Aya

..and marry him before the winter 2010 Olympics.

5.  Husbands will carry heavy things that you buy at the home renovation store AND your purse.

I couldn’t contain my excitement at a certain home renovation store’s demise all weekend.  I won’t name them so I don’t get their traffic here but because they’ve ripped me off over the years, I wanted to drive over, gloat and take pictures.  Once I got there, and despite my glee at its pathetic shape, I couldn’t resist buying a large wood slab for an art project.  It was heavy, awkard, and left all kinds of splinters in my hands.

The wood slab was so big you couldn’t see my entire body walking through the parking lot.  Not to mention that I had bought some accessories AND I was carrying my 15lb. handbag.  A group of teen boys (who offered no help) started pointing and whispering.  Then, one of them said something inaudible and then called me a badass bitch.  I was so proud that my eyes watered.  I AM a badass bitch.  But I’m tired of lugging heavy things and having bleeding fingers, I need a husband, goddammit, to carry and bleed on my behalf while I pick up my double chocolate latte with hazelnut sprinkles.

4.  Husbands are awesome security guards.

You know, the first ones to get shot in cases of home invasions, gang warfare, and perhaps to a lesser degree, carjackings.  In the very least you can run upstairs during a home invasion while he’s being stabbed and shot, and hide in your safe room.  In a moment of temporary insanity today, I opened my door without looking in the peephole.  Major, major mistake for a woman around here.  A short Latino man with an enormous head and bug eyes smiled widely and pointed something in my direction.  A thousand scary thoughts rushed in a stampede and I tried to close the door quickly.  Seniora, seniora, the little man shouted with his arm stuck in my door.

I was going to break it.  He screamed.  I shouted at him to get out.  Building, seniora, building, he plead with his bizarrely large face turning red with panic.  Then, it dawned on me that I had called for repairs earlier.  I was absolutely mortified and apologized.  If I had had a husband, I would’ve just run to my safe room to one of two outcomes: a psycho Latino dude with a big head would bludgeon him or the two men would wonder why the crazy, screaming woman in the purple housecoat is running to the master bedroom.

3 through 1 coming soon…..

I’ve complained about my jobs since I began shoving flyers into people’s mailboxes at 13.  When they didn’t fit, I crumbled their mail into a mangled ball and re-shoved the whole mess back into the box.  The dude we worked for stole from us repeatedly but I was saving for a bike so I showed up anyway.  Son of a bitch.

Anyway, I am heading towards much anticipated, planned, and prayed for independence in my professional life.  I’m expecting to continue doing much of what I do now, only on a smaller scale and with fewer assholes and hags who expect reports.  And have no doubt, I’ve hated some of my projects/clients/co-workers with unparalleled vigour.  BUT.  There is a little nostalgic feeling creeping up.  I can’t quite locate it but I know it’s there.

I think it is because I’m nervous and weary of how things might turn out.  I ain’t ashamed to admit it and don’t be judgin’ me neither!

*breaks down into ebonics when frightened like an 8 year old in a dark hallway*

*wipes a lonely tear and some snot on her sleeve*

Blech!

This is the desk from which a thousand indecisions have been launched.  I cleaned it with antiseptic every morning.  Germ warfare is a legitimate competitive business strategy where I work.  Don’t be surprised if some diseased monkey two offices down runs across the hallway, slams through the door, and brakes within an inch of your desk only to spray it with a cold virus-laden sneeze.  And you wonder why your throat is scratchy, your nose red, and your head the size of a melon while you negotiate with your client, who is now convinced that you’ve done a couple of lines of coke before the presentation.

The scene through the window?  Miles and miles of little boxes on the hillside, little boxes, little boxes, and they’re all made of ticky tacky, and they all look just the same.*

It is a long way down but perfect for daydreams.  At 9.30, 10.30, 1.15, 2.30 and every 5 minutes till it’s time to go home around 7.  The 9.30 ones are the most fun, all that energy and alertness!  I could easily shove 3 men and 4 women through the little window of our little box and watch them fall 16 floors.  Thank you God for the mind and the big skull that hides our fantasies.

*Courtesy of Malvina Reynolds

People!

‘Tis time to make winter a little less dreary and cook our little nomad butts off.  You’re all welcome to join in.

This is the deal and please let me know what you think: we’ll have 2 ingredients and you have up to 7 days to prepare at least one major dish with at least one of those ingredients.

