sheemsters

What’s so terroristic about that?

Posted on December 4, 2014 by sheemsters

*The why do I even bother, you know I swear too much, three out of six blog posts come with a warning disclaimer : why do I even bother, you know I swear too much, three out of six blog posts come with a warning.

I’ve been kind of bummed lately. Not only am I facing a week filled with homework and finals, since the end of the semester is right around the corner, but my blog’s spam catcher tells me someone has used my Santa post on their site as anti Muslim propaganda. Which totally confuses me. If anything I thought Muslims would be offended by that post. I can’t say I wasn’t expecting some ignorant shit, though, ever since ISI won’t even fucking finish that took the religion and mutated it to the point where even Professor X’s bald ass can’t help it much. The painstakingly slow face lift of the Islamic faith was underway when these douches from where the eff did they come from, exactly? showed up and the patient flat lined on the operating table.

It’s the reason why I never wanted to put the fact out there. I never wanted to mention that I was a Muslim (albeit not a very good one). I didn’t want to go through my blogging life donning a scarlet comment bubble. I swear, I only looked at that guy twice and only one of those times was I thinking something dirty. But it’s a part of who I am and I didn’t want to hide that either.

The mere mention of the M word makes me and the majority of the other billion followers automatically guilty by association of various types of crimes that not only would we never perpetrate, but recoil in horror from. Apparently anything I do, say, write, pick or fart is now considered suspect. Even my gas might be poisonous. The spammer has proven that by linking a simple, humorous Santa story to how Muslims like to invite abandoned little children into their gingerbread homes and eat them once they’re nice and fat. Not literally, but I’m sure he could and some people wouldn’t even bat an eye lid. I’m not that practicing, but even if I were a Muslim’s long lost uncle’s fifth cousin eight times removed to the negative tenth power times the square root of 9, I’d still be considered an enemy and a threat.

If it makes the spammer happy, there’s a good chance that I am going to hell. Too. You won’t find me in the I hated people based on their religion section because that’s just not how I roll, but more likely in the I slept through Fajr, watched TV during Zuhr, another episode was on during Asr, at Maghrib I ate dinner and for why I missed Isha, please refer to why I missed Fajr section. Those are the five daily Muslim prayers, for those wondering what the eff ? I might also be transferred to the I vomited after my first attempt at a 15 hour fast so I used it as an excuse and never fasted again area. And let’s not forget that I can’t seem to form a sentence without sticking a four letter word in there somewhere, to the point where if I go to a job interview and the guy asks me So why are you here today? I’m afraid I’ll answer because I want the money, mofo, and to be able to say ‘I earned this’, or else I’d still be sitting at home watching my ass grow while wearing a shirt that reads ‘I leech off my husband’ .

Great, now I’ve raised the ire of the hard cores. A moderately liberal Muslim just can’t win these days. We’re playing Red Rover with the ultra religious wacky and the go back to your country, towel head crowds and no one wants us to come over. 😦

Seriously, though, none of us has come off the assembly line with our factory settings firmly set to convert or kill. Hand some ignorant dumb ass the chance to do something divinely grand with his life, while also setting up a fat 401k for the afterlife, cherry pick some religious verses on how this is what God wants you to do, really he does and you’ve got yourself Tom Cruise telling women thinking happy thoughts will make the postpartum depression go away.

Dealing with ignorance is like talking to your senile great aunt while she’s eating creamed corn out of a can and her dentures are falling out. It’s a disease that starts by attacking and shutting off the parts of the human brain that control free thought and compassion. I’d never be so arrogant enough to think that I know all there is to know about, well, pretty much anything, really, and I don’t understand how other people can. Over a billion followers and you think those dumb fucks out in the sand dunes of where the eff did they come from exactly represent us? Please. Our PR department might be bad, but it’s not that bad.

I am a graduate of the school of humanity, with a concentration on a certain damn, they’ve messed it up beyond the point of recognition Abrahamic faith. I can totally respect that there are a few billion people in the world and some of them believe the world will end in fire and some in ice, a la Robert Frost, and some think it’ll be when the Cubs win the world series again. I personally believe that hell is actually Chicago traffic during rush hour, with a polar vortex style background, after the Bears have had their asses handed to them by the Packers and Cutler’s out for the season again.

The good doctors and the bad doctor

Posted on December 1, 2014 by sheemsters

Note : Some sensitive material of a medical nature and some swearing involved.

