Let's see.

I was so sleepy this morning that I forgot to put water in for the coffee and burned the coffee grounds, stunk up the joint, and completely ruined my little Bialetti.

Then, with the help of my parents, I had to disassemble my old futon, move my dresser, and shift over all sorts of knick knacks to make room for my new bed, nightstand, and dresser.

While I fretted over the delivery time (call ahead with a four hour window my arse), the guy fixing my porch took the front door completely off of the hinges and started sanding it before I knew what was going on while I was running around the back door to make sure the bulky bulk pick-up guys would pick up our old (heavy, naily, dusty) stuff that we lugged out of the attic last night. (Thanks to Dad's sweet-talking, they took everything even though the rules are only seven items per pick up).

We dodged traffic up to Silver Spring to meet LB for lunch and dodged some more traffic back down to DC in the rain.

We spent two hours assembling the new bed and nightstand, dragged my parents' 60 pound suitcase down the stairs, tiptoed over the running primer that had washed away from the porch steps and into the grass and sidewalk, and got in the car.

We took about two hours in stop-and-stop traffic to the airport (normal commute time during non-rush-hour, non-rain-hour, non-broken-down-vehicle-on-the-highway-hour is 20 minutes) and arrived at the counter only to find out that United screwed up their tix, the suitcase was 10 pounds overweight, and that the flight was closed now anyway.

Drove back into DC to get something nutritious and fast and then tried to go to the hardware store next-door to replace our stolen drill only to find out the store was closed. The humidity gave me mujahideen hair, fogged up my windows so that driving was difficult, and the rain just would not stop.

I just got home and I still have to arrange stuff, perform amazing feats of acrobatics to get from one room to another without tripping, bashing my head in, or otherwise doing myself severe bodily harm, and go to sleep so I can wake up at 6:30 tomorrow to make another airport run. I just knocked down a partially-filled humidifier and soaked the carpet and my sox. And to cap off the evening, a little mouse decided to join me in brushing my teeth in the bathroom. How was your day?

I'm so tired,
I haven't slept a wink,
I'm so tired,
my mind is on the blink.
I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink.
No, no, no.

I'm so tired I don't know what to do.
I'm so tired my mind is set on you.
I wonder should I call you but I know what you'd do.
You'd say I'm putting you on.
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm.

You know I can't sleep, I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane.
You know I'd give you everything I've got
For a little peace of mind.
I'm so tired, I'm feeling so upset
Although I'm so tired I'll have another cigarette

And curse Sir Walter Raleigh.
He was such a stupid git.

--The Beatles, I'm So Tired

In an attempt to broaden Dad's musical appreciation while he was a captive audience (painting, putting new panels on the kitchen ceiling, and replacing some fixtures . . . I'm certainly perfecting my handy-woman persona), I played him some Radiohead. His only comment: "What is this guy crying about?"

Spent all day yesterday and tomorrow painting, repairing, and prettifying LB's new digs whilst listening to tunes (Dad, did you know that the Beatles wrote this song to cheer up Mia Farrow's sister because she was so depressed?), eating lunch (Mom, will you make saurday aloo?), and breaking screwdrivers on painted on screws (LB, apparently you don't know your own strength). The only thing swimming around in my kiddie pool head right now are words like "eggnog" and "snowy egret" (eggshell and semi-gloss) and "popped corn" and "tuscan beige." Tomorrow's schedule? Ruby ring and filthy filters fun!

You are feeling velly srrreepy. Veehhhllyyyy srrreepy. Oh. So. Sreepy.



(nod to damomma and shaheen)

My parents came today! We had Afghani food for lunch, went grocery shopping where Mom tried to steal someone else's shopping cart, and watched Mr. Bean. Good times. :)

I never realized how different living with a leftie is from living with a rightie. LB is left-handed (gauche! sinestra!) and I've spent years trying to remember to sit on her right so that our elbows didn't crash into each other during mealtimes. For a while, there was a battle over where to place the mousepad and mouse in relation to the keyboard (this was before she got her own laptop and the battle dwindled away . . . well, THAT battle anyway). When I was cable-sitting for LB yesterday, I noticed that the toothbrush holder AND the toothpaste were to the left of the sink. I guess now that she has her own digs, she can be as lefty-loosey as she wants.

This song goes out to all you freaks on the Metro, on the sidewalk, at the corner, busy with work or busy with nothing but when you see me (eyes down, mindin' my own bidness, trying to give off the strongest "leave me alone" vibes I can muster), you feel compelled, driven, almost honor-bound to try to get my attention with your waves, your tongue clicks, your "heeyyyyyy"s:

"Suggestion" by Fugazi

Why can't I walk down a street free of suggestion?

Why can't I walk down a street free of suggestion?

Is my body my only trait in the eyes of men (in the eyes of men)?

I've got some skin

You want to look in

(well, I guess so)

There lays no reward in what you discover

You spent yourself, boy, watching me suffer

Suffer your words, suffer your eyes, suffer your hands

Suffer your interpretation of what it is (what it is, what it is, what it is)

to

be

a

man.

I've got some skin

You want to look in

(well, I guess so)

She does nothing to deserve it

He only wants to observe it

We sit back like they taught us

We keep quiet like they taught us

He just wants, he wants to prove it

She does nothing to remove it

We don't want anyone to mind us

So we play the roles that they assigned us

She does nothing to conceal it

He touches her 'cause he wants to feel it

We blame her for being there

But we are all guilty

Aloha, Ohana and Hoapili! We're going to Hawaii! Woohoo!
*does a little hula dance*
*eats a little pineapple*
*takes a little nap*

Happy

leftovers-and-tummyaches-and-chai-and-moreleftovers-and-battlingshoppers-and-spongebobsquarepantsmovie-and-evenmoreleftovers

Day!

Happy

Turkey-and-kebabs-and-cranberryloaf-and-haleem-and-pumpkinpie-and-salaan-and-mashedtaters

Day!!!

Still unpacking (boxes o' crap) and packing (stuff for trip tomorrow). So cannot form full sentences. No time. But must blog. Can only provide today's Word-of-the-Day:

panjandrum \pan-JAN-druhm\, noun:

An important personage or pretentious official.

So she went into the garden
to cut a cabbage-leaf
to make an apple-pie;
and at the same time
a great she-bear, coming up the street,
pops its head into the shop.
"What! No soap?"
So he died,
and she very imprudently married the barber;
and there were present
the Picninnies,
and the Joblillies,
and the Garyulies,
and the grand Panjandrum himself,
with the little round button at top,
and they all fell to playing the game of catch-as-catch-can
till the gunpowder ran out at the heels of their boots.

by Samuel Foote

Enjoy.

