University Library Seized By Clay Babies

CHICAGO,  May 18: The Joseph Regenstein Library bookstacks of The University of Chicago is seeing an increase in abnormal activities with the latest Clay Babies mystery. The Bookstacks Department headed by David Bortoff claims to have uncovered twelve clay babies planted amongst the library collection to date. Bortoff has reason to believe there are more Clay Babies "lying out there in the stacks, waiting to pounce and shock people with their crazy smiles and wide open baby stub of arms".

These white, identical baby figurines are believed to have been made out of paper machete (in which case its name would be a misnomer) or more likely, clay. 

Search Services Assistant, Christopher Straughn found two clay babies while doing his rounds early yesterday morning. A frazzled Straughn expresses his concern for the potential hazard Clay Babies may bring since "some had been planted on top of the moving shelves on the B-level and fell on patrons. " However, Straughn does not speculate the culprit has malicious intents, perhaps just a "morbid and horrible sense of humor".

A Cage Management Assistant who refused to be named insists "it must be the work of some weirdo lady who has nothing better to do", claiming condemnation by the feminist factions of the student body who is "sick of people almost always immediately pointing fingers to the likes of cat ladies, creepy lady stuck in 80s clothing and them 'hos."

A student employee reports that "[she] thought students getting it on in the stacks is pretty awkward, but these fugly babies are just plain sick."

"Totally creeeeepy!", another lamented.

Fondly known as The Reg, this library bookstacks is already home to major nerdy conversations and self-introspection in the form of wall graffiti that defeats social conventions and norms. Inglorious remarks are made upon the self with reference to Dante's Inferno, au contraire to common youth speak such as "FML" or "fuck this shit and that shit." One dark corner on the second level clearly speaks for the University culture as cost curves, cost functions, production-cost frontiers and supply and demand graphs grace the walls.

During the school's winter quarter, the library hosts the controversial, annual Athletics Team "Naked Streak", opening all floors to an orgy of skin, giggles and to some, terror. Acts of coitus is also common in the bookstacks and this alludes to the perverse eroticism that must lie within the walls of this brutalist and otherwise boring architecture.

And now, perversity continues to reign as Clay Babies terrorize bookshelves, fall on patrons, disrupt peace and inculcate fear amongst library frequenters. Bookstacks personnel, clearly paralyzed by the emergence of Clay Babies are considering organizing a strike in the lobby if  "this crazy sensation does not stop."

The library is home to 4.4 million  print volumes, making it one of the largest repositories of books in the world. It is open to the general public every day and visitors may request a free day pass at the ID and Privileges Office.

Econometrics Can Give You the Tics

I, sweetheart to Sheldon Cooper, PhD, am willing to engage in coitus (ha ha) and explore the worlds of causality of the said demigod in Big Bang Theory. Observe my love for Dr. Cooper as manifested in this bold (and senseless) experimentation with statistics:

Let's talk some Stats crap. It is seen here that Cov[Score|Study]= 0, thus implying that Corr[score, study]= 0 (There is no correlation between score and studying). On a more serious note, God forbid!

"Scandalous Lives of UChicago's Elite"

I have not slept in my own bed for the past 4 nights. Scandalous much, right?

It is in fact, a scandal in it's finest form, I tell you. I have been spending my cold nights huddled up in someone else's space, on someone else's bed. Wait, you're not going to tell anyone, are you? Please don't. I have to live up to my heavily Muslim name (Nurjannah Iman Syaqirene) you know.

What's that you said? I didn't quite hear you. Oh, you don't know what my name means? I don't know if I should tell you. Well, well, it's for me to know and for you to find out. Let's leave it at the fact that I probably don't live up to my good name as much as I want to.

Yeah, man, especially now that I'm sleeping with someone else.

Oh yeah, you heard me right. I'm simply enjoying my intimate nights with a certain someone. Someone by the name of Joe.

There is no more incredible feeling in the world than losing yourself in the arms of a strong man while he indulges your every sense. To see, to feel, touch, to taste, to smell. Uh-huh, we do all that, Joe and I.

Halt! Don't jump the gun just yet. I don't smell smell (or sniff, make of it how you want) him, his feet or that certain part of the human anatomy I'm sure you are thinking about. Nor do I touch whatever you think I do. You have despicable thoughts, sheesh.

What exactly am I intimating, then? Well, you know, the innocent stuff. To see is to look into the other's eye. To touch is to feel the warmth of the other sitting right beside you. To taste is . . . to literally, bite into your guilty pleasures of chocolates and sins. (Gotcha there, didn't I). And to smell is to smell another's presence beside you, just from the way his clean, crisp clothes smell, or the noticeble scent of his perfume.

But what I love most about Joe is that he understands my intellectual pursuits and the sacrifices I make for them. He doesn't mind that we are surrounded by obnoxious, loud people. All he wants to do is just blanket me with his warmth and whisper encouraging and sweet, sweet thoughts into my ears. It tickles me, feeling his hot breath against my sensitive ears. But it's a feeling like. No. Other. (to emphasize just how that feeling felt like no other).

