Bad Math

Herodotus didn't mean it like that

Hamid's mother's birthday was coming up and we put together a gorgeous little package of specialty kitchen items for her. Nothing too weighty, as it's not a cheap package - sending things to Iran. Nothing edible, wet, or otherwise possibly misconstrued - just an assortment of outrageously expensive, technologically advanced potholders with a matching set of darling Americana-style kitchen towels (with little roosters on them).

We signed and enclosed a card and jetted off to the post office to have it delivered to Tehran; happy in the knowledge that our gift would arrive exactly on her birthday, thrilled that we'd created a gift package she (like my own kitchen-addicted mother) would truly enjoy.

We arrived at the post office, here in nowhere-I'll-ever-live-again-God-it's-so-boring, and handed the package over to the clerk with a quick explanation that it was headed for Iran (pronounced 'ee-rahn'). He looked up at me, paused, and corrected me, "You mean Eye-ran." "No," I countered, "Ee-rahn. It's Eee-raaahn..." I emphasized the correct pronunciation and waited for him to tell me it would cost somewhere around a zillion dollars to send out our little package but instead, he got red in the face and fumbled around with some Official Post Office Documents (or at least rather bad photocopies of the same). The papers fluttered around his feet as his composure went from bad to non-existent until he spied the one he was looking for, tapped a black work shoe on it for good measure - just in case it tried to escape - and handed it over. "Oh, we don't send to them anymore." He announced, triumphant. I stared in disbelief through his grimy shoe print at the text which informed all 'Postal Service Clerks and Representatives' that 'NO CORRESPONDENCE of any kind' would be ferried from the United States via the Postal Service to any of the following countries: envision neatly typed list of George Bush's favorite Axis of Evil nations.

I was totally appalled, having just sent a massive payment in quarterly self employment taxes to the very same government that was now trying to tell me that it is suddenly not within my rights to send packages wherever I darn well please. So much for civil services. So much for assumed freedoms. I picked up my package in a huff and abandoned the mail clerk's now failed lesson in proper pronunciation - totally defeated and pretty damn pissed off; swimming in the irony that the adage attributed to the U.S. Postal Service, "Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these courageous couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." was actually said more than 2500 years ago by Herodotus the Greek historian in reference to the Persian mounted postal couriers who, in his estimation, were exceptionally brave.

Since when does the United States government install such a law without informing the people who utilize the service in the first place. A search on Google turned up nothing, no news, no announcement, no discussion. No evidence of the quick, quiet, under-the-table decision that American citizens are now even further cut off from their families abroad. The day I dial Iran and get a message telling me I no longer have the right is the day I pack our bags and ask the powers that be to expatriate me once and for all, thank you very much.

In the end, I will get this package to my mother-in-law. It may be late, but I will get it there. A friend in __________ is going to accept delivery of our contraband gift and repost for delivery to Tehran. So there. So ha! How's that for hacking the system?

And stop saying Eye-ran for goodness sake!

No, no...1,000 times, no.

This is just plain creepy.

In lumine Tuo videbimus lumen

That's the motto for Columbia University, one of the most respected Ivy League schools in America, situated in one of the most progressive cities in the nation. It reads "In Thy light shall we see the light". And after the recent bullish political antics of the institution's president, couldn't be more of a joke.

I'm a bit behind the times these days, not paying much attention to the politics of life - with our move back to the States coming up in less than two weeks I'm preoccupied and honestly, I find the neverending soap opera that is the world political stage quite boring (for it's hopelessness) lately. But when I received numerous emails from friends and colleagues in New York about the uproar Ahmadinejad's visit to the East Coast had caused I dug further and found, among others, this LA Times article.

