2010 is the new 2000

Someone admitted to me earlier today that they're glad 2009 is almost over and that it would be a forgettable year. I believe them because I do not recall any of it. The only thing I remember is leaving my job and being on an endless search (still going strong) for another. I guess 2009 will be known as the forgettable year. Oh. Wait. It could also be known as the death parade of celebrities. Michael Jackson, Farrah Fawcett, David Carradine, Patrick Swayze, the guy who sold everything in commercials... and the list goes on and on. If you were a celebrity and you survived this year, congratulations. Especially you, Britney. Although,there are still a few weeks left.

Let's go for an optimistic read on next year. Things can only go up, right? Except for Tiger. Things look like they're getting worse. Sorry, Tiger, but you're kind of a man-wh*re. Someone put a leash on that guy.

What can we look forward to in 2010?

1.) Saying 2010 as "twenty ten". It's so futuristic. Plus, saying "two thousand and..." was so draining.

2.) The "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" movies. At least the first one, anyway. I'm kind of sad that the movies will be done too. So, let's add the Harry Potter Disney theme park on here. Destination-Orlando, Florida baby!

3.) Visiting the old country. I want to see the grandfolks, Aunts, Uncles, fruit trees, rolling hills, stray cats, graffiti'ed walls,harassing jobless buffoons, and unrepentant jaywalkers, baby. I want it all.

4.) My new job! (The glass is half full in "twenty ten".)

5.) My slamming new body! (The glass is actually over flowing in "twenty ten".)

6.)More Twilight movies! (The glass is also covered with images of Edward Cullen and Jacob, and sold at a Walmart near you)

7.) A Cardinals world series victory. (I'm just being realistic)

8.)Plenty of marriages. None of them probably mine, but it should still be fun.

9.) New trips to places I've never been. What with my new job and all, I should be able to save and afford money for these places. My traveling life has been on hiatus and it's time to take it off the shelf. Too dusty.

10.)More Tiger Woods mistresses revealing themselves. Because Tiger is waaaaay over-par with the ladies. And because this joke was too easy.

That Dirty Grapevine

You know what the deal with Arabs is? It's not our preferrance to include meat in every dish we eat. It's the level of talk. That level, friends, is high. And it's about everyone.

You know the saying "See no evil, hear no evil"? Forget the evil part for the sake of political correctness, please. But Arabs hear and see all. And they talk. It's like some right of passage that every young adult Arab in the United States must fret about the talk as they go out of their way to avoid being spotted by other curious Arabs at some point. Not necessarily because they're doing something wrong, but because the talking snowballs. Any misread moment by the ignorant machine can have scary results.

Choosing the places you hang out is very important. If you know Arabs frequent a certain part of town or store, you'll probably avoid going there just as a preemptive measure. Why risk being interrogated by someone who isn't a member of the C.I.A. just because they've taken it upon themselves to morph into the Judge Judy of Arabs once they've spotted you in public. Even a group of girls will avoid going to a certain establishment because they're afraid the Arab boys who are coincidentally there will go back home and talk. My reaction to these girls has been, "But if we're there and we see them at the same place, why are THEY talking about US? We're doing no more wrong than them!" So the girls say,"We know this. But they still talk about us. We get the hit, not them." And you know what? They're right.

Simply running into someone at the wrong place at the wrong time can mean another hit to your reputation. Your reputation is sort of like a lightweight boxer. It can only take so many hits before it goes down.

We've all had people try to take some jabs. I had an opponent once whose "concern" for me was marred by the fact that he could probably go to a number of different "Insert problem" Anonymous groups. So this elder statesman, whose moral compass is extremely off-kilter, felt it was his duty to inform a member of my family of seeing me at...where-ever the hell I was, you know, just in case. That's the sort of thing that you have to look out for. You want to scream and return the jabs, literally. But you mostly just have to move on.

Arabs have a tendancy to unnecessarily dramatize certain events. Even all the Arab actors over-act. Heck, we talk with our hands, because we need to dramatically act out what we're saying. Words aren't enough! The drama used to be reserved strictly for public occassions or sightings, but the online world has added a new platform to stalk and talk. I cannot, for the life of me, believe that facebook was not created by an Arab. Human beings, by nature, are curious. Arabs, by nature, must know every detail of your life. Arabs are like Androids of Information. If the Terminator were Arab, his mission would be to unearth and retain every single bit of information about John Connor's life and then go share that information with all the other Terminators. And then probably destroy you. Cause Arabs are like the first Terminator, not the second one.

But sweet, sweet facebook. Oh, cyber scene of stalkerdom. Institute of information. The pictures, information, and status updates provide a holy trinity of extra info. that would normally be reserved for close friends and people you see on a semi-regular to regular basis. I understand that the purpose of facebook is to generally stalk, but there are these Arabs out there who befriend you and never talk to you. Those are the ones to watch out for. Also, if their status update reads something like, "You don't know me! You can't judge me!" or "Everyone needs to mind their damn business! Haters!" then I'm probably losing trust in them. My friends with drama-free statuses usually tend to lead drama free lives. There's a reason for that.

Alas, even facebook has privacy settings. Might that our lives have the same option as well.

Arab and the City

Dear World,

My life is nothing like Sex and the City. I never minded ever watching Sex and the City, I wasn't against it like some people, but it wasn't something I was obsessed with. I can say, "hey, that reminds me of that episode where Carrie...." and say what happens next. But if there was ever a game about the show, I probably wouldn't win.

I couldn't get on board with how much sexy-time these people had with strangers. I was raised Muslim. Heck, I couldn't even write "Sex". I had to write "sexy-time". That tells you where I'm coming from. But I consider myself a feminist to a certain extent. I don't think I should tell these fictional characters how to live their lives. No one should say what they're doing is "slutty" and then watch Entourage and cheer on Johnny Chase's extracurricular activities. I hate hypocrites.