For the most part, Joe accommodates my search for ideas and entertains my nightly thoughts about making a difference in the world. I talk, I type, while Joe sings and Joe writes. What does he write? He writes the most meaningful missives, left on tables after tables so that I can read his words and remember his presence wherever I go. He is romantic that way, you know.

Ah, what a fresh new world you show me, Joe.

Because of that, Joe, I'm devoting 5 more nights with you. 5 more nights with you, and I will soar high above the horizons as you take me to places I have never been, Joe. 5 more nights of just you and me. Yes, you and me, Joe. How can life get any better than this?

For all this, I heart you Joseph Regenstein.

Picture courtesy of forums.nutsie.com

His name, in full, is Joseph Regenstein Library, folks. Of course we play SAFE, need you even ask?

Disclaimer: Euphemism. Self-explanatory. The chirpy tone, and sensational foreplay? Nothing but a twisted version of the sad, (and really twisted) things I actually do and will continue to do at Joseph Regenstein Library. It's true I haven't been sleeping in my beloved bed the past 4 nights, though. I sleep IN Joseph Regenstein Library, indeed!

Sleepless in Chicago Waiting for Perfect Man to End Her Sleepless Nights

I'm accepting boyfriends with captivating cover letters and brilliant CVs. Talents aside boring academic achievements and computer literacy are given strong preference. Although a good GPA is a strong indicator of your priorities (be it upright, or not right), I am willing to overlook that tiny detail if "spooning" is included in your list of experiences.
 
Merits are given to men who possess the ability to make others laugh, who don't mind listening to a woman's pointless, verbose stories and most importantly, who is not berkira. You will automatically be considered if the application covers some experience in patiently waiting for an indecisive girl while she shops.

All things considered, applicants with successful achievements at domestic capacities (like cooking, washing, cleaning) will be shortlisted for Webcam interviews. This is not, in any way, hinting at the possibility I will make a lousy wife. Rather, I am looking for men who would like to share the love and burden in the upkeep of a household, and not the "You duduk dapur, I tengok bola, makan pizza jadi buncit" kind of guy.

A detailed account of your previous relationships are encouraged, but not required. Note that intimacy and how you "got physical" with your exes are one of the few things I absolutely don't have to know, don't want to know and don't need to know about. Euw and double euw.

Since I am an equal opportunity "recruiter", I ask that you please don't include your passport-sized photos. I look for your "voice" in the CV, not your handsome Bollywood face, your mancung, mat salleh-like nose, or your $1000 braces, thank you very much.

Personality, no doubt, triumphs over beauty, but I would be extremely delighted if you could kindly insert snapshots of your fingers and arms. Long, nimble fingers are my fetish, and strong-looking arms with tersembul-sembul veins are the kinds I dig, kapiche?

 

Effective immediately, with an open deadline to date. No longer accepting applications once this frantic search for the imperfect men perfectly perfect for the imperfect me is over.

Please revert applications to njahmat@734 eh eh tekan tekan tak dapat.

JFL ya'll. (Just for laughs). Just for laughs, right. And to let off some steam as I pull off, yet again, a late night in the library.

As a parting treat, enjoy some cheesy ads I found from fusion101.com.

SINGLE BLACK FEMALE seeks male companionship, ethnicity unimportant. I'm a very good looking girl who LOVES to play. I love long walks in the woods, riding in your pickup truck, hunting, camping and fishing trips, cozy winter nights lying by the fire. Candlelight dinners will have me eating out of your hand. I'll be at the front door when you get home from work, Call (xxx) xxx-xxxx and ask for Daisy. Our Note: The ad above turned out to be an adoption offer for a black labrador retriever 8 week female from the Atlanta humane Society. It had 15,000 calls from men all over the country!!!!

---

Knight Seek His Queen
Male Seeking Female, 28 years old, 6’ 4” tall
This knight in shining armour is seeking an audience with the queen. If you enjoy having a man make you dinner, a man who will sweep you off your feet, treat you to the world of never ending respect, with adventure, humor, kindness, relaxation, and love mixed in for a solid foundation, than perhaps you are the queen for me. The Knight requests a Queen who will dress to impress. I will bow at your feet. If I sound interesting or you have a wish to find the man of your dreams, look no further, your Knight in shining armour has arrived.

---

1970 GMC w/Jet Skiis SWM, NM, GL, NS, SD, AC. Low mileage, custom paint, long sandy blonde graphics. 6'2" Lift. Bright hazel headlights will take 20-30 SF anywhere. Email for free test drive/ride.

---

When I was thirty my dates had to be young, tall, handsome, rich, intelligent. Now I'm 64, they only have to know how to read and use the telephone!

An "Inside Joke" Is Never Funny "Outside"

PJ, 11 September--NJ picks up the office phone authoritatively, putting on her no-nonsense, most professional voice. She dials for Richard Ng, with much gusto and style, punching the numbers as she reads it aloud.

Richard Ng is one man, one Malaysian man, who operates a cab. His business card reads: "Taxi service, from your doorstep to any step away; KLIA, Inter-city, Intra-city; Please call at least an hour before your trip."