The news out of New York (ie: the American media) is that the Iranian president had the usual inflammatory, oddball things to say - most notably his statement that there are 'no homosexuals in Iran'. (While he personally may not know of any, they certainly exist. But in a country where these things are punishable in the most violent ways who on earth is going to flaunt it?) In any case, maybe I'm picking on the wrong character here, but it wasn't the self-fulfilling prophecy of whatever bizarre things Ahmadinejad had to say that upset me, but rather the equally bizarre behavior of Bollinger, the president of Columbia, who introduced Iran's leader to his student-body audience with a thirty minute speech chock full of blatant insults and sheer rudeness aimed directly at his guest. The introduction consisted of the words: 'astonishingly uneducated', 'belligerent', 'ridiculous' and 'preposterous'...

As the head of a highly respected educational institution Bollinger had a responsibility to choose his words carefully; he spoke for his faculty, he spoke for the students who pay through the nose to patronize his holier-than-thou college, and in some ways, as the host of this charade, he spoke for New York and America in general. So, what did this figurehead do with the very rare and precious opportunity for a civilian to speak directly with one of the most controversial political leaders of our time? How did he approach what could have been a true learning opportunity for not only his students, himself, but his guest and our nation as a whole? He took the stage for the sheer purpose of vomiting his personal opinions all over Ahmadinejad and then abandoned him to the audience's pitchfork questions.

I'm not saying Ahmadinejad should be handled with kid gloves; but a certain amount of respect and kudos should be afforded the man who stepped out of his own comfort zone in order to communicate directly with university students in our country. Ahmadinejad is a professor himself, teaching at Tehran University (where his own students sometimes protest in the streets outside) and as such, it would seem an especially meaningful allowance on his part to take the time to visit with Columbia. Whatever his own political agenda, whatever the state of human rights in his country - he made the effort; and gave us, the citizens, a chance to speak with him firsthand instead of hearing him through the thick filter of bureaucrats and media translations we're usually fed from. And what on earth did we learn about Iran or it's leader from this very public verbal stoning? As far as I can see, absolutely nothing; and all because Bollinger took it upon himself to devolve the summit into a personal sounding board. What did we learn about ourselves? Plenty, I hope...but I'm not holding my breath.

Ahmadinejad said a number of strange things after Bollinger handed him over to the crowd. But one thing he said that makes perfect sense, and we'd do well to learn from was, "In Iran, when we invite a guest, we show them respect."

After the event was over Bollinger touted himself as a 'speak[er] of truth to power', lauded our nation's freedoms of opinion and speech, and those freedoms truly are things to be celebrated - but his arrogant waste of an opportunity for real discourse is an absolute shame and makes a mockery of our nation and it's 'freedoms', ultimately further proving what the rest of the world already says about America behind it's back, that we are a nation of loud-mouthed bullies. That's the truth everyone else is speaking in nearly every country on the planet today, in light of this event.

If Bollinger had upheld the high standards of his Ivy League school, if he had taken the motto "In lumine Tuo videbimus lumen" to heart it quite possibly could have been the single most enlightening and future-forward movement to take place between Iran and America in the last thirty years. But no, instead, Columbia's face-man threw that very possibility straight into the trash. Not exactly what I would call 'seeing the light'.

Keep your umbrella to yourself

I hesitate to publish this, even as I hit the button that will send these words into cyberspace...In fact, I've been sitting on it for weeks. But whatever. Haters, please don't send me 'anti-Islam' messages. And pundits, don't bother with the lecture on my lack of political savvy and patriotism. (If you're going to anyway...please check your spelling - it gets kind of tedious deciphering angry verbless prose, especially when it's full of typos.)

I'm American, and I'm also Muslim - recently converted to Islam out of love for my Persian husband, yes...but first and foremost out of my respect for the philosophy that is inherent in the faith.
Before you offer me your knee-jerk reactions to that statement, consider this: Islam shares the same basic tenets as Christianity, Judaism, and nearly all other major world religions. They're all essentially based on the same concept: love, forgiveness, compassion for others. Granted, some individuals have skewed the message of Islam into a bizarre and violent movement, but don't assume for even one second that just because I am Muslim, or anyone else for that matter, that these negativities prevail across the entire population. I have nothing in common with Osama Bin Laden, aside from the fact that we agree that Bush is kind of a pinhead, and we are both Muslim. The relation begins and ends there. For the record, I also think Osama is a pinhead (there are much, much stronger terms I could apply to both figureheads, actually...but for the sake of civility I'll leave it at that.) With all of this in mind:

When I saw the news report that Osama Bin Laden had released another video tape and that in it he encouraged the American people to convert to Islam as a way of staving off further death and destruction, my first (and very sarcastic) reaction was, 'Well, I guess I'm covered then...'