Plus I love shoes. What woman doesn't? The fashion was groundbreaking! Carrie wore big flower pins, we all wore big flower pins. Carrie wore patterned panty hose, we wore patterned panty hose. Carrie wore kuffiyahs and, well, Arabs were already doing that...but STILL! Americans started wearing kuffiyahs! The reason I could never feel fully rah-rah with Carrie's life is because of her Big obsession---pun intended. I never liked him. He's a jerk. A cheater. Gross. Anyway...I've lost my train of thought. Oh yes, Muslims and our romantic lives---

I face quite the conundrum. A humdinger, if you will. I don't know how to snag a guy. And I'm not the only one! I have plenty of girl-friends in the same boat. I can also tell you how this situation came to be. Growing up, I remember my mother saying we couldn't have friends who were boys. I would say, "Keith is my friend!" and my mom would say, "Ma-fishee (There is no) Keith! We don't have boys who are friends!" Now, don't get me wrong, mama wasn't a dictatorial arab mother who locked me in my room and didn't allow me to have a social life. She was actually pretty lenient and trusting. I have Arab friends' whose curfew lasted well after high school and worked like this, "If it's night time, you should be at home."

But what about winter, you ask? What about those nights when the sun sets at 5 pm or even earlier? Doesn't matter. Still applied. This always upset me, because these girls were supposedly mature enough to be married and raise families of their own, but not mature or responsible to lead rumor-free social lives!? Never mind rumor-free, because people (and by people, I mean Arabs) always talk...but at least lives their parents could be proud of? I think I've done pretty well. Especially compared to some of these Arabs out there who the elders adore but don't really know, yet insist they've lead saint-like existances. (Gag). I know better. That tells you all you need to know about our elders' ability to judge character.

But I can never claim my mother followed the ways of extreme Arab parenting. But the fear of male friendship was instilled in me. Don't get me wrong, I had guy friends growing up. It's natural to befriend friendly people. (<---You can quote me on that.) But I could never say, "Hey mom! I'm going out with Mohammad and Ahmed!"

We all treaded our friendships very carefully. The Arab guys would hang out with their non-Arab female friends and the Arab girls might have their non-Arab guy friends, but it wasn't easy for the Arabs to mingle without there being a lil' drama. Btw, having platonic relationships with the American friends didn't mean I could bring these guys back to my house and say, "Mom, Dad, meet my friend John!" because my parents would hear, "Mom, Dad, meet my friend John, who will destroy my 'honor', become my lover and be responsible for the down-fall of this family! I'm sure this will inspire a made-for-T.V. movie based on my life as an Arab girl who has to run away from her family with her American boyfriend, only to be abandoned by him months later after the media circus, left with nothing but a damaged reputation and bastard child!"

By the way, you'd have a fun time asking my mom about a girl's "honor". After questioning, you'll soon realize "honor" probably means "virginity" and that they don't care about the boys' "honor". Good times.

There's also this new phenomenon of Arab boys who might share the same goals, values and general lifestyle of some Arab girls, but who are going for white girls instead. Yes, you've probably seen this episode on Tyra about the black girl who's mad that her college educated, decent black brother/friend is dating a white girl. This is a new thing for us. And it makes some of us angry. I get it now. The educated Arab girl has a hard enough time as it is, but her limited choices are limited even more because he decided he could date a white girl!? There aren't a lot of you out there! You're messing up our chances for happiness even further!

Ok, back to my learned behavior. I would scoff at Arab girls who flirted heavily with the boys. By the time I got to college, I had plenty of more guy friends, but I was especially careful to keep it at that. I didn't tattoo "Friends Only" on my forehead. But I might as well have. I have practiced the ways of a "Good Arab Girl" quite well. I feel embarassed for the girls who flirt. I see them flirting and know the guy knows they're flirting, and I feel embarassed by the whole situation. Good job, mom. Good job.

So here I am, a 25 year old unmarried Westernized, yet proud, Arab girl. In Arab years, I'm like a 39 year old unmarried woman. Some people are thinking, "Whoa, why didn't she get married? What's wrong with her?". Yes, they ask what's wrong with me. I'm either some hideous creature or too picky. As if Prince Charming walked into my door and I said, "You know what, Princey-boy? I'm not having your charming, attractive ass seizing my heart today! No! Not me!"

I'm not attracted to guys who think women are good for nothing but reproducing, cooking and serving kahwa (coffee), or guys who have trouble saying their "P's". That rules out 99.8 % of men born in Palestine. But I'm also wise enough to know that I must find a respectable Muslim man who shares the values that our parents instilled in us.

So here's the conundrum. I want to meet a guy, but I don't go around meeting guys because I am a good Arab girl. But I also don't want to meet a guy the old fashioned way.

In case you're wondering what the old fashioned way is, here are a few situations that evolve into the predictable Palestinian engagement. A.)the guy is interested in you because he saw you on a wedding tape. B.) the guy is interested in you because he saw you at a wedding C.) The guy is interested in you because he knows your family and someone suggested he come to the family and pick one of the girls.

Yes, all very romantic. I know. It's all very infuriating to me because in all of these situations, the girl is not picked based on her personality, morals, or because the guy likes HER. He likes how she looks, or he heard the family is cool so he wants this to be easy. "Shallow" and "lazy" are not qualities I look for in a man. I've always questioned this method. What if you get a Jeffrey Dahmer situation? By all accounts, the Dahmers are a normal family. Except for that one guy, Jeff. Some might consider him a (really, really) bad apple. I'm not saying guys are picking out serial-killing cannibalistic Arab girls. I'm just saying your methods for choosing a wife are questionable, at best. Now reverse this. I've known situations where the girl is wonderful and beautiful but the guy's parents didn't approve because they didn't like her parents. So they veto her. It's all very messed up.