This is what we’ll do:

1. Someone suggests the 2 ingredients.
2. Participants prepare the dish(es) and take a picture (s).
3. Then, post the recipe and picture(s) on their site OR send them to  Recipes Galore, kept vibrantly delicious by AMTAF!, or better yet, join us!

Today’s ingredients:

1. Black olives
2. Artichokes

What do you think?  Have an alternate structure?

Let me know!

(Image courtesy of Terry J Alcorn on Getty Images)

I answered the phone today despite not recognizing the number.  I do that sometimes and practice my Korean with people looking for grandma Bong-Cha.

Woman: I’m sorry but the office of Dr.So-And-So has closed your file.

Me (a little disoriented): Pardon me but who?

Woman: Dr.So-And-So!

And she’s got an attitude, like I’m supposed to recognize the name just like that!

Me: And what does ‘close my file’ mean?

Woman (impatient now): It means he’s fired you because you haven’t been in the office for 3 years.

My mind raced a bit.  What kind of employer calls you after 3 whole years of not showing up for work to fire you?  And I had a bloody job 3 years ago, who are these bozos?!

And then it hit me, that’s my doctor’s office.  Sure, I saw him sporadically and did so begrudgingly, but what the hell?!  He fires me.  For not being sick.  And how do you fire me anyway when I’m the one who pays for the service I receive?

First time for everything.

Ah well.

Simplicity, thy name will be Aya in 2009!

Lately, I’m striving to adopt a simpler way of living.  I ask myself: what do I need? how much of it fits in 2 suitcases?  It’s really all just stuff.  It’s pretty stuff and it’s MINE but dammit, it’s just stuff.

Every few months or so, I remove clutter and donate books/CDs to the local library.  And with a great deal of pain that starts somewhere in the midsection and ends somewhere behind the ears, I give away clothes and/or shoes that I know I will not wear.  How do I know I will not wear them again?  Because I have developed the habit of carrying a shirt around for 4 or 5 years and not wear it once.

I read somewhere about a charity called Dress for Success in my city which supplies poor/struggling women with clothes to wear when invited to job interviews.  Unlike Goodwilll, the clothes have to be very gently worn and well taken care of, but preferably newish.  You know that lovely shirt you bought a week ago and is now busting at the seams after dry cleaning or washing?  It might better to donate it or buy a more fitting size next time.  Since I refuse to buy bigger sizes, I give away with much throbbing pain.

Donating to these charities doesn’t mean that you grab your tattered, brown-at-the-pits, t-shirt you borrowed from cousin Laila.

Speaking of relatives, they tend to give the, um, most interesting gifts and you can’t yell at them the way you would with friends.  What’s worse is that you might be forced to wear them at gatherings, especially if an older female relative with one of those age-defying memories is the giver.  Donate those clothes before the gathering or risk social ostracism from the world of the sane.

Thinking of giving clothes/shoes to a relative yourself?  Gift certificates, people, gift certificates!

This weekend was my weekend to rummage, wash or dry clean, sort, and fold.  Let me give you a quick history of a few items that are leaving me with an empty nest.

Exhibit A

This lovely skirt was a gift from a truly lovely aunt.  Yes, it is actually as busy, colourful, wide, glittery-in-some-areas, as it seems.  With all due respect to the Roma people, I do not do flow-and-shine.  I’ve never worn it but I’d imagine it would make a bohemian chic out there happy.  Sigh.

Exhibit B

These are my sensible, every meeting, shoes.  It doesn’t matter how many I buy for work, I would still pick up an identical pair.  My friends have an intervention system in place now.  If at anytime I hint at going shoe-shopping, there is team action to intercept, accompany or distract.  Bitches!  What are they saying about my taste in shoes?!  Anyway, this pair has to go before I lose my two front teeth and look like my great uncle who got fucked up in WWII.

The only thing wrong with them (other than being terminally sensible) is that I have two left feet.  The first day I wore them I was hurrying to the ladies’ room when I realized that my foot brakes were failing.  For a second that felt much longer, my arms waved in the air frantically searching for an anchor before I crash into the lady before me.  Instead, I pushed her into the swivel doors that open inwards and she was swallowed up.  I steadied myself and, before stepping in, heard her topple the trash can and shout ‘son-of-a..‘.  I wanted to go in, apologize, and make sure she was okay, but was too ashamed of my criminal clumsiness.  She came out and said something even dirty-mouthed me couldn’t repeat here.  Sigh.