But the truth of the matter is, simply being Muslim isn't what these people want for the global population. That isn't the point, and conversion isn't enough to satisfy them. There are a number of sects within Islam, I happen to sit on the Shiia side of the fence and for this reason I am just as subject to Osama's wrath as any other non-Muslim American. Shiia is a true minority in the grand scheme of the Islamic faith, with Iran being the only largely Shiia country on the planet. Al Q'aeda, Osama's own personal army, is Sunni. That's not to say that Sunnis as a whole are inclined toward this kind of fanatical expression of the faith; I'm just pointing out that Al Q'uaeda is a Sunni-based group and that because I am part of the Shiia belief system I am also on their shit list.

Why is this important? Because, as I said, it simply isn't good enough, in their eyes, that people should convert to Islam. You're technically expected (according to Osama's rules of the game) to pick sides. Sunnis have, historically, warred against the Shiia sect just as much as any other group (Americans, westerners, capitalists, etc.). Many of the acts of terrorism carried out inside Iraq in recent years were directly targeted at Shiia religious travelers who were journeying to and from holy Shiia shrines inside the war torn country. Their faith is so strong, they willingly cross the border from Iran into Iraq just to get a glimpse of these holy places, and they are cut down by other Muslims without a second thought.

The endless news reports from inside Iraq about how the country had to build literal walls inside Baghdad to keep the two groups apart is further evidence of the infighting that continues among Muslims.

The thing that troubles me about the news reports and discussion surrounding Osama's video (aside from his crazy vision that the entire world pray a specific kind of assan with him every day), and just about anything else related to terrorism these days, is the singular focus on Islam as a whole. The lack of explanation, differentiation, and analysis of the historical relationships within Islam leads to this 'they all look the same' mentality whereby anyone who is Muslim is automatically pegged as 'the other' and is viewed as a potential threat.

I get that the concept of 'Love, see no color' doesn't really work, particularly when applied to something so personal as religious belief...there is not going to be any hand-holding and singing about this. This is not a war that can be won with a big dose of love and happy thoughts. But it is a war simply because the 'other side' (ie - Osama) has made it so; and these people, whatever religion they brand themselves with, are just plain scary. But I feel the need to at least point out that not every Muslim is a terrorist, and not every call to Islam is an open ticket to safety. It may sound ridiculously obvious, but with hundreds of news stories every day directly associating 'war', 'terrorism', and 'death' with 'Islam' - there is a certain amount of mental and social conditioning going on under the surface. For every report you read that 'Muslim' or 'Islamic' terrorist groups have done such and such, how many stories do you see that explain the deeply splintered internal structure of Islam; or better yet, explore the softer, everyday side of what it is to be Muslim? And how deep does your own investigation into one of the oldest faiths on the planet ever actually go?

Well, I'll tell you one thing about Islam, it isn't anything strange or bizarre and it's not based in violence...it's just people living their lives, sharing faith in God and hoping this umbrella of misunderstanding doesn't cast the devious shadow of suspicion over them too because some pinhead with a video camera has a big mouth and crazy ideals.