NJ: Hello, Mr. Richard ah? I'm calling from Amnesty International in PJ.

R: Yes yes. What? NST what?

NJ: Oh, no no. Amnesty International, from New Town PJ.

R: Uhuhuh.

NJ: Anyways ah, I'd just like to ask you if we can reserve your cab for 2pm today? From 8 Avenue here at New Town PJ ah, Section 8, to Central Market. Well, actually not really Central Market lah, but Annexe. You know ah?

R: How you got my number?

NJ: Oh, I have your business card, a staff took your cab once. You said to call in advance, maa.

R: Ya ya. (Silent for 2 seconds) Oh, I ah, no longer do cab business ah.

NJ: Oooooh. (Silent for 4 seconds) Okay, nemind. Thank you ah Mr. Richard Ng. You have a nice day.

NJ to others in the office: Oh, Mr. Richard Ng has moved on to better things in life. He no longer does cabs.

(Office errupts in laughter)

Sediakan Payung Sebelum Hujan

What do you do when you finally get to meet someone you've always wanted to meet?

This person is the present day Batman, who so mysteriously appears and disappears from your life, and of those times, mostly during the night. You may want to personify him like the Chipsmore, "sekejap ada, sekejap takde". But when the other is there, you share stories--some intimate, some serious, others silly, and most, random.

And so, you've counted months and weeks to match this persona you think you know, and the voice and laugh you definitely recognize to a person you've never physically met. Again, what do you do when this reverie decides to come true?

Do you conjure up a list of 1001 topics to talk about? Do you talk like you know each other or do you just act cordial and slightly formal? Do you lean on old jokes you've cracked, or do you rely on new ones you've just learned? Do you ask the person if "he saves the best for the last, or eat everything all at once" like you've always wanted to ask?

I chose to fire him a raging spitball instead. Which, by the way, landed peacefully on his left forearm.

"So, how is MY summer so far"?

I raise the white flag. Nobody can be as geeky, and un-cool as me, raging spitball and all. And all summer long I'll keep that in mind.

The Hard Business of Hard of Hearing

There is a private joke shared among us in the DH50490 household: we are hard of hearing people because we talk loudly. It runs in the family, this tendency to speak a few decibels louder than the laypersons.

I don't mean to denounce the Ismail family name and set you off running in the opposite direction when you see our clan, but it is not news that we are one loud bunch. Perhaps it was the volume of the TV I grew up with. Maybe I can blame it on the constant babel I had to battle with to be heard.

My days in INTEC as a frequent KTM commuter taught me how to tone down as friends reported back on overhearing inappropriate or mushy conversations I've had on the trains. I am now like a chameleon, ready to adapt to the decibels of my surrounding as is required of me. My voice comes in gradations: Softer among new acquaintances, soft among friends, loud with close/old friends, and comfortably loud with my next-of-kins.

All the same, here I am, a 20 year old female who is still hard of hearing. Maybe it IS because I talk loudly. It makes sense, complete sense when you think of the ear/headphone scenario. People speak louder when they can't hear well. People speak louder when they can't hear themselves. The private joke just may just be a fully acceptable hypothesis.

But could it be. . .

Could it be the possibility that I have accumulated years worth of earwax? Could it be that my earwax has been pushed back, way back, only to be compressed into an odd shape and a rubber-like consistency? Could it be that I am molding; my earwax blackening and thickening, becoming awfully sickening to the eyes that see?

Well, I did spend an ungodly RM190 for a two-hour visit (plus waiting time) to the ENT specialist this afternoon and came home with a few "rubber erasers", a throbbing ear from all the probing and picking, free from hard-of-hearing, and a broad smile. So what did you think it was?

On a side note, this is a bona fide advice from the ENT to both me and you: never ever ever ever ever x33 try to clean your ears with a cotton bud. The evil invention pushes earwax further into the ear canal. You don't want to be a victim of an ENT's probing, trust me. It hurts more than a swine flu screening test up your nose (which I will not elaborate further). Throw away those cotton buds, this is your license to run free and be wild.

Be a slob. Just be a slob. It's the best gift you can give to your ears.

Ops Pancit Sifar dan Perut Kempis

Memorial Day Weekend is looming near, and the Malaysian diaspora in the United States have but one common thing in mind: Midwest Games 2009. To Urbana Champaign, Illinois, from May 22nd to 24th, we come.

We come from as near as Chicago and as far as Toronto, to convene, play sports, chit chat and participate in the all-time favorite: boy/girl watching. For newly single, not-quite-single and taken people alike, Midwest Games provides the platform for one to sharpen their observational and networking skills.

Of course, for the more hardcore sports enthusiast, sporting events are focal. They are never mere friendly matches or fun tournaments. Rather, MWG is a once-a-year opportunity to put forth one's awesomeness and dexterity in the court. It is time to mesmerize idolizing fans with your toned biceps and graceful moves while brushing that wet hair out of your eyes as you get ready to kick/throw/spike/catch the ball, whatever the game.