We almost lost my youngest back in 2011, when he was around sixteen months of age. Most people don’t know anything about it because updating my Facebook status isn’t the first thing on my mind when frantically pacing the hallways of the intensive care unit. It’s not something I like to talk about anyway, but will in order to make the point I intend to make with this blog post.

For Halloween 2014, my son wanted to be Elsa. As in the snow queen. He wanted the boots, the cape, the hairdo, and to be belting out Let it Go instead of trick or treat at the top of his lungs. He practiced everyday, with my scarf tucked into the back of his shirt as a cape. This, of course, causes me and my husband some concern.

If you’re wondering why, you obviously haven’t been through the hellish rites of passage known as elementary and high school or you’ve stoned yourself enough to have forgotten. I can just picture the scenario where some smart ass, ignorant fuck of a child, with parents who share similar attributes, introduces the word fag to my sweet little boy. And this will start the cycle of self doubt and insecurity in him, he who just wants to sing Let it Go and be Elsa the snow queen for Halloween, darn it.

While he walks around the house clutching his Thomas and Friends trains to his chest , I wonder what will become of my baby. That’s what he is, after all. My youngest and most likely my last. It’s something I wondered around three years ago, too, when he lay in my arms, only half conscious, while we drove him to the local hospital’s emergency room from his pediatrician’s office. He had fallen in and out of consciousness that day, pooped a diaper full of blood, and had spent the whole week clinging to me, not wanting anyone else and not willing to let go. I felt like a mother kangaroo. It had gotten so bad that at one point, I walked out of the house as soon as my husband walked in after work. I told him I was going out and to not call me. I drove to the nearest park, turned the car off, and cried.

Two doctor visits with the same doctor at our son’s pediatricians office earlier on in the week had resulted in a diagnosis of allergies. Twice. But the third time we took him in, right before being sent to the emergency room, a different doctor took one look at him, saw the potential for a lawsuit due to her colleague’s inability to recognize a child near death when she saw one, and sent us on our way to the local hospital, where they hypothesized about what exactly could be wrong with my son until a test for his hemoglobin levels returned at a level of 2.2. Normal for a child his age is around 14.

A blood transfusion and an ambulance to shift us to the larger Children’s Memorial Hospital in Chicago were ordered. They loaded my son into the ambulance with the blood transfusion and an oxygen machine going side by side. The nice paramedic tried not to make it obvious that he had to keep adjusting the oxygen levels because my son was having difficulty breathing. We arrived at the emergency room of Children’s Memorial. Surgeons, nurses, emergency room doctors, and the nice paramedic all crowded around us. I’ll never forget the feeling of being cared about that I got from that crowd. It was in stark contrast to the vibe I got earlier at the other hospital. One smiling, calm face after another introduced his or her self to us and asked that we tell them exactly what was going on, in detail. Their demeanor made me think that med school must have taught a course on keeping your shit together in the face of doctor doctor please please please fix my kid.

My son was diagnosed with iron deficiency anemia, caused by too much milk in his diet, which we were giving him too much of because he had been refusing his food while sick. Have you ever heard of death by cow boob juice? Me neither. Apparently the dumb fuck of a pediatrician who diagnosed him with allergies couldn’t connect the dots when I had told her he had been on just milk for days and that he had swelling all over his body. Swelling is a classic symptom of iron deficiency anemia. I’m guessing she pulled the degree from Rush out of her ass.

After spending three days and two nights in the hospital, one of which was in the ICU, we got to take our son home, which isn’t something every parent gets to experience when leaving a children’s hospital. I realize we were the lucky ones. I will forever be grateful to the doctors and nurses at Children’s Memorial. How they manage to keep their smiles and their sanity intact with the kind of work they do is a mystery to me. I know I would’ve gone bat shit manic depressive a long time ago.

It’s been over three years since then and the road to raising two young boys has been only slightly bumpy. Until this one big bump of my son sometimes wanting to be a girl. Eighty percent of the time he’s fine with being a boy, watching Thomas and attempting to beat up his big brother. Then there are those moments when he wants me to buy him a purse with his favorite princess character on it. Confused much?