Letters to companies that suck

I just sent a letter to our hosting company, which used to be the best on the planet in my estimation but is fast becoming a big lumbering wildebeast of an IT enterprise. I can't figure it out - what happened that took them into a careening, sharp left turn toward disaster...perhaps they're just getting too big for their virtual britches. Who knows what the problem is. All I know is my site was down for the entire day yesterday, not to mention a number of our other websites and all because the hosting company provided us with a polluted batch of IP addresses; sort of like the grocery market here in Kathmandu happily selling obviously moldy bread and blackened mayonaise right off the shelf; which I'm equally inclined to rant about now that I'm on a roll. (My analogy may not mesh seamlessly, but you get the idea.) With our webhost, it's not just the one incident, but numerous others, now all piling on top of eachother to produce a leaning tower of frustration that threatens to topple over and take us with it into the rubble of a company that is now my blueprint for me for how *not* to do business.

And of course there are always those companies who are just rank from the get go, like our local ISP who gouges us for U.S. standard prices but provides truly third world service...but for the sake of brevity and sparing you the traumas of what it is to run a business from anywhere on the outskirts of technology I'll just move on to the case in point.

What is this swift degeneration that happens to so many small companies when they get an economic fuel injection? I saw it happen with my cel service provider back in the States when a smaller company was merged with mega-giant AT&T, I saw it happen with my landline service company US West when they underwent some kind of internal transition and renamed themselves Qwest, I saw it happen with Whole Foods - easily my favorite place to shop regardless of the many times I encountered sullen cashiers who seemed to resent my innocent purchases of tofu and organic fruit and flung my cash around as if it was an insult to them to have to count out my change.

Hamid and I make it a point to study incredible business models - smaller companies who are taking the old ways of doing things and mashing them up into exciting new standards or better yet, writing them over from scratch with nary a nod to old-school entrepreneurship. We strive to mimic, not their literal moves or agendas, but their overall approach and philosophy to the way business is accomplished.

We now talk about growth weekly; worrying over the long term satisfaction of our existing clients who've been with us since the seedling of our little enterprise brought in it's first dollar. We're constantly marking up ways in which to protect them from the one thing every business desires but is in danger of suffering from at the same time: success. Sure, I want us to get bigger, make more money, build more stuff, network at higher levels of commerce - but at a loss to my core values system? No way. It is, after all, called a 'business relationship' and for me, the more important qualifier in that term is the secondary - because if I'm not relating to the people I'm working with then I'm just another cog in the capitalist wheel, churning out an income like a robot. And I want more. And our bank account is proof positive that so does the purchasing public. We study incredible business models, but I'm realizing that there is just as much, if not more, to be learned from the lame ones. Particularly, the ones that had it right but lost their grip.

And when I have to use thick phrases like, 'I may not be your biggest customer, but if these things aren't resolved, I'll certainly be your loudest...' to converse with a company I used to send veritable love letters to you can pretty well bet that something, somewhere along the way has been lost - grip or otherwise.

Are you listening Acenet?

LinkedIn or locked out?

I don't talk smack about other sites, companies, or people here simply because it's bad form and like my mom (and every other mother on the planet) says, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all..." but a recent email conversation with the support team at LinkedIn has inspired me to break my code of silence just this once.

A little background: I've had a profile at LinkedIn for about a year, but never paid it very much attention. As a general rule I don't like social networking sites where panties and profanity are predominant profile attributes, which is the same reason I finally ditched my old MySpace account. But LinkedIn promised to be different; a business-networking based model, sans underwear and swearing; and when a major client requested my presence on the site I could not refuse. Since I work only on referral now anyway, it seemed like a great way to enhance and reinforce that decision while building up potential clientele. But even so, my profile languished with only the minimal attention it took to set it up, I never even made it public. And until recently that was fine with me. But in the past few weeks I've received further invitations from other clients and their colleagues which meant it was time to update the profile and send a few invites of my own.

Two weeks ago I logged in to my account and tried to accept an invitation. It sent me to the sign in page and then forwarded me to the main page of my profile. I decided to try to edit my details and was again asked to log in and then sent to the main page. This went on for a good fifteen mintues; me trying to edit this and that or accept or send a handful of invitations and each and every time I ended up with a log in request and a redirect back to the main page.

