The Toy Collector

Here is a glimpse into one of my newer poems ... post book release :)
Enjoy!



The Toy Collector


Specks of dust begin to collect
You’ve forgotten about me
Before the shelf you decide which to select
It’s always any other doll but me

Wind the clock back so many hours
Like the toy mouse on your floor
What happened to that love of ours?
Why don’t you want me anymore?

Day after day I tell myself to wait
Patience is a virtue
But life on the shelf seems my fate
Because the dream of us never comes true

My porcelain skin of ivory is beginning to crack
The tears have etched their trails
The still beating heart doesn’t know if you’re coming back
But you wouldn’t be the first who fails

At least wipe the dust off my pink silk dress
Remember me
I know my doll-like perfection has ceased to impress
Just don’t forget me

Melting Away to The Real You

Is it really a crime to desire sharing your life with someone? To know what you want from your life as well? I mean I would really love to know why everyone, EVERYONE, is so persistent to tell me that I am in a useless rush. “Enjoy your life, you’re still young,” she says, right beside her husband and two children. Wait, so are you saying you regretted what you have right beside you? “No, I just wish I could have waited longer.” Think about it though, had you waited just ONE minute longer, your life would not be the one you have. In some cases maybe that is what people want, but in other cases that means the man/woman beside you would not be your spouse; those amazing children that bring smiles to your face would not even exist; and maybe, the other great opportunities that came your way would have never even reached your feet. Let me tell you something, it has nothing to do with age or time. It has to do with who you are. How prepared are YOU?

The answers to this can really only come from within. I mean really deep down within, not the surface answer you convince yourself, and the world around you, of. I have seen people hit ages much older than me and marry because the pressure that they are “getting old” and then enter the trend of divorce. They were not ready. I knew it. I said it. I was ignored. And now here I am, defending my own heart, confident of my own abilities, and still ignored.

Sometimes I think I can see the reflection of the glass walls that hold me. I am in there alone. Everyone else out there. If I even manage to get out, would I really fit in? This box seems to be a better fit each time. I remember a few years back when I was shoved in there by this persistent girl who was a complete stranger. Strangers seem to be the perfect candidates to target me. We were having a discussion about relationships and why most are failing. In literal terms, this girl, only two years older than me, stated I was a stupid 21-year-old kid that had no idea what I wanted or what I was saying. When I asked her how she could come to this closed minded solution she simply said, “Because when I was 21, I was just like you, thinking I knew it all. And just a few months later, I grew and learned more. And now two years later, I know a lot more.” THAT was her big proof? I sat up straight, breathed in deep, and gave her my mature answer. “Well, let me just say, I am confident that I don’t know everything. And I’m even more confident that I’m not you. So don’t even think that you can judge me based on how immature YOU were. And you’re right about one thing, we do learn more and more things everyday. But if I were to take that advice and apply it to getting married, I couldn’t get married till I was dead because then I’d be saying, “Oh I cant marry now, because next week I’ll be learning something to make me more mature, more ready!’”

She wasn’t amused and I didn’t care. She got what she deserved and that was the truth. I still don’t understand how people approach every human being the same way. Has no one ever heard of diversity? She hears that I’m 21 and that number is suddenly enough evidence to convict me. “The jury finds the defendant, 21 year old, GUILTY of being way too young to have an opinion or desire or ambitions she’s going after. She is sentenced to a lifetime of singlehood and criticism.” I look up with fear at the words that were thrown at me. “Um excuse me your honor, I already have that punishment. Can I get something new? Like a car? A dog? Something?!?!”

Nothing comes my way except more criticism and possible candidates (suitors) that almost immediately prove themselves unacceptable. If not immediately, they manage to find a charming and pathetic manner to show me later. It is hard for me when this happens; it’s hard on most girls—especially Arab ones. Each time I think I have found a proper respectable potential, I get close, so very close that I begin to melt. He is the flame and I am the metal. I get closer and I burn. It hurts but I convince myself that it is worth it. I will be in a better shape once it’s finalized. Without warning he shuts down, disappears, and leaves me there to burn out on my own. Just like the metal, I may have completely changed on the outside, but after cooling down, I am still the same metal I was before—strong, dependable, only weak when the fire gets close enough to melt me. For years my base has stayed the same, it is just my outer layers the may have changed.

It is only expected to get burned a few times in life, but the important thing is not changing your base, your foundation, your principles and morals—who you are for real. I know who and what I am, but I guess no one else does…or they refuse to know. They look for the diamonds and glam, and instead I am the metal covered with ash. A color that on the outside seems to have no shine or appeal. But I have yet to find the one wise enough to wipe away the dust and wreckage of the past, that buries me deep, to reveal the bright shine that he knows will come off my metal edges.

Maybe there will be a small part of me, the real me, revealed underneath it all and he will be the one only that notices it instantly. It would be like the moment our eyes connect. The moment I say something that impresses him. Or the moment I smile. Just the moment that will flash before him and make him realize my existence and my worth. I may not be a sparkling diamond, but metal is more useful on many more occasions.

Everyone desires to be seen as worthy, so what makes my desire to want that so criminal? Because I am young? Or hold up, because I’m female? How come I see no justification in that? Probably because there isn’t.

People cannot judge others based on what they get from the outer glance. There is something else, something deep, layers and layers of build up above the foundation. All of that together makes up who this person is. Like a fingerprint—it differentiates every single person. No one can tell me that I am too young for anything or that I need to slow down in life. I have a strong foundation and I believe in myself. One day, not sure when, someone else will notice this too.

Great Expectations (3-Keys)

Words can have a great and heavy meaning. To one person. To everyone. Once upon a time I heard the phrase A word is a promise. That story didn’t live happily every after because now a word is just a petty item composed of lifeless letters, and those letters are composed of lines scratched together.

I can’t say that everyone takes a word personally. I can’t even say that some people do. But I can say that I do. I always have. And that is what has made my life difficult. But that is also what has made my life. What has made me who I am, how I think, why I feel, why I do what I do. A man’s innocent smile can be a word. A man’s guilty smile is a word. A breathless goodbye becomes my breath in the hands of the one who took the goodbye.

It is a pointless mission to expect the world to change its ways, let alone its words. And after all these years I can’t change my own ways or words. But maybe I don’t want to either. Because even though a simple word can lead me to weeks of sleepless nights, torturous mind wars, and unending dreams, I can’t allow myself to change my foundation. My fountain of youth—fountain of life. It may be the cause of my demise, my heartbreaks, and my tears, but the fact that it creates such reactions proves my humanness. And that is one of my favorite qualities about me. If I didn’t feel something to the extent that I do, I wouldn’t be me. I wouldn’t be this strange species that stands out even if I do nothing. The one that feels and thinks and believes differently than the rest of the population.

People have their expectations of how I am to change and what the proper standards of living are, but whoever said that was way to be? Expectations create their own set of problems—especially because they are to one person, entirely different than they are to another. And the expectations about love, about the relationships between men and women, about feelings and emotions, are a problem on their own.

“Girls these days are unbelievable with their expectations.” She sipped her Turkish coffee so arrogantly with her legs crossed and her tone super confident. I watched from afar to hear the rest of what she had to say, to see why another old lady had to bash the remainder of females. I knew she most likely had more sons than daughters and heard their complaints. “They won’t accept a man unless he has three keys.”

I was intrigued and so I sat back and waited to hear this new 3-Key philosophy women were following these days. “In my days, we took a man understanding and accepting the fact that he was to start his life and success from scratch. From zero. Now women refuse it. They want a man with a car key, a house key and an office key. What kind of mentality is that?!?!” She was clearly angry and I had to hide my laughter. I held back against my will to snap back and give her my two cents. After all, I was just the innocent granddaughter coincidentally sitting in the corner of the room with all of my grandmother’s friends. But I had the script in my hand, ready to recite.

How on earth were those great expectations? Why were they too much these days? I wanted to tell her, that in her times, women married between the ages of 17 and 22. The man anywhere from 23 and 33. Of course he had nothing. She was lucky if she didn’t share a room with her mother in law. But times had changed, drastically. Women these days were marrying after 23 and so the men were older as well. And with age comes the sensible expectation for maturity. Not mental maturity because we have given up on that one with the men. But financial maturity. Goal setting maturity. And those include the three keys. On top of that, women are also getting their education, unlike the expectations of the past. And so now the woman has a Master’s degree, has a job, has success, and expects that her partner does too.

Let me review these keys and explain to all those old ladies out there why they are sensible orders to ask of a suitor. Key #1: Car. Okay, if we lived in New York City, I could understand the absence of a car key. But even then, it is sensible to own one for trips and necessities and transportation. If a man cannot afford a car, I don’t see how he can afford a full on marriage. I guess if he can manage it, kudos? Key #2: House/Apt. Now a car, we let slide if NYC was the living standards. But if he came to my door without a key to open the door of our future housing (or at least the ability to purchase one after the engagement) I have no idea why I would open the door for him in the first place. He expects us to take the subway or the taxi to get around, but where do we sleep, wake up, eat, LIVE? There is nothing overreaching here.

The last key—office. She may have taken this one a little too literally, but speaking for myself and for the many girls that I know, none of us expect to marry the CEO or VP of any large corporation who would own the key to the building. The only people I know who own those keys are the security guards. But we do expect a man to have a metaphorical key symbolizing the stability of his well-earned job. The one that will support him as well as the family he wants.