Back from the dentist with whiter pearly-whites, a fire-engine red new toothbrush, and a clean bill of health (with a side dish of compliments on my smile . . . awwww). While I tried valiantly not to drool out of the side of my mouth during the cleaning (it's amazing how much saliva pools up under your tongue when your jaws are wide open for an extended period of time), a song kept going through my head. I remember when I was younger, there used to be a cartoon PSA that was featured in between full-length cartoons extolling the virtues of good health, education, and good hygiene. Kind of like Schoolhouse Rock, but not. One clip was about brushing your teeth and the song went like this (voiced by Scatman Crothers):

They call me Yuckmouth, cause I don't brush. No, I keep my teeth like this.
They call me Yuckmouth, cause I don't brush. How's about a little kiss?
I got some beef in my teeth and some chicken, too.
OUCH! That's a cavity. Hey, that's new!
So if you don't brush your teeth then you can too be a Yuckmouth.

Good times. Good times.

Special Six Degrees of Blogeration Update

Newest Addition to the Second Degree! Baji -- the Zistahs -- Chij Bachee, Niqabified, and (Iman)

Newest Addition to the Fourth Degree! Baji -- Chai or the Zistahs -- Hemlock -- Waleed --Karrvakarela

High-falutin literature here, travel guides there, and hip, cool books here. Comedies here, hi-yah chop-socky flicks there, save the drama fo yo mamma here. Riot grrls here, punk there, and compilations and soundtracks here. Is it wrong of me that the first thing that I unpacked and organized were my books, DVDs, and CDs?

Who knew that a soft, cushy, old friend, pillow-topped, excellent for tv-surfing and napping couch could destroy one's shins so utterly and completely? And then (insult upon injury), I find out there is a blanket of dust layered over ancient objects hidden behind the sofa that would make any self-respecting archaeologist green with envy.

Hee. That reminds me of the time loooong ago when, according to legend, I got a hold of a Whitman's Sampler box of chocolates. I would select a bon bon, take a bite, and the ones that I liked, I gobbled down and the ones that I didn't, I nonchalantly tossed behind the couch. Lucky for all of us, Cybermom is close to godliness with her cleanliness and found the sticky stash while vacuuming behind the couch one day.

Tomorrow, the movers come and, Calgon-like, will take it all away. By tomorrow night, I can finally rest, perhaps play connect-the-bruises, and gear up for the next task: unpacking. So until then . . . um . . . enjoy this oldie but goodie about wonderous archaeological finds! And pray for my and LB's bones and muscles and sanity.

btw, happy 50th birthday, Gojira! (trivia alert: Godzilla's roar was the sound of a resin-coated leather glove being dragged across a contrabass (double bass)).

Baji, over and *collapse* out.

Moving Day Approaches

A river of packing tape,
A mountain of boxes and crates.
High-tech plastic pillows,
Low-tech crumpled up newspapers.

Stereos wrapped in cords,
Computers wrapped in foam,
Shirt wrapped in dust,
Mind wrapped in recollections.

Boxes of letters,
Boxes of pictures,
Boxes of souvenirs,
Boxes of boxes.

Throw out the magazines,
(but this one is a collector's issue)
Donate the clothes,
(but I might wear this next season)
Box up the VCRs, DVDs, CDs, and MP3s,
(but I need some tunes while I pack)
Store away the plates and silverware,
(wait, not yet!)

Change of Address, Mr. Postal Employee,
Change of Address, Mrs. Bank Teller,
Change of Address, friends and family,
Did I forget anyone, or anyone forget me?

Whose is this?
Is it yours?
Do you want this?
Can I have this?

Who knew how much noise
the framed art on the wall absorbed?
Why is this Persian rug
so very heavy?

Good-bye familiar creaky floor
that doubled as a burglar alarm.
Good-bye clanging radiator
that doubled as a headache.

So long, roaches;
you get no forwarding address.
So long, freaky shower;
hope the next tenants figure out your secrets.

Carry the mirrors by hand,
the monitors and jewelry too.
Carry the memories by heart,
the guests and slumber parties too.

Eid prayers in Virginia (hypnotized by the imam's henna'd beard waggling back and forth and impressed with the silence and order of the sea of Desis).

Eid brunch in Maryland (puris, chole, haleem, samosas, gulab jamen, sheer khurma, and chai; all enjoyed during daylight hours).

Eid movie in D.C. ("Bridget Jones II" for Sister's Sunday; shoulda watched "The Incredibles" instead.)

Today's mini-blurb brought to you by Harper's Magazine:

Go balloons, go balloons! I don't see anything happening. Go balloons! Go balloons! Go balloons! Standby confetti. Keep coming, balloons. More balloons. Bring it -- balloons, balloons, balloons! We want balloons, tons of them. Bring them down. Let them all come. No confetti. No confetti yet.

No confetti. All right, go balloons, go balloons. We need more balloons. All balloons! All balloons! Keep going! Come on, guys, let's move it. Jesus! We need more balloons. I want all balloons to go, goddammit. Go confetti. Go confetti. More confetti. I want more balloons. What's happening to the balloons? We need more balloons.

We need all of them coming down. Go balloons -- balloons? What's happening, balloons? There's not enough coming down! All balloons, what the hell? There's nothing falling! What the f*** are you guys doing up there? We want more balloons coming down, more balloons. More balloons! More balloons!

From comments made by the producer of this year's Democratic National Convention while he was unaware that his outburst was being broadcast live by CNN which had microphones in the control room.

Six Degrees of Blogeration

Rule -- degrees are established by one live person actually meeting, laying eyes upon, hugging, or clobbering another live person.

* indicates blurker or guest-blogger status

First Degree

Baji -- Lil Baji*, Cybermom, TP, Chai, H-Biddy, City Nomad, Ismo, Literaunty, Ushi, and Osman*, not to be confused for the Usual Suspect Osman. Hmm. Guess that makes him the 'Unusual Suspect.' Heh. (me relatives)

Baji -- Abez, DeGrouchyOwl [collectively, "the Zistahs"], Chan, Gunnar, Najm, Upyernoz, Amaal* (a.k.a. Gojira), Lamisse* (a.k.a. LaMushy), and Taha* (a.k.a "2 Scoops", a.k.a. spaz who really should make a blog of his own). (me crew)

Second Degree

Baji -- Chai or the Zistahs -- Hemlock and Lil Gray Crayon

Baji -- the Zistahs -- da Momma, Poppie and Vora

Baji -- (LB or Lamisse) -- Yasmine, Somayya, and Chocoholic

Baji -- (Taha) -- HijabMan

Baji -- Upyernoz -- Josh Corey, Cathy, Chuck, Sarah, Jon, Julia, LLCoolP, Anglobaptist, and Atrios

Third Degree

Baji -- the Zistahs -- Poppie -- The [original] Usual Suspect and Anju

Baji -- Chai or the Zistahs -- Hemlock -- Waleed and Chij Bachee

Erm. Did I miss anyone? *hammers "work in progress" sign onto post*

Eid Mubarak, y'all!

Last Weekend in Paris Nibblet: We decided to start our early Saturday morning with a jaunt through the neighborhoods and ended up climbing down 85 steps down a circular, stone staircase into the depths of the Parisian sewer system and mass grave known as the Catacombs. We wove our way through the dark, wet tunnels decorated with skulls and bones and tried not to imagine that the dust on our shoes was bone grit and the drips on our heads were not blood. Since it was our honeymoon after all, my favorite design was of the skulls artfully arranged into a heart:



Awww, how romantic!