I checked my cookies, checked their FAQ. Nada. Everything seemed fine. So I sent them a support request asking what was up, was I doing something wrong? Were my cookies oxygen deprived, or what? Is it because I stayed on IE6 (so we could septuple check our designs and code against all possible browsers?)
No reply.

A week ago I tried again to log in with the intention of going through my laundry list of updates and messages but the same exact things happened again. Frustrating to say the least. So I sent in another support ticket noting that it was my second request and could someone please help me.

I received the following reply:
Hi Tess,
Thank you for contacting Linkedin Customer Support. We do apologize for the looping authentication issue and any inconveniences that this may be causing you. We are aware of the issue and are diligently working on a permanent resolution for it. In the mean time we have found that the overwhelming majority of Linkedin members that are experiencing this issue have found temporary relief by using the Firefox browser to access their Linkedin accounts. Please try this and let us know if it helps you. If not please let us know so that we can further assist you in regaining full functionality to your account. If you have any further questions please feel free to contact us. Thank you for using Linkedin."

This really made me laugh for a number of reasons: first, as a website designer I tried to imagine telling my clients or their users, "Oh, can't use the site? Have you downloaded this other browser yet? Give that a shot and let me know how it goes!" or "Gosh, are you still on IE6?? Sorry, we don't code for that browser anymore."
Second, I can't even fathom a site I've got my name behind, my design on and running on Hamid's code going lax with such a major useage issue for such a loooong period of time. It's insane to think of saying to a client, "We're aware of the problem but we're really having a hard time figuring out how to fix it for you these past two weeks, please leave a message..."
And third, what is this pushing Firefox on me? Are LinkedIn and Firefox mutually exclusive now? Are we going to have sites that not only state "Looks better in X resolution." but "Does not function unless you're on X browser."?

We code up the kazoo to make sure people of all browsers, JavaScript enabled or not, Mac or Windows or otherwise, etc. can use our sites, our client sites, and all the gadgets and clickable things that live on those URLs. I may not be the most brilliant designer on the planet but I know darn well that if an 'overwhelming majority' of anyone can't effectively use my site then my site isn't worth the .txt doc it's written on.

So I waited a while. Now, it's been two weeks since my first email. Today I received a notice from LinkedIn letting me know I had X number of messages awaiting my reply and wouldn't I like to log in and take care of them? I guessed they must have resolved the endless looping issue and were letting all of the poor overwhelming majority who had experienced this problem (but hadn't taken their blazing advice to download and install a whole 'nother browser) know that they could utilize their accounts again. No dice. Same problem

I.just.don't.get.it.

I had to shoot back the following question to their support people, along with a little personal philosophy on what 'usability' actually means, how I understand that no code is infallible, and I get that I'm not a major driving force at the site with my little meager profile and >10 contacts but that that was the whole point of trying to get in there in the first place: "Am I LinkedIn or locked out?"

UPDATE: Since posting this, LinkedIn has written back and it seems they really are a bit stuck. I feel sorry for them. That sucks. A friend also pointed out that since we *have* Firefox (and every other browser known to mankind) installed on the other laptop already it shouldn't be such a big deal for me to log in from there to handle my account...ah well, it was worth a whine anyway. The post has also made me increasingly popular on the site, with numerous new link requests coming in over the past few days (many from people I don't know). Ok already, I'll move the two whole feet it takes me to get to the other computer and log in from there. But still...

Oh dear...

When I was younger I was always fascinated by the stories of people who should have been on the Titanic but switched their tickets at the last moment, or those who should have been on such and such a flight but slept through their alarm, cursing their bad luck when they finally awoke to realize they were never going to make it in time; learning hours later that their plane had crashed.

Well, in preparation for our upcoming departure from Nepal I've been bugging Hamid about going into Kathmandu's China Town to buy another suitcase. We were going to go today but inhereted a rain-inspired laze and decided to stay home instead. Turns out that laziness was more to our advantage after all.