I’ve thought about it, and really, the only thing I’ve wanted from my sons ever since they were born is for them to stick my husband and I in the same old folks’ home when we get to the diapering and spoon feeding part of old age, so that we can crap our pants at the same time, eventually croak together, and I can graduate from the school of life with full nagging honors. Oh, yeah, and for them to be happy. Super happy. When you’re a parent, all that matters to you is that your child exists. Parenting is a one way street. You give and don’t expect anything in return, although there’s a very good chance you’ll get a lot back. I don’t see how it’s possible to add fine print to the contract that was to love my kids forever.

So no, I don’t care if my son wants to be a queen, either now or twenty years from now. I don’t care who my boys marry or don’t marry or if they go live with cows on some ranch in Montana. I just hope that once in a while they’ll leave their bovine pasture and come see us, especially when my husband’s telling the nurses he’s fine with being donated to science as long as it gets him away from me.

In this corner, the jolly fat guy. In this corner, the other jolly fat guy.

Posted on November 28, 2014 by sheemsters

My seven year old wants to celebrate Christmas. He’d like a Christmas tree with the the works. He insists on presents and stockings. My husband remembers asking the same from his parents when he was that age. I do too. Christmas probably has the distinction of being the most beloved holiday for kids, because of this guy.

What’s not to love about Santa? He’s a fat old jolly dude that brings free toys. Which is great and all except for one minor technicality – we’re not Christian. We’re Muslim. In our house, Dec 25 usually just means we get to sleep in and you have to buy essentials early the day before because even the zombies at Walmart get the day off.

But try telling my kids that. I wouldn’t know where to start. Saying Santa only visits Christian homes makes him sound like a selective, prejudiced bastard, so that was out.

Before you tell me to haul my non conforming ass back to my own country, let me tell you that celebrating or not celebrating Christmas is not the issue here. We respect all religions and to take part in the festivities of any holiday, be it Christmas or Diwali, would just mean more fun for us. Besides, Muslims love Jesus just as much as Christians do. I look forward to buying a little tree and sticking some presents underneath it, while telling my sons I texted Santa the code to our alarm system so he won’t set off the motion sensor.

The issue is that for my kids, Christmas is Cinderella and Eid her fat footed, big nosed sister. No, we don’t celebrate Ramadan, just like you don’t celebrate November. Eid is the name of the holiday and Ramadan is the the holy month that precedes it. In the voting booths of kids brains everywhere, Christmas has taken a far lead over Eid, since one means presents and the other means a month of daily food deprivation. Clear winner here. This isn’t the presidential election of 2000.

In an effort to make the holiday more appealing to kids, my husband and his college friends once thought up a character by the name of Eid Saeed. A Muslim Santa Clause. I don’t know what they were smoking when they did it. Eid Saeed would shake things up for the holiday, all right. The idea of a Muslim guy who enters U.S. air space by magic and goes into people’s homes in the dead of night with a bag full of things you can’t see is definitely going to excite people. Especially the authorities.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I really don’t have any solution to the aforementioned problem so that’s right, I’m just going to leave things hanging. We already make Eid an occasion more enjoyable for our kids than visiting Disney World. I’m not going to fly Mickey Mouse out here now, too, because his ginormous rodent ass only travels first class.

It’s Jurassic Park around here and just call me Tyrannosaurus Rex

Posted on November 26, 2014 by sheemsters

Warning : Intense bitching and discussing of female issues to follow. Enter at your own risk.

Those dinosaurs? They’re me. The kid scared out of his mind, cowering behind the desk? Anyone that crosses my path a certain week out of certain months out of the year. It’s not always like this. It’s not always bad. It’s usually pretty easy, minus a few cramps and way too many trips to the bathroom. But when it gets bad, it gets bad pretty quickly. The angry verbal lava you are spewing from your mouth runs hot and fast and before you know it, there’s been a lot of damage done.

I don’t know how women who have to deal with PMS every month manage to survive and with their marriages intact. My periods have always been pretty symptom less, but post pregnancies, they got complicated, just like everything else in my life. Now I don’t know what each month will bring. It’s like being on the Price is Right. There could be a new car behind that door or a frying pan. I could be writhing in pain and sofa bound, cursing my uterus, ovaries, estrogen, mother nature and the cosmic forces that made me a woman. Or the week could breeze by with minimal discomfort and I can toss and turn and sleep in whatever position I want to without worrying about waking up to the Chainsaw massacre.