For the females, it is time to establish the truth: that you are not as cewi as people deem you to be. This is your chance to scream insults at your opponents, sweat, toil, stink but still emerge as heroines as you bring your university to the winning ranks. Of course, during the Malaysian Night you then redeem your status as a demure goddess as you strut into the halls, dressed to the nines in the baju kebaya you forced your sister to mail from home.

As for me, MWG heightens my despair over my prolonged sedentary condition. It is the time of the year when my brain and heart colludes with agreement that "Shit, I shouldn't have NOT exercised for a whole year". It is times like these I panic and formulate crash jogging and soccer training, and don't follow it. This month of May, may I say, is when I wished I kicked and played more with balls.

Playing with a team made up of young aunties and a handful of imported players from all over the country, it is an understatement to say that we don't get enough practice. It's just really kick and play for us, as we touchdown at the field from our separate lives, meeting for the very first time in no time.

Last year ChiTown Warriors (I cringe at this chosen title) went against all odds and emerged as champions, thanks to Kak Maria, mother to three year old Adam, who defines fantastico soccer mom. This superwoman is staying off the field this year as she has a junior coming, and we wish her all the best! But now, nak harapkan Nurjannah, silap lah.

A moral dilemma is at hand.

How do I go from this

to this?

I think it's time to launch Ops Pancit Sifar dan Perut Kempis. Nothing more, nothing less.

Tolong Saya, Bantu Saya

What do you call the closure of two 24-hour campus libraries when you need them most? Grave injustice! University libraries--as I'm sure is written in their unwritten by-laws--should strive to serve their inhabitants to their fullest capacities, especially when they have committed to a status of being 24-hour premises suitable for academic discourse and intellectual goals.

If fullest capacity means offering limitless space and time for the destruction of campus beings' social lives as they forego Friday night amusements (like pre-marital sexual pursuits, spectacular rounds of beer pong and getting high on them 'erbs) in exchange for solitude in an air-conditioned environment and contact time with thousands of last minute-readings, so be it. 

I, as one of the students raped from my rights to the use of these institutions tonight, am livid. President Zimmer, you may think it a wise and dignified move to actually force the student body to explore this other, obscure realm called "fun" and "time off", but all I ask of you is, why? Why tonight; when I am panic-stricken, fluid and sleep-deprived and worried sick of the 10 page paper I am fundamentally clueless about? 

This deprivation from access to resource and basic exercise of my human ways (in the university context, at least) must surely be a violation of human rights. I believe with entirety that my predicament tonight falls directly on the violation of one of the many rights listed on the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. 

It should be. It has to be. It must be. My capability to function (as a typical student who turns in long term papers within two days of work) is irreversibly shattered tonight. Testimony to that is the time I have already wasted in writing this piece of nonsense, when I should in fact be working on the bloody paper. Be convinced, my accusations hold water! If it isn't, it must be implicit. Read between the lines. 

I call upon Amnesty International and other goodwill groups out there to please give light and voice to my plight. Allow me refuge under your umbrella. Give me my right to work the night away, while swallowing the bitter truth I am living the life accorded by the infamous UChicago creed "where fun comes to die". 

Return me my right to outstandingly fit into the image of a nerdy girl in this brainy institution "where the squirrels are cuter than the girls". Let me be that android, who goes with minimal sleep for a mere three days in her life to get all her shit (although belatedly) done.

Sigh, that's what I signed up for, didn't I?

Theory of Proximity

I fancy myself as an amateur ethnologist, I really do. The amount of time I spend "researching" people's profiles, finding parallels in their lives with mine, and observing the community around me with the naked eye seems to suggest just that; that I am an ethnologist in my own right.

Those who are unfortunate enough to be the subject of my "research" obsession can attest to the high level of dexterity I manifest in this trade. Mere strangers, do not be deterred by this entry. Rest assured I am not a psychopath who gives random people dirty phone calls in the middle of the night, although I may be a permanent visitor to your Facebook profile, and a distant observer of your many photo albums. Yes, I'm just your friendly, resident stalker (if you must belittle my newfound appellation).

Now that we both know that I am an accomplished stalker, let me compel you to read a social science inquiry I have recently formulated in accordance with my self-acclaimed elevated status of ethnologist. I liken my two year immersion into the American experience to the role of the ethnologist who "goes native", and thus have landed myself with an interesting theory of why the Americans I see act as they do.

We begin with the root of the inquiry, the crux, the situation that such an observation was in order. In a terse and crude approach--and I say this with honesty--Americans are extremely individualistic borderline self-absorbed, self-serving, and stingy. Note my qualifier "borderline" before you bash this little human with unkind words like racist and errr, racist. On the methodology, know that this inquiry is wholly legit for it is backed up with some substantial case studies, conducted and participated by: me.

The common experience I'm sure other international students share beef with me is the "thou shall share not" mentality Americans possess. This may pass of as a stereotypical remark; but again, these are empirical observations I myself have dilligently noted in my interactions with them.