Great expectations? I think not. Times have changed a lot and now women own those three keys. And because 99% of men prefer to be better than women, they have to beat those standards as well. We are just letting them know what to have and prepare before getting on one knee, just so that down the line they don’t retaliate and find themselves in a jealous predicament, where the women has more success and money. Unfortunately, that is almost every man’s nightmare.

Those three words, car, house, office, carried a heavy meaning to this woman and her son. As well as to those other older ladies that sat in our living room. The same way other innocent words carry heavy meanings to my heart. To some they are sensible. To others they are far from it. But everything has another side to it, an explanation, a breakdown that can ease the accepting process. I only wish there was someone who could see the other side of my heart and break down the word intake process and illustrate the simplicity of letting go, the same way I have for the 3-Key Philosophy.

I need a fourth key and I don’t believe that it is too much to ask. But after all the wild emotions I rode I’ve decided that I need to lock my heart. To keep away those who want to break in instead of knocking. And when I find that man with the fourth key, the one that unlocks my heart and all its twisted beats, I think he will be the one who deserves to live in it. And that expectation is the greatest of all.

Personal Bubble

People tell me that I live in a bubble—a perfect bubble that shows me how life should be. Most of the time they tell me that I need to get out of this bubble, break out of my shell, spread my own wings and actually experience the “real world.” The truth is though, I was raised in reality—the reality that many people fail, or refuse, to see. My mother didn’t raise me in Perfect Land; she raised me in Reality Land. She taught me what is right and what is wrong and she gave me the ability to discover this difference on my own. I don’t understand why having this privilege makes me bubbled. I don’t have unbelievable expectations—I have realistic ones.

When the 5th Grade Outdoor Education trip was coming up, I remember the most significant part was the piece of advice my mother handed me on way to the bus. She said, “Remember, before you take a step think: Would I approve of this or not? And that should help you make a decision.” She was, and still is, right. The person who raised me and taught me morals and manners is my mom, so who else would I trust the opinion of? Now, this is the rule I live by, with just a hint of adjustment. I have grown and matured to be an independent woman. I now think of my own approval before I take any steps. However, often times, I’ll push aside my disapproval due to weakness or momentary lapse of judgments; but regret and guilt are what take over afterwards and become the ghosts that haunt me to do good.

Still, with all my confidence, people do a great job of bringing me down. I can see it in so many ladies’ eyes—it’s like they’re rooting for me to fail. For years I believed that’s what it was, but recently I realized they’re not rooting for me to fail, but they have no faith in my strength or abilities; so instead they give me pity and degrading words of advice. When I realized this after a phone call one day, I just wanted to jump from my seat and prove my strength and the fact that having a flaw, doesn’t make you weak—it makes you human.

For example, I remember one time when a lady came up to me at work and we began having a conversation. She and I knew each other well enough to get past “Hello” and “How are you;” and apparently well enough for her to ask me about when I’ll be getting married. My default response is always, “When I find a man worthy enough.” Most girls say, “When the right guy comes along.” But I noticed men don’t come along. And if they do, and people believe he was sent from heaven miraculously, they rush into the relationship and end up in divorce court.

Marriage is not a fling, it’s a project. You have to be excited for it, dedicated and ready to give it all or nothing. But anyway, the lady’s response was, “There are a lot of great men out there come on.” I looked at her weirdly and shook my head (it was ironic because she had just recently divorced). I explained that a nice balanced man with a bit more good than bad is really hard to find in today’s times. She instantly blamed it on me. “Well then, it must be because of you. Your expectations are too high and you could tone down the arrogance a bit.” It was like someone turned the fire up beneath me and I blew. “Too high? It’s too high to ask for loyalty, love, fidelity, familial orientation, dedication, modesty…?” Apparently it is, because when I explain this laundry list, people roll their eyes and ALL say, “You’re never going to find that. Stop being picky.”

I admire how society is the one lowering their standards and expectations, and then asking of me to do so as well. I figured I’m not in a floating bubble; society is the one drowning!

Feminism is a Salute to Motherhood

Feminism is a word that pushes away most men. Hence, singlehood status. But this past week, I got a glimpse into the reality of feminism. One I was definitely aware of, but never actually lived. One I definitely advocated, boiled my blood over, tasted, but never swam in. I took a dive and found myself drowning, wishing to be saved. But alas, those men that fear true manliness won't near feminism. No, they won't.

Exactly a week ago my mother left town. Her first vacation alone in years. She was so cute as she packed her perfectly matching suitcases and somewhat skipped across the house taking things from here and there. I could see she was happy and so I worked extra hard at hiding the fact that it was hard on me. Bottom line, when I sift through everything and everyone around me, she is what remains. What happens when she isn't? I am exposed to feminism.

I dropped her off at LAX and only allowed a few tear drops as I walked back to the parking structure alone. I thought to myself, "Not a big deal. Two weeks. I've got school. My little brother has school. My dad's at work. And NO ONE is expecting me to cook!" WRONG!!! (to the first sentence and last sentence).

A typical day includes waking up for fajr (the predawn prayer) followed by potentially a long nap, followed by waking up for the day between 7:30 and 9:30 depending on the schedule, completing errands and working, homework, eating a bite somewhere here and there, and going to school in the evening. Now that's MY day. My mother's day involves a lot of reading between those lines.

She wakes up prior to 4:30am ... begins her errands and to do list then. A bit later she wakes all of us up to for the prayer and goes back to working. We usually take the long nap option. Now that she's gone, guess who has to wake up the little one for prayer? Yup, so my alarm is set to ring at 4:45am. But I wish it were that simple. Ever since she left I haven't been able to sleep. Tossing and turning and waking up in the middle of the night thinking: OMG! I MISSED THE PRAYER! I'M LATE TO TAKE MY BROTHER TO SCHOOL! I FORGOT HIS LUNCH! I FORGOT MY MICROECONOMICS PAPER!!!

I hit the clock light to find out it's still 2:31am and I slowly get back into the uneasy sleep. So let's mark it - seven days of improper sleep. Ah, what it has done to my physique and sanity, no one really wants to know.

Following this, I must be ready at 7:00am to make breakfast, coffee and the little one's lunch. If it were a healthy option, I'd throw down a $5 bill and tell him to buy lunch, but that's gross! And so I open the freezer, defrost eggo waffles, pour a glass of milk, take out the bread, make the peanut butter and jelly combo or the turkey etc. combo. It includes a drink, a side of healthy chips, an oatmeal granola bar, some fruit and a napkin. My eyes are barely able to stay open but I pinch myself, especially as I work on the stove making the Turkish coffee for the next member. It smells so good and energizing. And for some reason I always forget to make myself a cup too!

The two men leave. It feels peaceful. I walk back into my room and try and ignore my bed's seductive attempts to pull me back in. By then it's already 8:45 and I just worry if I go back to sleep I will get sucked in for too long and forget the rest of my laundry list of crap to do.

That list never seems to end. Seven days later and it's still not dead. Go to Target and get 7867532347568 items. Go to Ralph's and get 78543768 items. Go to the mall and exchange 2346343 items. Read budgeting chapters 1 and 2 from EACH textbook, read chapter 4 from research methods textbook, read chapter 3 from microeconomics textbook. Type up essay for chapter 4 and chapter 3. Make sure it's double spaced!!!

Now for my mom, this would involve things like: Edit presentation. Confirm appointments. Cancel and reschedule this or that. Print out document. Mail the six envelopes. Review the three chapters that will be taught. Make 767545346687 calls. Drive to 345684325465 places. Pick this up. Drop that off. Make dinner. Try NOT to fall asleep at the traffic light. Survive the rest of the evening.

It amazes me. All of it does. Because in each of these past seven days, the girl that used to sleep at 2:00am now can barely master breathing at 9:30pm. When the clock hits 8:45pm, I am rushing everyone to finish everything off and go upstairs. I shower, write down my new to do list (a new one for each day, and they keep growing!) and finally let my head hit the pillow. And of course then the nightmares begin. And sleep is choppy. And the next day starts all over again.

Women who truly apply themselves into this world, who give themselves a real purpose, are the ones that decide to take on the roles that this world enables them. An active businesswoman, who is also a good friend, no a GREAT friend, a neat freak of undeniable organization, a professional baker and chef, an educated intelligence, a wife and a mom - that's a woman. One exercising her true feminism and femininity at once.

I'm not explaining an epiphany. Really. I knew all this from long ago and advocated. Wished and yearned that these men today appreciated it at the LEAST since they cannot seem to comprehend the need for them to alleviate this pressure and share the tasks that life provide. But what I am saying is that for those who fear that word Feminism, and decide to run away from those women who are strong, independent, adventurous, and are taking an active role in this world to make a difference, are, well, losers. That may come across pathetic and juvenile, but what other word befits this situation?

I don't understand how they can differentiate this and then their mothers. They love their mama (I mean, hello, don't you dare make fun of their mama!). They would do anything for her. But then suddenly comes in a wife, and where does the appreciation go? But then again, let's take a step back. They love their mama but do they appreciate her? And all the work she does? If they sit back and relax and enjoy the free ride of getting their laundry, food and life handed to them on a silver platter at home, of course they're going to take advantage of the next woman in their life. Telling her what she HAS to do for him and what's HER job as a woman. There's another -ism for that ... it's called Sexism. GASP! Not that word!