Ok, so here's the predictable Palestinian ending to this old fashioned way. The man comes to your home with his parents, even though you have never spoken to one another and you may have never even seen him, and you serve them coffee. So he gets a better look at the cow on the farm at work, if you will. I don't like that! I can't do that!

Back to our conundrum: On the other hand, I don't go out and date guys. Shocking to my American friends, but normal in the Arab world...except for the Arab girls who've taken initiative and decided to test the market. I used to question these girls' character. "She's crazy!" I'd think. "What does she think she's doing, dabbling with the guys! Didn't her mama teach her better. She's making the rest of us look bad." And then something happened. Many of these girls started marrying these guys. I was torn between my bitterness at my mother for teaching me to follow an old path that I obviously was never going to skip down and my bitterness at these guys who talked smack about the girls who date and gave them demeaning nicknames and then MARRIED THEM!

Where the flippity flap does that leave me? I'll tell you where. My mom is NOW trying to teach me new tricks. "Get on the email," she says in her sweet, Arab accent. (This is her way of saying get on the internet). "Get on the email and find someone."

Huh? What? Pardonez moi, maman?! Since when has it been ok to go out there and snag a guy on your own? I didn't know the rules went out the window once we ordered the internet! I tried explaining to my mom that it's not easy, just getting on the internet and picking someone. "Would you like me to get on the internet and type in a guy's name?" I ask mom, sarcastically. "Yeah!" mom replies, as if it's that easy. Oh, mom.

And on top of that, there aren't a lot of good, Arab guys out there. Many have left their religion/morals and still expect things to work out because they have their culture and can speak Arabic. Is a good, Muslim guy who doesn't live with his mom too much to ask for? Or a guy who doesn't expect me to ask permission before I leave the house? Or a guy who doesn't work at a liquor store? Or isn't my relative!?!?

I have a theory. In fact, I think it's an excellent theory! I believe the ratio of good, Arab girls far exceeds the amount of good, Arab guys. I'm not saying there aren't any good, Arab guys out there. I said the RATIO is disproportionate. The amount of suitable men are outnumbered by the number of available men. So here we are. I will leave it at that today.

This conundrum is yet to be solved, but it felt good talking about it.

Sincerely,

single Arab female

Looking for work IS work.

It's the end of October. Halloween doesn't scare me. No, no....it's the jobless thing that scares me. Geez, not working sucks. I mean, it is no fun waking up early. Anybody who knows me knows I do not like waking up early. But I hate not having something to do. I'm trying to be positive. At least now I'm getting some responses. I had an interview for a job I'm dying to have. We'll see what happens.

You know how they say, "when it rains it pours"? That's what it feels like when you're not working. It feels like, "man, I'm single, I'm not working, the Rams suck AND the Cardinals got swept outta the playoffs? What the hell?!" As if the Cardinals would help me find a job. But at least it feels good when they win.

And the Rams? Don't get me started. I want to help you understand what it is like being a Rams fan and watching their games. I want you to visualize a person in a wheelchair. There's another guy wheeling this person around a swimming pool. You recognize the guy in the wheel chair. You're thinking, "hey, didn't that guy used to be an olympic gold medalist in the 100 yard dash? What happened?" The guy pushing wheel chair guy around seems pretty stupid, cause he's in panic mode and starts running around the pool like a maniac. You're thinking, "wow, this doesn't seem right." But you don't have control. This guy's obviously the one taking care of wheel chair guy. Suddenly, the idiot pushes wheel chair guy into the pool. Now watch wheel chair guy try to get out. It's probably not working. Plus, the idiot who pushed him is screaming, "Help! I will die if Chlorine touches my skin!" There you have it. You have just watched the Rams this season.

Finding work is like that too. I feel like I'm not in control and someone's about to push me in the water. Or maybe I'm the idiot in this metaphor and the wheel chair guy is my life. Who knows?

I mean, Mark McGwire has a job in baseball. Mark McGwire is going to be the St. Louis Cardinals hitting coach and I can not find a job.

Maybe I should become friends with Tony La Russa. He'll find me work no matter what.

Or maybe I should shoot up with some steroids.

Don't Stop Believin'

There are a lot of things that kept me from contributing to my blog over the last few months. Frustration. Laziness. Fallouts. Cover Letters. Unemployment. Disappointment. But I'm back. (Not from unemployment, but laziness) I need to give a run down of All Star Weekend before I address the elephant wearing a Cardinals hoody in the room.

All Star Weekend feels like a dream that happened months ago. It did, in fact, occur months ago but it still has that dream-like quality where sometimes I remember details I had forgotten, relishing the recollection of something I didn't know I had lost.

At fanfest we recorded a hilariously pathetic "buckle up" ad (that I hope no one ever finds on the internet), took pictures in a dug out and on a baseball card that I took home, posed as if we were robbing home runs with Edmonds-ish over the wall catches, and received free tacos (thanks Taco Bell).

The Home Run Derby held its own magic. Not wanting to go home but running out of time to watch it anywhere, the siblings and I took a pilgrimage/speed walk to the center of baseball heaven, Busch Stadium, and found ourselves lucky enough to sit on picnic benches right outside Busch, switching our heads from the big screen State Farm had placed in an open field that used to be old Busch to the loud crowd and jumbotron inside new Busch where we could see replays and live shots. The weather, mind you, was perfection (perfect weather, and not sweltering heat and humidity, in July? This is a miracle in St. Louis) and the stadium was surrounded by baseball fans. It was merry. Yes, I said merry and it wasn't Christmas.