To illustrate my point, an American is never ready to offer you the candybar/chips/soda he/she is holding in his/her hand; quite the contrary to the Asian manners of always offering and serving others before oneself. Or in isolated cases when they actually do, realize that they would never ask you twice, thrice, or incessantly bug you until you give in and take some.

Alas, when little things like a bag of chips are points to retract, more so are ingredients in the kitchen where the concept of "depletion" becomes more distressing (to them, that is) since it requires a trip to ol' faithful Walgreen's. It's safe to say there are three separate sets of cooking oil, butter, bread, sugar, salt, pepper and spices in my room thus far. Milk and juice are shared, but with precision whose turn it is to buy them this week or next.

Instead, here I am, always harrasing the Americans I care about to share what little I have. On the very sparing occassions that I cook, I ultimately get trumped because they are just not up for sharing. So to be fair, their self-reliance works when they are both on the receiving and giving end. But it still points to the obvious that sharing isn't quite practiced in this land of the free, doesn't it?

If sharing tangible materials is a non-practice, the trend observed for teamwork and collaboration leaves room for further probe. But what is sure is the different sense of camaraderie between us international students and us with them.

A case in point is the fact that we international students are extremely open to letting friends hold and read our solutions to problems for as long as they want; and for as much information they want to extract from, provided they don't get us in trouble with the university honor code. I have never triumphed in holding an American peer's problem set as freely as I could an international student's, sadly.

The facts laid out as they should, I shall provide you with my radical Theory of Proximity that seeks to explain this individualistic culture pertinent to Americans. I believe, with vehemence, that the source lies in the geography of the country itself. Think of the USA, the vast landscape encompassing 50 states, the different climate and time zones, the changing topology as you drive from the South to the Midwest, from East to West.

This gigantic land, housing states that are bigger than Malaysia, gives Americans much free space and individual cocoon to roam about in. Leave a metropolis like Chicago, New York or Boston and enter American suburban areas and you will understand what I mean. Homes are spread about, cars are necessary to travel from point A to point B, and less people are breathing in your near vicinity.

Even the aforementioned cities are no Mumbai, Jakarta and Bangkok; where people are literally neck-to-neck in slums that are one and many, and resources are scant. And so we, individuals born and bred in third world countries, developing countries, or just densely-populated countries, are decreed by the nature of our living, to share. We understand and embody the concept of "What is mine is yours".

Or at least if you do not agree, I do. I grew up in my grandmother's little bungalow, with my siblings, mother, three aunts, uncle, and cousins under one roof, at most days. Alas, it is fair to say sharing comes to me as naturally as farting does.

But think about it: every day, we face 40 friends in a sweltering hot public school classroom, with only a creaking fan and blackboard, sometimes having to share desks. If in Malaysia, the scenario is as such, what more in sub-Saharan Africa?

It is in fact, the proximity between peoples living together and sharing lives with that hugely affects their interactions with one another. The more people you literally and figuratively bump heads with, the more thoughtful you are about others' needs. For generations and generations next, the love for sharing finds firm roots in our community, right with the idea of nurture and the scientific term conditioning.

Americans, on the other hand, are blessed with the geographical endowment that leaves them free and unbound. My analysis is bereft of income distribution, socio-economic conditions and all that jazz, because I am inciting the idea of the generous space each person is entitled to in America, regardless of their plights.

So, as free and unbound as they are, they sadly lack the experience of sharing for a right to clean water, or a football field, or a dilapidated, shabby, wooden house in a community that seriously scrutinizes your every move (although I do not discount the dire living conditions in the American ghettos). The result of that? Ultra-individualistic, and shall I say "borderline" kedekut, kemut and berkira civilians.

p/s: If you haven't noticed, this entry is laden with satire and sarcasm. Take it with a pinch of salt, please, and don't sue me.

From Petai To Bagel: I Go All But One Way

I'll let you in on a little secret. My transition to the foreign norms and different cultural setting in this land called Chicago, and more generally America, wasn't as plain-sailing as I preconceived it to be. Upon my first infusion into this Western life and living, I surprised myself with my immediate disfavor for some things very American.

Bagels would be a good subject for me to take off from. I wasn't a fan of bagels until this recent year. Yes, it took me one whole year to acclimatize myself to the culture of eating bagels--a substance I once deemed so hard on the jaw, and tasteless to the taste buds. I could not quite fathom my sister's attachment to bagels and agony over the exorbitantly priced bagels carried by select supermarkets in Malaysia.

To me, it was what is was: a tough piece of bread that was even tougher for the jaws. With time and trial and error over the right flavor, I presently find myself settling on Asiago Cheese bagel and Jalapeno Salsa spread at least once a week.

Time and again, I also find myself actually preferring the three-hole papers and three-ring folders prevalent here. My father can attest to my initial detest for this matter, when I--obviously distressed by my first encounter with this three-hole enigma--ranted to him about America's stance on being different from the rest of the world. I hated with fervor, this whole notion of America setting itself apart from the UK, Europe and the rest of the world, since I bothered about these trivial points of adapting.