Exhibit C

Giving these jeans away hurts the most.  They just don’t fit right.  I ordered them online and they looked so awesome on the model.  I daydreamt of my sexy self being the object of every man’s desire as I strut through the farmers’ market but, goddammit, they don’t make them for girls built like David Beckham.  I am crushed.

Sigh.

I urge you to shed the excess weight from your life.  Giving clothes away is a good beginning.  The rummaging itself is tedious and painful but a friend suggested some 70s or 80s dance music while you’re doing it.  Try one of these two:

If Boney M’s Brown Girl in the Ring doesn’t do it for you, try this pair below.  If nothing else, the psychotic dancing plus middle-aged cadaan people breakin’ it down will make the pain of giving your stuff away a little easier to bear.

AMTAF wrote this excellent analysis in the comment section that I believe should be here for all to read.

Politics is a lovely game of give and take. Obama took and now it’s time to give back. And I am not speaking of the millions who donated to his campaign, but the powerful lobbies who can ensure he remains in office.

What did most expect? Actions speak louder than words Fact: Obama in his 4-year career in the Senate voted almost 98% of the time in line with his party. Now regardless of what spin one might put to that, it remains that does not indicate a man with a vision but one who tows the line.

Don’t get me wrong. I did want Obama to win (as I mentioned in Aya’s post on election day) this election only because he was a better candidate that McCain-with-Palin and not McCain-without-Palin.

America is now caught in a wave of conviction of powerful president with a vision who will erase the last eight years magically so that they may now enter a new age. I’ve to laugh sometimes when listening to most ‘experts’ and political ‘pundits’. The American president does not possess as much power as most believe.

So here is where I come in… only temporarily.

I know my duty to my American friends. Name: A., Identity: British, Sole purpose: provide olde worlde curios, with a smile and charm (much like a trained monkey dressed as a court jester – that’s what they call being “Greece to America’s Rome”) reminding the audience of the quainter side of the Atlantic. So you can expect me to keep you updated with titbits from the motherland.

Ten years ago, a messianic forty-something man with a young family and more brash wife, the centre of a Cult of Personality whose fervent Christian faith found its expression in calls for social justice, who claimed to be on the Centre-Left but was such a media baby that one was never sure what was spin and what was substance, was swept to power in a wave of national adulation. He vowed that his administration would be the breath of fresh air in the capital city that banished the political elite’s casual corruption and instead would be “whiter than white”. Yet ten years later, the man who made us believe that conviction politicians existed has turned the public into a population to whom the word politician means “corrupt liar”. It’s not just Iraq that has baptised the Prime Minister “Bliar” – it’s still entirely plausible to believe, as I do, that Blair searched his soul and did what he believed right – but the constant allegations that donations to the Labour Party resulted in peerages, contracts and even legal exemptions being granted to the donors.

There is no country now more convinced than America that conviction-politicians can be saints. On the morning of Blair’s victory in 1997 there was no country more convinced than Britain.

If Rezko/Auchi proves to be the tip of the iceberg of funding scandals. If, as is very probable, Obama is unable to do much about the economic crisis, or if, American foreign policy remains the same, as it most likely will, or if, as is more likely, it is beyond Obama’s powers to do much for the lives of African-Americans in office, the disillusionment will give rise to a cynical backlash not just against Obama, but against all in public life. And that level of public bitterness ain’t fun for anybody.

Enjoy your illusions till the next one overtakes you, America. You’ve always been good at it.

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I had my doubts about him all along.  Not that I know any more than what the media and books have written, but I knew that no one who reaches that access and gains that type of support can stand up for humanity and justice.

Where the hell is President-elect Barack Obama?  He was not inaugurated yet when he condemned the November bombings in Mumbai.  Surely, he can say more than he was briefed and that he’s following the events.   I gather the bombings of refugees hiding out in schools are justified by Israel’s need for security and protection.

I am disgusted but not surprised.

Anyone can prepare a passionate speech about the ideals of justice, peace, and fairness, but it takes a man of honour and courage to actually stand for those ideals.  Don’t worry, Barack, no one will hold you in high regards or look at you with hope for change.  It is back to the drawing board.

And in the tradition of news media that are part mouthpieces for governments and part entertainment, CNN will continue to report on how Barack met Michelle and what designer will supply her inauguration dress.  That’s what the world needs to hear, of course, from American media: second rate, soap-opera type reporting that deliberately glosses over important issues and avoids holding powerful people accountable to their words and deeds.