Before I die

So my sisters had this idea.

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Because sharing the same gene pool just isn’t enough.  You need a tattoo to solidify the bonds of sisterhood.

My sisters are the more adventurous of the bunch and I’m slightly more cautious.

Okay, so I’m a worry wart.

They do stuff with abandon and I crawl after them, metaphorically of course, worrying about any and every repercussion.

I also was not very excited about the idea of any of my limbs being the canvas for permanent art work.

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But I must admit, my interest was piqued.  We started to discuss what kind of inking we would get.  It had to be something all three of us would like, so we thought why not just get the word ‘sister’ tattooed in some fancy looking arabesque calligraphy?

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Kuthi means bitch in Urdu and Hindi.  We passed on that one.

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Meaning there is no way in hell you are getting that on me.

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By this time, we had shot down quite a few ideas and Sister 2 was getting frustrated.

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To which Sister 1 was not very sympathetic.

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We managed to get past that little snafu and decided on some sort of sisterly symbol instead of the word itself.

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That made me sound like someone’s deranged stalker.

Then we hit another road block.

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That idea was then also scrapped.

I’ve decided that if I am to get a tattoo, it will be for and around my next birthday.  I’ve narrowed my choices down to two that I like.

Now to get my sisters to agree.  You’ve already seen how easy that is.

I’m not crazy about permanent inkage and I absolutely hate needles.  As a child, I once ran out of the room during a doctor appointment during which I was to get vaccinated.  I would’ve made it out of the building, too, if the nurse hadn’t dragged me back.

But the idea of just one, really cool looking, bad ass tattoo is tantalizing.  I’ve never been bad ass before.

According to my younger brother, with whom I have regular back and forth sessions of what I like to call insultathons, I have been a fat ass, a lazy ass, and a dumb ass at various points in my life.

It’s like a mini Comedy Central roast every time we meet up.

But I have never been bad ass.  And who doesn’t want to be bad ass?

I do.  I really do.  Especially since I have always been told I have a sweet little baby face and I remind them of Winnie the Pooh. 😐

I’d love to whip out my tattoo, and with a crazy look in my eyes, ask the commenter Would Winnie the Pooh DO THIS?  Would he?! 😈

I’m just kidding.  I’m not that nuts and I really don’t mind the comparison.

But I would like to cross get a tattoo off my things I want to do before I die list.

Smoke a cigar and try hookah were taken off said list last year, on my last birthday, which was an important, milestone birthday.  I wanted to try something crazy, something I had never done before.  I figured Why the hell not?  Everyone does it.  

Bad idea, boys and girls.  To all you impressionable young people out there, don’t even.   

Both the cigar and the hookah tasted like shit.  Like dirty ass crack shit.  I couldn’t even stop coughing long enough to inhale or enjoy the stuff.  The smell of tobacco smoke clung to my hair and my clothes, mingling with my perfume.

The end result of it all was that I got home at 3 AM, looking like a zombie and smelling like a cheap hooker.

Slow and fat

A few weeks ago, we went to see the Circus Spectacular at the Sears Center arena.

Here we have photos of elephants, elephant butts, overpriced snacks, face paintings, and cute little circus souvenirs.  That’s Kid 1 in the yellow shirt, perched on top of the camel in picture number 8.

There were no lions or bears, oh my.  In addition to the elephants and camels, there were a few tigers, including a black and white one, and some horses/ponies.

The biggest issue/concern with the circus has always been the welfare of the animals involved.  I used to be quite passionate about animal rights when I was younger.  I still am, although these days I can’t devote any time to the cause.

The company’s website claimed to be cruelty free and accommodating all the needs of their animals.

Because it was the tenth consecutive freeze your ass off Saturday and we were all suffering from various degrees of cabin fever, that was enough to convince me it was okay to go.

So we went.

I can’t say whether the company’s claim was legitimate or not.  The animals certainly didn’t look starved.  The tigers actually looked a little overweight.

As evidenced in the video, they also seemed super bored and a little whateverish.

Overall, though, all the animals were well trained and better behaved than my children.

A special mention must be made of the man who sat directly in front of me.  My four year old was not impressed with the show and sat in my lap during most of the four hours we were there.  He cried when the lights went out and when the loud noises went off.

He also kicked the seat in front of me at the rate of around one kick every two seconds.

The guy sitting there must’ve been a saint in a past life.  He didn’t turn around or complain once, not even when Kid 2, perhaps in an effort to rustle up some major drama for his mama, took his index finger and tapped the man’s shiny, closely shaved, nearly bald head three times.

I sucked in my breath at that point and braced myself for the confrontation, but miraculously there wasn’t any.