I went wild with displeasure that I could not use folders, papers and punchers interchangeably between America and the rest of the world. Besides, my ultimate chagrin (at that time at least) was what was I to do with the puncher I proudly brought with me from sweet home Malaysia that actually keeps up with the rest of the world? Of course, this heart is malleable and I soon learned that the three-hole and ring system creates much less heartbreaks over torn ruled papers for OCD students like yours truly.

Nonetheless, no aspect of assimilating into the American life is harder than the conversion to English units. Why must I be subjected to pounds, bushels, doors, miles, and (god-forbid) the ever obscure Fahrenheit when the globe has advanced to the universal standard? Alas, six academic quarters and societal pressure have imposed upon me the need to speak their lingo, and I am sadly coerced to rest my case against this.

As the Malay adage goes, "Masuk kandang kambing mengembek, masuk kandang lembu menguak", I have slowly but surely assimilated into the American life. However, from petai to bagel, from tapai to Oreo parfait, from A4 paper to US letter paper, from "watter" to "wader", I would go all but one way.

What is this one thing, you ask? Let's just say I'd never enter a restroom without a filled bottle, or at the very least, wet paper towels upon paper towels to my discretion and satisfaction; even at the expense of being conceived as a lunatic Asian with serious issues.

What comes out the A-hole--in my most humble and honest humanitarian opinion--should NOT be cleaned with nothing but a dry, coarse paper towel. Someone should perhaps teach Westerners a thing or two; beginning perhaps, with the word melecet and the terse expression "geli, sial!", don't you think?

The Prophecy

Malays and Malaysians are fast exerting their presence on Facebook in the recent months, it seems. Empirical facts speak loud and clear--so loud, that one can't possibly be sane and miss the influx of merepek quizzes to this once exclusive social network. When you see "What kuih tradisional are you?", "Berapa jumlah hantaran yang perlu Si Polan beri kepada Joyah" and the classic "How Kelantanese are you?" flooding your newsfeed, you know we're spiraling downhill.

Western supremacist I am not--in fact I am quite the Malay advocate--but to disaknowledge that the more ludicrous quizzes are borne from mine own roots is to be ignorant. Hats off to us Malays because only we can come up with pandir applications as such.

Call me bitch/snob/snobitch, but I think Facebook lost its novelty the day it opened its virtual doors big and wide. Or rather the day the Asian (Malaysian?) world closed its doors to Friendster and shifted gears towards my esteemed Facebook. Of course it's not mine and mine own, but lend me your ears. Two years back--after receiving my university email address--I felt such a sense of accomplishment and was sent to a state of felicity upon finally acquiring myself a Facebook account. It was an unwritten rule once upon a time, that you only get on Facebook via a college network.

And that, my friends, was the very pulse that kept Facebook a non-nonsensical and non-crowded social platform. American employers found it a promising tool to check the credence and network of a candidate, and people actually only added friends they legitimately knew existed. I like to keep it that way still, for I realized my mistakes during the Friendster era, cum my formative teenage years.

Alas, the Malaysian diaspora goes far and wide, and the virtue of this leniency is the very fact that it brings me closer to buddies all over the globe. I cannot feign that I am not glad la familia are on board this nexus, or that I have met long-lost friends through Facebook, and I am not going to start now.

On the contrary, I am rather a hardcore Facebook advocate that my heart boils to see people denouncing the virtues of Facebook, because it certainly is an important fixture in my life. Facebook is the first thing I do upon waking up, and the last thing I do before I thread through dreams in the night, and I am not ashamed to say so. Okay, maybe a little.

So the issue at hand is this: my adulation for Facebook is marred by this quiz lunacy I see with the droves of people being sucked into the vortex that is Facebook. As of now, I have gone on a binge of restricting quiz feeds (do so by hovering your cursor over the quiz box, and hitting--with zeal, if I may add--"Hide quiz so and so") and see myself doing this for as long as the craze lives.

All the same, there is one more problem with addicts like me. There are some that just slips through the cracks and drugs me with curiosity. So, on some days I find myself facing prophecies as ridiculous as this:


Siapa dari Johor sila masuk line, sebab Facebook dah kasi greenlight. Haha.

Bean There, Fart That

G6PD remains the most obscure piece of information I carry about myself. It's tangible, recorded in black and white on my (rather unkempt) medical records; yet it's something so cryptic to this challenged mind. I find myself pressing down the black-ball point pen in between my thumb and middle-finger, making out the meaningless capital G, number 6, P, and D on the blank next to "Allergies" each time a medical history is wanted of me.

This intolerance I knew of eversince I learned how to dial my grandmother's number, and that just so happened to be fairly early. But it was always just something waved off with one hand, since I only have (had?) what seems to be a "mild case". Have or had, who can even differentiate, since I have never really understood what the four-letter/number word affiliated with my being actually entailed.

My limited inisight on this four letter (okay, that's not quite accurate) anomaly brought me to the hasty conclusion that is an intolerance for all things bean and peas; or kekacang as they more succintly categorize in the Malay tongue. Then again, there was my mom brushing off this condition shared between my brother and I. And that always made it seem okay for me to go ahead and gobble down all the types of beans in the world, if I pleased.