Did I mention I attended the All Star Game? I didn't? Oops. My cousin was leaving town and bequeathed her ticket to me 2-3 hours before the game. The game and pre-game hoopla was surreal and flew by. I can honestly tell you I don't remember many parts of the actual game. I remember the pre-game more than anything else. I can remember the PRE-pre-game standing in line to get in for 2 hours. I can remember the snipers stationed all around Busch. I can remember Obama throwing out the first pitch. Or Stan's underwhelming tribute by major league baseball. Actually, I think, besides the unbelievably loud ovations Pujols, Molina, Franklin and St. Louis native Ryan Howard got (you had to be there to feel how loud it was), that was one of the things I remember most vividly...the great Stan "the Man" Musial coming out on his cart, receiving an ovation, the baseball players clapping for him, then nothing. How disappointing. Here I thought he would at least get a video for everyone to absorb his stature in baseball, but nothing. Well, I took pictures and maybe I'll post them soon. You get more of a story with the pictures than my words. Plus the National League lost. I thought the magic of Busch would come through for us. But here's the thing, the magic was lost on the Cardinals too. And that's our segue...

The Cardinals were swept in the first round by the Los Angeles Dodgers. Ouch. And Matt Holliday, a key figure who was traded to the Cardinals at the end of July and helped propel us to become one of the best teams in baseball, at least record-wise, made a key error in game two, basically misplaying a catchable ball with two outs in the bottom of the 9th and the Cards up by one run. When you lose a superbly pitched Adam Wainwright game like that and go down 0-2 in the series, this is not your year.

Well that's all I have to say about that. What? Thought I'd lament some more. Nope. Done. 2009 was not our year. In the end, one team wins it all and the rest are disappointed. That's the way sports goes. That's not to say the drive home from Buffalo Wild Wings after game two wasn't difficult, it was, and that's not to say that week that the Cards were eliminated, the Rams lost AGAIN, the Missouri Tigers choked in the 4th quarter and the Blues, well, completed the bridge jumping loss-filled week wasn't depressingly sad, it was. But it was a bad week. Gotta look past it and move on. Silver lining: If, as an STL sports fan, you can get passed that week, you're a real fan. You can't experience the highest of the highs without the lowest of the lows. This is what separates the fans from the bandwagoners. Can you spot them now? Did they say they weren't really a Cards fan after all? Check bandwagon next to their name. Use it against them when the Cards get back to the play offs. Because they will.

This is our moment to regroup and accept the simple fact that no team wins every single year. No team. Take comfort with the fact that every single person who is reveling in our loss has experienced a painful sports moment that, when brought up, brings an acute pain to their heart that takes form in the most bitter of words when prodded just right.

There's always next year to go crazy, folks. Next year will bring new heroes, nick names, games that will be embedded in your memory for the thrown seat cushions and Big Mac Land letters knocked into darkness, and witnessing first hand feats of greatness that can only be achieved by a fellow whose name has become synonymous with great. Pujols.

You gotta take the bad with the good , the errors with the web gems and the early departures with the curtain calls. Take a bow gracefully. Get ready for next year's show. Know that when you stick around long enough, you see it all. You see the disappointments, and that makes the sight of your beloved team hoisting that trophy up high above their heads all the more special. ...unless you're a Cubs fan. You will never see that. You might as well go find something else to cheer for. **bows out**

Hey Now, You're an All Star, Part 1

All Star Week has come and gone. St. Louisans had been waiting for this event to come for years...well, decades honestly. There was one point, maybe three or four years ago, when I emailed a baseball writer asking if St. Louis would ever get its All Star Game promised to us once we tore down our beloved old Busch. The writer actually replied to my email and basically said we would. But I still for the life of me could not believe this week would come, even though I know he spoke the truth. Then it came.

All Star Week reminded me of what it was to be a kid again. You know when you were a kid and that wonderful/terrible feeling that stuck with you as you'd anxiously wait until your next birthday came? God, those 364 days feel like an eternity. That's the funny thing about being a kid, by the way. Your birthdays are practically shooting stars. You experience. You marvel. You enjoy. And then they're gone. (We spent more time talking about them then they actually lasted. ) Anyways, we grow up and realize the birthdays keep coming like signs on a highway and life doesn't slow down. Those hours that you felt slipping away like water in the palm of your hands once upon a birthday suddenly become years when you're an adult. You grow up and value the moments when everything slows down and can be savored.

The thing about All Star Week was it felt like my birthday-when I was a kid, I mean. I was surrounded by a flutter of activity. I wanted to just make everything pause, like that girl Evie from that 80's TV show "Out of This World". I wished I could taste, see, touch, smell and appreciate it all, but it felt like it was drip-drip-dripping through my fingers. When I first entered Fanfest, I literally started skipping. I felt like I was in Disneyland. As a baseball fan, I could only giggle with glee. I'm not kidding you, I actually giggled with glee. But I'll tell you about Fanfest later.

Ladies and gents, I offer my impressions of All Star Week-the St. Louis edition.

Saturday: A sign of things to come, I felt rushed and unable to function normally that day as I hurriedly packed for Chicago (I'll explain in a bit) and readied myself for my first All-Star experience. I dressed up for, well, I didn't know what exactly. All I knew was baseball people would be there. It was a party? A soiree? A function? What ever, Bob Costas would be there.

I watched the Cards play the Cubs on Fox Saturday baseball, then drove downtown to meet my cousins, who had invited me to the event. It was typical St. Louis-sticky and humid. I have to point out that I hate wearing heels. (I point this out because I was sort of dressed up. I figured anything with Bob Costas would be classy and require heels) When ever I'm forced to wear heels, I often comment out loud that I wished I were a boy or at least 5'9''. Then I'd avoid heels like they were the plague.