That word could and has written books and led us no where really. I don't know if there's this hopeful change beyond the horizon for this generation, but, I felt a need to express this after swimming in this pool that my mother has for all these years. And of course I am only doing 5% of what she does and it is unbelievable. The only shocking part is the lack of appreciation I find. The people that speak about this amazing feminism and strength to believe in your full rights as a woman to go out and do whatever it is your abilities allow to make a difference like it's a shameful bad thing. The true shame is that men just cannot get over their sexism and allow us to boast in our well deserved feminism.

And the OC Register did it again ... :)

The OC Register asked for a follow up article in regards to the Islamic month of fasting and its post Holiday ... and here it is:

http://www.ocregister.com/news/eid-265973-day-ramadan.html

Redefining Holiday (Tough Love Special)

The day of Eid has come. Thirty days later and it is finally here. But why don't I feel the jittery excitement of butterflies like I always do? And why does my heart wrench when I come across Facebook statuses that are a bit overjoyed for Eid? Is Eid not our holiday? My holiday that I earned after 30 days of consistent sacrifice and worship? So why aren't I counting down the minutes, and tossing and turning in bed like children do on Christmas eve from the sheer anticipation of finally celebrating? What happened to me this Ramadan that altered my definition of holiday, into literally, Holy Day?

It started three days before Ramadan. I could feel it in the air. Ramadan was coming and I mentally pushed it away. Out of sight. Out of mind. I wasn't sure if I really was looking forward to not eating all day and refraining from my typical routine of gum chewing and diet soda intake. I wasn't sure I could manage changing the remainder of my free summer schedule to revolve around the soon to be added worship rituals of the month. I could tell. I could tell something was coming. If not to my Ummah, at least to me. And it did. In the final three days of Ramadan it rained on me, the same exact way it actually rained in the skies of Southern California on day 27.

The withdrawal was starting early. All of a sudden the month I was once too weak to anticipate was now making me fear my weakness with its absence. I was changed. I was hooked. I am addicted. And what will I do now?

I cried in the final Ramadan prayer, holding the Quran so tightly, imagining how this same beloved book that is reviving my heart right now, is enraging a racist pastor on the other side of this country; enough to burn it.

I cried realizing that a few hours before I was a victim of a personal incident that hurt from a dear friend. And I wondered why didn't Ramadan shake her heart as hard as it did mine? It's not arrogance. But it is realization. I spent my entire life working extra hard to please the world around me. Walking on eggshells to never hurt a single soul. And when I dare sit back for a moment to rest, I find that wounds start to appear and everyone doesn't mind hurting me.

I am not the only one. I have seen many others suffer. And I watch painfully as they continue to go unappreciated and I wonder why. Why are we, the Muslim Ummah, so unfair to each other? Why are we rarely there for each other in our own backyards? How come we can rush to supposedly solve every international crisis with protests and rants, but when a local asks for help, or even the simplicity of a kind word or open ears, we do our best to turn the other cheek.

I continued to cry feeling so alone. And that is when I reached a verse that wrenched my heart even more. God said that He will always be with you, always be watching over you. The tears spilled and I couldn't let go of Ramadan at all at this point. Ramadan's specialty is how much closer, not God becomes to us, but how much we get nearer to Him. How much we remember him.

I felt overwhelmed and exhausted. Thirty days of effort and struggle to remove all the "me" from myself and give it to God. But I did. And now I don't want it back. I don't want any of what I gave God back. I want to stay this way. And I'm scared. I am scared of Eid. And now I understand why my mother was always scared of the morning of Eid too. Because when you walk towards the masjid, everything starts playing out in slow motion. And for the first time you see the REAL Eid.

Everyone is laughing and talking loudly in a gathered crowd. Children are running around and giggling. You see the bright colors. You see that everyone is dressed up so much so that you think you're at a wedding. And it all has this eerie undertone to it as the takbeerat get louder and louder. And it hits you. THIS IS THE DAY I RECEIVE MY REPORT CARD. This is the day that draws the line of who Ramadan made you and whether or not the coming year will be your success or your failure. Your heart starts beating. You can't help but start to cry. And you wish, that for just one more second you had just the touch of Ramadan again. But it's gone. It's gone. And no one is ever sure that it will be back for them.

I prayed this year that it would be the year of change for my Ummah. It was number one on my list of duaas that I posted up onto my wall. It stood there on the bright yellow paper: #1 - Guidance to My Ummah. I wanted this year to be THE year. The year where men would finally be men. Where women would let go a little more of this dunya and take in a bit more of this deen. The year where sexism finally ended and men realized that following the sunnah doesn't just consist of growing a beard with an attitude, but much much much more. The year that women realized what the true meaning of hijab is and actually applied it physically and not just mentally. The year we finally took upon ourselves the obligation of respecting one another. The year we finally took a dive into the pool of modesty we have so long abandoned. The year where we actually knew what standing up for and with each other meant. The year where we all started walking on eggshells to please one another and not hurt each other.

This Ummah has sat in a silent slack given routine for so many years. And it is watching itself fall apart day by day. Lack of respect. Degradation. Increase of divorce. Lost youth. Terrible treatment. And let us not forget the disasters that happen around this world. The things that happen around us are not meant for the sake of us overreacting and making a terribly embarrassing scenes. Rather it's a notice, a warning, from Allah that it is time to step it up and improve. And I will tell you that I will gladly sign my name up on that list because I know that we all have much to improve on. And this Ramadan drew the line for me.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't celebrate. We should. Actually we must. Eid is a day of Reward. A day we earned after great sacrifice and we deserve to enjoy the blessing Allah has given us. The blessing of being able to go to any masjid in Southern California without worry and fear. The blessing of being able to have hours of a good time without problems. The blessing of being able to eat and spread a sense of spirituality with our youth and children and families and friends. But what I am saying is this year, let us work harder than ever before on NOT losing what we gained just 24 hours before in the month of Ramadan. Instead of turning to dramatic actions when responding to calamities around us, how about we try turning to something we've forgotten, like an increase in our worship and prayers. Dedicating a day to fasting for some incident. Or dedicating a Quran reading. Let us make THIS the year that we finally become "Khayra Ummah". The world makes New Year Resolutions every December 31st/January 1st, why shouldn't we at the end of every Ramadan and actually stick with them?

Allahumma Taqabbal Minna Salatana wa Siyamana w Rukuaana wa Sujoodana w Qiyamana w Duaana w Saleh Aamalaneh. Allahumma ihdeena feeman hadayt w Afina fi man Afayt. Allahumma Wahhid Ummat Nabeeyika Muhammadun Salah Allahu Alayhi w Sallam. Walhamdulilah Rabbil Alameen.

I made it to the OC Register ... so far :)

Salaams everyone!

I just wanted to share the article I sent to the OC Register about Ramadan ... and it got chosen and published! Alhamdulilah :)

http://www.ocregister.com/news/ramadan-263916-time-day.html

Woohoo! :)

Ramadan Wishes

Preface (to the blog):

I once spent Thanksgiving alone, eating a grilled cheese sandwich in the dark, while watching Love Actually. As I munched on the crunchy delicious sandwich I wondered, did I have the right to be a little unappreciative, since my family had entirely left me here and I didn't even have turkey to make a turkey sandwich? And I laughed. Sometimes we all have those moments. But then it occurred to me: Why do we dedicate one weekend to suddenly exposing our gracious desire to be thankful, when we have these things we are thankful for all year long?

----------

It was almost sunset time and my dad was sitting on the couch, holding his shiny black laptop searching for videos of classical old Arab singers (I mean the black and white Um Kalthoum/Abdel Halim Hafez stuff) on YouTube. I rolled my eyes as I continued to help set the table and prepare the delicious meal that was calling my diet to stop. I didn't really care for those singers that much. Actually, to be truly honest, I cannot stand them. I guess that Arab root is missing from my tree. Anyway, I could hear him clicking, and I could hear him humming to the tunes that blasted through his headphones as he moved his hands and head like a maestro. It continued in this soft harmony until I heard him click hard on his keyboard mouse in an angry way. "Argh! Why isn't this working?!?!" I looked up at him, gave the blasé attitude, shrugged my shoulders and continued working. I thought he probably clicked something wrong on YouTube or had no patience to wait for that annoying red bar at the bottom of the video to completely load before pushing play. Then he took off his headphones and called out to me.

"Why isn't the internet working? I mean it is completely agitating to have to endure this nightly!" Our internet service has its PMS moments. When it feels like working it does. When it does not, it doesn't. I'm not sure why, since we paid for the Verizon Fios blah blah blah stuff and yet we still have to suffer. My brother and I explained to him the numerous times we called. The numerous times we hit restart or unplugged it. But the problems continue.

Had this day NOT been a Tuesday, this incident would have easily slipped my mind. But because it was a Tuesday, the day where I work at the Financial Aid Department of a Family Resource Center, the story made a deeper impact. I had come home rushed and barely able to make the afternoon prayer (Asr). By the time I got cleaned up, it was almost time to break the fast (of Ramadan) and eat. But the day had been more than just physically overwhelming. It had been emotionally a roller coaster too.

That day, instead of the eight clients I had listed for my hours, eight more walk-ins joined the waiting room. My supervisor (a.k.a. mommy hehe) and I could barely manage between client after client. Running from one room to the other to take care of every situation that came our way. It was difficult, but the job is definitely well worth it. But it was hard on this day, honestly we both didn't know why, because we get cases like this ALL the time, but we both returned home feeling heavy hearted and a bit depressed.