We spent the afternoon perusing through the open-air market where we were dazzled by the [radio edit] and the delicious [radio edit] and the scrumptious [radio edit] which we picked up for our picnic lunch at Luxembourg Gardens. After a brief sit-down at Cafe de Flore, we watched a battle of the bands take place when a chanting, finger-cymbal-wielding Hare Krishna parade marched through a lively brass band (complete with crazy dancing lady) playing in front of the Saint Germain church.

It turns out that throughout this particular Saturday night, Paris was celebrating its Second Annual Nuit Blance ("White Night" or "Sleepless Night"), a city-wide contemporary arts and culture festival where you can visit a theater, enter a number of museums, or see exhibits at an art gallery from dusk to dawn. We walked to the riverbanks to experience the "Foghorn Concert" performed by 15 barges sailing down the Seine (recall the honking notes of the spaceship in "Close Encounters of the Third Kind"). People filled the streets either as performers (tiny local bands set up their sets at almost every corner) or audience members (did I mention how much I love free?). Some artists displayed their talents with vegetables. Some artists left their marks directly onto the streets of Paris:



The night was very surreal, made doubly so when hordes of rollerbladers took over the streets for several long moments. We spent the rest of Sleepless Night wandering around the city, taking a nap (but it was artistic sleeping, so it was ok), and by Sunday morning, touring the Louvre for free (FYI, free rules!). Actually, Nuit Blanche aside, the Louvre would have been free anyway because the first Sunday of every month is free. After touring the Islamic Art Exhibit (portions of which were on loan from the NY Met), we walked to Place de Concorde, hung a left, and met our touristy obligation to visit the Eiffel Tower (which had been closed due to a worker's strike earlier). We capped off our last day with ice cream directly from the one, the only, actual Bertillon shop on Ile St. Louis. Final gelatoish report:

Coffee: A
Earl Gray Tea: B+
Grapefruit: B
Extra Dark Chocolate: A+++ valedictorian, best in show, undisputed champion of the world.

In other news, that concludes the travelogue so now what should I blog about? Any suggestions?

10/1 Nibblet: We spent Friday morning taking the metro up to the Arc de Triomph and promenading down the Elysian Fields. Along the way, we passed by the Louis Vuitton shop that was oh-so-stylishly under construction:



We stopped at Pizza Pino for lunch where we shared a pizza with beef, two kinds of cheese, and an egg (whaaa?). The pizza was humongous and could possibly rival our neighborhood's jumbo pizza that made the cover of the City Paper this week. We walked along the chestnut tree-lined boulevard and stopped for some crepes. We continued on to Place de Concorde and stopped for Belgian waffles liberally dusted with powdered sugar. We strolled through the Tuileries, crossed the bridge, and finally made it back to the apartment by late afternoon (just in time for a nap).



Upon waking up from the nap, we learned that several Tunisian guests would be arriving soon for a house-warming party (i.e. excuse to shop in Paris) and were asked if we could help out with the dishes, ironing, dusting, distract the toddler, move the chairs, put out the plates, and greet the guests. The old crew from Hammamet (see Tunisian Travelogue for details) showed up with their finery wrapped around their necks, brand names wrapped around their bodies, and high-falutin 'tudes wrapped around their heads. TP and I escaped onto the balcony for some fresh air and to give the guests some privacy in which to discuss and eye each other's clothes, shoes, and latest acquisitions. The "fabulous set" decided to go to a "fabulous restaurant" and our only amusement came when they could not identify any of the dishes (upon the advice of a friend, one guy ate a whole scoop of wasabi before dashing off to the bathroom to wash out his mouth) or operate the eating utensils. After getting our fill of fakeness, we passed on joining the group for dessert and, in full anti-social mode, took off on our own before calling it a night. Seriously, I chose getting away from those people over getting some Bertillon ice cream. *shudder*

In other news, despite the near freezing temps that are predicted tonight, I'm going out to see Interpol! For free! I heart free.

9/30 Nibblet: Travel Day, so not much happened. We took an early morning walk through the fog around our little village and came across a whole patch of grapes, blue berries, and figs. Free food! Walked a bit more, bid bon jour to our neighbors, scurried past the homes with wildly barking dogs, and took some pix of the cornfields, the houses, and the animals.



Riz picked us up so that we could have breakfast at her house before heading out to Lyon to catch our 11 a.m. TGV back to Paris. Unfortunately, her husband was operating on D.S.T. (Desi Standard Time) and didn't arrive until quite late. We reached the Part Dieu train station at 10:59 a.m., just in time to watch our train (and our reserved seats) slide out of the station. We were assured that we could board the 12 p.m. train (there is one every hour to and from Paris) so long as there was room enough. We found two seats together, tried to look as inconspicuous as possible, and when the conductor came by to check our tickets, we meekly handed them over. He glanced at the ticket, glanced at us, shook his head and said something in French of which I only caught "un probleme." We asked if he spoke English. He looked at us again, took the ticket of the passenger next to us, reviewed it thoroughly, and apparently found un grande probleme with that guy's ticket because he passed our tickets back to us with a curt "c'est bon" and focused his attention and glower on our neighbor instead. Whew.

We arrived in sunny, balmy Paris and immediately hit up La Croissanterie for their wonderful croissants, flan, and cafe creme. TP bought me a cool, orange messenger bag from Mandarina Duck for my birthday. We strolled around the neighborhood, did some window-shopping, and finally returned to the apartment to take full, uninterrupted showers. Stink waves be gone!

In other news, thx to Abez for the great gingerbread punjabis (I got the @-man and the pirate), thx to Najm for the moist brownies (excellent sehri material), thx to Literaunty for the spicy haleem and southern peanut salad (TP had haleem for sehri this morning!), and thx to Chai and HBiddy for the laughs (and not killing me for leading you in a complete circle downtown).

Sigh. I suppose life goes on as must the nibblets. And so.
9/29 Nibblet: After our daily alarm clock went off, we found out that our little pink farmhouse in La Championniere was still sans hot water. My cousin, Riz, picked us up, took us to her house, and there, I tried to take a hot shower. I say "tried" because I managed to shampoo my hair, rinse, and soap up before the water cut off. Not just the hot water; all of the water. So with a thin film of soap rapidly drying on my skin, I bellowed for help. Apparently, there was a notice from the construction crew nearby that they were doing some work that morning and that the neighborhood's water would be shut off for a few hours. Alas, in this sleepy little village, no one really checks the mail on a daily basis and so the notice went unread. Riz came to my rescue by heating up half a bucket of bottled mineral water for me and 10 minutes later, I got to rinse off. The only highlight from that little incident is that I can now say "why, yes, I have bathed in Evian water!"