We've just received an email from the United States Embassy here in Kathmandu letting us know that four bombs went off in different parts of the city today. And one of the explosions was right in the area we would have been shopping at. It's all something to do with the upcoming elections and I'm happy to know we'll be leaving just in time, considering, and won't be here for the aftermath of what is likely to be one of Nepal's most violent political seasons in years.

Now this isn't nearly as dramatic as fortuitously missing the sinking of the Titanic, but it's a close call nonetheless.

Punk rock hair

So...I went to the salon today to rid myself of my blonde locks.
I'm tired of coloring my hair and although the last time I actually saw my natural color (hmmm, I guess I was maybe 17?) it was still blonde of its own accord, the stuff that creeps in at my roots these days is far from it.
So off I went to the most expensive coif shop I could find in Kathmandu; always relying (too) heavily on my theory that paying more will protect me from disaster.
With the help of the, uh, technician, we chose a light brown/dark blonde shade and named the whole process 'lowlights' with a plan to keep a bit of my existing blonde all mixed in with a more natural color.
They put this rubber hat with little holes all over it on my head and used what looked like knitting needles to pull strands of my hair out over the top of mon chapeau. By the time they were done I looked like a white Tina Turner and I smiled at all the girls who fawned over me in pairs, working up a lather on my rubber-coated head with the brown goo that was meant to transform my brassy mop into something lovely. Or at least that's what I kept telling myself.

I sat and read tedious reports in glossy fashion mags about who's who in the U.S. celebrity scene these days and what they're wearing, about the new jeans for 'every body' (happy to see my own favorite Goldschmeids on the list but feeling a bit lost at not recognizing a single other designer), about whoever's adopting whoever from the third world, and whatever else they think is important at InStyle.

When I noticed that the pile of gunk on top of my head was getting awfully dark I kept my mouth shut and mentally prayed my 'spend more, get better service' mantra whincing slightly at the memory of how this philosophy has failed me oh-so-many times here in the third world.

The cap was peeled off my head, my hair was washed and I was once again seated in front of the mirror. My hair was very, very dark...but I reassured myself that it was still wet and would transform into a delicious mix of blonde and brown as soon as it was dry.

Finally, my hair was dry and I could see very clearly that something was wrong. When I pointed out to the stylist what looked like exceptionally dark ends she simply said 'This never happens.' and turned away quickly to tell her girls to dry my hair some more; perhaps hoping that the heat would magically evaporate the very dark deposits of color that had cemented themselves from my jawline down.

The girls dried, and dried, and dried some more. My hair stayed the same. They checked and double checked color tubes, talked over me in stressed Nepali, and apparently came to no real conclusion. No one offered me an apology.

I'll leave the conversation that followed to your imagination but I will tell you that I refused the offer of a color removal and fresh attempt, but hautily accepted the suggestion that I not pay for my ruined head.

I walked out, took a deep breath and accepted my fate. I decided I'd just pretend it was on purpose - one of those very punk rock styles that starts out doing its thing at the top and then fades to black at the end. I'm trying hard not to relate to Lita Ford in the 80's and lean more in the direction of Jennifer Aniston after a dark wash, but it's a tough call.

I'm home now and Hamid has been telling me he thinks it's 'gorgeous' - but he says that even when I'm up at five a.m. with a fever and haven't had a shower for two days, so I don't necessarily trust his judgement.

No, I'm not going to show you a picture either. When you see me again, just smile and nod and pretend to think I did it on purpose, tell me it's very cool...assume I was looking to put a bit more edge back in a style that had otherwise gone very hippie as of late; the rock star look; whatever....

Pretty, pretty spam

It seems the spammers of our world are getting more and more creative about their efforts at inspiring the average, unsuspecting user to click their oh-so-lame links. I still get the usual array of spammy emails crammed with a mishmash of words that make no sense at all, or pictures of Cialis tabs for $129,95 or whatever - but there is this new breed of spam that has a sense of aesthetic behind it, and some of it is quite nice, actually...