But I'm short, so I have to balance things out. Short people are already at a disadvantage, you see. First, people are looking down at us. Second, even when we wear heels, you tall sons of bitches wear heels and make us look even shorter than short. If we walk into something without heels and you tall people are wearing heels, we might as well quite our day jobs and go live with Frodo Baggins.

"Balancing" things outs, by the way, gave me blisters. I know that's T.M.I, but it was the worst case of Torturous Footus I had ever recieved. Also, I was sweating like some "before" guy in a deodorant commercial. Eventually I arrived at this shindig, briefly met Bob Costas and I'm sure all he was thinking was, "Jesus Christ, someone give this girl a stick of anti-perspirant." Plus, I guarantee you he'd say it in the most elequont Bob Costas-y way. I was happy but miserable. Yes, you can feel those two emotions and here's how. The occassion made me happy, but my state left me miserable. Looking around me, I realized I could've worn jeans and a t-shirt and would've fit in. But noooooooo, I wore heels and a shirt made for people who could never fathom perspiration, apparently. Anyways, we eventually left this party which was also attended by Rollie Fingers, George Brett and Wade Boggs (so I heard about Boggs, didn't see him). We left with gift bags. I felt very shnazzy. Well, as shnazzy as my shirt would allow me to feel.

We headed for the free Sheryl Crow concert (f/ Elvis Costello) under the magnificent Arch. (Doesn't that sound like Sheryl Crow is imprisoned somewhere? FREE SHERYL CROW!) I parted ways with my company (who had V.I.P passes to the show) and met with my sister. We watched Sheryl perform a few songs, then went on our merry way to Chicago, IL. We left around 10 pm and arrived at our hotel around 2:30 am. Pardon me if I forgot to mention this was a trip we made for our make-up Cards-Cubs game which had been rained out in April. The next day would prove eventful, but my All Star Sunday is where we must part for now, I'm afraid.

Until then, Au Revoir and Go Cards!

I'm Feelin' Hella Good

I went to see No Doubt play at the Verizon Wireless Amphitheater and expected to see a good show, but I did not get that. It was a GREAT show. The set was amazing and they performed masterfully(Like they've been doing this for over 15 years or something!). I have to say, Gwen's Stephani's abs are other-worldy. My sister asked how a mother of two could have abs like that. There is no answer. She looked exactly like you'd imagine-funky hair, killer body and styish outfits. At one point she pulled a little girl from the audience on stage who had the exact same mini-dress as Gwen. It was fabulous. I've never danced and jumped so much at a concert. I think the theme of the show was definately fun. Fun and stylish, like No Doubt. I highly recommend going to a No Doubt concert.

I'm going to Wrigleyville for a make-up game this weekend. The sis and I traveled to Chi-town in April, but the game was rained out! The memorable part of our rain-out was returning to our hotel, where we sat in the hotel's Bar and Grill and watched a Blues playoff hockey game. Then in walked Joe Morgan, former Red's second baseman, Hall of Famer and now play-by-play guy for Sunday night baseball! He was supposed to call our Sunday night Cards-Cubs game, if not for that darn rain. He was in there for a few hours talking baseball to the people around him. It was strange,beginning with one or two guys sitting next to him and 2-3 hours later there were at least a dozen Chicagoans standing by him, like leeches.

Anyways, the series against the Cubs this weekend is a big one. Hopefully we can come away with a split, at least. It'll be my first game at Wrigley Field! I'm excited, anxious, and all that good stuff. I wish we didn't have to drive up to Chicago (I'm not exactly in the mood after doing it two weekends in a row in April-long story) but it'll be fun. Especially if we win. It looks like Sunday we'll either have Wainwright or Lohse on the mound. Either way, good news for us. I just hope we beat the Cubs the game we're going to, so I can mock them as I leave. That's right, it's so I can be a sore winner. I so look forward to that. (Fingers crossed)

The problem is it's also All-Star Weekend! And I don't want to miss any single part of the festivities. I've been waiting for this week for so long. It's just like the Cubs to cause me any annoyance.

Oh, how I wish I could attend the All Star Game! All in all, I'm just excited about the general atmosphere that downtown STL will have. All these sponsors and celebrities and events are going to descend onto our city. I was downtown during the 4th of July weekend to see the new City Garden, two blocks of sculptures and gardens. It was beautiful. There were fountains of water gushing from the ground and kids were soaking wet playing in it. A nightmare for the parents looking with helpnessness but a delight for the onlookers:) It'll be bustling just as much when everyone comes into town. I can't wait to show off baseball heaven.

This is going to be an exciting next week. I expect lots of things will inspire blogs, especially the NL win I predict!

Elephant Butt

Last movie I watched at the theaters: 17 Again

My reaction: The movie was as cheesy as you'd expect. But Zac Efron did a great job.

Last movie I rented: The Wrestler

My Reaction: Wow. How did Mickey Rourke not win the Oscar? Wow.

What's as annoying as A-Rod right now: The media's obsession with the Swine Flu. I know they're trying to be safe, but really, I'm to the point where I want to run through a crowd and purposely risk infection just so I can contract the damn thing already.

How I'm dealing with it: Every time someone coughs or sneezes, I joke "It's not the Swine Flu, is it?". Yes, I realize I'm like the Uncle who always says, "Pull my finger." But this is how I deal with it.

What I can't get enough of: The St. Louis Cardinals. They have the major league's best record. you can't get enough of that.

How I wasted time today: I watched T.V. earlier and didn't do any work. Now I'm blogging and not doing work.

Currently looking forward to: The Summer. Oh Summer, how I've missed you.

Sports: Watched the Kentucky Derby today. I want to name a racehorse something like, "That's What She Said" or "Elephant Butt" and hear them say the name over and over on T.V.

Also, Albert Pujols? Still amazing.

I just realized: It's been cloudy for, like, 8 days straight. Enough is enough. We're not on Mars or in Chicago.

