A Few Good Deaths

I've been having weird dreams lately, and I couldn't figure out what they were all supposed to mean, or if they had any meaning at all. But yesterday, I think I found my meaning. We could've perished in a domestic accident had it not been for my weird dream. In my dream, a friend and I were headed home from work and hailed a taxi. As soon as we got in, an awful smell immediately assaulted our olfactories. I signaled to my friend this discovery by waving my hand rapidly up and down whilst pinching my nose. It was an unnecessary gesture, as she already had her hand over both her nose and her mouth. It smelled of sweat and gym socks in that there cab, but we were already moving, and it was so hard to get a taxi in those parts. So we stuck it out. We were laughing quietly a little later when the smell changed. It became smoky, like barbecuing a pair of overused gym socks. I mouthed "Geez!!" to my friend who chocked back her laughter. The driver raised his eyes to the rearview mirror and looked at us. Suddenly, he turned into a burnt piece of flesh, and I screamed and screamed as a great smoke took over the whole cab.

Then I woke up. There WAS smoke in my room. I ran out to the hallway where there was MORE smoke. I stifled a scream, just so I wouldn't inhale too much of the smoke, and ran back inside my room where I grabbed my towel and wrapped it around my head [at this point, I felt very heroic and smart about grabbing the towel, like those gorgeous firemen in Third Watch would've asked me to]. I slowly made my way to the kitchen where, on the stove, a pot of shrimp was smoldering. My mom had fallen asleep while waiting for it to cook. Being a sissy, I ran to my mom's room, screamed my head off to wake her up, and told her that she needed to do something quick. My poor mom jumped up, turned off the fire, turned on the exhaust fan, and started to right the house. My brothers were in their room, which was right next to the kitchen, sleeping like babies.

So. Am I a hero, or what?

After that close brush with death, I felt so thankful for surviving the potential fire. I mean, if I was going to die at the age of 22, I would rather it be of something a little less domestic. Something more amusing, perhaps. My friend Marj suggested a few good deaths, to which I added my own:

* Death By Chocolate - But that's awfully over-rated, I say.
* Death By Repetitive Music-Playing
* Death By Potato Chips -Some of which are on the chin still at the time of death. But how unglamorous.
* Death By Korean Soap Operas -Possibly in the middle of a confrontation between the poor leading lady and the leading man's rich snob of a mom.
* Death By Lack Of Imagination
* Death By Arrogance
* Death By Excessive Celebration of Youth
* Death By Confusion
* Death By Conceptual Overload
* Death By Excessive Thought
* Death By Hardened-Booger Pursuit [i.e. pangungulangot]

"Dying is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well."

- Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963); U.S. poet and novelist.

Hair Ye, Hair Ye

What does a good hairdresser have in common with a bad hairdresser?

They both possess the tremendous [and sometimes evil] power to change your life: One for the better, the other for a whole lot worse.

For hair mavens such as myself, finding the right hairdresser is like finding the right guy. You want to rely on your instincts; you can always tell what the hairdresser is like from the moment you sit on her chair. The way she talks to you, the way she examines the shape of your face, the way she sifts through your hair and parts it this way and that.

So I don't understand why I went through with the haircut anyway. There were tell-tale signs right from the start. For one thing, she never asked me any questions about how I wanted it cut. She had a magazine ready, and as soon as I pointed out the hairstyle I wanted, a-snipping she went, no examination, no sifting, no "where do you usually part your hair?". And there I sat, submissive, cowed, while she scooped generous handfuls of my hair, snip snip snip. At one point, I started to resist. But she very quietly pushed me back into my chair, and carried on cutting away my life, my hair. See, I didn't think I could fight her off. She was very insistent and noiselessly rough. Of course it was when I got home safe and considerably far away from her evil, abusive clutches that I started entertaining thoughts of having her murdered. I mean, I was violated! She practically RAPED my hair!! No foreplay, no sweet nothings, just reckless clipping!

