a privy. Another day, I saw an older man root through the garbage can, take out a jean jacket, toss it back, take out a cell phone, start walking away but then tested it to see if it worked (since he spun around to throw it back into the trash, I can only assume that it did not). Yesterday, I saw a dread-locked dude slowly saunter up to the fence, pause, move forward to the garbage can, pause, and then disappear from my view because he approached the house itself and possibly over to the back porch. I was still on hold and therefore kept watching outside until the guy walked back across the alley, past the playground, and around the apartment complex. I sighed and went back to work.

After a short while, however, a movement outside caught my eye. When I looked down, I saw the dude returning, this time with a knife. He took no pains to conceal it. He moved forward with purpose. I stood up and got as close to the window as I could without falling out of it. I had the phone in my hand and was debating whether I should call 311 to report the suspicious activity when the dude must have sensed someone was watching because he looked up and saw me. He stood there for a moment like a deer caught in the headlights. I moved a fraction of an inch closer to the window and brought the phone to my ear. I knew he could see me and he knew I could see him. He finally broke the look by lowering his head. He moved towards the house for a moment and then, with some detritus (was it a pipe? a tube?) in his hand, crossed the alley and did not return.

My 80-something old neighbor had some medical condition (heart attack?) that required an ambulance to whisk him away sometime in the cold months (February? this is how I remember things now - not by dates but by seasons). His family reported that he is unable to take care of himself alone in this house and thus is not returning. As a result, they came by a few times every week to clear the house out to (a) get his new place set up with this stuff and (b) potentially sell it. It has been a long time, however, since anyone has checked up on it and the area has fallen into disrepair. I went ahead and called 311 to report the incident on the chance that the dude returned but there was no follow up, no call back, nada.

I couldn't help but think of the Broken Windows concept which I had first heard of when reading The Tipping Point. I really hope it doesn't come to that. I mean, we have a brand-spanking new Harris Teeters, we have easy access to TWO, count 'em, TWO metro stations, and new businesses popping up every other day in Adams Morgan. At the same time, we have teens loitering noisily at all hours in the front and back, shady characters populating the alley and the playground at night, and all of the bars on 18th street spewing drunkards and criminals onto the streets. For every beautiful arrangement of front yard foliage I hear a story of a shooting or mugging. Is it time to put money into renovating our basement and installing a nice patio in the back for some BBQ? Or is it time to put money into the bank and start thinking of moving out to the 'burbs?

Just What the Doctor Ordered

2008-07-15T15:43:00.002-04:00

By special request from Julestress (and anyone else who has sampled this dish, the recipe of which I was given by my mother exactly 20 years ago but the recollection of which my mother has none).

Fixin's:

Chicken breast (cut into bite-sized pieces or huge slabs, your choice).
1 cup plain yogurt (why she felt the need to specify it should be plain instead of, say, strawberry, I'm not sure).
1 tsp. grated ginger (thank goodness for modern grocery stores where they do the grating for ye).
1 tsp. cumin (best if you buy the seeds and then grind it yourself because then the spice is fresher).
1 tsp. coriander (same as above)
1 tsp. salt (or a pinch less, as you prefer)
1 tsp. pepper (or a pinch more, as you prefer)
1 tsp. turmeric (do you see a theme here for the portions of spices?)
1/4 cup cooking oil (again, did she think I would use motor oil?)
1 minced onion ("medium," she says. heh. we're lucky she didn't say, "just the right amount of onion."

How to:

Mix the yogurt, oil, spices, and onion in a bowl to tenderize the chicken
Place the chicken into the mixture and, if in slab form, stab it a bit with a fork to tenderize it some more. (Yaz, I'm looking in your direction)
Marinate (yay! she got it right! it's marinate, not marinade) for 2 hours or over night
Bake uncovered in baking pan at 350 degress for 45 minutes.

Final Touch:

Garnish with cilantro, as you please
Call me when it's ready. I'll even bring along my own fork.

You say it's your bday. It's his bday too!

2008-07-14T12:41:00.002-04:00

Happy Birthday to TP and Najm! TP, since you are on your wheat-free kick these days, I guess Najm and I will have to eat all the pizza and cannolis by ourselves . . .

Avast, Chips Ahoy!

2008-07-12T21:48:00.002-04:00

TP sent me this recipe for chocolate chip cookies from the New York Times (the implication being 'you make this for me'). I got as far as "Time: 45 minutes (for 1 6-cookie batch), plus at least 24 hours’ chilling" before I started daydreaming about how awesome it would be to chill for at least 24 hours.

if it's got monkeys, it's gotta be good

2008-07-10T15:16:00.002-04:00

This website, 1000000monkeys.com, reminds me of one of my first forays into the blog world when I tentatively threw my hat into Abez's ring of story-telling in which various commenters added to, enhanced, and fleshed out the introduction of a tale. I seem to recall that my entries were quite silly and possibly violent but I can't link to it because Abez is on haitus! It also kind of reminds me of a rap battle between Chai and 2 Scoops and me about who was a champion swinger (the innocent kind, not the lurid kind) all held within the comment section of Yasminay's blog, but again, I cannae find it! So. Erm. Nevermind. Go have fun with 1,000,000 monkeys.

spool up the ftl

2008-07-08T14:01:00.006-04:00

Good Gravy does time fly. Every other day I think to myself, "Self, you really need to update and document some of the events that have been going on in your life before your cheesecloth brain forgets it all." But then Self gets busy with living and doesn't have time for writing. Until now. My work computer is misbehaving and so I'm taking a moment to jot a few things down. Um. Hm. Bullet Time!

AP is four months old today. She is still such a dreamboat. She sleeps pretty nicely through the night for the most part. She likes to sit in someone's lap while ZP performs various antics to her great amusement. She prefers, however, to view him from above, i.e. peeking over someone's shoulder as she is standing so that she is out of swiping range. She doesn't mind being left alone and sometimes likes it better. She has now mastered the mega-wattage smile. Exhibit A is the smile at its lowest setting. If I uploaded the highest setting, your monitor would explode.