This guess and go game of my reproductive cycle is distressing. It may not seem that way, but I don’t like being a bitch. No, I really don’t. I feel like when I am, it’s because I’m provoked. Examples would be when the old fart next door is mowing his lawn for the >insert any number of your liking here, it’ll work< time and that too on a Saturday morning, when no one wants to see the ass crack of dawn. I feel like I’m usually nice to a fault, but I’m sure my husband would disagree.

This post isn’t about me, though. It’s about me in relation to PMS. Premenstrual syndrome. I don’t know why they call it that when you feel the symptoms before, after, and during your cycle. Someone enlighten me. The worst thing, in my opinion, about PMS is that you JUST CANNOT FREAKING CONTROL IT. It’s like a damn affliction. When I’m swearing at the spaghetti water because “how the eff do you dare to boil that slow, your mother must have been some form of reverse osmosis shit”, I know I look like a mad woman. But I can’t help it. It’s like you know the bridge has collapsed and there’s a bazillion foot fall but you’re going to go on ahead anyway because your brain has lost control of the stick shift that is your mental balance. That’s what it is. A momentary (long moment) loss of mental balance. Describes it perfectly for me. I just didn’t want to use the term out of respect to people who really suffer from mental illness. But then they say PMS can sometimes be a form of mental illness. This is such a face palm moment.

Anyway, I hope I didn’t gross you out too much and you managed to enjoy your little tour through the female brain during uterine shedding season. And no, I don’t think women are superior to men because they have to deal with Niagara falls in the overalls every month, even if the vein of this blog post seems to be heading in that direction. As someone once snarkily pointed out to me, men have issues that are unique to their gender, also. Like how to deal with their wives when aunt flow is visiting. I see my husband’s face when I’ve turned into the housewife from hell and I hate the look I see there. It makes me sad that I’m so mean and he’s so helpful, which unleashes another spewing of demonic proportions brought on by the frustration of knowing I’m so mean and he’s so helpful. It’s a crazy, vicious cycle. Pun intended.

So there’s my rant of the day/ode to my sistas. What’s that? I shouldn’t blog about female issues because it’s a public platform and it’s gross and what’s my problem, do I have cooties? Well, what can I say? That’s just how I am. I don’t mind discussing issues of the female persuasion in the company of males as long as it’s done aesthetically, meaning I won’t ask you to see if this tampon can fit inside your nostril but I can help you out if you want to know what medicine will work best for your girlfriend and her “female problems.” What? I sound like a bitch? Well then, you’ll just have to forgive me. You see, I’m on my period.

Dinosaur pic courtesy of http://www.pmslweb.com.

Fair and Lovely

Posted on November 25, 2014 by sheemsters

I heard a story from a friend that both saddened and frustrated me. This friend has a cousin who is in her early twenties, which in Indian Pakistani culture is considered just the right age range for courtship and marriage. As soon as a girl nears twenty, the pings, similar to the beeps of a dying battery in a smoke alarm, start going off in her parents brain. Apparently the dreaded age is thirty. If you’re past that and you are a female of southeast Asian descent, shame on you for not settling!

Of course I’m exaggerating. Not the shame and settling part but the stereotyping part. Not all Indian Pakistani families treat their daughters like heifers competing for first prize at the state fair, the prize being a husband. An education and a career is what is prioritized, especially here in the good old USA. However, I don’t have to tell you what kind of treatment women receive in terms of education, marriage, and procreation in parts of India, Pakistan, and other developing countries. You can grab a newspaper from those countries and read it for yourself. Sometimes that stone age mentality finds its way into society here as well.

The cousin of this friend has an aunt. This woman has been living and working in this country for the past thirty odd years, but apparently back in the old country, she was the village idiot. This aunt raved on and on about a neighbor of hers who she thought would be perfect for her niece. The only problem was that he was twice divorced. What’s the problem, the aunt asked. You know ——- won’t find anyone better. She isn’t thin or light skinned. Mind you, this was all said directly to the girl’s mother. I’m sure you’re thinking the mom must have gone ape shit, right? Unfortunately, no, and I’ll tell you why.