When I came into the beauty parlor, I had in my head visions of Drew-Barrymore-hair, Fever Pitch-style. After all, we had the same hair type, and so it would be so much easier for me to emulate her, sweeping bangs, waves, and all. What the witch [her name's JOSIE] gave me was 80s-inspired bangs. The type that reminds me of when I was 6 years old and my "dalaga" aunts would come visit us with their overpowering perfume, crimped hair, and bangs that looked like hats. The kind that makes you think of Madonna in Material Girl. Especially since I have frizzy hair. It's not all well and good, because this is just one of those trends that never made a comeback. And there's a reason why: it's horribly unflattering. I look like a freaking... maid. With outdated hair. I got out of the parlor with Helen Hunt's hairdo in her ancient sitcom Mad About You.

I am fuming, outraged, livid right now. But let me tell you something. Just like we never learn from past relationships with Asshole-Syndrome characters, we never learn from our mistakes with a terribly under-experienced hairdresser. You'll be reading about another horrible experience at yet another untried and untested beauty salon in six months, perhaps after i see yet another film that stars Drew Barrymore or Mandy Moore with that great, star-quality hair.

Oi, vei. Women.







"You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair."
-Lewis Carroll (1832 - 1898) British writer and mathematician.

The Desk Has Spoken

What's on my desk:

* A glass full of colored paper clips.
* Post-its in leaf and arrow shapes.
* A Starbucks Arabia mug full of pens and pencils.
* Berlitz instructor's manuals for adults and kids.
* A Berlitz magazine.
* Ikea's 2005 catalogue.
* Arabian Woman and Emirates Woman magazines.
* Unmarked essays in a folder submitted by my freshman college students.
* Lemony Snicket: A Series of Unfortunate Events VCD I borrowed from BemBem.
* A tube of Mentos Mints.
* A lilac-colored lighter.
* A bunch of mismatched socks and stockings.
* Grocery receipts.
* Books: "Longman's Synonyms Dictionary" and "The Right Word At The Right Time".
* Juz 'amma [Qur'an] tapes my Mom left on it.
* My 2005 appointment diary.
* A mini Nivea hand lotion bottle.
* An oversized calculator.
* A red stapler that doesn't work.
* Index cards with a list of irregular verbs.
* A bag of 5-week-old nuts.
* A heart-shaped dish with potpourri.
* Folders and files.
* Scratch papers.
* A little notebook of quotations that I compiled.
* A picture of the Elephant Rock in Saudi Arabia that my student Yazeed gave me.

What I think they say about me:

* I'm an English teacher. [Tsk.] And apparently, not a very good one.
* I attempt to organize my stuff by using cliche office supplies. Some of which don't work.
* I'm in charge of matching the socks in the fresh-laundry basket but I've never gotten around to doing it.
* My students think I'm an elephant and therefore am interested in my fellow elephants.
* I read glossies when I should make lesson plans.
* I watch movies I've seen over and over again.
* I'm a boring, bored nerd.

What does your desk say about you?

Enough About Me...

... let's talk about me. *Hihihi* As it turns out, I don't know myself half as much as these quizzes do! Let's see, shall we?


You're Andie Anderson(Kate Hudson - ('How to Lose A Guy In 10 Days')
You're smart, beautiful, and ambitious. You have
life going for you in every possible way.
You're true to yourself and to others. You may
make some mistakes along the way, but you don't
cover them up.
Your vintage styling and girl next door persona
makes you an instant trendsetter and everyone's
friend.
You feel just as confortable in silk and heels as
you do in blue jeans on the back of a Harley.You're a wonderful friend, looking for ways to
bring sunshine and laughter to people's lives.You take yourself seriously, but not too seriously.
You express yourself through a public medium,
encouraging feedback and honesty.
All in all you're the Ray of Light.

Which Romantic Comedy Heroine Are You?