Since TP needed to wash up as well, we zipped over to Riz's sister-in-law's house which, despite being nine centuries old, had both hot and running water. Alack, we zipped too quickly and Riz kinda crunched up the car against the wall. Oops. Now running even later than we were, we scarfed down our breakfast and drove into Lyon to meet Gojira's mere and chien. The second largest city in France, Lyon is a sprawling metropolis located between Fourviere, 'the hill that prays' and Croix-Rousse, 'the hill that works' and is split in the middle by two rivers, the Rhone and the Saone. Mrs. Gojira's apartment was in a very lovely neighborhood that bore a striking resemblence to Saint Germain with its chic shops, bustling cafes, and spotless boulevards. Mrs. Gojira welcomed us warmly and immediately fed us a wonderful leek pie, fresh and healthy tomato and avacado salads, and all sorts of cheeses. We shared some stories about Gojira (heh heh), saw some family pictures (ha ha!), and eventually bid her and MacDuff adieu.

We drove up to Fourviere hill and worked our way down from the Roman Ampitheater (where TP stole a bunch of grapes) to the Notre-Dame de Fourviere Basilica to the St. John Cathedral. We had a clear view of the city below at each stop.




In other news, check out the front page of the UK's Daily Mirror.

Special Election Day Blog:

See Baji.
See Baji and LB.
See Baji and LB go to vote.
Stand in line.
Wait, Baji, wait!
Two hours is a long time.
Wait, LB, wait!
Almost at the "Festival Center" voting location.
Finally!
Grab Number Two Pencil.
Read carefully.
Vote, Baji and LB, vote!
Good job!

If "Dick and Jane" is not your style, how about a haiku?

Indecision day.
So many choices, which one?
Paper or plastic?

And now back to your regularly scheduled blog.

Update. Daily Show Election Blog. Thx, Julestress!

9/27 & 28 Nibblet: Thanks to Monsieur I-don't-like-to-read , all you get today are pix. Well, ok, a little text. TGV to Lyon. Lyon to Chateau Gaillard. Tour of Chateau des Allymes and Tour de St. Denis. Three hour hike through the Alps. Delicious, familiar, safe, mouth-watering, missed-you-so-much-Pakistani-cuisine. 12th century farm house with cable tv.


Mont Blanc


Mer de Glace


Bustling Rest Stop


Crossing Swiss Border


Championeire Water Pump

In other news, Gojira and I totally have to apply for this position! Because we arrre the best and everyone else is the worrrrst.

9/26 Nibblet: Back in the land of the croissant, we spent some time doing Sunday morning chores around the house (it's amazing how many crumbs trail behind a three-year old boy) before we took a walk along the Seine and lingered at the used book stalls. Taking advantage of the Musee d'Orsay's half-price Sundays, we thoroughly explored the train-station-turned-hotel-turned-museum (psst - that mystery pix in the previous post was the view from the inside of one of the museum's clocks which, if you get closer to the glass, affords this view). I made a special stop to visit my and LB's room before wandering up and down and up and down the complex. One particularly eye-catching exhibit was the art nouveau furniture. The style of the pieces appeared to be influenced by Hector Guimard's famous script of the Parisian Metro sign.




We spent several hours inside, on top of, underneath, and then back inside the musuem and then headed outside for some fresh air. We caught some sun and did a fair share of people-watching at the Jardin des Tuileries. As the children pushed their rented wooden boats around the fountain and shrieked with glee when their boats made it safely to the other side without crashing into other boats or ducks, a lively band played some marching music (I can't call them a marching band because they were pretty much standing still) under the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel (not to be confused with its much larger sister, the Arc de Triomphe at Etoile).



The combination of sunshine, sitting, and sweet crepes (of which we had several which makes crepes our new gelato) took its toll and after packing for our trip to Lyon, we snoozed the rest of the late-afternoon, evening, and night away. Crepe report card:
Sugar and lemon, A+
Nutella, A
Cheese, A

In other news, it's raining.

9/25 Nibblet: Happy Birthday to me! With the chill and rain keeping people indoors, we spent most of the morning watching "Robin Hood" (the good version, not the cheesy version) in Italian but with the dubbers using the same voices and cadences as the original actors.

Sibilo : E voi. Chi ha potuto voi essere, signore?
John Piccolo : Sono sir Reginald, duca di chutney. E non attacchi la vostra linguetta fuori me, capretto.

(Hiss: And you. Who might you be, sir?
Little John: I am Sir Reginald, Duke of Chutney. And don't stick your tongue out at me, kid.)

When the rain abated, we hit the Snacketeria, meandered through the streets, and sat by the pool soaking up the humidity and heat before our return to Paris. We packed up our belongings and waited for the car to take us to the airport (the driver was late by an hour which, I suppose, in Italian timing, was right on time). At the Naples Airport, we checked in, grabbed a bite to eat, and waited for our plane to arrive. Number of cents extra they charge for ketchup: ten; number of open head-wounds caused from falling on the slippery floor: one; number of people gathered around aforementioned head-wound victim: twenty-five.

Paris was cold and rainy, so we made haste in gathering our luggage, catching the RER back to the city center, and running in between the drops back to the apartment where friends, presents, and chocolate raspberry cake awaited me. *contented sigh*

In other news, only one week left until Election Day. And for the laziest of D.C. voters, we . . . I mean someone can elect to vote "curbside"! Sweet! Check out this insult to chimps everywhere: Ook, ook.

9/24 Nibblet: Woke up to the soothing sounds of the sea lapping at the shores early in the morning (luckily before Bruce "friends call me 'Slammy'" Slammerson began his morning ritual of testing the strength and integrity of the hotel's doors). At breakfast, we were warmly greeted by our senior citizen pals from the day before ("Hey! It's the honeymooners! How ya doin', honeymooners?"). Seated at the balcony, we watched the waves below continue to get darker and more choppy. Our hopes of taking the friendly ferry rather than the breakneck bus back to Sorrento dimmed and sputtered out as I spotted a black flag upon the water.

We caught the SITA bus back to Amalfi even though the bus was completely full and we ended up spending the next 10 minutes as far in the front of the bus as one could get and still be inside it: me, standing next to the driver and trying not to jostle his elbow as he drove; TP on the steps of the bus trying not to bang his head on the windshield or fall out of the door. We arrived in Amalfi in one piece (yay!) but the inclement weather had stopped all of the ferry travel that day (boo!). Luckily, the combination of front seats, 4 'forte' motion-sickness pills from the farmecia, and no espresso helped make the ride a smooth one.

Savvy locals us, we jumped off at the Piazza rather than the train station and had an excellent lunch at The Garden. Back at Hotel Girasole, the chilly wind bringing in smoke from one of the ubiquitous fires in the hills drove us from the pool and forced us to take a nap inside. In the evening, we spent our wild Friday night touring the grocery store with as much attention to the displays as we would any museum. Later, I prepared a lavish grocery store dinner while TP tweezed out the glochids embedded in his fingers that he got after trying to wash a prickly pear by hand. Ah me. So ended our trip to the Amalfi Coast. Buona Sera, Sorrento; Bon Jour, Paris.