ZP is two years old and despite his horrid eating habits (or lack thereof), he is full of energy, naughtiness, and information (from what is hot ("coffee! fire! outside!") to who is bad or mad or sad (the majority of the cast of Thomas the Tank Engine)). He enjoys reprimanding folks young ("no finger in la boca, baby ziza!") to old (upon viewing TP standing on the chair to get some BBQ equipment from a high shelf, he excitedly exclaimed, "NO STANDING!") alike.
TP and I have returned to work and are so thankful that we can avoid much of the slaughter at the gas station since TP can walk to work and I am working from home. It has been bittersweet to start working again because on the one hand, I ache whenever I hear one of my babies in distress downstairs while the nanny watches them; but on the other hand, I am back to doing more than breaking up fights, I get to give my spine a rest, and I can catch up on other life stuff. I just need to find some time to work in some exercise so I can recover from my Dunlop's disease.
Movies: thanks to Netflix, I have managed to catch a few here and there. Too bad many of them are just "meh" -- Michael Clayton, Darjeeling Limited, and The Namesake come to mind. Good thing there are some thumbs up material mixed in though - Flight of the Conchords Season One, Eastern Promises, The Presige to name a few.
Music: Wah! Nada! Someone rescue me!
Books: The only ones I have time for anymore are graphic novels courtesy of KG: Batman- The Dark Knight Returns, The League of Extraordinary Gentlement, and the latest Buffy installments. Next up: The Watchmen and possibly The 99.
TV: Thanks to AP's erratic feeding schedule, I am up anywhere from 2 a.m. to 5 a.m. at which time the old reliable 80s shows are on. I think I've seen every episode of "Roseanne" and "The Cosby Show" at least two or three times. "The Fresh Prince of Bel Air" is working its way onto the roster. Once the fall season starts, I have promised KG I would get a DVR so I can watch some shows from this century. Wish me luck.
Travel: Armchair traveling these days but looking forward to our trip to Georgia (despite lugging TWO kids through the dead of August) for the big wedding and then to J'ville for Thanksgiving.
Food: I just made Chhote Kofte and rice last night and the best review possible is that ZP actually ate it with no fuss. Wow. Just call me an Iron Chef. Also, figures that now that rice prices have sky-rocketed, that's all ZP wants to eat. Well, that and peanut butter crackers which he calls, "cookies." Nando's has finally come to DC and Wagamama is not far behind. Can't wait!

That's about all I can remember for now. More to come as I think of it. And am awake enough to report. Post script: anyone still out there or am I just going to be documenting stuff for posterity and/or the kids' sake?

She Sells Sanctuary

2008-06-05T06:39:00.006-04:00

Dear Baby Aziza,

Sorry I've been so lax in documenting your arrival and subsequent stay with us. After last night's tornado touchdowns and downed power lines, it appears that my office's server is down and so, while everyone else is asleep, I finally have a free moment to report. So.

It was a dark and stormy night. As we raced through the cobbled streets of D.C. (well, they weren't cobbled, but they were so busticated and full of potholes that they felt cobbled), I clutched the armrest and my stomach when we hit a bump or when my bump hit me. My contractions had started that afternoon but they did not cluster together until about 8 p.m. that night. You politely waited until we finished our meeting with ZP's "Tia" to discuss future employment plans. Then, after they left and we started getting ZP down for the night, your patience ended and the blindly painful contractions went into full force. I called up LB and KG to scream at them to hurry over and babysit ZP (who, thankfully, had gone to sleep without much fuss) so that we could get to the hospital. It was a Friday night and therefore easy enough for them to stay over while we ran out into the rain (well, TP ran; I had to waddle along and pause to double over and catch my breath now and then) and drove to Sibley.

Thanks to early planning, the hospital already had all of my information and I was able to get a room right away. My brain was filled with angry bees and I couldn't concentrate on anything other than getting through each contraction and waiting for the epidural. When the anesthesiologist arrived, I nearly wept with relief. He waved some forms in front of me, making me promise not to sue in case I ended up paralyzed or turned into a swamp monster.I scribbled my names on the forms, nearly breaking the pen in half. Then, he tried to give me a verbal notice detailing what the forms said. "Do you want the long version or the short version," he asked me as I bent over to have my spine swabbed. Was he kidding me? I almost laughed and wanted to answer, "oh, the long version please. And don't give me the shot until you've finished and I have considered the options for a long while." "SHORT VERSION," I gritted. I got the shot and about half an hour later, I was calm enough to ignore the waves of shrieking pain that I knew were crashing over my body because I could see them on the monitor, but I couldn't feel them any more. I also couldn't feel my legs; they just felt like two balloons. Or, perhaps two heavy slabs of meat would be more accurate. Either way, I was happy. I felt better - enough to think again, enough to tease TP, enough to realize that, yep, this is it.

The drugs wore off after a while and until the next hit, I was instructed to take deep breaths through the contractions. My mind swirled around to find something to latch onto so that I could remove it from my body and get through the pain. Scuba diving. Scuba diving in Belize with LB where we learned how to breathe slowly in order not to run through the tank of oxygen. The doctor flitted in and out to check on me (and in me) and finally announced that it was time for the big show. Memories of the grueling three hours of pushing and tearing and bleeding gripped me but this time around, it was infinitely easier. "Push! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. Okay, breathe. Push! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. Okay, now just half a push. 1, 2, 3, 4 HERE SHE IS!" And there you were. Tiny, balled up, perfect. Full head of hair, gentle cries, and finally someone in the family who resembles me.

You were a dream at the hospital and got rave reviews for your raven locks from the staff. After the clean-up crew left and it was just the three of us, I realized it was the first night I had ever spent away from ZP. It saddened me, but I was excited to see ZP's reaction when he first met you. LB and KG had been taking good care of him and brought him over the next day to make your acquaintance. It was a pretty successful meeting and ZP was interested but only vaguely so; I was just glad he didn't have a melt-down (that was to come later). I think part of his pleasant demeanor was due in large part by balloons, cookies, and buttons to push to make the bed go up and down. Your Nani and Babu were stuck in several inches of snow trying to get to D.C. so it wasn't until we took you home that they got to snatch you away and shower you with adoration and awe.

So, there's the first day(s) down on paper. I'll try to jot down the highlights of months one and two before the month three milestone passes. Suffice it to say, you rock. More in a bit, my baby doll.

Sweeping the cobwebs

2008-05-09T21:50:00.002-04:00

Greetings, true believers! I'm back for a brief visit from my hiatus during which much has happened to dramatically and drastically change my life (yeah, that's a split infinitive but the alternative doesn't have the same punch) and yet much has stayed the same (such as cringing at grammatical errors, particularly the one for the Vehix commercial where the intro chick with the oh so sassy hat says, "I go on vehix.com, and you can literally take a test drive" when what she means to say is that you can VIRTUALLY take a test drive . . . jackhole).