** Won't you look at that. Kate Hudson. I wanna be like her when I wake up.

What I've Learned From The People and The Things I Love

The most important things we can learn in life are in the people and things around us. It can be found in the periphery – in-between classes while waiting for the next professor, in those moments while you’re walking from here to your destination, or in brief elevator rides. It can be found in the seconds right before you burst into tears, or in the recurrent beat of a song. In this ultimate age of epiphany, I have unearthed a treasure of discoveries from those I love.

Friends

“It is important to our friends to believe that we are unreservedly frank with them, and important to friendship that we are not.” - MIGNON MCLAUGHLIN

I am blessed with a multitude of friends. From them, I have learned that we have various friends for the various aspects of our personalities. The only people I am ever truly honest with [outside of my immediate family, of course] are my three closest friends.

Jiehan and I get along because of our tastes in fashion and the other superficial aspects of life. We have always been dedicated to the cause of popularity for popularity's sake. I have always been obsessed with the tangibles and the superficial. This may not always be understood by my more philosophical friends, but Jiehan does, and she indulges me. Being slaves to the retail industry, we bond in beauty parlors during hour-long foot spas and hair treatments, reading glossies, watching MTV and fashion TV, and frequenting night-haunts in plush clubs of our generation, armed with our chandelier earrings and excruciatingly high stilletoes. We also have an unbreakable faith in Chinese soap operas.

Marjorie, on the other hand, is my ally. We share principles in life. We wax political, intellectual, and spiritual. Our friendship was concretized in college where, side by side, we fought for our rights and stood our ground against people who did us wrong. We were not always successful, but we can say we tried our best. If I was a lawyer, she’d be the judge in my courtroom. If she was a nurse, I’d be the doctor in her emergency room. I’ve spent N-Thousand hours on the phone with Marj, talking about the philosophical implications of The Lord Of The Rings, and the possible life and times of Arnobi The Rabbit, the mascot of a junior supplement that comes with a leading newspaper here, and Paalle Bukhari, the man who faithfully served us soggy French Fries with Vinegar and Hot Sauce for most of our high school life. We spent several thousand hours more at the Sunken Garden of our university, lying on the grass, staring at the night sky, and weeping at our insights, new-found convictions, and lack thereof. It seemed highly unlikely back when we were 9-year-olds together in our grade school, but we now find ourselves always in the same country at the same time.

To balance this relatively good side of my personality, I have Jehanifah to help me disturb the peace. The only existence we know is in trying to fix something, some situation, some crooked idea or other. So that when we run out of things to fix, we inexorably destroy something, anything, in order to fix it. Jehanifah is my partner in crimes of passion, like when we stole romance novels from her sister’s collection and from this other girl who happened to have the book we’d been looking for. Much later, we would steal out into the night and belt out sappy songs at the local Karaoke bar with much fervor, boozing and burning sticks in-between songs. She and I suffer from – and revel in – the curse of friction, being too alike at times and too different at others.

I have learned that there is enough love to go around. When you make a new friend, you don't necessarily lose an old one. It's time we never have enough of.

… to be continued...

Trippin

Yup, ladies and cats, I'm still tripping about my teaching experience. I'm only realizing that teaching is a lot like acting on stage. You're up there, and all those people peering at you from behind their under-used books are under your mercy. You can cheat, steal, and lie. You can tell them your mother smuggled your brother in from Vietnam. You can give them grades based on your whims. [I did all that]. I'd like to share some of the best moments of my short experience.

** Earlier today, a student came up to me and said, "Teacher Nessreen, I miss you. I hate my new English professor. She's 57 years old and she doesn't know how to work an MP3 player." Aww. Sweet. All those times I was supposed to be teaching them gerunds but taught them how to browse the internet in English instead paid off. At least she hates the new professor more than she hated me.

** On one of review sessions with Level 1 English students, a girl was asked what she would say if she needed to ask information at the Heathrow airport in the UK. She said: "First, I would say, Execute me, Mister, can I ask?". Capital.