In other news, apparently in honor of Halloween, we spent much of this weekend watching terrifying, nightmare-inducing, disturbing, creepy movies including one romantic comedy with zombies flick (where, during one particularly gruesome scene, two patrons leapt from their seats and ran out of the theater). Plus, holy role-reversal, Batman! I spent yesterday painting the bathroom while TP fixed an amazing dish of Iraqi Lentil Soup with Meatballs. Yum.

9/23 Nibblet: Decided to have an adventure and see if we could visit and stay the night in Ravello with no reservation, no notice, and no map. Packed a few things in a small bag and hung out at Bar Tasso while waiting for the tourist office to open so we could book a room for that evening. Boarded the 11:35 a.m. bus at 12:00 p.m. and made our ascent along the tortuously twisty roads up and along the mountain. The coastal view was not only breath-taking, it was also breakfast-taking. Note to TP: do not down four shots of dopio espresso macchiato before venturing on a vertiable roller-coaster ride without a plastic bag.



Upon our arrival at Amalfi, where we had to switch to another bus to get to Ravello, we stopped for a light lunch, hiked up to San Andre Dome Amalfi, took some pix of the cathedral that brought to mind the Mezquita (mosque/cathedral) in Cordoba, and hiked back down to the marina. After some confusion and some jostling around, we boarded the bus Italian-style (all elbows and no quarter given) and wove our way up the cloud-piercing mountaintop to Ravello.

When we disembarked at the town's square, I spotted a bus with the name Hotel Marmorata, Best Western on it; our hotel! I ran up to the driver and asked if there was room for two more people on the already completely filled bus. He shook his head and said, "only one, not two." I tried negotiating at little more, explaining it had to be two until the woman next to the driver spoke to him, spoke to the passengers, got a vote, and spoke to him again. He nodded his head and let us sit on the edge of the raised platform that separates the driver from the passengers. Backwards. All the way back down the mountain. Turns out we had caught the only shuttle to the hotel (which was actually at the base of Ravello rather than at the top) which was dedicated solely for the comfort of the entire busload of American senior citizens on a package tour of the Amalfi Coast. The elderly tour group applauded us when they heard we were on our honeymoon and then began a game to see which couple in the shuttle had the most years of marital bliss under their belts (45 years was the winner). Lucky we were that we caught this shuttle as it turns out our belief that the hotel would be within walking distance from the square was completely wrong. After a little showdown (our lengthy hotel bus vs. a towering tourist bus both trying to negotiate a tight curve with several cars lined up behind each; we won), we arrived at the hotel. The location and view here was pretty amazing and you could walk down the staircase from the pool directly into the Med. Our balcony opened up to a wonderful view from which we could see the sea churning, crashing, and foaming only a few feet away.



After a dip in the pool and the Med, we washed up and got some recommendations for a nice restaurant in the nearby coastal village of Minori. It was only a 10 minute walk, but we had to share the same skinny highway with buses, motorcycles, and cars with the cliff on one side and sheer drop to the sea on the other. We found a hidden staircase that was a shortcut to the square, hung out and watched the locals promenade up and down the marina, wandered around yet more Roman ruins, and had dinner at Gardinera. Best pastry shop in the entire coastal region hands down: La Pasticceria Salvatore De Riso. I think I had about three cannoli and several scoops of limone gelato that night. A+ all around. No joke, this poem, written by an annoymous 17th century poet, could well have been talking about the kind of cannoli served here.

Beautiful are the Cannoli of Carnevale,
No tastier morsel in the world,
Blessed is the money used to buy them;
Cannoli are the scepters of all Kings.
Women even desist [from pregnancy]
For the cannolo, which is Moses's Staff,
He who won't eat them should let himself be killed;
He who doesn't like them is a cuckold, Olè!

In other news, LB, TP, and I met up with Najm (who gave me a very thoughtful, very slayerific birthday present that combines both of our joys in one book; thanks, maign!) and LR (with whom I am going to be tres nerdy and hit the lib'ary today) for dinner last night. And Cybermom, those aloo prathas are wonderful! Ithna muzidaar!

it has come to my attention (courtesy of myself) that these nibblets are turning into huge, jaw-unhinged, only-an-anaconda-could-swallow bites. so, back to mouse nibblet sizes we go.

9/22 Nibblet: After purchasing our all-day, all-zone, all-modes-of-public-transportation (bus, train, funicular, metro) pass for 6.40 euros, we boarded the "direct" (meaning direct to each and every stop along the way) train to Naples. We arrived in the (rather crummy and run-down) Stazione Garibaldi and made our way through the (usually unmarked) streets until we found the arch-rival "best" pizzarias in Naples. When Trianon's gates slammed shut in our faces just as we were within a foot of entering it, we spun on our heels and decided to grace the (some say) more popular, less expensive, and equally famous da Michele's. Although also famed for long lines, da Michele's at 4:00 p.m. on a September Wednesday was not so crowded that we couldn't quickly find a seat and be served fresh Vera Pizza D.O.C. rated pizza (of which this 19th century establishment always has and presumably always will offer only two kinds: marinara and margherita. Don't believe me? Check out the menu).

After lunch, we took the metro to the posh Chiaia district, got turned around no thanks to Fodor's map (a plague on Fodor's houses!), and ended up far away from the sea-level "Riviera" but with great aerial views of Naples below.





Train. Donna Vittoria's. Davide "Il" Gelato (speaking of which, why did no one tell me about this?!?!?!(triple interrobang!)). Report:

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

In other news, I came to realize that I sorely need to update my playlists on my mp3 player as this weekend's seemingly unending road-trip to and from North Carolina proved. Don't get me wrong, I love my Le Tigre and my Ramones and my Fugazi (I think I saw one of the guys the other day) HuskerDuSleaterKinneyArchersofLoafYeahYeahYeahsSleaterKinneyLizPhair (classic, not the new stuff)PavementFetchinBonesRadioheadCafeTacubaNinaSimoneCarborundum (sigh) TheSmithsShellacMuleDeerhoofPizzacatoFiveEnonPJHarveyHelium (wish they were still together) WeenFolkImplosionInterpolLiarsDr.DreTheShins, etc. as I ever did. But I gotta get some new tunes. Any suggestions?

9/21 Nibblet: By now, we were used to the slamming doors (7:00 a.m. so as not to miss the free breakfast), the cannon explosions (8:30 a.m. sharp, again at noon, and once more for good measure at 8:30 p.m.), and the insane rooster (5:00 a.m. until he darn well pleases). After a decent breakfast at Fauno's at Piazza Tasso, we wandered down to the docks on the off chance that we could catch a hydrofoil (like a ferry but faster) to Capri. Success! Make that expensive success. 19 euros and 30 minutes later, we arrived on the shores of Capri. Luckily, our captain was not seduced by the Sirens who hung out and rocked their tunes thereabouts. But the sheer, white cliffs, the deep, mesmerizing waters, and the warm, drugging weather were enough to lull anyone into a dreamy, beatific state.