AP is a joy and a delight. She is a low-maintenance, happy, healthy, lovely baby who sleeps almost seven hours at night on her own, plays quietly by herself, and has the softest hair and dreamiest eyes ever. I swear I can see adoration in her eyes when she cranes her neck over to look at ZP who, on occassion, darts close by for a quick visit (probably to make sure she isn't even touching, pointing or looking at any of his toys).

ZP is in the throes of his terrible twos but just when I'm about to blow my top and throwdown with him, he charms me with a dance, a song, a new vocabulary word (almost 200 at last count!), or, his latest trick, saying sorry. He's getting quite adept at using his crayons, counting to ten, and hitting the right notes to his favorite songs.

My parents provided me with invaluable assistance in daycare and nightcare when AP was born. TP has, as always, stepped up to bat to give me the physical, emotional, and everything else support. LB and KG continue to shower the kids with love and playtime and prezzies. What more could a gal ask for?

For the last few weeks, I kept thinking, "oh, I bet this would make a good post" or "I wish I had time to write this up so I wouldn't forget it later" but, of course, I've already forgotten much of it. There was the "Top Ten Things About Pregnancy/Delivery I Wish I Had Known." There was the misery-loves-company-diatribe about sibling jealousy and request for sympathy, empathy, or advice on how to deal with it. There was the anecdote about having some craigslist buyers come to the house to purchase my 10 year old Ikea sleeper sofa right at the same time as some friends were visiting and how my friend's mom didn't know that these people were strangers and was kindly offering to share holding the new baby so as not to seem greedy and they were all, 'uhh, we just came to pick up the couch but if you ever need a babysitter, call me.' There was the tale of trying to toilet train the toddler (and if I hear the false alarm "poo poo in the frog!" one more time, I might scream). There was the staggering down memory lane when TP and I spent an entire afternoon cleaning out the basement and throwing out all those old bills, those broken gimcracks, those ancient computers, those clothes that don't fit anymore, and those VHS tapes upon which I lovingly recorded every "The Simpsons" episode for the first several years until I got them on DVD. But I never had the time. How could I blog when there were babies to be fed, dishes and laundry to be done, showers and naps to be taken, a select few shows to watch, a snippet of conversation to be had with my husband, pictures to take and share before time slipped away and my babies suddenly become surly teenagers with their own busy lives?

But tonight, ZP is asleep (with a hit of Tylenol because his molars are coming in and he's living up to his nickname "The Beast" these days), AP is asleep (with a full tummy of milk so she'll be fine until about 3 a.m. or so), and TP has gone to a concert. That means I have some time to myself to moisturize my aching feet, watch Battlestar Galactica, and blog. So. What's new with you?

Aziza Norbu J. Kittycat (Noor for short)

2008-03-11T18:44:00.003-04:00

She's here! Alhumdulillah, she's healthy, happy, and here! She came on her due date according to my calculations (even though it's a week before the so-called-sonogramist's calculations) - that's mah girl! *wipes tear from eyes* Like her bhai, she is quite the fashion plate and decided to wrap the cord around her neck just to keep things interesting. Unlike her bhai who took three hours of pushing and then decided to make his grand entrance, this little missy made her appearance after a mere 2.5 pushes. 7 lbs, 3 ozs, 21 inches, shock of black hair, delicate lips, and hypnotizing eyes that distract me to no end. Thanks for all du'as and well-wishes and keep 'em coming! More on me wee pirate lassie later! Yeehawwwzzzzz. . . zzzzz . . . zzzzz.

The wee small hours . . . isn't that redundant?

2008-03-03T02:00:00.005-05:00

Thoughts that occupy me when I am up gagging/gasping/wriggling around at 2 a.m.

Does the band Aquarium have any idea that a 22 month old boy specifically requests to hear its music while dining?
Should I get Baby X's ears pierced when she is still a baby or wait until she is older and let her decide on her own?
Does TP know how much I appreciate the fact that, despite having a hectic day at work and having to give a presentation at Georgetown Law, he still took the time out of his day to pick up some of my absolute favorite food in the world?
How can I ever express to LB how much it means to me how well she looks after me and the fam as though SHE is the baji? Same goes for my parents - I don't take all that they've done for me for granted, but "thanks" doesn't seem to cover it.
When was the last time I went to the Crentist?
After successfully selling our old bed on Craigslist, what else can I clear out? My now-too-small-shoes? One of the several coffee tables we have in the basement? Maternity clothes?
Will I have enough time to get an epidural or will it all happen so fast that I won't have the window to be hydrated enough in time? And how much vomiting will I be engaging in this time around?
Why does the joke from They Might Be Giant's "Here Come the 1, 2, 3s" (J1: "Hey, John, I hear a tuba." J2: "Yeah, I hear it too." J1: "Hey, I hear another tuba! I hear two tubas!" J2: "Hey, John, what's tuba plus tuba?" J1: "Fourba.") consistently crack me up? Is it the whimsy? Is it the delivery? Is it the forehead-slapping-and-giggling-in-acknowledgement that the joke is so corny finale?
Why is ZP so fascinated by my toes that he will actually flip out if I don't let him tickle them sometimes?
How smoothly will it work out when I start working again and have two kids at home?
How happy was I when Stephen Colbert referenced one of my my favorite words in a recent episode of his show? How dorky am I that I have favorite words?
How will ZP handle becoming "the old baby"?
When is this baby going to let me sleep?

name that tune . . . er . . . baby

2008-02-19T10:22:00.003-05:00

We're down to the wire now, folks. Speaking of "The Wire," why is there such a long wait for Season One of the show on Netflix?! And what about Season Three of Battlestar Gallactica due in March?! (interro-gotta-watch-all-I-can-before-baby-x-arrives!). But I digress. We're looking at lift-off in t-minus 24 days or so. We've got a girl's first name and a backup boy's first name, but leaving TP in charge of the middle name (if any) has resulted in an exercise in ridiculousness and futility. Aziza Baziza does not have "a nice ring to it." Nor does Aziza Norbu J. Kittycat. I was thinking that with an exotic first name, we'd give her a neutral easy-to-pronounce middle name that she can choose to go by when the dreaded teenage years hit and/or please the in-laws. On the other hand, once I learned that being different kinda rules, I quite enjoyed having a difficult name. Thus far, the following has been under discussion:

