So I was thinking the other day, “why not write down those things I do everyday?” I was going to title this blog “Tuesday” but as you can see I changed my mind last-minute. Each day goes into the next without any major milestones; appointments to keep, deadlines to meet and boring moments in front of the boob-toob. I realized that I spoke to my co-worker every day, explaining my day’s trials and tribulation of ‘what went wrong’ the day before or the day before. It was at this point that I realized I should be logging my stories, at least to keep my failing memory sharp.
Friday evening I was late to meet friends for a walk around the lake. The lilac trees were in bloom – white and violet with a wonderful smell that carried over the lake. On the walk we spotted groups of girls and boys dressed in formal wear, huddling close to the mini-golf course. It was 7pm and they were in their low cut, short dresses. My friend (we’ll call her Lila) and I began with our usual questions and comments… Were they at prom? Was it the local high school? Why were they wearing short dresses if it were prom? That dress color is not cool for prom! That dress is too casual! we finally asked a man standing close-by with his dog that looked as bored as some of the kids. Yes, it was prom and they were going out to eat and dancing. After our walk we went to a local Tex-Mex restaurant. Considering I had just returned from San Antonio, I was expecting great things. Not so much. The hot cocoa was great but the meal was anything memorable.
Saturday I spent the day alone at the local artist show called Art-A-Whirl, a Minneapolis annual festival for sculptors, painters, photographers and the like. I viewed the amateur and pro artist’s works, putting my nose right up to some to determine what sort of gold they used – to cause the price to be so damn high. But then I remembered, art can cost anything. I had wondered if they used the Ralph Lauren method of marketing… mark it up so it appears to have value – even when it costs less and is actually quite ugly.
I had a backache half way through the tour, but chose to trudge onward, trying to figure out if it was cramps or a backache. It was cramps. In my 37 years, I should know the difference. No supplies, no aspirin, no bathroom with supplies. Why now, why me? The art show isn’t exactly in the best part of town and I had to wrack my brain to remember where a decent gas station was where I didn’t have to feel accosted by greasy men and guys with their underwear sticking out of their hind-end. No tampons in sight – ah, they were under the checkout. No bathroom. I had to ask to use the “restrooms not for public use” toilet with a broken handle. I noticed someone left their DNA in the toilet, so in my attempt to flush I panicked for a sheer second as nothing happened. Crap, now I was going to have to go to another store. I gave it the “panic jiggle” and “success”, I was able to flush. Whew! I thanked the clerk and thought about how I would have been so embarrassed if I were still 18. I left feeling dirtier than when I arrived.
I shopped until my little feet could not bear to move another inch. I headed to my local California Pizza Kitchen to eat a midnight snack, well, practically midnight. While at the bar I perused the overpriced art magazine I picked up all the while not to cause attention to anyone that may disturb me and my feet. My hopes were quickly dashed when the out of town drunk guy sauntered to the bar to distinctly pronouncing that he owned a restaurant in Oregon. He attempted to make a comment about reading a SkyMall magazine, wondering how they thought of all those crazy items… I agreed, “ummhmm”. He got the hint and left.
Sunday started with Arabic class. I had stayed up late to finish my homework, procrastinating again until Saturday night. I made sure to prepare myself and leave early. I needed my coffee so I could forget that I had to wear hijab and tinker with it all through class. I’m a born and bred Minnesotan, but married a Muslim. No problems, just changes and unfamiliarity. Class went well and we were off to a birthday party within the next hour.
After the last minute Target stop for a gift (husband not planning), we made our way north 45 minutes. The party was the usual suspects, my husband’s friends from his weekend sports and their wives. I wore my tan dress pants and a tunic with blue to accent my blue eyes. It seemed that whenever I chose to dress-up the Desi’s would dress-down and vice versa. So I was happy to see a “new” girl scantilly dressed – highly unacceptable for a Desi party – well at least for my age range.
On our way home we did our monthly shopping at the Desi store (for those unaware, Desi can stand for Indian or Pakistani people). The smell of curry and moth balls… a smell only a Desi can understand and love. I stuck out like a sore thumb in the store, blond hair, blue eyes, dressed in tight closes (compared to Desi standards).
Mangos, Tabouleh, Hummus…yum.