Like the one I received today with this little piece of art displayed so prettily - it looks like a blurry Klimt, but I don't really know and anyway, I liked it so much I grabbed a screenshot and tucked it away in my graphics folder. I have lots of these little images, snagged from spam. They make me happy and remind me that there are hidden gems of beauty and goodness amidst the garbage of the world - even the digital kind.

The text of the email was in Russian and even though I went to all the trouble of learning their funky alphabet when I was in high school it was for the sole purpose of writing notes in school with friends who had also memorized the lettering; like a cipher, each letter relative to our own alphabet. We found it all the better for thwarting discovery of the secret, gossipy contents of our illegal classroom communique. So even though I can sound out the words phonetically it doesn't help at all in determining what this particular email was inviting me to do or buy - not that it matters, I'd never click the links either way...but I'm grateful for the little piece of art they gifted me.

The Accidental Feminist

We sit surrounded by empty granola bar wrappers and other plastic-packaged foods in various states of undress. There are also half eaten bags of dried fruits, candles that have tipped over and rolled about, tea cups bottomed with the vestige of early morning breakfast, bath towels placed over chair backs waiting to dry, CDs, DVDs, maps, books, keys, cosmetics, receipts, the phone, water bottles (empty or full, we do not descriminate) things we have confiscated from the dog's gaping maw, a pair of new beaded leather flats and other recently purchased souvenirs...it's a veritable hodge podge of needful everyday things that have all migrated at some point to the dining table that doubles as our office space.

My house is a mess.

The kitchen contains not a single clean dish and hasn't (if the truth be told) for quite some time, unless you count the ones at the bottom of the sink, submerged in soap filmed water for three days straight. It is my excuse for not cooking. Not that I'd be inclined to do much in the way of culinary creativity anyway. Sometimes, when we've scraped together enough elbow grease to get things back in order I'm filled with inspiration and attack a dinner menu with great gusto. The result, however, is a messy kitchen, yet again exploded with vegetable peels, dirty silver, and endless pots and pans I'm too apathetic to be bothered with again for a long, long time.
I've admitted before to my weakness for tossing dishes out in favor of buying new ones and had worked really hard this past year to break such a wasteful habit but we just made our first sacrifice: a plastic tupperware container that had been demoted from food storage to pennicillin incubator.
When I showed it to Hamid, opened it so that all the glory of it's aroma could enchant him, and asked if he wanted to wash it or should I toss it out his reply was, "That's easy to wash." so I said, "Go ahead." and he said, "Throw it away." So I did.

I have not done laundry for over a week; sleeves and shorts and pant legs stretch out from the laundry room floor as if in escape mode. I do not hear their stinky-sock appeals for a thorough wash and would not care even if I could; leaving them to welcome whatever new bits of clothing I sometimes gather up from the bedroom floor or various bathrooms and doorknobs to toss on top of the pile.
The clothes that are clean have taken over the entire fourth bedroom, dubbed 'the closet', and although we bought at least a hundred stylish silver hangers they are cold and lonely on their bars. The clothes are everywhere but.

Hamid and I were surveying the damage today, in awe of just how messy we are. I'm guessing it's a symptom of having so much space. Our previous house was the size, in its entirety, of one of our small bedrooms so it commanded at least some effort in the way of organization - but that's no excuse really. We laugh and talk about the dilemma over our messy tables, floors, and countertops, ignoring the obviously desperate condition of our kitchen in particular, and we get to the part in the conversation where my guilt over not cooking, not cleaning, and generally not giving a damn comes into play. Hamid makes it clear he doesn't hold it against me and knows full well he could clean if he really felt it was necessary. But he doesn't. And neither do I. And the cycle repeats itself with nothing done and no one complaining. But still, there's that socialized idea that lingers somewhere in the periphery of our marriage that says I'm supposed to be on top of these things, that it's supposed to make me happy and fulfilled or something. I'm the wife. It's almost like there's this unwritten job description compelling me to take on these most unfabulous domestic activities whether I feel like it or not.
Whatever.