Our clientele on that given day ranged from a homeless father with five kids, to a family of 14 with a home that just burned down, searching for a way to pay for the next night at the motel. We had clients come in with torn shirts, pants that looked like they were sizes too small or too big. Clients just begging for a bus pass to get from one location to another in order to beg (yes, beg) for a job. Clients who cry their tears in front of you and you cannot do anything about it. Clients whose children have terminal illnesses at only the ages of infancy. Clients who ask for simply a cup of water because that's all they can find. And the hardest part about it is that we work at a non-profit agency, meaning we solely rely on donations and grants to survive, both of which are completely unsteady. And so it becomes the worst when we have to tell them, "I'm sorry" but we can only offer you half, 1/4, 1/5 or even less of the rent or the bill you have this month. And this money is just to help them stand up on their own till they can find a way.

The first client I ever received was a middle aged man. He was so innocent and quiet and could barely explain his situation. But I managed to hear it. He had asked for an extension on his previous month's electricity bill (which was the reason he came in). It was a large amount that we could only pay for half of. Across the bill was written the warning that his electricity would be shut off in three days--the final day being just the following day. And when I helped him with it, he asked me what he could get for this month's bill that was twice as much and already past due. I shivered as I read the paper, imagining my father, or myself, being in that situation.

We are so blessed that we don't even realize it. Sometimes it really takes a wake up call. Some situation to spark up this, "Oh my god! I really am blessed." I got home and was able to lock the door behind me. I GOT HOME with my car. I HAD A HOME and that in itself was a blessing. When I walked into my dark room after iftar (fast breaking dinner) without second guessing whether or not it would turn on, I flipped the switch for my bedside lamp and soaked in the yellow illumination it brought. I started to cry as I thought of him, and every other client I saw that day. I wanted to just empty out my wallet, donate my closet, and purchase everything else they need. But life doesn't really go that way. Although one person can make a difference, it needs many people to make a change.

I tried to imagine what it would be like to get the foreclosure notice on my doorstep. The one my mother's client had in her hand. I imagined not being able to take my long comfortable warm showers every night because the water was shut off. It felt so awful and I felt even more helpless. I mean what more could I do? I've seen so many administrators from the agency ask for help with donations and volunteers, but it takes people years to make a move and I don't get why.

Each week I walk into that office holding my breath for the next shocker that I am about to see. I let it out as the client sits before, and I ask, "So how can I help you today?" while nervously in fear of what heart breaking story I have to sit through WITHOUT crying.

My wish this Ramadan is split into thirds:

1) I wish people would just be more appreciative of everything around them, even in their pure simplicity. In my final semester of undergraduate we learned about Karl Marx's theory called Alienation of Labor. I was mesmerized by its pure honesty and the mere fact that I lived the opposite, always questioning why we never appreciated the work. I always drank water out of a bottle and thought of whoever worked in that factory creating it. And so when I learned about the theory things made sense. And although the theory goes into the deeper world of labor, it does educate on appreciation for the things that are created on how we often forget who created it and how much effort and time they put into it. So I think we need more of that. To realize that the this electricity moves into our homes is a miraculous and mind boggling invention that we are blessed to have and afford to continue having. And so is everything else we live with today.

2) I really do wish that people take into consideration agencies they neglected before, like the one I worked at called Access California Services (www.accesscal.org) and finding any means in their will power to support it--at least in this blessed month of Ramadan. Donations, how little or big, will OBVIOUSLY be put to good use. Now that back to school season is in, we have numerous parents that cannot afford to buy their children pencils, let alone everything on those scary long lists. So small donations add up. Info to donate can be found on their website. Or checks can be mailed to Financial Dept. at Access California Services - 2180 W. Crescent Ave. - Anaheim, CA - 92801.

3) The final and simplest of all wishes is that we increase our prayers. Those can be done at any moment in any day. And now that we are in Ramadan, a blessed time, prayers are even more special. It's not too hard to pray for your community, your neighbors, and yourself. I ask that we just pray for these people struggling to get the next meal. After all, that is what one of the big reasons is for Ramadan. A means to show us what we have and what we should be thankful for because many others just dream for it.

The Perfect Crime

What makes the perfect crime? The criminal? The actions? The strategy? I believe it is the ability to leave the crime scene so spotless that the crime itself enters the “Unsolved Mysteries” file. After being the victim of more than one perfect crime, I finally understand how and why the perpetrator gets away with it each time. At first I wondered as to how they experience no ounce of guilt or fear inside of them for what they have done. I mean I spent almost one year swimming in my guilt when I “dumped” the first serious guy I ever had (dumped is quoted because I can’t really say we were dating, just more along the lines of taking the Islamic steps towards marriage when I realized it wouldn’t work). But how come so many people just left me for dead without any worries? I figured out this mystery through the use of my own forensic science of the heart and mind. They did it because they knew that they can and will get away with it.

They do not experience any guilt as they transgress their boundaries with us. They dare themselves and overstep these limits just enough to leave a hairline fracture upon our hearts. But dare we open our mouths and let out a moan from the pain that we mysteriously came to endure and they will immediately back away with the pathetic disclaimer of “Well I didn’t do anything.” You hear it and the anger begins to boil inside of you. “You didn’t do anything? What about all those words and flirts and calls and e-mails and stares and actions and dates? Those were nothing?” It is what you want to say but you cannot.

Like a detective you begin the investigation. Searching, analyzing and rethinking every step he ever took and it hurts. You come to the conclusion that he made his moves, all the moves he could at this point. He left his marks and hurt you good. But all the evidence you have gathered is circumstantial. Nothing can be pinned against him. And if he were to be tried for this case, he could and would walk free. In the middle of the courtroom, beneath your heavy tears, you scream out the things he put you through and he smiles—wide. His lawyer shouts out, “Objection your honor. Her evidence is entirely circumstantial. Nothing can be linked back to my client.” By the end of the trial, the jury, although emotionally siding with you, will have no choice but to give yet another man the benefit of the doubt. He and his over priced suit will walk out unscratched. And you, well you will be left to deal with your damaged heart and loneliness all on your own. Inside you feel angry and helpless—you can do nothing. All you have are your tears for the jury. You cannot even demonstrate the fracture he inflicted upon your heart. His actions had no labels, no traces, no fingerprints to incriminate him. So he can get away with anything. And he does.

Just because I received no ring, I receive no attention. I got calls and chats and e-mails and text messages, and dates, but that is all useless evidence—things I cannot put in front of the jury. For each one he has an alibi, some excuse that he can use to get out of it. “I was just being a friend.” “I didn’t mean any of it.” “You shouldn’t have taken anything personally.” Really dear, is that all? I find it fascinating that men expect us to exercise complete self-control when it comes to the way we intake and define their actions, but they are free to exercise zero self-control as they make every sickening move in their games with us. I hear it all the time. “You can’t listen to your heart and take every flirtatious word meaningful.” Why? “Because men are always playing. That’s just the way they are,” they say. Well why doesn’t anyone ever tell the man, “Shut up and stop, because women can take it personally…and THAT’S JUST THE WAY THEY ARE?”

I don't like it like THAT!

This was my response (tough but so needed) to Elle Magazine in regards to this article they posted in this month's issue:

http://www.elle.com/Life-Love/Sex-Relationships/They-Like-It-Like-That-Why-Every-Woman-is-Desirable

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I subscribed for Elle, I anticipated articles and issues revolving around subjects catered to raising my self-esteem and pride in being a mature, bright, young and well, beautiful (in my terms) female. I never expected to feel the opposite; to start generating this disgust at the fate I was born into. To find that with each issue, my sex was losing more and more of its dignity and worth.

I'm not necessarily talking about the trends and fashion ads in specific, because, let's face it, many of us women do enjoy seeing what's new and what will work with our very own styles; especially those of us who enjoy and prefer a modest fashion. We look for any opportunity of finding a potentially successful outfit. Even my mother, the woman least interested in the "IT" world of Prada and Gucci, desires a sneak peak into fine fashion. But after strumming through a few pages of this months issue (August 2010), we were both ready to dump it right into the recycle bin rather than save it. So what was it this time that really pushed us over the top?

Other than the six plus pictures of visible or nearly visible breasts (which exceeded normalcy and vulgarity; just curious how can increased nakedness still be called fashion when sooner than later they'll be wearing NOTHING at all? What will those designers do with all their materials?), it was this month's Elle Reader Men article. As I hesitantly turned each page of the magazine, fearful of what naked and exposed body part would pop out at me on the next glossy page, I stumbled upon the article I was somewhat anxious to read thanks to the misleading commercialization of it on the front cover. The exact words read: Why All Men Really Want You Now. Seven words to truly intrigue any single girl into reading. Sort of like a sugar coated Uncle Sam Poster seducing men to WANT to join the army; women were seduced into opening up this issue and diving into what turned out to be a complete scam.