You have my respect, Mr. Guy That Was Sitting In the Seat In Front Of Me.  He had to have been the world’s most patient and understanding man.  Maybe he overheard me telling my kids don’t make me come over there or you’ll be in time out until you start college and one more word out of you, I’m calling those tigers back and telling them to have a little Indian for dinner.

I’m thinking he decided I’m not messing with that bitch.  She cray.

On being the eldest

I have four siblings.  Two brothers and two sisters.  That makes me the eldest of five.

Most of the time I would say I’m very loving and maternal towards them.  I’m sort of like a den mother type. 

But of course siblings can piss you off. 

We don’t fight often, but when we do, things escalate pretty quickly.  We get MEAN.

When you fight with a sibling, you don’t hold back.  

My youngest sister sent me this yesterday to say the sun reminds her of me. 



Ha ha ha.  😂 I have to say, I agree.  

To tell it like it is

There is nothing to be said,

if not the truth.

How it seethes when hindered.

Gnawing inward.

Sharp of claw and tooth.

Storm and thunder,

to ignorant ocean waves.

Tranquil sleep and slumber.

Wrapped in oblivious stays.

The demon that must be embraced.

The bitter drink with poison laced.

The truth that embitters.

Hurts in more ways than one.

Brings out from caves.

Into the sun.

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Abdullah Saleem isn’t the only one

Head of Elgin Islamic School charged in sex abuse of former employee

Can’t say I’m shocked.

Sexual violence happens everywhere in the world and in every type of society.  But few will admit that it is rampant in religious institutions where extreme sexual repression is practiced and endorsed.

It happens and it happens often. In secrecy, of course.  Similar to the scandal that rocked the Catholic community.

What I am shocked about is that the perpetrator is facing charges.  People who hold high, powerful positions are not brought down easily.  Major respect to the young lady who had the courage to speak up for herself.  Major respect for the family that supported her.  Her bravery has led other women to come forward about being molested by the same sick bastard.

Laying allegations of sexual abuse against a figure such as Abdullah Saleem is no small feat.  For the Chicago Muslim community, he might as well have been the Pope.  That’s how revered he was, and still is, to some people who believe the victims are lying.

You might be thinking that I’m too quick to judge.  That everyone is innocent until proven guilty.

True.

But I speak from personal experiences and observances that very often (but not always, of course), those who speak the loudest are mostly full of shit.

If you feel the need to sermonize and make a big tada about your actions, odds are you’re speaking from the mind and the wallet.  Not the heart.

And if your actions are from the heart, you don’t need an audience or a spotlight to showcase you.  The beauty of your deeds and your work will speak for itself and be satisfaction enough.

I am also well aware that a victim’s reputation is always at stake in cases of sexual abuse.  To speak up is to be faced with questions and accusations against ones own ethics and principles, especially in a religious setting and against such a highly esteemed figure as Abdullah Saleem.

No woman or man would tackle something of this magnitude were it not for some major, MAJOR shit having gone down.  No amount of money can equal the fight and the heartache of tackling the tsunami that is the  backlash from a large religious community.

Salem Witch trials, anyone?

I can’t sum up in words exactly how awed I am by the young lady who has now given a voice to other victims.

She has more balls than the entire male staff of IIE put together.

This scandal brings to light how powerful a recruiting tool religion can be.  I’m a sexual predator won’t sell, but religious school for the learning of Quran or Bible classes for young boys will have people lining up to patron your holy cause.

Put a supposedly divine stamp on it and it’s amazing what you can get away with.

A fantastic Indian movie I watched recently, PK (yeah, that’s the title, a P and a K), gives an account of how warped religion has become in the hands of man.  It is religion seen through the eyes of an extraterrestrial.  An alien.  Awesome stuff.  Please do give it a look.  You’ll easily find a copy with subtitles if need be.

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And no, I was not paid for the advertising of the movie.

As if.

Lastly, and most importantly, please listen to your children and create an environment in which they feel safe coming to you for any and all problems.  Abdullah Saleem isn’t the only one, of course.  There are plenty of sickos out there, some in guises of holy pillars of the community and many not.  The trauma of living through sexual abuse is something that can easily break an adult.

Imagine what it has the potential to do to the fragility of a child.

Here’s something they don’t teach you in lamaze

We had just come home from a trip to the local grocery store.  My husband was putting away our coats and the boys began running around in the living room.

Come on! son 1 shouted to son 2.  Let’s play! 

I don’t remember what game it was.  Just assume something terrifyingly frenzy, that involved lots of running, shouting, messing up of my already quite messy home, and raising of my blood pressure.

Son 2 replied I don’t do that.  I’m a girl.  With an emphasis on the “don’t” and the “girl”.