Considering the diet I was accustomed to, that wasn't much; since it only really comprised of long beans, string beans, french beans (the more glamorous appelation for the Malay kacang buncis) and winged beans (or kacang botol). Considering the other fact that I am not a big fan of beans and peas beyond long beans, I thought I was all set. It wasn't until I set my foot here on the North American soil that I find myself face-to-face with copious types of beans and peas. Snow peas, edamame, gorbonzo beans and the likes have became my allies come days when food in the dining halls just seem too unbearable.

Did I quiver as I boldly let my tongue caress those beans before I swallowed them in one big gulp? Did my mind ever entertain the possibility of me breaking out into hives, gasping for air, as the beans shoot their potentially hazardous venom into the red river that is my blood? Did I ever think of the repercussions from G6PD? No, no and no.

And fortunately too, eventhough my knowledge on the intolerance was founded on erroneous details. It is in fact, an enzyme deficiency, and the only bean I am banned for life from consuming is the favia bean. Lucky, lucky me. Stupid, stupid me--for being in the dark for so long. Alas, lucky lucky me again that my mom has wisely/unwisely dismissed my case as a mild one that I was never haunted by a scene of myself having "No air, No air" at a crowded dining table in a foreign land.

And after these two decades, guess what my finest discovery about beans is? No, it isn't quite that I won't die from eating them (since I never believed so, only that was with blind faith).

It is this: Beans, they make me fart. Prooot prrooot. All day and all night long.

Surat Maklum Balas to SL*

Hey you!

I tak tau nak cakap how disappointed I am when you said no to me semalam, tau. But I guess I could feel it in my bones that we weren't a good match. But I gave my all when we borak-borak the other day, and I truly did show you my true colors sebab you cakap you nak get to know me, kan? But lepas I left the room, my heart wasn't racing and my stomach wasn't doing somersaults like it usually does after I tau I aced something. It didn't get that "I hit jackpot" feeling. Not like the time I talked to Darby baby or Banky the hunk, tau. Memang the feeling was different.

Yelah, mana taknya, I rasa macam I bimbo mana duduk dalam bilik tu, surrounded by you and four other friends. "Acquaintances" you cakap, padahal semua judging me, taking notes of my every gesture. Banyak benda kalau boleh I nak cakap kat you haritu. Tapi biasalah, to err is human. Apa I cakap haritu half of what I really felt and wanted tell you. Pendek kata, shit happens all the time, kan?

Frankly, I tak bengang. I faham you had to choose the right person. And I definitely didn't do myself any justice masa kita bersua tempoh hari. Kita tak ada jodoh, what to do, kan? I taknak lah "hidung tak mancung, pipi tersorong-sorong". I shall practice losing with grace, ni.

Actually, nak cakap sikit, you listen, okay? Terharu pun ada you pandang I yang tak seberapa lawa, tak seberapa pandai or tak seberapa impressive ni. Dalam banyak-banyak calon you, you gave me the chance to get know you better, and I can't help but say memang my goal in life is to cari someone like you lah. For now, you're my short term goal, and also long-term, say 20 tahun lagi, memang I see myself alongside someone like you.

Right now, since you dah remukkan impian Sonata musim Panas I dengan you di bumi Amerika Utara ni, hati I nekad untuk cari a pengganti in the place I call home. Home is always where the heart is. And bila I ponder about this again, lagilah I rasa terpanggil nak cuba plan-plan menarik kita di Malaysia. I masih muda, banyak lagi keringat yang boleh I taburkan dekat tanah air I. Mungkin betul orang kata, everything happens for a reason, kan? Maybe banyak benda tunggu I? Maybe this is the best way for both of us?

I can't approach you again, bukan sebab malu, tapi sebab next year I ada plan lain up my sleeves lah. But I doakan that I find somebody like you cuti ni. Kalau tidak, I akan cari orang yang mediocre je, someone I like so-so tapi tak lust for (macam I lust for you), and usha lagi orang-orang macam you.

Always,
NJ

N.B.
SL: Summer Links 2009

Tips Rumahtangga Bahagia

Setelah membaca karya ini, saya amat terpanggil untuk berkongsi beberapa tips bagi menumpaskan musuh utama semua rumahtangga. Oh, bukannya orang ketiga seperti anak dara seksi di rumah seberang atau bujang lapuk yang suka separuh bogel membasuh kereta di hadapan isteri anda. Racun perosak, makhluk perosak dan yang seangkatan dengan mereka lah!

Bagi mereka yang perlukan pertolongan yang lebih grafik: ya, lipas, tikus, nyamuk, dan segala macam binatang kecil yang busuk, suka curi makanan atau merosakkan barangan di rumah kediaman tergolong dalam golongan yang membinasakan dan perlu dibinasakan. Jangan biarkan mereka berleluasa, itu yang pasti. Anda harus proaktif sebelum mereka mengawal rumahtangga anda.

Saya menyaksikan sendiri kerakusan Cik Ti menggigit talian telefon, baju-baju serta meninggalkan roti yang berlubang. Jangan sesekali anda cuba tunjuk pandai dan makan sisa Cik Ti, kerana anda boleh dijangkiti penyakit berjangkit dan betul-betul menjadi kurang celik.