Also, I can sit on one of those horse jockeys from the Kentucky Derby today and kill them.

Currently listening to: Nancy Ajram (Arabic music) Gotta get my Spring groove on, ya know?

Flex Your Muscles

Go Ahead. Flex those muscles. I meant your creative muscles. That's right.Now get your creative juices flowing. Very nice. Alright, ready? You have an assignment for tonight. In my poetry class a few years ago, we were given a series of words that we had to include in our poems. We could create whatever poem we wanted as long as we used each word listed once and only once. (That's right, don't repeat any of the words.)

Anyways, it's been a few years, so hopefully I'll have every original word listed and you can work your magic. After you're done, you can read my original poem that I created from the list of words.

1. O’ Clock
2. vole
3. politics
4. candle wick
5. blue jay
6. phone
7. tenacity
8. bowl
9. pears
10. stetson
11. west wind
12. interstate

Ok, scroll down for my poem!

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Sundays at Mr. Boulderfield’s (2006)

Using the phone only once a week, four O’ Clock to be exact Mr. Boulderfield calls his grandchildren to come hear stories about the runaway vole who bolts across his kitchen, stuffing stolen crumbs with a wee hand into a make believe pocket.

And they love to come, as soon you’ll catch my drift. Despite their parents’ drawn out conversations about politics, which they patiently endure in the long drive along the interstate sitting as stiff as a candle wick that knows it’ll soon be lit

They know it’s only time before they’ll run through the doorway, begging their grandpa to join them on the old porch, a practice which has become law, with the hope that a blue jay will mingle in their presence as they picture the tiny mouse in the comfort of their imaginations

And they always believe their favorite storyteller Who gives out peeled pears to accommodate his audience. And wears the stetson hat over the shiny baldness of his head a smooth, glistening bowl surrounded by stark white hairs

Yes, they always believe their favorite storyteller Who hugs them with the tenacity of a west wind And because the slight curve in the bill of his hat always gives credence to his stories

Oh yeah, It's Poetry Time!

I know what you're thinking...

"Oh maaaan. Poetry? Who does she think she is? Why is she doing this? Doesn't she know how much she sucks at this?"

Well, here's what I'm thinking, "I don't care. I'm puttin' these badboys out there cause I got a blog and I got time. Oh yeeeeeah **Kool-Aid Man breaks through my wall**

First up:

Concrete Wall (2006 )

Oh hideous wall, sprayed phrases and pictures yearn for significance Ushering for the world’s ear, begging for attention to their plight, a red alert to the insanity of it all

“Freedom”, “truth”, and “occupation” cover the grey concrete, Concrete that reminds me of sloppy wet days when I can see my breath. The rusty steel juts out in all directions, wild and apathetic Just as the wall juts out between generations of homes and olive groves

The words are in all sorts of colors, Yet it’s always the red that stands out. Whether on grey concrete or punctured clothing, Red haunts those left to mourn the pale and silent faces.

The wall moans in indignation, trash piles up closely beneath it With the stench of rotten vegetables and thorny weeds. Flies circle in lazy indifference and can’t make up their minds. All they know is misery loves company

Such a slow death for an already wilting nation, Draining the light, it eats at the life of all who see it Cancerous and vile, separating all from loved ones Making it harder to breathe in without exhaling in grief

Their hearts break over and over again, Withering away, harden and crack to become ashy and grey. Like the remains of some burnt up corpse Once lively, now kept hidden in a misleading vase Just like the color of concrete

Torturous in its taunting, embarrassing in its existence, Promising a life filled with remorse and pangs in their stomachs from disgust. Deceptive in its purpose, walls never keep us apart They’re meant to be torn down, not embolden our distrust. Separate never makes equal, but ignorance makes it tall. Oh hideous wall

TOPICana

Baseball Dear Joel Pineiro, I am not happy with you totally bitching at The Secret Weapon through the media. Let's spell this out for you...He is The Secret Weapon. He is beloved. You are not. Therefore, you are not allowed to complain to the media. You're kind of a punk.

Dear Skip Schumaker, I really, really hope second base works out for you. You're kind of awesome. **hearts in eyes**

My Immune System I have now been sick for 10 days. I have officially titled these last 10 days as The Sickness of '09. I honestly don't know what's happening. I've gone from a virus to a cold to a lost voice to a worse cold to the coughs. Why is this happening? Why won't it go away? Come on immune system! Get your act together!

Babies I met my cousin's new daugher and she is absolutely adorable. I seriously miss her and I only met her once. Talk about a good first impression.

Laziness

I wish I wasn't too lazy to get up 10 minutes earlier so I could go to Quick Trip at 6:30 am and buy some of their delicious and very affordable coffee. I've grown a liking to their Caramel Machiatto with pumps of butter pecan. Man, that's awesome. Darn you, laziness! Darn you!

Waiting... too long:I finally got an alarm clock. Why did I wait so long to get this? Bad judgement on my part for going with my cell phone's alarm for the last 8 years instead of just investing in a nice alarm clock like I should have. I like waking up to Mike and Mike in the morning on ESPN radio, or to NPR. This is how it was meant to be.

the right amount of time:I finally got a calendar. I knew if I was patient enough I could get the cheapest possible calendar. How much did I get it for? $1. Yes. High five to myself. And it's a "30 Roc" calendar-not a kitten or dog calendar. Double high five.

Television Congratulations television. You're back on my good list. For a while there, I just didn't watch television. If I watched anything, it was DVDs. But thanks to an end to that strike and some awesome shows having a good year, I am back on the television bandwagon. Here's my TV Guide for you. It's very simple and wonderful, but addictive. Doctors insist that a healthy dose of the following shows will help lower your cholestrol and reduce stress. However, side effects may include laughing, happiness, a feeling of immortality, and flying.