I stared at the picture attached to the article. An attractive blonde woman in the middle, with her head back laughing, wearing a short teal low cut dress revealing major cleavage; surrounded by three men (who looked much younger than her); one was staring somewhere close to her chest; one was staring at the table before him; and the third had his eyes far far away from her with a malicious smile across his face, clearly displaying the acts of a man who was already undressing girl number six with his eyes. The caption right above the picture pretty much summed up the scam for me right then and there: You know that look you catch your boyfriend giving other women?... That's when I realized that this wasn't an article aimed at helping women understand what valuable qualities in her attract a man, but rather it was just another disgusting article written (by a man) desperately trying to justify the pig-like status of his kind. Making us believe that it is their innate nature to be bastards and we, women, just have to accept it with our heads hung back and shirts and skirts completely open and ready.

I realized I couldn't rebut it or respond or even comment about it without reading it completely to the end, and so I did. I dove into the most disgusting ocean I ever found and endured the torturous crap this man kept throwing out there, as if he did some really fascinating research on how horny and perverted he and his kind were. And where did he just put the cherry on top and make me laugh and tip my hat to the idiocity? When he proudly stated a question to supposedly sum up the reason why men are so sexually obsessed, a question he thought made such a strong vibrant point, that he was clearly oblivious to the fact that it actually made him and his kind, look just like that--a kind--a species so distant from humanity. As he described his experiment of tallying the number "of appropriate age [women]--roughly 18 to 60--who walked" right past him in four minutes, and tallying the ones he found to be inappropriate, his female friend asked him why sex with strange or unknown women was such a turn on for men, and all he could conjure up was, "Do you go to the zoo and ask the tigers why they like meat?" I literally dropped the magazine at that point and blurted out, "What an idiot!" before gathering up the strength to go back and finish this sham of an article.

Yes, I'm sure it's fascinating entertainment for readers, even for a sociologist like myself, but to have to endure the fact that this man was trying to convince me that THIS IS THE WAY men are, and that we have to ACCEPT it as women was just unbelievable. And the fact that all four of the men he was describing were married and could've been considered "good" on paper, was even more deceitful. I wonder, if this man was a real man, why couldn't he or any of his buddies straight up reveal their identities to their wives and allow those poor women to understand what kind of mental Ivy League/Jock(straps)/sexual addicts they are living with--because the excuse of "we don't want our wives to know that we spend our days doing little else besides fantasizing about cheating on them" just does not cut it! I mean just reading how often these supposed men think of sex is quite disturbing. What happened to real men who could actually conduct themselves in society as proper humane people without having their brain jammed somewhere in their genitals? I guess that died with chivalry and romance long ago.

I think it's just sad that society has transformed into something so beyond liberal and virtue-less, allowing a man to openly state that the vision of a random lady in a tank top gives him something near an orgasm when he is happily married with kids. It just makes me want to keep up with the modesty of long sleeves and pants, even in the summer heat. I have dignity and I believe that women (and men) need to start strapping that on. And just because (as he stated) women don't walk around eying and mentally sexing every man that crosses their path doesn't mean they don't have a sexual appetite, but there's a sense of composure and modesty that comes along, and men need to learn that it's a part of being a man as well.

By the time I reached the end of these two and a half pages, I wondered how many women ACTUALLY benefited from it. After all, was that not the lie plastered on the front cover? An allure to why men want US NOW? We never expected to discover it was actually just because we ranged between the ages of 18 and 60 and had a vagina and boobs. Yes, that's all we apparently need because even saggy breasts are considered "Fun, like flesh Slinkys!" to them. So was the purpose then to just mold women's minds into accepting the role of kicking back and relaxing as we sit across the men's silver platters and take on the status of premium choice USDA beef whether we are aged or not?

I don't want to be rude but ...

When I was younger, I will admit, I was more religious. Many of us Muslims could agree with this statement. It's because we were fresh, raised with this mentality, young and innocent. It's also because the bowl of temptation didn't sit right before us like last year's Halloween candy. We had no idea what was to come. So many things were clearly distinguished between wrong and right and we saw the line that we would never dare cross because the weight of guilt was worse than the error itself.

It was so much easier back then to say, "No" to guys as well (don't let your minds stray, trust me). But that's probably because back then I rarely ever had to say it because I rarely ever came across that scenario. The one time a guy actually asked me out it was a prank pulled off by annoying 8th graders on me-the innocent 6th grader. The cutest guy on campus was walking towards me while his posse held in their obvious laughter behind him. It literally reminded me of "Never Been Kissed" and even then I was strong enough to not believe it. But then again I knew he didn't really care. I mean who would care about the buck toothed, mickey mouse glasses wearing Muslim covered girl who was labeled Teacher's Pet? As he begged and begged me to go to the Winter Wonderland Dance with him, I repeated my answer, "No."

Luckily, my mother pulled up in her shiny fancy car right on time and I walked away without looking back feeling as strong as ever for not falling into the disgusting prank those kids were pulling. But what happened to that? That perfect strength to stand our ground and never let them get to us? How did one taste of the poisonous temptation make us fall pray to every other obstacle on our path?

It started with just one string of hope and suddenly I braided my own twisted road of pain. Years after that incident I grew to be a mature girl focused on education. I started my first semester at community college feeling the amazing opportunities that lay ahead and that's when he appeared as well. The eligible bachelor of the Muslim community; the one that just "happened" to fall for me (ha!). He was handsome, funny, and someone the family would approve of. And knowing that HE was the one to care first was an added bonus. This was just the unwrapping of that first Halloween candy.

Back in the days, even talking to a boy was a taboo, something I would never allow myself to get near because just one dip in that toxic pool could definitely lead to drowning. But here, I was older, and so was he. The intent and idea was a future relationship, no games, no fakes, just honesty. Or so I thought.

I wanted to stay within my boundaries but keep a connection with him. But how? Forwards. That was my perfect answer. If I was never going to text, call or message him, why not send Fowards? Pathetic but handy. I received an e-mail about a new upcoming event in the community and I decided that would be the best way to get his attention. So after typing in six other friends' emails, I inputted his name (so it wouldn't be obvious that he was the first one on my list) and I sent it. Little did I know that that was going to be more than enough. And he used that ticket to start e-mailing me.

They were petty e-mails. Him asking me questions about random things I was 110% sure that he knew the answer to, only increasing my hope and hunches about his interest. But I had to learn the hard way, months later, that I could be easily replaced. Not bitter. No longer hurt. But I wonder now why that wasn't enough for me to let go and forget it all.

Because through more years of life and experience I discovered that men these days will do and say and play anything for a bit of entertainment at watching the girl crash and burn. And these are the ones that call themselves religious. How can that be? With each year I thought this year they'll be more mature. But you find they've got Master's Degrees, PhD.s, and steady seniority in jobs and yet rare maturity. And still, I remained kind, open, afraid of saying "No" anytime someone initiated a conversation.

I wondered how I could tell him, "I'm sorry but I don't really want to chat about nothingness," without sounding rude. Because I've found these days that men are more emotional than women and take things a lot more personally. Rather than respecting a woman who tells them she'd prefer not to start a meaningless relationship, he labels her: Extremely Religious, Arrogant, Rude, etc. So how does a girl balance between being nice and maintaining her religiosity?

Back in 6th grade, I was well aware and very much agreed to the idea that socializing with boys was only necessary if we were partners on a school project or worked together. But agreeing to go out for drinks after the merger meeting, or getting lunch after our midterm was not really an option.

I guess what I really am wondering is also on a personal level. I'm wondering if I can ever get that sensation of walking away from an offer the way I did so happily and confidently in 6th grade? Knowing that if this man TRULY meant the offer in an honest and futuristic manner he would actually take the right steps rather than beat around the bushes. I mean what is so hard with telling someone how you feel from the get-go? And then deciding to follow through with it the right way?

The thing is technology has started to dilute the Muslim's idea of communication and socializing. Now everyone is friends with everyone on Facebook. And so with that comes the Facebook Chat & Messages. EVERYONE e-mails. And let's not begin with texts. And most, if not all, have found a way to keep it all hidden and secretive. And slowly it's morphing and growing until it eats us all up. And we find ourselves tasting the bitter blood of broken hearts because we find out 3, 4, or 9 months later it meant nothing to the other person. Why?

After my rejuvenating escape from the Californian bubble for almost half a year I realized all of this. It starts with realizing how much you are worth and who you are and what you truly deserve. Petty flirts and chats that will lead no where are no longer on my list of do-ables. Why open the door to something that won't even come in?

If only the looks could count ...

Review after review I felt my sense of hope being drained from my heart. After a few good months with my precious sparkly bronze Nokia it entered into the inevitable coma that most (if not all Nokias enter - hence their low status in California). Once again I restarted the hunt for a good replacement for my old and true love, the HTC with Google phone. The one that opened the door to so many that now exist. The phone that so many called ugly and bulky and crappy was a beautiful magician that enhanced my life.

"Oh that one? Yeah, actually it's being discontinued so we can't sell it anymore." His words were a slap across my face. "Are you serious?" My intent to go in and make a quick purchase of happiness had been killed. "Why?" He shrugged his shoulders and attempted to straighten up some of the phones nearby him. I felt a sense of betrayal as well disappointment that now I would be forced into getting the MyTouch or MyTouch slide - both of which revolt me. But that's when I saw him. The most gorgeous and breathtaking phone of my life. Our eyes met and I immediately knew that the HTC HD2 belonged in my hands so that my fingers could enjoy the picture perfect 4.3 inch screen of beauty.

I made my way over to that attractive beauty and we shared a Hollywood moment of admiration as I slowly scrolled up and down the large icon filled home screen. Everything about it amazed me ... until he spoke. "Actually, that's a Windows phone. Not an Android." He said, "Windows," and I said, "What the french toast?" As if the discontinuation of my baby wasn't bad enough, he had to throw that piece of information out at me like a curve-ball made of crap.