Our first pit stop was at the restrooms near the docks where a grizzled old woman with yellowing white hair clipped her dog's toenails with one hand and snatched up 50 cents each with the other. I suppose it was worth it since this place at least had tissues whereas the Pompeii PeePee Facilities did not. We spent a fair amount of time thereafter waiting for the bus at the Marina, taking the bus up the incredibly precarious, hairpin turns up the mountain to touristy Anacapri, and waiting for another bus (whose fearless driver shrugged off ear-piercing shrieks when his bus scraped another bus taking the same curve) to the Blue Grotto. With limited time on the island, we chose lunch over seeing the famed blue waters of the Grotto. I will spare you the mouth-watering description of my meal, but I will share with you my own personal shock and awe when I got the bill: 44 Euros! Oh, my poor poor wallet.

Back at Piazza Vittoria, we poked around the villa before we decided to work off our decadent lunch by hiking down Scala Fenicia: the "Phoenician Stairway" that is cut into the rocks and connects Anacapri's Villa San Michele with the Marina Grande far below. Far, far below. Like, 900 steps below (yes, I counted each and every one of them). The walk only took about 20 minutes which means that the stairs (good exercise, some shady and cool spots, and 20 minutes) wins out over the bus (nauseating, jam-packed, and 30 minutes). One caveat: the stairs win for the downhill trip only.



Back in Sorrento, we made up for our extravagent lunch by going grocery shopping and making our own dinner at 'home': a little of this and a little of that and we were sated for a mere 6 euros. Gelato report:

Lemon, A+ valedictorian
Tiramisu, C-
Mint, C+ but can make up grade during summer school
Chocolate, I think you know the grade for this one

In other news, apparently I bring harmony to the cosmos, I am popular in the northern parts of China and Taiwan, and you do NOT want to mess with me or I will go Shaolin on your ass. Also, I make one mean veggie lasagna.

9/20 Nibblet: During breakfast, I swear I think I saw one of the 200 Brits staying at the hotel butter their ham and dunk it into their burnt tea. We spent the morning traversing Sorrento and hanging out at the marina where all of the ships were docked. We picked our way down a steep, stone staircase to watch the Mediterranean blue waters lapping at the sides of the ferries, hydrofoils, and sailboats bobbing at the port: loverly.



After chillaxing by the pool for a few hours, we caught the Circumvesuviana train to Pompeii. Our timing was perfect because by late afternoon, the tourists had disappeared and the slanting sun gave everything a warm glow (I believe photographers call it "sweet light").




Considering the city was devastated by earthquakes, a tsunami, and exploding Mt. Vesuvius' whose lava buried the city and whose cloud of ash blocked out the sun, the Forum, the villas, the uh thing with the things, the gargoyles, and the tiles were incredibly well-preserved and restored. To learn more, clickety click right hyah. TP even made a couple of friends, one of whom was thoughtful enough to demonstrate how the ancient residents died of carbon dioxide asphyxiation. For more gruesome pix, check it. We gave ourselves a self-guided tour of the grounds, pointing out the fig trees, trying not to trip over the ruts in the cobbled streets, and contemplating what the frescos were attempting to depict. If we had had more time, we would liked to have visited Herculaneum (the lesser-known but equally destroyed neighbor; kinda like Brian) but the trip to Pompeii was very edutaining.

We had dinner at Il Lanterna which, besides the refreshing insalata caprese with ripe tomatoes and fresh basil, creamy risotto with perfectly cooked asparagus tips, and hearty, belly-warming gnocchi ala Sorrento (sorry, fellow fasters), boasts original Roman mosaics illuminated under the floor on the way to the self-cleaning, self-flushing toilets. A leisurely stroll along the calm streets (traffic was mild on this Monday night) was followed by . . . you guessed it.

Gelato report:
Peach, A+
Cannoli, A-
Walnut, B
Fig, A
Zuppa de Ingles, A- but with some extra credit homework, a potential A.

In other news, for you South Park fans, the Motion Picture Association of America has given Team America: World Police an R rating. Yeah, that movie with the puppets. Rated R.

9/19 Nibblet: Woke up early thanks to an insane rooster who could not tell time. Tried to get TP's hair cut (he was sporting some molto bushy noggins) but the barbershops were closed on Sundays. Learned the difference between an Italian's version of cafe latte ("white coffee" because it's basically milk with just a teaspoon of coffee) and cafe con panna (espresso topped with whipped cream), both of which are preferable over the hotel's caffe orzo (a coffee substitute made with barley and tasting of burnt towels). Many, many more choices. Can't go wrong with cappuccino though:



Got a Fodor's guide (lame), two mosquito bites (drat), and dinner at the marina with accompanying festivities, frolicking, and fireworks (holiday). Gelato report card:
vanilla cherry, C-
coconut, B
profumi di sorrento (citrusy), A
vanilla, B
plays well with others. listens carefully. completes homework assignments.

In other news, Ramadan Mubarak, y'all!

9/18 Nibblet: We flew from Paris to Naples on some no-name airline (ok, fine, it had a name, but you had to ask the crew for permission to use your portable device: "Can I use my Rio?" "No.") and after spotting our driver (hint: he held a big, white sign with our names emblazoned on it), we zipped in and out of the crazy Napoli traffic (LB! I saw a Fiat Panda!), arrived in Sorrento, and checked into our no-name hotel (ok, fine, it had a name, but it was located directly on the busy highway on the cusp of town; this meant that despite the beautiful view it afforded of the coastline and Mt. Vesuvius, we had to risk our lives everytime we stepped out onto the World's Narrowest Sidewalk).



Eager to sample some of the famous Napoli pizza, we stopped at what we thought was the main square to eat at the first restaurant we saw : "Restaurant Number Two". Worst. Pizza. Ever. Pasty, doughy, limp . . . how can this be? Upon further investigation (i.e. 2 minute walk away) we found the proper Piazza Tasso which was packed with much better restaurants, excellent people-watching perches, and Brits as far as the eye could see (in fact, we heard more people speaking English than we did Italian). We consoled ourselves on our bad lunch with gelato (pistachio gets a B; watermelon gets a B-) and returned to the hotel and tried to take a nap (where the pillows made out of either (1) wadded up towels jammed into thin cases or (2) a huge brick of foam). In the evening, we flirted with death and returned to the Piazza where we were rewarded for our bravery with dinner at Donna Vittoria, an excellent restaurant (good service, delicious meals, inexpensive bill, and the waiter will behead and fillet your fish for you). We celebrated our reversal of culinary fortune with some more gelato (strawberry gets an A; chocolate gets an A+). On our walk along the coast of the Bay of Naples, TP was overwhelmed by the beauty of the cliffs and the sea and was subsequently inspired to eat his third helping of two scoops (tm) of gelato (sicilliana gets an A; egg nog gets a D).

In other news, TP and I were browsing around for a new bed (futon days are nearly over) and whilst doing some research, I came across this article. Anyone wanna drop $20,000 for a comfy night's rest? And, in yet other news, today LB and I met Yasmine's and PPP's friend today!