** Last summer, the cheekiest kid in my class [read: the student I hated most] asked me, tongue-in-cheek of course, "Teacher, what's the one thing you would like to eat right this moment?" I replied, "A big mac. Why? You gone whip it up, magic-like?" He didn't. What he DID do was call up someone on his mobile, and in 20 minutes, I had a Big Mac meal in my hands. Awwww. That was the best burger I had in my life. He was 9 years old. How can I hate him?

That's off the top of my head.

Life And Times

I am DONE teaching college girls up in here. The only good thing I had going was this office space I was loaned. On my last day, one of my students asked if I had really wanted to be a teacher ever since I was a kid. I did what any self-respecting non-teacher would've done: I swept my hand and snapped my finger at her face, and yelled "Heeeelllllll, naw!! Now, git! Git outta my face! You better work on that gotdamned book report before I whup you up and down with my grade book, you piece of shit." I mean, what, now I'm not good enough for them? Asking me all kinds of nasty shit like that? What was that question supposed to mean? That I hadn't been doing my job? That I hadn't been a good teacher to them and it showed? Well she'd right it gotdamned showed, they the worst students I had ever had the opportunity to teach! Hehe. Not really. I was just real hungry when she asked me. Afterwards, I was so guilty that I snapped at her that I went and did her book report for her. I buckled. I mean, something's gotta give, man.

Yalla, bye.

Ramadhan Mubarak

Trendy Al-Fayhaa District, where Dar Al-Hekma is situated. This is probably the smallest house in the area. The rest are versions of Michael Jackson's Never-Never-Land. Now, if I can get into one of them and just count the rooms, I'd be happy. I imagine there are at least 14 rooms in this one. At the very least.

Kullu 'amun wa antum bikhair!

Ramadhan 2005:
A chance to start over and maybe fast for the whole month for the first time in my life. I'm saying maybe. InshaAllah. It's not as commercialized this year as it was the past couple of years here in Jeddah, but the spirit is definitely out there. I have to work nights like a horse, but I'm fine with it. At least I get the days off, and I can finally catch Interview With A Vampire on Jeddah's very own HBO - MBC 2. Also, the Ramadhan sale season is just around the corner. That should be fun. The days are short for now, so we don't have to wait that long for iftar.

Ramadhan 2004:
Not even. I spent it with my brothers and Kaka Suge at our Manila townhouse, and it was crazy. I was working the graveyard shift at a call center, and there was a Muslim mohawk-hairstyled character who stalked me all over the office. I prayed Taraweeh at the Capitol Estates Mosque an amazing total of 2 times.

Ramadhan 2003:
Even crazier. Most nights were spent at the apartment that my brother Waleed shared with Dudut and Kaka Archie. I distinctly remember the lovely Oreo shakes Kaka Archie would whip up, the "Tram" card games with Kaka Sunny ["pi!" Sssssiiiinnnnoooonnnnggggg tatay mo, Kaka San-eh?], and sharing a pack of Marlboros with Kaka Omar to break our fast. Shameful. But good times.

Shariah has signed me up to be a member of her circle's book club. I'm pretty excited, because I've never been in a book club before. I'm not sure how it works, but I'm guessing book discussions [no duh]. It might be a little embarrassing once I fess up about my occasional Fabio indulgence. Currently, though, I'm reading Rani Manicka's Touching Earth, which I recommend to fellow book-people. It's a fantastic read on the search for truth, a quest we have all tried to embark on at one point or another.

In other news, my Dar Al-Hekma gig is almost up, and I am marra relieved, like you wouldn't believe. I've had it with bratty freshmen girls. For the record, Bitch, I did flash the middle finger at them, so many times in fact that my students have picked it up [you know how we flash the middle finger inside-out in Jeddah]. And for the finale, I am flunking two of the nastiest sumbitches in my class. Haha. They'll be kicked out of their program because of the F that I WILL give them. Thanks to you and me. I call it "making the world a better place". Sorry, Druggie, I couldn't resist. I wish I coulda been more like you.