Farah (voted by OS but some close friends just snatched that, so that's out).
Delisha (only put in the running to see if anyone was paying attention but it actually is a muslim name meaning "happy and make others happy")
Maria (vetoed by Literaunty b/c she had a good point that two names ending in 'a' might be a bit odd)
Sara(h) (voted by TP in a rare moment of seriousness but see above)
Maryam (voted by maryam, surprise surprise)
Noor (personal favorite but we know too many noors already and doesn't solve the neutral issue)
Yasmine/Yasmeen (again, lovely name but so many friends and family have already laid claim to that moniker)
Rani (but more of a term of endearment apparently)

So what say ye? Any suggestions or advice? Who knows, you may win a chance to lay claim to naming our child!

vomitrocious

2008-02-10T16:09:00.001-05:00

Lesson, the First:

Energy-draining pregnancy
+
Stomach-draining flu
____________________
One unhappy Baji

Here endeth the lesson.

go shoebox, it's yo birthday

2008-02-07T15:45:00.001-05:00

My house turns 100 years old this year. Happy Birthday, housey! You don't look a day over 95. Never mind those wrinkles in the wall caused by settling - it just makes you look more distinguished! Don't pay any attention to the creaky pine floors that attempt to bear the combined weight of my and Baby X as we roam around at 2 a.m. looking for food and entertainment. The plastic surgery you had done to your posterior takes years off of your looks (even if the insulation kinda sucks). And that partially walled up secret room we just discovered in the basement just screams adventure and mystery (but hopefully does not actually scream with the terror of countless dead bodies). Anyway, happy birthday!

Shiver Me Timbers

2008-02-05T13:58:00.000-05:00

P I R A T E R I D D L E S F O R S O P H I S T I C A T E S .

BY KEVIN SHAY

- - - -

Q: What's a pirate's favorite aspect of computational linguistics?
A: PARRRsing sentences.

Q: Of which concept shared by Jungian psychology and Northrop Frye's literary theory are pirates especially fond?
A: ARRRchetype.

Q: Who's a pirate's favorite member of the creative team behind "32 Short Films About Glenn Gould"?
A: Don McKellARRR.

Q: Of all of Richard Harris's many achievements in the performing arts, which is a pirate's favorite?
A: "MacARRRthur PARRRk."

Q: What's a pirate's favorite alliance-creating diplomatic agreement from the Second World War?
A: The TripARRRtite Pact.

Q: Which ancient Greek lyric poet do pirates like the best?
A: PindARRR.

Q: If a pirate were to recite one of the Olympian odes by the aforementioned poet, which one would it be?
A: The XIth Nemean Ode, "To ARRRistagoras, the Prytanis of Tenedos, son of ARRRchesilaus."

Q: If that same pirate were then to recite a 20th-century poem about the nature of poetry, what would it be?
A: "ARRRs Poetica" by ARRRchibald MacLeish.

Q: What if he went on to recite a poem by Sir Walter Scott?
A: "LochinvARRR."

Q: Why does that pirate keep reciting poetry, anyway? Is he some sort of Nancy-boy?
A: Aye, 'tis a Nancy-boy he be. Arrr.

Q: Of the ghosts that appear to Ebenezer Scrooge in "A Christmas Carol," which do pirates prefer?
A: Jacob MARRRley.

Q: Can we replace that last one with something about Bob Marley, so we can have an additional gag about RastafARRRianism?
A: No.

Q: Whom did the pirate vote for in the Haitian election?
A: ARRRistide.

Q: Wait. Why did they let a pirate vote in the Haitian election?
A: Remember, the nation was taking its first halting steps toward democracy, and balloting procedures were rather chaotic. The pirate just slipped in somehow. Arrr.

Q: I don't buy it. Pirates care nothing for participating in the electoral process.
A: Look, can we finish this up soon? I'm having those phantom pains in my wooden leg.

Q: A phenomenon first described in the 17th century by which important contributor to the field of amputation surgery?
A: Oh, this is getting ridiculous.

Q: Just say it.
A: Ambroise PARRRé.

Q: You can go now.
A: Arrr. Nancy-boy.

cue the theme music from 'Jaws'

2008-01-19T04:39:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Baraka, I just found out about National Delurking Week! So get to it, blurkers! Celebrate the season by taking two seconds to drop me a line, say 'ahoy,' or compose an ode to me blog. I'll even give you Monday off as a holiday.

And to sweeten the pot, I'll add that this may be one of the last chances for you to shout out and comment on my blog. I've had a good four year run with marriages, babies, houses, jobs, newunions, and a litany of other life-changing events, but it's time to take a break. So bloggers and blurkers alike, bid your adieus! After Baby X is born (gotta announce that!), my hiatus and/or permanent vacation will begin.

Regulator Foot

2008-01-04T15:42:00.000-05:00

Thirty weeks down, ten more to go. The good news is that:

I now work from home which means no more two-hour-round-trip commute to work every day, bagged or purchased lunches, or having to shower at 5:30 a.m. I do miss the coffee/cocoa breaks with my buddies but the ability to do laundry, make lunch, and work in a nap now and then during work hours totally compensates.
ZP is starting to come around both in eating (he actually managed to enjoy an entire slice of homemade pizza last night) and sleeping (we are starting to train him to sleep in his crib rather than on our heads).
Other than the sleeplessness, aches, and pains, the pregnancy is going really well and everyone is healthy.

The bad news is that:

It's freezing cold these days which makes me long for summer which is so far away that I would need to twist the space-time continuum to get close to it. *note, I have conveniently forgotten about those monstrous mosquitoes*
TP is going away to Pittsburgh at the end of the month (too bad it's not Philly) leaving me alone with heavier, faster, more-headstrong ZP for three days. *note, plans are in motion to recruit LB and/or Cybermom to help me*
The sleeplessness, aches, and pains. Even though TP is taking care of ZP at night so I can get a solid night's sleep, I can't do it. My arms or legs or all go numb, my ligaments hurt, and my back aches. When I turn from one side to the other (I tend to sleep like a lamb . . . spinning on a roasting spit), I have to sit up, clench my teeth to keep from groaning, and turn over. I get hot. I get cold. It reminds me of this song by Sarah Azzara called "Regulator Foot." I saw her in concert (back in the days when I regularly attended concerts) and she explained that the title comes from this observation she had when sleeping - you get hot, you get cold, so you stick one foot out of the blanket or sleeping bag or whatever. That foot is called your "regulator foot" because it helps you regulate your body temp so you can sleep comfortably. I think I need to send my regulator foot into the shop for a tune up.