I left the store feeling a bit confused. Why was I so quick to judge Windows? After all, I spent a majority of my life using Windows and I began reminiscing the old days before my MacBook. The freezing. The out of no where shutting down. The seizure like movements of my screen. The constant viruses. The number of times I force-shut down my desktop, laptop, school computer and so on. I popped my own dream bubble as I drove back home contemplating what to do.

"OMG!!! YOU HAVE IT!!!" I saw it in her hands and I felt a shot of excitement as she shared the wealth. But something was different, a little off than the one I saw just a few days before. As I scrolled through the screen, an Android robot made his appearance every now and then. Confusion took over until I gave the phone a second look. It was not my baby HD2 but rather its cousin, the Evo from Sprint. Correction, the Android operated EVO from Sprint. I gave her back the phone like a child forced to return the toy to its rightful owner after a moment of hope sparked that I too could one day have my own one. And Sprint had done it again. It had sewn in me this hope that an amazing phone existed that I could get under the umbrella of T-Mobile only to then discover that if I wanted it, and wanted it unlocked and with my T-Mobile service I had to pay over $450 for it. And in this case, over $600.

The next few weeks were spent on pure research. Windows Mobile 6.5. HTC HD2. I wanted to convince myself that I could tolerate Windows Mobile. That all I really needed on this awesome HD2 were the calls and texts and emails. Occasionally Microsoft Outlook products, and just a few free apps from the place Windows dares to call an Apps Marketplace. I even tried to ignore the six websites of pure negative reviews on this phone. From people who were on their third replacement to people who couldn't stop cursing T-Mobile for stupidly accepting this phone into their collection without Android (and I so agree). I thought maybe those 93 people just didn't know how to use the phone and so once again I headed out to T-Mobile ready to make the purchase.

I gave her my phone line number. I showed her my I.D. And I stated which phone I wanted to upgrade to. "Are you sure you want to do that?" she asked with a serious and worried look. "Um, I guess..." She sensed my hesitation and began the bashing. "Because you know it's a Windows phone ... WINDOWS ... and not Windows 7, but 6.5, and you can't upgrade to 7. And because of that it's very slow and requires at least three reboots a day and rarely does anything but open Microsoft outlook for Power Points and Word. We've had so many people returning it. I'd advise you to wait because we have another phone coming out in this month..." And I cut her off. "Yeah I know, the Samsung Vibrant. I've done my research. But that one's smaller and well uglier. It looks the iPhone." She shrugged her shoulders. "It's only smaller by 0.3 inches and it's slimmer and it's Android."

It was quite ironic to hear the sales clerk try and convince you that you're making the wrong decision but she was doing it anyway. I felt like I was buying a can of expired beans and she was warning me of the consequences. And under the pressure of being stared down by four pairs of T-Mobile staff eyes I thanked her for the advice and promised to wait for the wanna-be Samsung. Instead I ran to my laptop and looked up ways to convert the poor and innocent HD2 into an Androidian rather than a sad Window. There was a way, but it sounded so rigorous and dangerous to the phone's system that although I saved the links and articles with the instructions, I knew I would never actually use unless I had the founder of The Geek Squad by my side, holding an electronic crash cart, ready to resuscitate at any moment. I imagined it. A dark room with an operating table beneath the only bright awkward white light above that poor HD2, who did nothing but obey the order to tag along that Windows 6.5. And there I was slowly slicing into its system trying to cover up the original OS and force the Android in. And suddenly the beep begins and he crashes. In comes the nerd, black pants, white shirt, suspenders and all, crash cart in action. And the imagination ends, knowing that the phone probably won't do any better with the addition of Android on top of Windows.

I decided to check out the HTC EVO and see what people had to say. Whether the HD2 got bad reviews from being Windows or from being HTC. Not one bad review popped up. And once again I envied Sprint. I even looked up where that phone was available (even at full price) and I discovered that it was sold out on eBay, Amazon and Overstock (kind of ironic to be sold out somewhere called Overstock no?).

I went to bed that night unsure of what to, with my current phone slowly drifting in and out of death, and it made me wonder, how could T-Mobile have no common sense about this issue? I mean the lady not only criticized the HTC HD2 but rather EVERY Windows phone T-Mobile ever released and I asked myself, why would they agree to accept Windows on such a highly rated phone? I get that Windows needs money (lol funny statement) and that they probably have a contract with phone companies, but this was such a terrible deal that they should have said NO DEAL from the start.

Now they have a long list of dissatisfied customers who are either cursing them daily or returning that phone in hopes of something better and Android loaded to come out - other than that Samsung too!

REAL Men Are Hard to Find

Although "A Midnight's Story" still has the final part coming along on paper, I decided to take a small break from it and post up a new issue that's been on my mind quite some time ... something I saw happen right before me and I just sat there in awe crossing my fingers that it would never happen to me.

"Honey!" he cried holding it out in front of him. It being his daughter, held at the tip of his fingers in his outstretched arms. "Honey! I think someone needs a diaper change!" He thinks?? He thinks someone needs a diaper change? I don't think he was really thinking at that moment. But I was. I was thinking, why couldn't he hold his daughter more properly, especially in front of guests, instead of acting like her poop was some radioactive material that contaminated his "precious angel" he was just showing off 72 seconds ago?

I was also thinking, what gave him the daring to call out to his wife (who had just delivered the baby two weeks prior) to come and change the diaper when he was energetic and fine and had not held the baby in his stomach for nine months and 27 hours of delivery.

Was he not MAN enough? Oh yeah! I went there! Because someone really needs to. It becomes so tiring to see it happen over and over. And they say (not sure who they are, but they do say) that men of THIS generation are more open minded and nurturing and are more involved in their children's lives but I have yet to see it. I do however see a man come to the woman's rescue by taking the child when ...

1. they want to show it off to family, friends, coworkers
2. their wife gives them that look of "Do it or else ..."

Even if the child were to be nearing some sort of danger, opening the front door and leaving, pulling the tablecloth that has heavy things on it, I see it. The man is still on the couch, 97% focused on whether or not Kobe's about to make the three-pointer and 3% on the potential danger ahead. And all he manages to say is, "Honey!" again.

It makes me cringe to see it all continuing. How can they call that manhood? When they're not men/man enough to do things. Going to the gym, staying late at work, keeping up with the NBA does not make you a man ... honey!

His wife walked in, dead tired, eyes drowning beneath black bags and dark circles, barely able to carry the full baby bag. She gracefully took her daughter and held her to her chest and walked over to a corner to begin the changing process. He immediately went back to his conversation almost as if nothing happened. And she continued to change the diaper lovingly talking to her baby daughter. He couldn't do that? Or at the least, hold his daughter properly?

If only the line was drawn at children. It extends to food, tea, clothes, packing, and so much more. There's a fine line between love and between laziness and I just can't cross it, let alone allow it to be crossed (just the way I feel). Why can't a man ever change his own child's diapers? Clothes? Why can't a man ever notice that his woman is a bit tired and would like a break without her having to say so? Why can't a man ever just decide "I'd like to give her a change and I'll make dinner/do the laundry/watch the kids today." What about the least of the least? A really kind and heartfelt word?

I hear it a lot today, women are marrying later. People ask why. I laugh. It's no real mystery. It's hard to say "Yes!" when you look around and realize that maybe men are nonexistent. Some may be a bit confused, but don't confuse men for guys/males/boys. Two completely different things. Because I've met both and there's a big difference. You see the maturity, the respect, the commitment a MAN has to offer (it's rare, trust me) and then you see the games, the disrespect, the advantage those others have to offer.

It's not easy, and men/males/guys/boys reading this, don't get me wrong, there will be many posts to come about how women are a bit messed up at times too ... but the males always seem to find a way to do something stupid and take their place on the front page of annoyances. Just like this man did, right in front of me, as I sat on his couch, only there to take care of his wife and pay her a visit to see how she was doing.

And then after all, don't men love to be the best, #1, the dominant? Well to earn that title and position you've got to be able to do both what a man and woman can do! And I've found that usually women end up doing the male and female roles these days. So may real men are truly hard to find!

He said ... She said ...

What makes a phrase more audible when it comes out of a man rather than a woman? “Did I not just say that?” I asked the girl sitting right next to me in class. She looked at me and had the same puzzled look as I did. “That’s what she just said!” Her voice was not loud enough for the man to hear, but it definitely made me feel better. I was surprised, however, with how well I took the situation. Maybe I had just been through it enough times to just not care whatsoever.

It was my Wednesday class—the one I actually liked in my first semester at graduate school. The class covered a topic quite significant for the goal I had in mind for myself: Human Resources Management. Our class was covering a specific case study regarding employee vacation time and pay. I really liked my professor and respected him a lot. He was one of those that realized being a rude pressuring teacher was not going to help the already overstressed students at all. He kept the class casual, laid back and quite entertaining. I felt a sense of duty to give back to him by participating in discussions whenever I was confident enough. Today was one of those days. I read the case study in pure detail, highlighted all significant points, and raised my hand immediately as he asked the class who would like to give us a summary. I usually kept to myself and allowed someone else to take care of that, but today I was ready and excited.

