Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific

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

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

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

[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"

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

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!

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

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

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

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

Six of one, half a dozen of the other

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

1. Karam Din
2. Ramzan
3. Hasan Din
4. Nur Din
5. Ilam Din
6. Sahib Din

• Family of Nur Din born in Ladian

1. Imam Din
2. Ahmed Din
3. Abdullah
4. Ghulam Ali
5. Rehmat Bibi
6. Sutlan Ali
7. Nawab Ali
8. Ghulam Ali
9. Nizam Din
10. Niyamat

• Family of Abdullah born in Hong Kong

1. Nazir Ahmed
2. Nazir Begum
3. Bashir Ahmed
4. Aziz Ahmed
5. Sardar Ahmed
6. Rashid Begum
7. Rashid Ahmed

• Family of Nazir Ahmed Bhatti born in Pakistan

1. Rafeeqa
2. Khalid

• Family of Rafeeqa Bhatti born in Ladian

1. Baji
2. Lil Baji

• Family of Baji born in Wales

1. ZP
2. AP

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