Regulator Foot

Needle in the . . . HEY!

2007-12-19T13:21:00.000-05:00

I have track marks on both of my arms. My left arm shrieks in pain when I move it and my right arm is saturating the wad of cotton pressed against the latest puncture. I have nae taken up any dirty habits other than the one that potentially got me in this position in the first place: indulging my sweet tooth. Turns out that I may have gestational diabetes. The good news is that it will probably go away once Baby X makes her appearance. The possible bad news is that I may have to start watching what I eat and *shudder* start exercising if the results of my glucose tolerance test doesn't meet my doctor's approval.

What does the test involve, you ask? The first step is drinking this odious glucose-heavy, fruit-punch-flavored abomination (imagine making Kool-Aid with four times as much powder than the instructions call for) and getting your blood drawn and tested an hour later. If you pass, as I did last time, you are free to go about your cannoli-lovin' business. If you don't, as I did not this time, you can't pass go, you can't collect $200, and you must go directly to a lab for a second, longer, more painful test.

This morning, having not eaten since 8 p.m. last night, I arrived at the lab at 8 a.m. to get my first vial of blood drawn and quartered. The vampire who stuck me seemed not to be able to get the blood out without leaving a huge bruise behind. My reward for gritting my teeth was to down yet another sugar solution guaranteed to dissolve what little enamel on my teeth I had left from the last round. Oh, and I had five minutes to do it. The drink was cold which helped numb my taste buds but it was no more pleasant than before.

I sat in the waiting room and got through quite a bit of the book I'm reading these days, Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia, when I was called away from beautiful Rome and its lovely pasta and gelato and mozzerella to get another jabbing at 9 a.m. with an encore performance at 10 a.m. and, by popular demand, a final curtain call at 11 a.m. By this time, I was nearly dizzy and faint with hunger and queasiness and ants-in-my-pants syndrome (it's a perfectly cromulent condition, you can look it up). I left the lab with four wounds in my arms, the first named "Bruiser," the second named "Better," the third named "I think she's finally gotten it," and the fourth named "Holy Hell, I retract my previous statement." I gingerly tottered out of the lab and called TP to pick my aching self up while I tried to eat a veggie burrito from Chipotle in the same amount of time I had to drink that vile liquid.

So now, I wait. By Friday I'll find out whether I am given a reprieve and permitted to eat all the sugary snacks my heart desires or whether I am consigned to a lifestyle of sugar-free this and what's-the-point that. If it's the latter, Baby X is in for a world of time-outs.

Lost Weekend

2007-12-07T03:06:00.000-05:00

When they come out to find you
And they cannot describe you
Someone somewhere has to buy you out of your weekend

Friday is the fever
And Monday the destroyer
You are a permanent feature
Perpetual weekend

on a wired morning, there’s a city growing in my head
Where there is no weekend

When they come out to find you
And they can multiply you
Someone’s been caught in the crossfire
Of your weekend

Friday is the teacher
And Monday the tormentor
You are a new kind of creature
Perpetual weekend

on a wired morning, there’s a city growing in my head
Where there is no weekend

You took the “end”
You took the “end” out of the weekend

Days something or other: Isloo
What are the tricks of the trade to writing a travelogue? I usually carry a small journal with me and whenever there is some downtime, i.e. my traveling companion is brushing his/her teeth at night, I'm on a plane/train/automobile, etc., I take the opportunity to compose some thoughts and jot down observations so that, upon my return, I can flesh them out and share them with you. This time, however, the downtime was on the slim side. Whatever moment of peace I had to myself was spent eating, sleeping, or bathing. I brought two books with me (The Nasty Bits: Collected Varietal Cuts, Usable Trim, Scraps, and Bones by Anthony Bourdain and Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia by Elizabeth Gilbert) and cracked open neither of them. That is why, this final post is a mishmash of the weekend rather than a well-thought-out entry. In exchange, however, I will provide a pix to enjoy.

So, Friday morning was spent running around getting ready for the wedding, the afternoon was spent attending the wedding, and the evening was spent recovering from the wedding. We had promised my cousin Naima that we'd go out one night, just the cousins, but with our departure looming ahead and limited time on our hands, we ended up bringing the night to us. We fashioned our own homemade HotSpot with various snacks and played several rounds of the card game three-two-five.

Saturday morning, the boys went to the archeological site Taxila to get their history and culture on while LB and I were escorted by Aunty Nusrat for one last shopping spree. We weren't going to take all of those rupees home with us! We all met up for lunch at Umber's in-law's house and spent the rest of the afternoon and evening trying to cram everything from carpets to cricket bats into our luggage for our early flight the next day.

Sunday morning, we were up before dawn to gather all our luggage, passengers, and hugs goodbye. Honestly, the next 24 hours were a blur. I do remember running around the terminal to get us checked-in, hanging out in the VIP lounge in the vicinity of Imran Khan (pre-jail, of course), and struggling to try to break ZP of his newly-discovered habit of lap-jumping while in a moving vehicle. The flight from Isloo to London was rough because everyone was awake but oh so very tired. I spent my time in Heathrow during the six hour layover indulging in hot chocolate and then running around the length and breadth of the terminals in search of whole milk (also known as "full cream") for ZP. I felt like Hagar only my Safa and Marwa were known as WHSmith and Boots. Thank goodness for the ubiquitous Starbucks. Our delayed flight finally arrived and the trip from London to DC was much more relaxed - mostly because everyone was knocked out.

Lesson of the weekend: If someone asks for Pakistani decorations, netting, and hand-painted clay bowls for a wedding in the U.S., better pack it yourself rather than rely on someone else arranging them loosely in shoeboxes such that they arrive with some intact, some shattered, and some dangling from the cardboard box.

Well, a fake Jamaican took every last dime with that scam; It was worth it just to learn from sleight-of-hand

2007-11-27T12:59:00.000-05:00

Day Seven: Isloo
A cold/flu swept through our family and thus delayed our Taxilla plans. We did, however, have enough energy for another shopping outing at the Nomad Art Gallery (prized for its fixed-price arts and crafts) and Supermarket (prized for its bargain-friendly goods). It was instructional, as always, to observe the various negotiating tactics of our family members. TP and KG were clearly outsiders and thus were not permitted to purchase items directly because they would likely be hosed. LB and I have caveman-level speaking skills in Urdu, so we were pretty much lumped into the same category. Therefore, we silently browsed, poked around, and handled everything and once something caught our interest, we walked away. We notified our host shopper of our desires. And then the native host shopper took over. The bargaining strategy commenced in one of three ways:

*Diplomacy - my aunt favored this tact and would use a combination of logic, persuasion, and patriotism to get a good deal.