If you experience an erection lasting longer than 8 hours, please call a doctor.

Monday: Heroes. The Daily Show.

Tuesday: American Idol. How I Met Your Mother. The Daily Show.

Wednesday: American Idol. Lost. The Real World. The Daily Show.

Thursday: The Office. 30 Roc. The Daily Show.

Friday: Starting tomorrow night...finally...Real Time with Bill Maher.

This Sunday, enjoy the wonderfully girly/gay Oscars. I'm leaning towards it being gay-ish since Hugh Jackman is hosting. Maybe it feels gay (wow. I just said "maybe it feels gay") because he's already hosted the Tony's-the ultimate gayfest...well, second to the gay pride parade...anyways...I'm excited. I love the fancy dresses and emotional acceptance speeches. And this year we've got a special treat! Jen and Angelina in the same room with television cameras! Yes! Drama! Love it!

He Doesn't Make Me Bitter.

Last movie I watched: Vicky Christina Barcelona.

My reaction: It was entertaining, but made me feel weird.

How I wasted time today: I spent at least half an hour at Blockbuster but I left with nothing.

But: I almost left with "W", "Changeling", or "The visitor". I actually considered renting High School Musical 3. I was desperate. But not that desperate. (or courageous).

I made myself feel better by: Listening to a Bill Simmons (ESPN's page 2) interview on the radio. I hate his Bostoniousnous Boston-ness Boston-acity but he's entertaining and funny.

I'm currently looking forward to: Lost. Tomorrow night.

Back to Sports: We were right in not trusting A-Rod. Maybe before it wasn't for the right reasons (like-COUGH-MadonnaGate-COUGH), but now, well...it's mighty polite of him to prove our instincts right. Thanks A-Rod!

BTW: It's easier to hate him the more I know him.

But really: I'd hate him even if he adopted kittens (and was clean).

Listening to A-Rod: Makes me want to stick sharp objects in my ears. Cause that would feel better than listening to him.

I just realized: I sound like his ex-wife.

So: I'm moving on.

Transitions: Aren't easy to come by.

McDonalds: always makes me feel sick when I eat it.

Transitions: See?

Latest Buy: Victoria Secret's PINK body mist. Smells nice, but not so strong. That's ok. You know what I mean? Not like that crazy stuff. I'm talking about the people who buy and wear the perfume or cologne created to mask the apparent stench of death they fear others will detect on them. We call them the Michael Phelps of Cologne wearers. They have a gold medal in the cologne swimming event. They come out of that event drenched. Let's just step away from the pool of shame. A simple mist should suffice.

Latest thing to buy and regret: An extension cord for work. It was the wrong kind.

Getting Shoed On

By: Sadiqua Hamdan and Badia Ead

Shoes are thrown at people for different reasons. If you were born in a Middle Eastern family, it’s tradition to have a shoe thrown at you when you are between the ages of 5 and 80. Research indicates that the risk of getting one thrown at you goes down as your age goes up.

Former President Bush was recently the recipient of this cultural “gift” from an Iraqi news reporter. It was more like a random act of “shoe-on-you, Mr. George”. A big ordeal was made out of this incident, and it brought embarrassment and mockery to him. I will explain why this was really a form of “I’m doing you a favor. I don’t want you to repeat the same mistakes when you get older” lesson. It’s tough love.

First, let’s talk about the history and purpose of throwing shoes.

Cultural Awareness

Like PMS, the gift of the “shoe throwing” gene has been passed on from great grandmother to her daughter, and so on. Of course, any person in an Arab family has the ability to throw a shoe, but tradition states that “one must be a grandfather, father, grandmother, mother, or making a lot of money before one is allowed to throw a shoe at another household member.”

Purpose of Shoe Throwing

As you may have already guessed, shoe throwing is a form of discipline. Everyone knows that Arab men work many hours and it’s up to the women to keep their kids in line. Over the years, mothers have fine-tuned their ability to throw with precision, speed and when you least expect it!

The precision is especially admired when the target is stricken running outside of a straight line. Long thought by experts to be a proven measure of thwarting an attack, i.e. gun shots, the Arab mother has perfected the art of hitting their moving target running in zig-zags.

It is also common knowledge that the number of shoes thrown is directly related to the ratio of mother to child. For example, any more than three children involved in the debacle will exponentially increase the number of shoes thrown in their direction. In this case, the old adage “strength in numbers” supports the number of shoes and not the number of children.

Anthropologists are not entirely certain when this practice began, but they theorize it was perfected some time before the emergence of the cordless telephone. It is believed that at this time, the mothers were forced to discipline within the boundaries of the telephone cord. Once removing the shoe and chasing the target with it ceased to be affective, the shoes began to fly.

There are many forms of discipline, like the fathers’ favorite, “It-foo” or “fake spitting on you”. It-foo really translates into, “I can’t believe you did that (insert silly reason why you pissed off your dad here). I can’t believe your mother gave birth to you and you are acting like a son-of-a-donkey.” Later in life, the therapist tells you that this is the Middle Eastern way of saying, “I’m disappointed in your actions, son.”

Other forms of verbal chastisement involve more of a self loathing approach, with the father exclaiming, “Damn your father!” and the mother exclaiming, “Damn your mother!” This usually causes confusion on the receivers’ end, who questions this approach before finally succumbing to the temptation to mock the parent for doing so. This, in turn, earns a thrown shoe.

So it brings us back to why shoes?

Shoes, sandals, pumps are easy to access. They’re usually on your feet. You reach down, pick up, and throw. It’s that easy. If your mom is really upset and throws a “foul” the first time, the other sandal is a foot away. She will hit the target. Her arm just wasn’t warmed up the first time, or she was being generous with a warning.