There are some backward ideas floating around in Indian/Pakistani culture, similar in annoyance to the common cold. There’s no cure for them, they’re annoying as hell when you’ve been afflicted, but they usually won’t kill you. Only a small minority thinks this way, but it’s that minority that ruins it for the rest of us. Backward idea numero uno is the obsession with light skin. Light colored skin is prized. Now, light skin is beautiful. My sister is light-skinned and she’s gorgeous. But we’re talking light skinned, as in Dracula just fed off you light. You need to look like a fresh bulb. The paler, the better. Don’t ask me why. I have no idea, especially since majority of Indians are of the darker, wheatish hue. Some people say it’s an inferiority complex left over from British colonial rule. I believe them. Oprah once did a segment on her show where she talked about how India is the number one country in the use of skin bleach. I’d have written a complaint to her on behalf of my people if I didn’t have slightly used tubes of Fair and Lovely sitting in my dresser drawer, remnants of my “I want to fit in” phase.

Another lovely gem of this thought process is that if you’re fat, you are ugly. No ifs or buts. An aunty once told me, “Girls only look good if they are slim”, which confused the eff out of me because she herself was fat as hell. And slim doesn’t mean slim/curvy. No, slim means flat chested, skeletal, and with cheekbones that would make Maleficent jealous. So unless you’re a fluorescent toothpick, it sucks to be you. Don’t believe me? Attend an Indo Pakistani party, especially one where lots of middle age ladies that are looking for brides for their sons are invited. If you’re pale, I guarantee you’ll have a fan following within the hour.

So the mother of the cousin of the friend said nothing. She just sighed and said her daughter would never consider a suitor who’s been divorced, twice. She did that because she herself believed that her daughter, a lovely, round faced, wide eyed, sweet girl, isn’t attractive because she isn’t light skinned or thin. Which makes no sense because her daughter has plenty of male attention. Lots of guys find her exotic looking and she’s been asked out often. She’s aware her mother has had this conversation, but she’s shrugged it off to a way of thinking that’s stupid and illogical, yet something that had been ingrained into her mother and aunt at a young age by their mother and so on. They’d been through it and it’s hard to change someone’s way of thinking. Besides, she told me, she’d never marry someone her mother picked out for her, anyway.

Of course, not all Indians and Pakistanis think like this. As a matter of fact, things are actually getting better in India. There are now lots of desi (slang for Indo/Pak, I can use it, I am one of them) actresses and models who are refusing to bleach their skin and take pride in having a tan. There are “dark is beautiful” campaigns all over the Indian media. It’s a slow process, overturning centuries of backward thinking, but I’m glad there has been a start.

If you’re wondering if I’ve been through the revolving door that is Indian Pakistani style match making a few times myself, then duh! You’re right. Where else would I get my writing material from if not life itself? I don’t know any desi girl who hasn’t, light or dark. It’s just the system itself. It’s barbaric. But I’m happy to say it was only a few spins before I found myself a sweet guy who couldn’t care less what I weighed or whether or not he’d save on his electricity bill if my skin color wasn’t the right wattage. My husband says the thing he liked about me the most is that I was easy to talk to. Now if it were only that convenient for everyone.

First time

Posted on November 25, 2014 by sheemsters

This is my first time ever. Blogging, that is. Why’d I start? Being a stay at home mom to two little boys is great but my kids aren’t the best conversationalists. There’s only so many times I can hear that I’m the worst mom in the world. I’m married to the nicest guy ever, who has always been encouraging me in my endeavors.

I used to write regularly, in a journal or diary, before time to myself became a luxury I couldn’t afford. Now, with my own laptop and much less self doubt, I figured I could give opinionated information to the netting world on topics that sorely need first hand experience info sharing. I should also act before my vocabulary goes to hell, I start referring to myself in the third person, and I can’t speak in much more than pronouns. If nothing else, this blog will get my the wheels of my creativity turning. I figure if it doesn’t work out, there’s always the delete button.

I’d like to take this opportunity to introduce my sisters and co-bloggers, Sumayya and Fatima. They’d prefer to go by Sumi and Fati. I don’t like to be called Sheemi. We are three Indian American sisters living in Chicago (Fati, me) and Dallas (Sumi). Sumi is the sweetest nurse you’ll ever meet who’s a mom to the most adorable nephew on the planet. Fati is a very independent senior in college. She’s majoring in business and finance, has a full load of college classes, and still manages to look super chic ninety nine percent of the time. Since their schedules are busier than mine, I will be the main blogger, but you’ll get their input often as well.

This blog is going to move slow, since I have no idea what I’m doing and it’ll take a while for my audience and writing skills to grow. Unfortunately over the past few years, my language has accumulated some not so nice words that I’ll try to keep the usage of to a minimum. Sometimes, though, that’s the only way to get the point across 🙂