*Supply-and-demand - my father would approach the first vendor, name his price, and when the vendor didn't immediately concede, he would put the item down and stroll over to the neighboring vendor selling the identical stuff and possibly the next until someone got wise and gave him what he wanted at the price he wanted.

*Bossy boots - my cousin employed all of her decades of shopping experiences to bully the salesperson into complying with her demands. She would gather the items, engage in a brief negotiation, and once the clerk bagged the items, she gathered our stuff and laid the smack down, tossed the money she thought was sufficient to cover the price on the counter, and strutted away from the pleading merchant and out of the shop in a flurry of meaningless agreements, head-shaking, and dismissive hand-waving. Worked like a charm every time.

It always cracks me up at how I wouldn't blink at paying $30 for a beautiful, hand-made embroidered pillow cushion in the U.S., but I balk at paying more than $3 for the same thing in Pakistan.

Alas, brought down by body-aches and sniffles, we cut our shopping trip early and returned home for lunch and rest before attending my cousin's nikkah. Under the tents, we were served halva puri - a mouth-watering melange of sweet halva (cream of wheat), spicy chanay (chick peas), and hot, puffy puris (light-as-air flat bread). We washed this down with the delicious pink Kashmiri Chai which, with its salt, cardamom, cinnamon, saffron, almonds, and pistachios, was practically a meal in itself.

Lesson of the Day: It's difficult for a salesperson to resist money out in the open, ready to hand over if only the price was reduced by 50%.

Advertising looks and chops a must, NO BIG HAIR!

2007-11-21T13:21:00.001-05:00

Day Six: Isloo
We were all too exhausted and wrung out from our trip to Lahore so our early departure for Murree was replaced with a late departure for antique and faux-antique shopping for the boys and beauty day at my aunt's Depilex Salon for the girls. While one aunt got her "hair did," LB and I got the fastest but still incredibly intricate mehndi on our hands in anticipation of the upcoming wedding. It dried in minutes and the color was nice and dark. With time to spare, LB convinced me to try out threading. The threading itself didn't hurt as much as I thought it would because the trained professional worked quickly and efficiently and left not a splotch or mark on my brow that usually follows a waxing treatment. What did make me squirm and eventually tear up, however, was her assistant's attempt to hold my eyelid closed and stretched out to pull it away from the brow for easier lining. She was pressing down so hard that I half expected to see my eyeball plucked out of its socket and jammed onto her thumb, rather like the plum after Jack Horner had his way with the pie.

After Umber picked us up for a quick but fruitless shopping spree, we returned home. Umber had raided her safety deposit box to find jewelry for us to wear to match our outfits. Gold versus diamonds . . . choices choices, ah me. Upon hearing that my neglected toes had no polish on them, Dania treated me to a home pedicure which beats any pedicure I have ever had. Ever. She sat me down, brought over a tub filled with warm, soapy water, and proceeded to scrub, trim, file, and paint my nails with a gentle but firm touch that was neither ticklish nor rough. I tipped her by foisting ZP on her while I ran downstairs for a lovely lunch of bindhi. Heh.

We stopped over at my Nanaji's house for a brief visit in the afternoon and revisited old photographs and old stories. After some much needed naps, we scrambled to get dressed and attend our own joint Valima-slash-family reunion at the Islamabad Golf Club. To Dad's dismay, the club's strict dress code forbade him from wearing a shalwar kameez without a vest so he had to settle for a boring old suit instead. The rest of the evening was spent greeting family members, soon-to-be family members, and friends while the kids ran around like maniacs on the wide, manicured lawns outside.

Lesson of the day: The secret ingredient to the perfect pedicure is love.

Oh thunder road, sit tight take hold

2007-11-15T10:43:00.000-05:00

Day Five: Ladian and Bhurch
With monsoon season over and mosquito season beginning, ZP and I were treated to a few unwelcome bites through the night which resulted in a tired, cranky, and itchy couple. After breakfast, we quietly boarded the coaster and joined the morning rush hour traffic to get through Lahore. The farther away we got from Lahore, the clearer our stuffed up noses became. Everyone was subdued on the smooth stretch of the Motorway but once we hit the Grand Trunk Road, which was jacked up beyond belief, our calm serenity gave way to head-clutching, teeth-rattling, and body-aching. The morning chai caught up to us and I can guarantee you that tremendously bumpy roads plus uncomfortably full bladder equals torture. Desperate for a bathroom break, we pulled into a shabby gas station along the side of the road, rolled up our pants, wrapped up our loose ends of clothing, and hit the alaturkas.

Of course, bathroom breaks deserve bathroom-themed stories and so my mother regaled us with a tale of the first time LB came to Pakistan. The night before the flight back to the States, baby LB was not feeling well and ran through the available stash of diapers. Upon boarding the PIA airplane, my father asked the flight attendant for some diapers which they kept on board for the passengers. She replied that once the flight took off, she would come back with some. So he waited and she never showed up. He tracked her down and asked for them again. This time, she said, "oh, we are out." Apparently, the stewardesses used to steal the snacks and drinks and supplies and Dad knew this so he gave her this choice: "either you bring me the diapers or else I will use the cloth headrests on the backs of these chairs as diapers." Two minutes later, she showed up with the diapers. Heh.

That story is a nice segue to the introduction of the villages we were entering where neat rows of hand-pressed manure lined the outside of some of the buildings, don't you think? Some how, our Lahori driver managed to navigate the huge twelve-seater coaster down the winding, narrow alleys of the Bhurch and Ladian without a single scrape. We were greeted by various family members at the entrance of the residential section and while Mom, Aunty Farhat, and I were driven to the house in style in an air-conditioned car, the rest of the group hoofed it, followed closely by curious children in various states of dress and undress. I took advantage of my delicate condition and immediately usurped someone's bed and took a nap while everyone else paid their visits, ate their elevenses, and pretty much followed the same route that we followed during our last visit.