The truth is, I will clean if it seems like a fun thing to do, which is pretty much how I live the rest of my life...this approach works well for me. When it's fun, it's truly a cathartic experience and I am at one with my mop and my size extra small pink rubber gloves (purchased in and brought back from Turkey because Nepal only has extra large yellow ones which are just so unacceptable.) When I'm in that rare space of PineSol bliss, high on ammonia and bleach, scrubbing away at the worries of the world inside my very own house I'll go until every.single.thing is right back where it should be and glistening with a germ-free shine. But the mood hasn't struck me for eons and so it goes..

In the meantime, I do my best to try to shove the 'I'm a bad wife.' thoughts to the back of my mind and pretend I can't see what's going on around me; looking instead for more dishes to offer up to the garbage can gods of household detritus - at least that way, there's that much less to feel guily about.

Ouch

I have this really annoying (and painful) habit of falling down.
It's just taken hold the last few years - crashing motorcycles, falling down stairs, slipping on wet sidewalks...I'm on the ground grasping at a bruised knee, or worse, at least once every couple of months.
And today yet again; while striding happily with Hamid through the cats-and-dogs monsoon in Kathmandu I went from upright to half-height in the middle of a giant puddle in less than thirty seconds.
My Coach ballet flats, which until now have been a most infallible pair of shoes for negotiating the half-baked sidewalks of Nepal's big city, transformed all at once from sturdy footwear to banana peels and that was the end of me.

I really don't have a clue what I'm doing wrong. For all intents and purposes I really *do* know how to walk - for goodness sake I used to flit around in stilettos all day without a care in the world. But now, I'm like some feeble old woman slipping and sliding onto the ground at every opportunity; providing amusement for bystanders who 'Ohhh' and 'Ahhh' at the spectacle of my temporarily muddled abilities.

Hamid always swoops down on me and gathers me and my muddy wetness up in his arms, cooing at me the whole time while I silently curse the karma debt I seem to be unable to pay back in full. And I limp away from the scene, unable to look anyone in the eye and wondering what on earth I need to do to recover my sense of self enough to be able to navigate the planet's walkways without becoming a victim of them at every turn.

So now we're home, and I'm sopping wet. I'm feeling most sorry for myself and my knee which is promising to be green for a very, very long time and I'm pondering the depth of my despair...is it worth crying over? Probably not. But I'll publish a public appeal for sympathy anyway...

The unmistakable smell of India - DKNY to the rescue

We'd already dropped close to four grand on flights to and from Anakara plus hotel reservations, so when we realized the tickets we'd booked put us in Delhi's international transit lounge for twelve hours each way and the alternate option of travelling through Doha would have added another thousand dollars at least, we thought for the sake of a bit of cost-savings we could handle it. From the moment we stepped off the plane in Delhi, breathing in that familiar smell of fresh-baked yuck that India is permeated with we knew it was a choice we would come to regret.

Sitting in the airport, where modernity is just starting to eke it's way into existence, we looked around at the few other tourists smiling and perfectly happy to be there for hours on end and understood that the charm of India has been lost on us entirely, forever.
We made a pact that day never to return and I dashed off to the duty free to spritz myself with all manner of liquid couture in an attempt at reclaiming my olfactories.

I picked up a bottle of Gucci, Envy Me - my current favorite fragrance and sprayed away until I was a walking cloud of perfume. Remembering that Hamid was sitting alone on a bench that smelled all too strongly of the hundreds of pairs of dirty feet that had been propped up there over time I picked up a bottle of DKNY Delicious for men and breathed it in. It was so truly the definition of delicious that I reached for the girly version and felt as if I'd died and gone to heaven. Whipping out the bank card, I invested a measly hundred on the Costco sized versions of each and made my way back to my darling who greeted me with desperate groans of stink-intensified boredom.

We spent the next couple of hours dousing ourselves in perfume and breathing through our sleeves.