I sighed a terribly frustrated sigh and thought grimly This kid is going to start kindergarten soon.  It’s one thing if he marches around the house, demanding that his clothes and sippy cups be in shades of pink and purple only, and it’s another if he does the same in school.

They like to make big deals out of these kinds of things in institutions of the educational type.  When son 2 was delayed in his speech, he was analyzed by six different child psychologists, therapists, and special education teachers.  I try not to think about the conclusions they would reach and the questions they would have regarding my son’s flip flopping on his gender.

Because to me, and to his pediatrician, it isn’t a big deal.  He’s four years old.  Hardly the age where major life decisions are made.  It’s probably a phase that he’ll eventually grow out of.  And if he doesn’t, he doesn’t.  If that’s how and what he chooses to be, then that’s how and what he is.  We all know his behavior isn’t the work of the devil whispering bad things into his ear after we turn out the lights.  I doubt even that spiky tailed mofo can get past the all seeing eye that is the ADT motion sensor.

I keep telling him he’s a boy that loves to do girl stuff, because he loves to do all the boy stuff, too.  And that’s fine.  Boys can love the colors pink and purple, dolls, pretty hair, etc.  But he’s still a boy.  And I can’t check both M and F on his school forms.

I said it gently the first 10 times or so, calmly explaining to him the whole boy with the likes and dislikes of a girl concept.  He listened and said Okay.

Then came the situation mentioned at the beginning of the post.

Oh my Allah!  Omg!  Not again!  Jesus!  Jesus, Mary, Joseph, Stalin, John, Lennon, Yoko, Ono, Rinko, Star! 

That’s how I vent my frustration.  I spout nonsense.

We’ve been through this before, darling I said through clenched teeth.  You’re a boy that likes girl stuff, remember?

All I got in response was a big, Cheshire cat like grin from Son 2.  :mrgreen:

There had to be some way to get him to understand.  I thought for a while about obvious differences between the sexes.

Hair length?  No, that wouldn’t work.

Boobs?  No, I wasn’t going to start that.  The male fascination with the female chest is something they’ll have no problem figuring out once they hit puberty.  The bigger, the better is pretty much self explanatory.

I really didn’t know what to say, so I blurted out You’re not a girl because girls don’t have wee wees.

From the corner of my eye, I could see my husband raise his eyebrows and smirk.  I wanted to pinch him.  He wasn’t helping.  And why was he wearing that expression?

Because he knew what was coming up.

Often I tend to miss the obvious, like the time I thought I was reaching for the minty blue mouthwash and almost gargled with the stuff from the bottle clearly marked Windex.

My husband is a smart cookie.  He knew what was coming next.  He just sat there, arms crossed, and let me deal with what I had started.

Son 2’s eyes got big and round and Son 1 started to laugh.  Bewildered and obviously anticipating something scandalous, they asked the question that I, quite foolishly, hadn’t anticipated.

If they don’t have wee wees, what do they pee out of ?!?!

And they haven’t stopped asking it.  I tell them I will sit down and explain anatomical differences between males and females soon, when I know what to say and how to phrase it right.

It’s better than I don’t know how to tell you this boys, but I have no idea how to approach those kinds of topics with you.  Your grandparents always chose the ‘no’ option when they sent the ‘would you like your child to participate in sex ed classes’ permission slip home.  They were first generation fobs that were scandalized by such a notion because, in the old country, you found out where babies come from on your wedding night.  No sooner.

I’ve got some prep work to do on the topic before I open up my big mouth again and start an avalanche of questions.  Because kids ask a lot of questions.  Their minds and voices don’t have the confines and restrictions of the adult thought process.  And I really don’t want to say anything that might confuse the heck out of them.

I always prided myself on being the most knowledgeable on any topic that was parental, but apparently, mom and child specialist are sometimes two different things.

Who knew?

Because one is the loneliest number

Still to be neat, still to be dressed,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powdered, still perfumed:
Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all the adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

-Ben Jonson

Makeup.

That first step in the overall process of socialization for human females.

A grooming ritual performed primarily in order to portray an image of looking better than one actually is.

I’ve tried cosmetics in the past.  Sometimes I still do, just to fit in.  I seem to be the one woman on the planet that isn’t interested in this stuff that other ladies go crazy over.  Even my sisters think I’m nuts because I choose to head out of the house with nothing on my face except some moisturizer and sunscreen.

Something about makeup never appealed to me, besides the fact that even when it’s done right I feel I look more like Ronald McDonald than some Indian beauty queen.  There’s just something so illusionary about it.  That’s not to say I never tried to like it, though.

After a few YouTube searches on how to makeup tutorial, I gave up and decided that face paint application is apparently more complex than advanced calculus.  Just the amount and types of brushes they used confused the hell out of me.  Even the doctors that performed my two cesareans had less instruments to work with.