ZP was introduced to motorcycles, goats, parakeets, and cows, cows, cows. With his exponentially expanding vocabulary, he was getting quite chatty and was proud to point out all of the things he could identify ("beep beep, car" in particular was a constant refrain). When we finally wrestled him down to release the birdcage and take a nap, we enjoyed a spicy lunch at Gul Nawaz's house before loading back into the coaster for the remainder of the journey back to Islamabad. GT Road got a bit better the closer we got to the city but the traffic, construction, and poor road conditions still took its toll. Some amazing and much needed hot sweet-and-sour chicken soup, delicious and hearty haleem (I had about three servings of it), and soothing mint tea greeted us upon our much delayed arrival home. Complete collapse followed.

Lesson of the day: Creative threats to airline personnel can go a long way.

She's alone in the new pollution She's got a paradise camouflage

2007-11-08T10:48:00.000-05:00

Day Three: Isloo
Delirious from lack of sleep, TP and I stayed behind while LB and KG took a tour of Islamabad highlights: the Rose and Jasmine Gardens, the museum, an informal cricket match, the flower monument, Said Pur Village. You'll have to entreat them to get the details on the excursions. I don't have much to report either because I spent the morning trying to catch up on sleep but the constant but well-meaning interruptions thwarted my efforts. Really, the only noteworthy events of this day include Aunty Nusrat's famous Burmese Oo No Kauk Sway, watching ZP's "uncle" Rafay (age 4) take him under his wing and teach him how to play mini-golf, having some gup shup with Aunty Tukki and Uncle Zak about the finer points of cricket while sipping tea in the upstairs lounge, and going to Daman-e-Koh for a view of Islamabad at night. TP counted the trip up Margalla Hills a success because along the way we caught sight of a family of wild boar, jackals, and monkeys. [note: family did not consist of all of these animals; only the wild boars were family while the jackals and monkeys were neighbors and drifters]

Since Day Three was pretty uneventful, I'll go ahead and throw in Day Four.

Day Four: Lahore
Pile one grandfather, one uncle, one aunt, one of each parent, one sister, one brother-in-law, one husband, one son, a driver, a valet, and me into a coaster and you've got the makings of some fine comedy (hopefully not as dysfunctional as the crew of "Little Miss Sunshine"). We jumped onto the smooth-as-silk, three-lane M2 Motorway and headed west to Lahore. Crossing the river Jhelum, we were given brief history and geography lessons along the way. Vast salt ranges drew stories of Gandhi's Salt Satyagraha. ZP was fantastic the whole way; perhaps relishing the fact that he was not strapped into a car seat and was free to lap-jump at his pleasure and leisure.

Upon arriving in Lahore, our first stop was at the Naval Mess to unpack, have some refreshing cold drinks, and regroup. We began our tour of Lahore, world-renowned for its tradition of fine food and love of cuisine, with, of all things, a quick stop at McDonald's. I have not darkened a door of a McDonald's in ten years. If not for the need for speed, I would not have done so this time. But we needed to fuel ourselves for the day ahead and this was the fastest option. Rest assured, those of you who crave certainty and familiarity, the burgers and fries at the Macca's in Pakistan are just the same as those in the US.

Lahore Fort, a masterpiece of Mughal architecture, allowed us to stretch our legs, admire the mosaics and gilt, and pose for pictures on the canons. Badshahi Mosque, another prime example of the Mughal era grandeur, loomed majestically over us. The last time I was here, LB's friend came with us and the combination of sizzling summer heat, ultra-fizzy soda, and running up the steps of the mosque ended with arms crossed over the belly and "Aunty . . . I don't feel so . . . BLECH!" Shalimar Gardens were in a state of neglect and did not have the same impact as it did years ago when the grass was lush, the flowers clearly tended to, and fountains actually clean and operating rather than in disrepair with the water coated in a thick layer of green moss.

Other stops included the Lahore Railway Station, Kim's Gun, and the Wazir Khan Hammam, but the chaotic traffic and unbelievable pollution took its toll on us and the rest was a blur. I did not recall how bad the air quality was in Lahore but the blanket of haze that covered the city by the late afternoon was insufferable. The breath-taking wonders of the morning's tour of the gorgeous and intricate architecture gave way to the evening's literally breath-taking smog that drove us back to our quarters, exhausted and congested. Our plans to dine at the brothel-turned-restaurant Cuckoo's Nest were exchanged for a quiet dinner at the Naval Mess with various family members dropping by. We gratefully had an early night to rest our weary bones after the hectic day.

Lesson of the day: Consider taking a cue from the Asians and don a face mask to filter some of the pollution entering your nasal passages when trekking through Lahore.

A little spending money, money to burn, money that you did not necessarily earn

2007-11-06T08:07:00.000-05:00

Day Two: Isloo
We were compelled to sleep in this morning because SOME little toddler seemed to think that it was the middle of the afternoon instead of midnight and wanted company. Thankfully, we had brought our portable DVD player and some Wiggles DVDs so between that and the miniature plastic golf set my cousin Dania thoughtfully brought out, ZP was occupied. Between the energetic baby, the overeager roosters, and the high-strung neighboring dogs and/or jackals, little sleep was had that night. Luckily, a late breakfast awaited us and we still had time to eat, wash up, and meet my cousin Umber for a shopping trip to the exotically named "Supermarket." My cousin Bilal had very generously given his sisters, LB, and me his first salary's paycheck (I always thought the tradition for when someone gets a new job was that he/she had to treat the family to ice cream, but cold hard cash is good too!) so we had plenty of money to burn.

Our shopping excursion began with the small stuff: postcards, khussas, and bootleg DVDs that upon a later viewing we discovered had crystal clear pictures but no sound. I guess you get what you pay for (in this case: $2.00). After TP bought some paintings (we'll see if those ever make it up on our walls) and KG bought some curly-toed khussas (we'll see if those ever make it onto his feet), we all adjourned to Umber's husband's office conveniently located right above the stores to let our feet rest, admire the view of Margalla Hills, and quench our thirst with ultra-fizzy, glass-bottled soft drinks. Another stop at our favorite store Khaadi and then back home for lunch and naps.

The evening was spent celebrating my cousin Saba’s birthday. Aunty Tukki laid out a buffet of Chinese food. Normally, I don't like Chinese food, but (a) this is only true in the U.S. because time and time again I've found that Chinese food elsewhere is invariably better and (b) nothing beats home-cooking!