9/17 Nibblet: Centre Pompidou looks like a huge hamster cage turned inside out. Here is someone else's pix of this wacky complex. Marais has a tiny shop that sells the self-proclaimed "best falafel in the world" (although it could have stood a little more tahini, IMHO). Cafe viennois and crepes at bustling Bastille where the huge column not only commemorates the storming of the prison and the end of the monarchy but also TP's and Najm's birthday. Les Halles was once a thriving marketplace for 700 years but has been replaced by shabby 1970s mall-type stores. The only cool thing in that area now is this guy, "The Listener":



Dinner was had at the restaurant "Paris" at Hotel Lutetia where, during WWII, the Nazis camped out to enjoy the art deco and posh surroundings and where, during the height of dinner-time, our hosts' three-year old, strong-willed, strong-legged boy ran roughshod over said surroundings. Note to self: do not feed children multiple scoops of chocolate ice-cream at 10 o'clock at night. In other news, apparently I have become the proud new owner of a machete.

These boots were made for walkin'
And that's just what they'll do
One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.
("you" being the streets of Paris)

Nibblet 9/16: After a shot of caffeine (cafe con creme) and bite of pan con chocolate (where a thin layer of chocolate was painted on top of the pastry; LAME), we headed up to Montmartre (pronounced "Moan-mart" and no wonder after we hiked up the eleventy-hundred steps leading to Basilica de Sacre Coeur) the highest point in Paris. We could have taken the funicular up the steep hill, but where's the pain in that? Here's a pix I took of the Basilica when we reached the top and I cleverly covered up the extreme need to catch my breath and rest my aching legs by insisting on stopping, focusing the camera, fiddling around with the buttons, and taking a picture.





We walked from a house of God to a house of sin: the infamous ("infamous is when you're more than famous!") Moulin Rouge. We walked from there to the house of the dead: the rather serene cemetery of Montmartre ("A dreaded sunny day, So I meet you at the cemetery gates"). Upon our return to the Left Bank, we walked from Saint Germain to the Pantheon in the Latin Quarter and then to a house of God again: the Paris Mosque and its lovely courtyard. We walked to the Jardin des Plantes for some more ka-BLOOM action, walked along the Seine (number of dead cats along the way: one. number of injured old men in a bike accident: one. number of stunning cathedrals: one.), and finally, to collect some mezze to eat at home, walked to Au Bon Marche (the city's largest food market; at 2,700 square meters, you can imagine the time it took to find the hummus). Whole lotta walkin' that day. My poor Abibbas will never be the same.

In other news, how is it that finally getting poor, busticated Cressie washed (Ultimate Deluxe Wash, that is) makes me think that she goes faster now?

9/15 Nibblet: Jardin du Luxembourg is so much prettier in the fresh, lush late summer than it is in the chilly, dormant late winter. The spiky, purple-topped artichokes, the rows of straight and strong chestnut trees (which we don't have in the US), the anemones, the dahlias, the . . . uh . . . something or other pretty flowers! KA-BLOOM!




And the prize for the best deep, dark, rich, hot chocolate in Paris at a reasonable price goes to (drumroll, please) Cacao et Chocolate! Sorry, Cafe de Flore; I love ya, but my wallet does not. I mean, seriously. Who pays $10 for a hot chocolate? In other news, anyone else hear Bush say "internets" last night? That guy . . .

I was flying into Chicago at night
Watching the lake turn the sky into blue-green smoke
The sun was setting to the left of the plane
And the cabin was filled with an unearthly glow
In 27-D, I was behind the wing
Watching landscape roll out
Like credits on a screen
The earth looked like it was lit from within
Like a poorly assembled electrical ball as we moved
Out of the farmlands into the grid
The plan of the city was all that you saw
And all of these people sitting totally still
As the ground raced beneath them thirty thousand feet down

Well, replace "Chicago" with "Paris" and you've got the beginnings of the Honeymoon Hullabaloo (not to be confused with a Brouhaha, HB). I would love to write up a full-blown travelogue of the three weeks we spent in Europe, but I have neither the time nor the creativity to do so. Instead, I'll offer you bite-sized reports. Well, make that nibble-sized. Mouse-nibbles at that.

So. We arrived in Paris on a Monday and in order to stay awake and adjust to our new time zone, we spent the day promenading around the Saint Germain neighborhood on the left bank of the Seine River, staggering around the grounds of Notre Dame Cathedral, and limping to have a sushi dinner at Orient Extreme (the "Extreme" stands for "extremely high prices"). The rest of the evening was a blur but I have some hazy recollection of chowing down on some decadently rich Berthillon ice cream (undisputed champ of the best ice cream in Paris) before passing out. This is the view from our room:




Stay tuned for Day Two Nibblet. In other news, last night, TP and I went to see "End of the Century: The Story of the Ramones" which had some rockin' tunes, revealed several members to be total jerks, and reminded me so much of "This is Spinal Tap" (sans the intended satire) that I kept waiting for someone (probably Dee Dee Ramone) to say "this one goes to 11."

*sings* "Back in the US, back in the US, back in the US of Aaaaaaa"

Ahem. Ok, I've finished butchering the Beatles' tune now; you can unplug your ears. Flew in to DC yesterday evening and boy are my arms tired. *rimshot* But seriously, my arms are tired, my neck is sore, my back is aching. Why, oh, why did I pack my suitcase full of heavy candles and shampoos and perfumes and glassware and shoes and rocks? And why were most of the pillows I slept on for three weeks apparently made out of wadded up towels crammed into thin pillowcases? And why is the euro so darn healthy and the stupid dollar so lame? And why can't I get a cafe creme or a cafe con panna or dopio espresso macchiato when I step outside the front door anymore?!

So, blurb version until I get my thoughts together: wonderful time, great weather, lots of pix, rich food, plenty of fresh air and exercise, swimming in the Mediterranean one day and hiking down the Alps another day. Now. Excuse me while I go lay down for a while. I have a mild case of lag of jet. *thunk*

bon jour, mon petite bloggeuers! thank you all for the lovely birthday greetings! and special props to LB for managing to update me blog whilst i am away. i'm back in paris now after a little sojourn to lyon (love that 2 hour super fast, super sleek TGV train ride) to visit one of my eleventy hundred cousins. on our visit to mont blanc, we ended up hiking for three hours from mer de glace to the town at the foot of the mountain. hey, a hike downhill all the way is STILL a hike. we stayed in a charming little farm house (not quite 12th century, but close!) and ate tons of fantastic desi food for the first time in a month. we only have a few more days left in paris and then it's back to DC. hope you all have been well! perhaps each of you can be kind enough to recap a month's worth of your blog posts for me? that would be great. thanks!

Madame Baji
directly above the metro mabillon
saint germain, paris

Dear Baji,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

Love, Lil Baji, Pandi, and the rest of the crew

buon giorno, bambino bloggerinos! writing to you from sunny sorrento on the amalfi coast. gorgeous weather, spectacular views, but crappy pizza. naples is where pizza supposedly originated but this is no good. the pizza in rome was much better. you will be happy to hear that we have been enjoying anywhere from two scoops (trademark) to seven scoops of gelato per day. profumo di sorrento gets an A. tutti frutti gets a D. hope you are all well! ciao!