I’m also hopeless with jewelry.  My mom almost killed me for all of hers that I misplaced when I was a teenager.  You haven’t seen crazy angry until you’ve come across an Indian woman bemoaning the loss of her gold finery.

A lot of ladies out there are probably thinking that with my dislike for things that are synonymous with femininity, I’m really a man hiding two grapefruits underneath his shirt.  If I miss any more waxing appointments I just might fit that description.

But no.  All ovaries, eggs, and monthly bloating here.  My collection of clothes, shoes, hair care products, and perfumes can attest to that.

Wait a sec.  Who ever said you need to qualify in order to be a woman?

In the past I’ve been made to feel like an unsophisticated and simple country mouse due to my preference for the bare faced look, but I say to each woman her own.  You like going out caked in layers of overpriced cosmetics, go for it.  If you prefer the I just woke up, zombie look, go for that.  If you want to  grow out the hair in your armpits and not shower for a week, then –

Never mind.  Don’t do that last one.

For richer or for poorer, but not during the Colts game

Prayers for the tragedy in France.  “Peace cannot be achieved through violence, it must be attained through understanding” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Welcome to the newly renovated The View Through The Window.  I was getting tired of that old theme and I like to switch things up now and then.  I hope you like this new blog style as much as I do.  Now back to our regularly scheduled blog post.

He’s the good cop to your bad cop.  The fun loving parent to your disciplinarian.  The one who sneaks your kids candy during time outs.  I quote, “Daddy’s awesome and you suck.”

Point noted.

Husbands.  You gotta love em.  And because we love them, let’s start with all the things they do that make them wonderful :

-He comes home after work.

Moving on.

I’m just kidding.  We all know husbands do a lot more good than just come home from work.  Let’s add to the list.

-He comes straight home from work.

Still kidding.  Don’t get your boxers in a bunch.  The real list follows :

-He comes straight home from work to a crabby wife and hyper kids, yet still manages to remain upbeat.

-Is tired as hell but tells you to take a break.

-Knows exactly what to do when you’re angry.  When I’m mad at him, my husband starts cleaning.  He strongly believes that cleanliness is next to godliness because it prevents your wife from doing that head turning thing from the Exorcist.

-Doesn’t question the logic behind why I can be as grumpy as I want but he gets in trouble for not smiling enough.

-Worked for years at a job he hated because he felt he had to.  His hard work is what made it possible for me to stay at home with our kids.  This is the reason why I call my husband the real superman.  That and because he’s survived being married to me for so long.

-Is ever supportive, whether it’s you wanting to go back to school, starting a blog or turning off all the lights and pretending no one’s home when the neighbor’s annoying kids show up uninvited.

-Is the world’s greatest dad.  My husband has more patience than a monkey has love for bananas.  He can play make believe games with my boys for hours.  I would rather clean the house. Or watch paint dry.  Or clean the house while I watch paint dry.

-He lets you blog about him.

And since nothing and no one is perfect, here are things he does that make him so very annoying :

-You send him to the supermarket for cauliflower and he returns with lettuce.  You ask for parsley and he gets spinach.

-Half your kitchen stuff ends up where it shouldn’t be when he unloads the dishwasher.

-His version of cleaning is to dump everything in the kids’ toy box and/or the closet.

-You can always count on him to not answer his phone.

-Wouldn’t know his way around the kitchen even if it came equipped with exit signs.

-Thinks it’s okay to have a conversation with you when you’re brushing your teeth.  Or through the bathroom door.  But thou shall not interrupt viewing of football game.

-Thinks we are out of <fill in the blank> if a sixty second search for it yields nothing.

-Grins and says But I picked you when you tell him his taste sucks.

-Thinks sitting down to pee is a strange and foreign concept.

-His looking for something usually ends up with you finding it for him.

-His lack of attention to detail and failure to pick up on social cues makes you wonder if he spent his adolescent years devoid of human interaction.  When I was pregnant and mine no longer fit, my husband thought it was okay to tell my family I was wearing his underwear.

-Hogs the blanket.  Tosses and turns enough to wake the dead.  My husband’s nocturnal bed shaking (no, not that kind) once even woke him up.  He turned to me, still half asleep, and asked was there an earthquake? to which I replied no, darling, your ass was just doing its sleep aerobics thing again.

-Leaves all pantry and cabinet doors wide open.  Shutting them makes you feel like Vanna White after an exceptionally large puzzle solving on an early 90’s episode of Wheel of Fortune.  You know, before it went all touch screen.

-He lets you blog about him with the condition that you will do a similar post on wives.

Needless to say, I accepted the challenge.