Although I volunteered to answer, I still got nervous. Anytime the attention is on me and there is the pressure to speak, I will shake and worry. To the best of my ability and knowledge, I explained what I understood from the reading and stopped when I felt I had finished. The professor seemed satisfied with my response and he asked the class, “Does anyone have anything else to add to this?” Immediately he raised his hand—the man sitting on the opposite end of the classroom. Since day one, I sensed he was not the easiest person to deal with, but I never really took into consideration that he did not like me. But after today, I realized that all the times he had rolled his eyes at my comments or laughed at my questions, it came from this dislike he had towards me. “I have no idea what she just said! It made no sense! But what I got from the readings was…” and he continued on to babble exactly what I said before. Half the classroom turned to see my reaction to his rude disagreement with my interpretation and I just smiled—coolly shrugging it off like it did not matter. Most were females, taking pity on me for being so rudely disregarded like an uneducated immigrant who said something stupid and he just made it sensible.

But with all honesty, somehow it did not offend me or upset me. It reminded me of the first time I experienced such rudeness from a man—such real sexism from a supposedly “educated” and “mature” man to be respected. HA! That was the day I was offended and deeply hurt; the day my eyes were opened to the reality of the men we have today.

The room was cold—the air conditioner was on to ventilate the stuffy small orange and green room. Twelve of us sat around a large square shaped wooden table, holding our papers and pens, jotting notes on upcoming plans and proposals for our organization. This was the first group I really got involved in and I had such great hopes and goals for us—now I barely know if they can make it to tomorrow. Anyway, we were contemplating ideas for fun activities and events to host for our community’s families. A consensus for a spiritual hiking trip came about and it was great. I absolutely loved the idea and we soon began discussing the details of this event—the when and where and who. Somehow the decision for a Sunday afternoon/evening hike came about and I disagreed. Although I no longer had school to worry about, I thought of my siblings. That would be a school night for them, and after a long afternoon and evening of hiking, the last thing they need is to return home late and sleep even later. So I gathered up all my courage (being one of the few women amongst many men) and spoke up. “I honestly think we should shift it over to a Saturday OR a Sunday followed by a Monday that is a holiday. Or if that is too difficult, move the time up a few hours so that every child can be home with their families by 7:30pm/8:00pm max.” That may sound corny or a time that no one would really need to sleep at—but that was not my concern. If the child wanted to sleep late, fine, but as an organization, it is our duty to have the children back by a proper and modest time.

Has anyone ever seen the movie Just Like Heaven? Suddenly I felt like Reese Witherspoon—unheard and invisible. It was as if I had not even opened my mouth. Exactly like Reese in the movie, she talked and talked and her sister, standing right beside her, could not even feel her presence. The only person who could hear her was ONE guy—and I was blessed enough to have that ONE guy there with me at the meeting too. But the feeling of being ignored so obviously is quite irritating; knowing that you have a point and a pulse, but having it go completely unacknowledged—argh! The group continued to finalize the planning for Sunday late afternoon to evening. The book on that was about to be closed and the next point was reached when a boy, just a few seats away from me, made an interrupting sound. “Uh…actually, I am thinking about it and Sunday is a school night in my opinion. So coming back that late would just ruin my schedule and leave me tired for school the next day. You think we could shift it over to a Saturday or early Sunday?” This time, but this time, I was furious! The thing was however, I had to hold my tongue. How “emotionally unstable” (as men say) would I look had I exclaimed, “Didn’t I just say that?!?!” So instead, I watched, sitting on fire, burning mad, I watched how the group reacted to this MALE’S concern.

If I already was not angry enough that this guy spoke out like I had not mentioned the same point just 47 seconds before, the group’s reaction raised the temperature. “Hmmm, you’re right! That might actually be an issue for some. How many of you think we should change the schedule because it could conflict with the school night?” asked the MAN in charge. How I controlled myself I have no idea, but I had just witnessed pure sexism, right there before my very own eyes. Yes, the stupid jokes about women belonging in the kitchen were irritating, and the egotistic ways some men think they can order us around to get them coffee or tea is upsetting, BUT THIS, this crossed the lines because there was no joke or game behind it. It was pure unfiltered sexism.

I was truly grateful for my savior that day—the one man that did hear me. He tried to slip in the phrase, “Yes, just as Dania mentioned, I do believe that it conflicts with the school night.” I remember he was sweet enough to bring it up again at the next meeting, when they were putting the final touches on the trip and confirming the day. He said, “Well we already talked about it. Remember Dania brought to our attention the idea of the school night issue, so we decided Saturday.”

That was the day I left that group with a new disappointment. If with this, stupid, petty, useless thing they had to be sexist, then what is left? It irritated me as well how all the remaining girls just accepted it. One of the greatest aspects of Islam is the wholesome status it gives its women. I wear this scarf so that you can SEE me as (1) a person sitting right there next to you and (2) a human with a mind, just like yours, that can conjure up ideas just as good, or even better than you. In turn, these men and society, has shifted it into the idea of pure oppression and something they can control.

Well honey, here is my pure unfiltered opinion: Unfortunately, I no longer have faith or trust in you or your generation leading us anywhere. Just watch a WOMAN lead the way please! And that is what SHE SAID.

Ain't it funny how ...

Not to quote JLo, but “ain’t it funny how” double standards take over people’s mentality, as if there is no OTHER way to think? So when they are confronted with someone who differs (uh…me) their reactions are surprising? Being a confident woman who expresses her honest opinions openly is seen as conceited and in need of fine-tuning. Whereas a man who is confident in himself is “successful” and “moves forward.” What’s the difference? SEX? That’s not reliable.

What about relationships? Oh god for the double standards on those. Throughout the years I noticed a constant theme: Men seem to receive ALL the benefits of the doubt and women receive…um…the blame? Yeah, that’s it! It’s ironic because if you sit with young women for 30 minutes you can hear stories of what men have done that make you want to take a vow of singlehood for eternity.

To continue on this point, more than once I heard men mention that for a wife they prefer a pretty girl that was skinny/gorgeous and what was the reaction of the mothers around these guys? “Oh sweetie, of course! You deserve a beautiful one.” I stood there in shock…and my shock only grew when this happened: Another discussion of marriage comes up one day and the older ladies are asking me of my preference for a guy. I described that he had to be intelligent and MATURE and open minded…and so on; and when I came to physical traits that I prefer the mothers all threw their heads back in laughter. At first I wondered whether it was because I was detailed or because I was a girl and I am supposed to fit under the passive creature that says typical clichés like, “Oh I don’t care at all about the outside, it’s all from within.

I am not shallow, but let’s be serious, the outside matters in some way. It is the physical aspect that you often have to think of when you contemplate married life—so if that doesn’t click, how can you agree to go with the person, even if inside is nice? Some may agree, some may not, but this is me. I found out their laughter was both from the detail and the deviance and so their response was, “Honey, you DON’T want someone who is good looking because then all the girls will be staring at your man and so his ego goes up and so does your jealousy.” Hmmm, well ever think of the fact that maybe jealousy isn’t a part of EVERY girl? Or the idea that good-looking guys were born that way and they’re going to get married to someone anyway? Might as well take one! Maybe they were just jealous because they don’t have what I dream of, and so they just prefer to put me down now and crush my hopes in order to fall into the self-fulfilling prophecy and somehow prevent myself from taking what I want. I shall prevail!

Ain’t it funny how a woman’s beating heart is seen as creepy? OH MY GOD I HAVE FEELINGS, RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!! That is exactly what I am told (in different terms). They say that in a relationship there is always someone who gives more. I think that that applies to every one of my relationships. Friendship. Kinship. Loveship. The problem is that all my ships are sinking. I guess I give more weight to the ship and drown it (as in I am the person who is always more into it than the other). I just didn’t realize that caring was an anchor to a ship—a flaw to the ships smooth sailing. People always tell me that I need to be more “mysterious” and a better “hard to get player” in order to get a guy (a.k.a. be a girl that has no anchor, no weight, no realism). Ok, so someone answer this question for me: WHY do I have to be an apathetic snob to attract a man? Is that really what they want? Well, then don’t look at me sweetie. I have a heart and a desire to love—sorry.

One last “funny” example on this point is referring to break ups. If a relationship of any kind comes to an end, I find that pity and sympathy sides with the man. For a few weeks (maximum) the woman is sympathized and cared for. But if her sorrow goes any longer, the environment around her seems to drift away and shut her down when the topic comes up. However the man receives constant sympathy and thought. So what’s the difference here? How come I hear, “Oh the poor darling,” when referring to the man of the ceased relationship and “Oh that depressed drama queen,” for a woman? Trust me, it is irritating to either be in that situation and feel alone OR to watch the man get babied for months after the ceasing.

Truth is, it really ain't that funny!

The Men (I ran into) at the Mall

It occurred to me today, after such awkward and somehow thought provoking experiences at the mall, that I narrate, analyze and think over every aspect of my life...and somehow it always entertained me. I'm a narrator. It was the part I always strove for when we read historic Shakespearean like plays in grade school. I wanted to be that person in the background, the one behind the scenes that was still very crucial in making everything clearer for the audience. Bringing to life the story they were about to see/hear. And I realized, that's how I live my life every single day.

Five months had drastically changed this mall. It went from being a dead and eerie set of hallways to the most crowded and flashy mall yet. I had a large "Must Purchase" list that I made after my return from a five month trip to the Middle East and a few exchanges I needed to get done. My time was limited due to the fact that I had to pick up my brother from school by 2:30pm and it was already 12:57pm. So after I left NY & Co. I dashed on over to the newly opened double deck Forever 21.