Signora Baji
Sorrento Information Terminal
Italy

bon jour, mon petite bloggeuers! i'm attempting to write on an incredibly busticated, teeny tiny (isn't every thing in france?) sony vaio right now whilst balancing the laptop on my knees and sitting on a balcony that overlooks saint germain and a buncha parisians smokin' they ciggies, tossin' back they cafe cremes, and not scoopin' up after they puppies' poops. all's well here. great weather, great walking tours, and great location. off to italy tomorrow! miss youze guyz!!!

Madame Baji
directly above the metro mabillon
saint germain, paris

I'm off to fabulous France, swanky Switzerland, and, Inshallah, Italy! See ya, suckers!

Oh, one more thing. While I'm away, I'm relying on you lovely bloggers and blurkers to click on my story "Far East Coast China" so I can win the travelogue contest. Forward to your friends, relatives, and enemies. And feel free to comment (preferably favorably, but I'll take anything) if you make it through the whole story. Okay. That is all. Ummmm . . . See ya, suckers!!!

--Baji
New Computer
Dining Room of New House, DC

"Age Ain't Nothing But a Number"

On Looking Old and On Being Young. Guest Blog by my baby cousin, Oz.

There was this girl who recently started working here. (She's since been "let go.") Well, on the first day she and I ate lunch together, as I was her boss. (Imagine that!) So it's just the two of us at the table and we're struggling to make awkward conversation. We have very little in common aside from the fact that we work together. She asks me how I like it here, blah, blah, blah. She asks me if I'm married and if I have any kids. I say, "no," only to realize that these are two separate questions and so I say "no kids either," as seamlessly as possible.

She says, "huh, that surpises me."

Now I'm intrigued. What does she mean by that? "Oh, why does that surprise you?"

"I don't know. I just thought you'd be married."

I see where this is going. Married... by now... is what she really means.

"How old do you think I am? Really, I won't be offended. I'm just curious what you think."

I can hear the rusty gears of diplomacy turning in her head as she gazes at the ceiling. "Um... thrity five?"

I'm crushed.

"Lower"

"Thirty," she says, sounding more uncertain.

"Lower."

"Twenty-nine?"

"Lower."

"Twenty-eight?" The gears have grinded to a complete halt.

"I'm twenty-four."

"Really, you seem so mature," as they once again start to turn. "I'd never have guessed!"

Now I wasn't lying that I wouldn't be offended. Indeed, I asked for it. And it wasn't the first time that I've been mistaken for being much older. I do dress a bit "snappy" at work, as I was told just yesterday. I like to think that my professionalism contributes also. It's more likely that this girl hadn't interacted with very many people my age who wore ties and spoke polysyllabically. (She was from a very rural area). And in truth, I don't mind it. Most people with whom I work are older than I am. I don't mind being thought of as older if it in any way serves to ward off my ideas and "authority" being marginalized.

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

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We went for dessert at Fourth Street after the reception. Lil Oz was not yet 21 so he was honest and said that he didn't have an ID, but that he was just going for dessert. The guy asked if Omar was his dad, to which Lil Oz replied, "Oh no, that's my older brother."

"Oh, he's not your dad?"

"No, he's my brother."

"Because if he was your dad, you can go in with your dad. that's okay"

CLICK.

"Oh yeah," Lil Oz says, as the guy looks at him with a grin while he's already walked through the checkpoint.

Bechara... so naive!

Well, gang, recapping this weekend's events is quite an undertaking. So many people to thank, so many activities to recount, so many funny moments, touching moments, crazy hectic madness moments to share. Scratch that. Not "so many"; "too many." Apologies, but snippets are the best I can do right now.

Wednesday: Clarksville Fish with the grandparents on the deck in the backyard. You know what I'm talking about Chai, H-Bid, Izbot, LB, Broheem, Chan (man, I got a big fat bloggin' family!).

Thursday: Groom arrives and we have a Mayun at our dear friends house that evening. I sat still for four hours while master mehndi artist Basherunissa decorated my hands and my feet with intricate, delicate, arabesque designs. Food from Shalimar piled high on everyone's plates and piled low on my lap as LB tried to feed me. Note the "tried" choice of words. (psst - just teasing, LB. You are the best and everyone else is the worst).

Friday: Three hours spent at the airport to greet the out-of-town guests while my incredibly hard-working, wonderful, creative family (especially Literaunty) transformed a simple white tent into the glorious, glittery, flowery Mehndi Party Central. That night, with fresh daisies and marigolds circling my neck, with energetic dancers and enthusiastic singers at my feet, and with dazzling candle lights and swirling colors and beaming smiles filling my eyes, I spent my last few hours as "regular Baji" with my family and friends.

Saturday: Nikkah Time! My loving, supportive, amazing parents sat to my left as the Imam read the khutbah and announced to the witnesses and guests that the loving, funny, intelligent man sitting to my right was now my husband. My better half. My old man. My ball and chain. Call me "Mrs. Baji"!

Saturday Night: Wedding reception was held at the Brown Hotel in Louisville. My aunt, who owns a beauty salon in Islamabad, was gracious and accommodating and acceded to my wishes to have very light make-up on my face. My LB fixed my hair up so I could leave it down. I managed not to trip a single time whilst loping around in my trailing lengha which my grandparents gave me and my aunts designed and brought for me from Pakistan; it was fairy-tale pretty (I had not laid eyes upon it until two days before) and, thankfully, was a perfect fit (I had not tried it on until two days before). I've told some of you this already, but it bears repeating. Thanks to my parents, my aunts and uncles, and my cousins and friends who did all of the hard-work, took on all of the planning, and pulled off all of the parties, all that was left for me was pure joy. Unlike many brides, I actually had a great time at my own wedding. Apparently, I have won the title to "the most relaxed bride ever".

Sunday: Brunch at my generous, guest-loving parents' house for the stragglers who managed to get up in the afternoon and attend. After naps for some, shopping for some, and playing chauffeur for some, we opened some prezzies, watched the wedding videos, and called the weekend a success. Thanks for attending and sticking around until the bitter end, Amaal and Upyernoz!

Wanna see more pix? The price of admission is YOU sending ME a pix of yourself first. Ok, kids. Gotta run. My soul mate wants to use the computer now. ;)

Happy Birthday, darling Dadiji! Here's your present.

Happy Birthday, dearest Chai! Here's your present.

Beeeeeep. We're sorry. The Baji you are trying to reach is temporarily out of service.* Please click back and try again. Thank you.**


*(and by "temporarily out of service" we mean "buried under a mountain of cardboard boxes, completely covered in static-clingy styrofoam peanuts, and mummified in miles of wrapping paper".)

**(and to thank you for your understanding, please enjoy this preview pix of Baji getting mehndified and join us in congratulating Mrs. Bness on her Nikkah as well.)

doot de doot doot doot de doot . . .
wedding a success stop
family and friends all around stop
love and prayers all around stop
food and presents all around stop
deets to come stop
occupy yourselves with my "Far East Coast China" travelogue until then stop
xoxo, mrs. baj