I come from a family of readers. As a child, getting sent to my room didn’t seem like that much of a punishment – I would just read. (Shh, don’t tell my parents.) Anis’ bed was always full of books. He would just sort of lay down among them, like a nest. Naysan spent the first few years of his life in my mom’s bookshop. I remember his sitting in the kitchen one summer day when he was six, reading a book. When I say one day, I mean the whole day – eight hours, tearing through those chapters. Yes, he was precocious.
In addition to spending many of my waking hours reading, I sometimes spent my sleeping hours reading. Instead of experiencing, or directly observing, what was happening in my dreams, I would read it. So, what I was seeing in my dream were the pages of a book.
This morning was the first time in a long time that I read in my dream - I was reading an article about a new kind of Lego;. But I made the mistake of telling Sam about it (in real life, because he was already awake, trying to get me out of bed) while I was still reading the article. He asked me a series of questions, the first few of which I was able to answer, but then I lost connection with my dream state. Pooh.
So, I started taking accounting a couple of weeks ago. I don't know if this is supposed to be embarassing, but I'm really liking it. I think I would be very content to do some accounting homework every day. Actually, there's so much of it, I should be doing some every day. And the community college I attend has a beautiful campus, on the flanks of Diamond Head - it has a very green and rolling campus, with cactus gardens, twittering birds, and even some mongoose (mongeese?) skulking around.
Anyway, this evening in class, my teacher used Desperately Seeking Susan in an example. As I looked around the room, I realized that I was probably the only one old enough to have seen it in a theater. For me, hearing the title immediately conjured up memories of being in the sixth grade, at Uptown Square movie theater, sitting in the dark anticipating the appearance of Madonna on the screen, with Gracia Briggles and our respective moms, on a school night. For my classmates, it may have conjured up memories of the womb or VHS tapes.
What I like about Borders:
- their wide selection of books, magazines, various and sundry
- their big covered lanai
- their appreciation of and contributions to the community
What I don't like about Borders:
- their nasty bathrooms
People often ask how Sam and I met. The short answer is, "At school." The amusing short answer is, "In the elevator." This week marks six years since we met. We're not sure of the exact date, just that it was the first week of the semester, which followed Martin Luther King Day. People also often ask, "Did you know he was the one?" The answer is no, not at the time. But I think it's interesting that we both remember the meeting, since that can't be said for everyone we know.
We were both in the elevator after class.
"Hi, I'm Sam. I think we're in the same Infectious Disease Epi class."
"Hi, I'm Shokufeh." I'd seen him a little while before, in the classroom, wearing his red plaid flannel shirt. I wasn't drawn to him. Just curious. Who's that guy? What's he doing in this class? The rest of us have already been here a semester, and I've never seen him before.
Five minutes after the brief and inpersonal encounter in the elevator, I went to the copy center, and there he was.
"Hi, again."
"Hi," I said.
From January 1998 until October 10, 1998, the above was the sum total of our conversation. I observed him in our class over the semester, and he seemed like a nice guy. There was a part of me that regretted not appropriately responding to his overtures. Don't get my hubby wrong, these were not, "Hey, Baby," overtures. These were, "Hi, I'm new in school, and don't know anyone," overtures. Either way, I'd missed my chance in the elevator. And in the copy room. And my lack of social skills, the knowledge that I would be leaving the country in a few months, and my satisfaction with the friends I already had, meant that I didn't make the effort to strike up another conversation with him.
Luckily, I got another chance. Peace Corps in the Gambia wasn't my cup of tea, and I left after a few months, going back to Tulane to take a few more classes. A few weeks after my return, one of my friends threw herself a birthday party. I was one of the first people there, and when Sam walked up the stairs, I walked up and said, "Hi, I'm Shokufeh." From there, our friendship developed, and eventually grew into more. But it all started in the elevator.
This afternoon, I was in traffic behind a Quest minivan. Like any good family car, it had child seats in the back, visible in silhouette. What set this family car apart from the crowd was a sticker on the back door, reading "Pornstar." Lest there be any confusion as to whether this appellation described the car or its owner, on the glass above there was another sticker, of a curvaceous woman.
I know you probably think I talk about my brother too much, but he's awesome. His commercial is out now - watch for it, and him in it!
It's a truth commercial, with lots of mannequins - he's lining them up. We were channel flipping last night and came across it, but missed the first part with Anis. If you don't remember what he looks like, look here or here.
Okay, I'm done with my star-swooning for the day.
Update: Finally! As I was typing the above entry (1/21), Sam called me to the other room. I saw my brother. On national television. On a commercial. Yay!
(It was on the WB, between Smallville and Angel.)
It's been quite the week, with lots of input from lots of people. There were times my brain felt like exploding from all the ideas coming from various agencies with different viewpoints, and all the costs.
Thank goodness for sleep, and the dreams that come with it. After a night of intense dreaming - some of which was very obviously about the new information, some of which wasn't - things are more ordered in my head. Now to put it on paper.
I'm not in panic mode at the moment, but I was thinking about what happens when I am:
In recent months, it has come to my attention that when I am panicked and frenzied, an unpleasant and intense odor manifests itself. Not from my armpits, or my feet, or any of those other body parts one tends to associate with unpleasant odors.
From my sternum. Or, rather, the skin that covers my sternum. I find this strange. As you might guess, suddenly having a stinky sternum does nothing to assuage my panic and frenzy.
Too much information?
I'm about to fall over from fatigue, even though it's not 10 pm yet. But it's been a week since I've been back home, and well over two weeks since I wrote, so I must write my requisite recap so that I might once again get into the swing of blogging.
Our time on the mainland was great! Highlights include:
* Hanging with the majority of our immediate family members, some of whom we hadn't seen since our wedding
* Getting reacquainted with our nieces - at 2.5, almost 5, and 6.5 years old, they've changed a great deal since I left 16 months ago
* Seeing how tickled my dad seemed at having all of his children with him for his birthday
* Bonding with Meisa, my hip cousin
* Brunching with the other lay-c.com ladies, and getting to meet Suz for the first time
* Reuniting with a number of friends at the home of the gracious Kari, and getting to meet Cinnamon and Andrew for the first time
* Experiencing just the right amount of snow, and just the right amount of cold, for just the right amount of time
* Doing everything on my to-do list, without buying too much (though there is something embarassing about going to a store two days before Christmas and answering, "No," when the salesperson asks, "Is this a gift?")
* Stepping out of my day-to-day life for a while, having a wonderful time, yet happy to come home when it was all over (and feeling like it was indeed home to which I was returning)