Now, the first time a shoe is thrown at you, it’s typically a situation you had no idea you were about to get into –you didn’t see it coming. I mean, your mom is in the bathroom dumping out the bucket of grayish colored water and replacing it with clean water to finish “Operation Clean Kitchen Floor” and you walk across that floor with dirty shoes on…very quickly…to grab some chocolate pudding out of the fridge. You have every intention of staying out of her way, so you head towards the living room to relax. A couple of minutes later, a sandal comes flying at you and hits you in your right shoulder. “Akhhh!” That means “OUCH!” Supplementing that action is a series of words that make you feel like you’re about to be pudding.

When Bush had a shoe thrown at him, it was the reporter’s way of saying, “Hi step-brother. Long time no see George Abdul Bush. I’m sorry our father insisted on sending you to boarding school for four years, but you repay us by shaming the family? You expect us to roll out the red carpet during this visit? How could you even think to give support to those our bullies? You were not raised this way.”Bush instinctively knew something was coming at him, and was able to dodge the dose of “tough love” thrown at him. Luckily, he thought it was kind of funny.

We hope he learned his lesson.

Bitter Sweet Dreams

Ok, so last night I had a dream that there were zombies. And they weren't old fashioned black and white movie zombies that can barely move 4 feet in 10 minutes. No-no, they were the fast "28 Days Later" kinds of zombies who chased us like hell in order to eat us.

This Zombie dream had me thinking of Michael Jackson's Thriller music video, despite the difference in Zombie speed. The zombies were really slow there and when they converged on Michael's girl, they seemed to only want to hug her or something. I literally remember thinking, "Just let them get you. They just want to touch or hug you. This will all be over soon." This all stems from my defeatest attitude that occasionally surfaces. My line is, "If my life were a horror movie, I'd play the extra. (yes, even in my own horror movie). And I'd be one of the first extras to die."

Anyways, contrary to the Thriller Zombies, there was no mistaking what they wanted to do in my dream. I saw them take a bite out of one of the people running away with me. Man, that sucked. And then, if I remember correctly, I was cornered by one and I thought, "ok, this shouldn't hurt. This is just a dream. They can't really bite me." But no, they bit me, and it hurt. **sad face**

I've been having weirdo dreams for as long as I could remember. They're always vivid. I know some people who barely remember any of their dreams. I, on the other hand, remember my dreams amazingly well and often. At times, I even experience physical pain. I remember having a dream when I was a kid, younger than 9, and Freddy Kruger was chasing me. At the end of the dream, I remember running towards a white door, because apparently that door meant safety. Just as I reached it, he slashed at my back-which hurt like hell- and I woke up with my back hurting. I asked my sister to look at my back and she saw four scratches across the part of my back I couldn't have cleanly scratched myself. I know most people would say I hurt my back (somehow scratching myself on my mattress) while I was sleeping and the Freddy Kruger dream resulted from that. Blah blah blah. And it's not like I really believe Freddy Kruger was attacking me. It's the mystery of the scratch marks that freak me out more than anything else.

My dreams have been disturbing in other ways. When I was 13 and living in Palestine, my dreams revolved around religion and the End of Times for months. I still have my journal that I used to write in documenting this craziness. I guess it's then that my sleeping problems first started. I was 13/14 and did not want to sleep at night because my dreams felt too real. I was so frustrated that I couldn't just dream about stupid things like Freddy Kruger any more. No, I had to dream about the end of times night after night. And if you believe in them, that's scarier than anything else-or any monster- you can dream of.

But of course I have my amazingly stupid and pointless dreams. Those are my favorite. There are two that stick out in my head. In one dream- my friends and I call it the infamous "Fruit of the Loom"dream-the guys dressed up as fruit from the Fruit of the Loom commercials are chasing me. They were angry. I'm laughing even as I tell you this because it's so amazingly funny even til this day. And the fact that my friends and I know what I'm talking about when I say, "The Fruit of the Loom" dream also tickles me.

In amazingly stupid dream #2 there's a chicken-man. His head is a man's head, his body is a chicken. What does chicken-man do? He takes a bite out of his own wings. I'd like to think that if any of us had delicious chicken wings for arms, we'd do the same. Anyways, I remember this being so funny that I laughed WHILE I was sleeping. Upon seeing my sleep-laugh, mom woke me up asking, "what's so funny?" The chicken-man dream still cracks me up, even if it sounds lame to everyone around me. Come on! The guy ate his own chicken-wing arms!!! That's hilarious!

Those are enough dream revelations for you, Cyber World.

Scatter Brained

• I'm so scatter brained, I don't even have a clear way of beginning this blog.
• Sometimes the Palestinian-Israeli issue seems so frustrating and overwhelming to write about, I just avoid trying. Sorry.
• I bought new brown boots (?) or something of that nature. I'll probably own them for 5 years. I used to a gift card, so don't give me that look.
• I bought the soundtrack to "Slumdog Millionaire" and then regretted it. The soundtrack is ok, but I cursed myself for not being like the rest of the world and just downloading key songs. I could've used my gift cards towards the Harry Potter recording of book 7 that I wanted. I wanted it and should've just saved up money.
• I enjoy Award shows like the Golden Globes and Oscars way too much. I need a life.
• Banan's talking to me right now cause she's sick of sitting in Bread Co. She sounds like she's about to go crazy.
• Kurt Warner is the model of someone who's good and keeps working hard and God keeps rewarding him. I can't help but sound religious here. But I really believe it! Leave me alone!
• I had a dream last night that my mosque's Imam was preaching about how we idolize Pujols way too much. Then he proceeded to tell us an Albert Pujols story to impress us. What does that mean!?

To Be Continued....

P.S. Banan is now talking like Elmo. It's REALLY time to go...

Gaza Doctor Receives Angry Reception at Press Conference