Lesson of the day: make the DVD shop test out your DVD before you shell out your hard-earned money for an illegal copy of an artist's work that in your home country you are honor-bound and paid to protect.

*We interrupt your regularly scheduled travelogue to present the following poll with no commercial interruptions*

BLOG POLL 2007: Sonogram Day.
Is Baji going to have a bonnie wee lassie or another scalliwag boy? Vote and find out!

Come be the first in line To shake the hand of mine

2007-10-31T14:06:00.000-04:00

Day One: Isloo

Having been swept up into the loving arms of our clan, we spent the morning washing up, eating, and either going to Friday prayers in the colossal Faisal Mosque or unpacking. We dedicated a chunk of time to sort out what finery we would don for the various functions, fetes, and fiestas for the week. With the shiny new DSL connection installed at the house, we emailed our crew back home that despite the horrible news of death and destruction in the wake of Benazir Bhutto's return to Pakistan, we were far away from the maelstrom in Karachi and were safe and sound.

In the evening, the hoards descended upon us for a family BBQ, eager to meet TP and KG and especially Prince ZP. The boys were disoriented but quickly recovered and became comfortable with the onslaught of family members introducing themselves, trying to summarize how they were related to them, and asking if they had enough to eat. Since it was KG's birthday, the BBQ included silver trays steaming with vegetarian dishes, a grill station with lamb, beef, and chicken, and an assortment of drinks, including the ever-popular, toxic-green, cream-soda-like "Pakola." To celebrate KG's birthday, the night ended with a decadent chocolate cake and a full-on chocolate fountain.

ZP had a blast running around with his newly formed crew of ruffians and minders. He barely looked back but once he did catch sight of us, he would come barreling over for a quick (and literal) pick-me-up and then squirm out of our arms to join his gang. I knew that, despite allowing him to run headlong on the driveway near treacherous pitfalls and thorny bushes, he was in good hands. I was certain that ZP's first scar would begin that evening, but he escaped unscathed throughout the trip. It was with a nostalgic smile that I watched the newest generation risking life and limb in the garden and driveway while my cousins and I, now the mommies and aunties, stood nearby and issued intermittent warnings and threats. It does not seem so long ago that my cousins and I practiced leaping from the seven-foot high closets onto thin mattresses laid out on skull-cracking marble floors or walking through the pitch-black night over cracked streets and unsteady bridges to the local bakery for some treats. Granted, we were not as daring as the generation above us who, apparently, not only tried to set off firecrackers inside the house, but actually tried to make their own homemade firecrackers from scratch. But we had our share of blood, bruises, and tears. Good times.

Lesson of the day: Do not be so naïve to think that your baby's physical exertion late at night will help him get over his jet lag. It won't.

Baji in the Sky With Diapers

2007-10-30T11:38:00.000-04:00

I'm back! Shall we begin?
Pre-Day-One

After a useless day at work, I rushed home to take a nap, pack, and take the last shower I would take for quite a while. Jamming extra diapers into everyone's luggage, throwing out the garbage, and turning on the lights to give the illusion of occupancy, we lugged our nine suitcases, six adults, five carry-on pieces, one baby, one baby stroller, one baby car seat (because StupidShuttle does not provide one even though it would be virtually useless in the non-seat-belt-believing country of Pakistan), and one stuffed monkey onto the shuttle. The driver took us through possibly the most congested route through rush hour DC to drop us off at Dulles Airport for our 10 p.m. flight.

Although my father has had to suffer the inconvenience of having a terroristic name and thus is an old hat at the SSSS (Super Special Security Silliness) procedure, this was the first time that I was subjected to the same. I really wish I had worn my "my name causes national security alerts, what does your's do?" t-shirt. Separated from the rest of my boring-named family, my father and I entered the puffing machine and had our bags hand-inspected when my personal attendant encountered a baby bottle full of milk but no baby attached. Due to the liquids restriction, I had to prove that I had a baby in the near vicinity to justify the milk. Luckily, I spotted my tall brother-in-law over the barrier strolling down the hall and motioned frantically for him to bring ZP to us. The scene was right out of a prison movie with me on one side of the glass wall waving and jabbering nonsense and ZP pressing his chubby palms against the glass to try to get closer to me; all that was missing was the corded phone so that we could talk to each other about that special cake he was going to bake me.

In retaliation for the indignity I had just suffered to get through security, I ordered a big plate of cheeseburgers and garlic fries for the enjoyment of my fellow passengers. We boarded the flight, settled ZP into his reclining baby seat that was perched up on a tray near our knees, and arrived in London the next day with eight hours to kill.

Not having slept much during the flight, I felt rather delirious. We found two armless benches (suitable for stretching out) near the window where we could watch the planes take off and land. I was so out of it that I was watching for the newspaper taxies to appear on the shore, waiting to take me away. I tried to sack out in the "quiet lounge," but between the snorers and the cell phone talkers, I didn't get much rest. TP and I left ZP in the care of my parents while we tried out Cafe Uno's soggy pizza and salad. LB and KG, in the meantime, had escaped the confines of the airport for a quick jaunt into the city.

We whiled away our time by entertaining ZP and snacking. An Afghani woman with twins spotted our group and over the course of a few hours, eventually sidled up to us until she was on the adjoining bench and was able to chat us up. I couldn't fathom how she managed to travel alone with two two-year old twins in tow, but figured out that one way was to befriend fellow parent travelers such as ourselves who were more than happy to watch her kids while she used the facilities/attended to one kid and then the next/etc. I bought her kids and mine some milk from the café and eventually we all headed over to our gate for the next leg of the journey.

The flight from the UK to Pakistan was not surprisingly miserable. There were two babies in our section that were sick and when one would drop off to sleep, the other would take up screaming, crying, and kicking. Then, they would trade off. ZP was well-behaved but every time he would nod off, another round of shrieks would fill the cabin and he would wake up. By the time we arrived in Islamabad, we were all bedraggled and bleary-eyed. Thankfully, my grandfather arranged for a shuttle to collect us from the airplane and whisk us away to the VIP lounge to rest while our luggage was attended to. After a brief mix-up with two of the nine suitcases, we sorted things out and took several vehicles back home for our welcome breakfast of parathas, omelets, and chai. I could go on, but that would dip into the tale of "Day One" which is coming up next. So. Stay tuned!

Lesson of the day: Do not travel whilst five-months pregnant with a feisty toddler unless you have an entourage to go with you.