I could see it from the end of the hallway. Seductive. Sparkly. Sensational. It made every fashion hater fall at their knees in awe. The way the sunlight from the ceiling windows fell across those silver letters made the F-O-R-E-V-E-R-2-1 shine like a hopeful mirage in the middle of a desperate desert. My heart beat a bit faster. I wanted to finally experience true shopping since for five months the only mall I saw was a tiny two story building filled with stores that sold children's clothes or underwear.

My feet scurried over and I could feel my face break through the thick mall air. As I breathed it in with great anticipation a postcard suddenly appeared before my eyes. "Here!" he said as he shook it impatiently at my face. I grabbed it with even greater impatience as I muttered a quick thank you and continued on my mission-like walking strategy to Forever 21. "Have you heard of this?" he called out immediately behind me. I turned around and smiled. "No, I haven't, but I'm actually in a hurry. Sorry." But before I could get a chance to turn away and head towards my destination I felt my right wrist being grabbed and pulled towards the innocent cart that was truly a prison. I turned around with sad eyes and a heavy heart at the Forever 21 that was so close, yet so far away.

"So do you wear makeup?" he asked with a hint of hesitation as he observed me. I knew he was probably wondering if a covered Muslim girl would wear makeup. I nodded. "Yeah at parties and such but not on a daily basis." He smiled and found the information useful. I mentally kicked myself for realizing that that was NOT enough to get him to let go of my hand, which was starting to turn yellow from the lack of blood flow. "Okay then, let me show you this." Almost as if he believed he was showing me some jaw dropping magic trick, he used his free hand to dip and dab a few different brushes and demonstrate to me the magic of this "natural, chemical free long lasting all purpose makeup." I rolled my eyes and tapped my feet hoping he would catch the obvious irritation I was trying to illustrate. It went over his head.

In three minutes he managed to paint my hand a mocking embarrassment of a Jackson Pollack masterpiece and I felt overwhelmed at the sight. He had demonstrated how these amazing mineral powders could be used in six different ways and I laughed at the pathetic reality that it probably could only be used for two.

He saw that I nodded and carelessly agreed with him, looking at my watch constantly hoping he would let go (luckily he did set my hand free), but that only made him try harder, and he and his openly gay coworker decided to throw out the psychological method of cajoling innocent bystanders in purchasing their products. The problem was I am not an innocent one, although I was a bystander, and the entire time I was not convinced. So the psychology began.

"Oh my, this color would look soooo good on you," said the other coworker who couldn't stop batting his eyelashes and smiling devilishly at me while sticking out the tip of his tongue. I thanked him and shrugged my shoulders. "Can you tell us about that thing, on your head, like why you wear it and stuff?" I explained briefly the purpose of my scarf, that it was my way of demonstrating my identity to the world, that I am a person, and not an object to be admired for my looks, but rather for the talents and personality I carry. "Wow!" he said, batting his eyelashes a bit more. I wanted to laugh but I held it in. "So you wanna buy these three???" they suddenly asked, and I realized how a typical fool would have been sucked in by their fabricated sympathy and say, "Oh yes, and add those four too!" I took a step back and said, "I'm not so sure."

That's when, the other guy grabbed my hand again. "Here, let me show you this color too!" Oh dear god, will the torture never stop? "Hey you know what, I'm just going to take THIS one," and I stepped aside and handed over the poor Visa card that was surely going to JUST begin the swiping process. "Now if you get ONE more you get a better deal." If only he said that to me ONCE. I heard it seven times in 90 seconds and he didn't seem to understand no for an answer. The same way he couldn't grasp the concept that I ALREADY HAVE AN EYELINER BRUSH AT HOME AND DON'T WANT TO BUY HIS "ON SALE EYELINER BRUSH" THAT IS NOW $15 INSTEAD OF $20!!!

He ripped the receipt and placed it in the bag. I wished he could have just handed it to me and let me go but there was more. He got closer and attempted to demonstrate a few more tips on how to apply the makeup. I nodded and pretended to listen (and care) then I grabbed the bag and ran for it (literally). My heels clicked so loudly against the marble-like floor that I could hear it echo down the two separate wings I was now approaching...where Forever 21 stood in the middle.

I stopped right there at the entrance and admired this store. The way it was once a nobody store and how suddenly it became FOREVER 21, or in more classy terms, XXI (lol). I walked in and let myself savor the beauty of a wanna-be Bloomingdale's, but without the amazing bathrooms and ridiculous prices.

Because of how huge it was I had no idea where to begin. I had two dresses to exchange and I had pajamas on my "Must Purchase" list, so I headed to the pajama section and decided to start there. Shorts. Shorts. Boy shorts. Items of which I'm not really sure are what...or even wearable. Aha! Pajama pants! They were so soft and gorgeous and simple that I grabbed the two available colors in my size and headed towards accessories; and that's when I noticed him. The short round tan man wearing glasses and a cross-body navy school bag.

He was following me. Wait...I made a quick turn to double check. YES! He was!!!

I decided to head into the second accessories area just to double check. And there he was, slowly lurking behind the beads, scarves and crappy $3 sandals. I dashed back into the pajama section remembering that there was a Forever 21 employee unloading new items and I would be in a safer zone. I pretend to look at the other pajama items and see if anything interested me when suddenly...

"Excuse me. You speak Arabic?" Besides his heavy accent, I quickly noticed every nook and cranny of his face as I turned around to find him literally inches from mine. It gave me an idea of what babies see when adults play peek-a-boo with them. I jumped back and landed into a pile of boxes, which were probably filled with more boy shorts and unmentionables. "Um, yes," I said with a shiver yet a hint of relief. I began to rationalize that he was probably some newcomer to America, excited to see another one of "his kind" in this country

"Oh Marhaba!" he said with loud enthusiasm. I smiled and responded, "Ahlayn." Typical Arab greetings. That's when he decided to give me his life story, a typical Arab move and even more so a typical Arab "I just moved here" move. I listened and nodded as he explained how he was from Morocco, just arrived to California a few months back and lived literally two traffic lights away from the mall. He pretty much began to draw me an air map of his intersection and gave me the Arab, "You know where zis street iz? Okay so you make a left and then...."

Then he explained how he comes to the mall to meet people, more specifically Arabs, and how I proved his methods correct. I laughed and asked him, "Did you ever think of trying a mosque? Or Arab event? Probably better results than the mall." He shrugged his shoulders. "Well I don't know any around here and like I just saw you now, and your scarf, and I thought you're probably Arab and I came and asked, and you were!" I couldn't hold my laughter back at this part but I tried to muffle it beneath a fake modest girlish giggle to avoid insulting him.

"There's a mosque in Anaheim, close by, I could give you the address, if you'd like?" He smiled and nodded. "Oh yes yes please!" So I took out my pen and paper and began looking around for a place to write down the address. He hurried over to one of the tables and started pushing away all the neatly placed undies for me. TALK ABOUT AWKWARD. I didn't get why he didn't just approach me in Accessories? Or shoes? Why lingerie and sleepwear???

I wrote the address and the mosque's telephone number and handed him the card. "Thank you! Thank you! And oh, this iz...your number?" he asked in a manner that was SO clearly filled with a hidden agenda that his attempt to cover it failed. "No, this is the mosque's number, so call it for directions and..." He cut me off, "Put your number."

CRAP!!! What the heck do I do? He had this large grin on his face and I stood there literally stupefied holding the damn post-it I suddenly wished I didn't whip out. "Uh...um...." I stumbled in the dilemma of being rude and digging my own grave. I placed the card back down besides the messy pile of briefs and started jotting down digits. Why couldn't I be a professional liar and just come up with random numbers and call it mine? I wrote the final number and felt a bit satisfied because I opted out for the house number. Those phones that no one ever answers let alone remembers.

I handed him back the card, still praying that he would never ever use the second phone number, and noticed that he had already whipped out his outdated Samsung and inputting the digits like a mad man. "Please, write your name on top of your number, so I know." I took the paper (not gently I might add), secretly rolled my eyes, and jotted down the five letters I wished were not mine either.

I gave it to him and said, "Yeah you should go there on Fridays. It's crowded, and you can bring your family along, and you can meet people there." He had mentioned his brother, a local that lived nearby as well and so I thought they would go together, but he stopped me mid-thoughts and bluntly stated, "I'm single. I live alone. I came alone. Not with my family. I don't have anybody." If he had the authentic Merriam Webster definition for single, he would have recited it as well

"Oh," I said without knowing how else to follow up that monologue of his. "You're single?" he asked with that smile again. DAMN WHY COULDN'T I LIE? Curse this proper upbringing of mine! "I don't see a ring!" he said in Arabic. (Actually most of our conversation was in Arabic.) "Yes, I am. Well nice meeting you, take care!" And I gave him a quick smile, grabbed the pajamas and headed towards the register.

I spent the entire ride home thinking of how:

1. I only got ONE thing on my freaking "Must Purchase" list

2. I should've been stronger and a bit tougher and just said NO to those guys at the makeup cart

3. MAYBE if this Moroccan guy had been someone else, MAYBE I wouldn't have had a problem jotting down my cell phone number...like if it were someone who didn't approach me in lingerie and examine my wedding ring finger?