Sepanjang (hampir) 20 tahun membesar dalam iklim khatulistiwa, saya telah menderma-paksa darah melebihi ukuran liter yang disyorkan oleh Tabung Derma Darah Malaysia (atau apa entah nama betulnya) yang mempunyai ibu pejabat di Jalan Tun Abdul Razak. Semuanya tanpa belas kasihan telah diambil oleh Cik Muk. Saya pasti anda semua yang juga membesar di tanah tropikal seperti Malaysia pernah merasa benci terhadap Cik Muk yang tidak jemu menganggu.

Dan Cik Li? Ya, Cik Li sering menyebabkan ramai yang hilang suara apabila kehadiran Cik Li menyebabkan anak tekak terpekik dan melolong. Saya kurang faham mengapa kehadiran Cik Li boleh menyebabkan tindakan sistem Sympathetic (degupan jantung laju, otot rangka bersedia untuk panjat kerusi) sebegitu sekali tapi saya bersetuju bau Cik Li memang kurang menyenangkan, kadang kala mengalahkan bau badan budak hanyir yang tidak mandi ketika perhimpunan sekolah. Okay, mungkin tidak. Perkara kedua terlampau menggerunkan.

Ah, marilah kita berbalik kepada tips-tips cemerlang yang saya janjikan. Bagaimana untuk mencapai kepuasan maksima menghapuskan kaum bangsat ini? Senang sahaja. Ikuti pembongkaran berikutan. Oh, sebelum itu, biarlah saya umumkan disini bahawa kesemua metodologi benar-benar berkaitan dengan orang yang masih lagi hidup, dan orang yang ada kaitan dengan saya. Jadi, sebarang rujukan sila lakukan kepada mereka yang berkenaan.

*****

Anda vs Cik Ti
Malam-malam sebelum tidur, sediakan perangkap tikus yang boleh dibeli dari kedai apek Apeng atau kedai runcit koman. Hendak-hendaknya yang flimsy (maaf, tidak tahu perkataan Melayu yang sesuai) dan nampak kurang memberangsangkan agar dapat menipu Cik Ti yang semakin hari semakin pandai kerana evolusi (saya tidak percaya kesemua tahi Darwin ini, nanti kita boleh bincang, tapi ayat ini bunyinya lebih sedap dengan perkataan saintifik seperti evolusi).

Jangan letakkan keju, itu hanya penipuan media barat yang mahu mempromosi produk tenusu mereka. Sebaliknya, letakkan sebarang makanan yang anda paling suka. Jika nasi lemak yang dibeli di hadapan sekolah berdekatan, itulah yang sebaik-baiknya. Ini kerana Cik Ti sangat pandai memilih makanan yang dia tahu digemari oleh penghuni rumah. Namun, saya paling mengesyorkan ikan masin. Seterusnya, tunggu.

Cik Ti sudah terperangkap! Apa langkah seterusnya? Ikutilah gelagat nenek kesayangan saya: Jerang air dalam cerek yang bersiul-siul. Apabila sudah masak, jangan segan untuk menuangkannya di atas Cik Ti! Perasaan melihat Cik Ti yang diburu lama itu menggelupur pasti boleh membawa kepuasan. Mungkin ia tindakan sadis, tetapi anda akan berterima kasih kepada penulis apabila hidung kembang merasa kepuasan yang tidak terhingga itu nanti.

Anda vs Cik Muk
Ambil apa-apa aerosol yang ada di rumah anda, tidak kiralah Shieldtox atau Ridsect. Jikalau anda pencinta alam sekitar, cubalah yang mengandungi kurang Chloroflorocarbon atau CFC, walaupun saya kurang pasti jika sebarang kemungkinan wujud. Lagipun, pensyarah Kimia Dalam Atmosfera saya mengatakan bahawa "ozon adalah masalah lapuk sekarang"(sumpah, saya tidak meletakkan kata-kata dalam mulutnya).

Apa-apa pun, jangan semburkan ke udara. Sebaliknya, semburlah pada badan anda sendiri. Abang saya sendiri pernah melakukan perkara ini, dan beliau mengesahkan sukses langkah ini. Walau bagaimanapun, pastikan anda tidak mengalami sebarang kelukaan atau masalah kulit seperti kusta. Selamat cuba, dan selamat mandi!

Anda vs Cik Li
"Aaaaaaaah", pekik rakan anda. Uh-oh, Cik Li alert! Tahan keinginan anda untuk roll your eyes dan sebaliknya bantulah golongan yang memerlukan dengan cara ini: Lari dengan pantas untuk kejar Cik Li. Simpulan bahasa "lipas kudung" itu tidak akan membawa erti jika Cik Li tidak pantas berlari. Jadi, larilah, apa tunggu lagi?

Perangkap Cik Li dengan tangan, atau jika anda golongan yang mudah geli, gunakan khidmat tisu atau plastik. Pegang dengan erat, tetapi jangan sehingga memicit Cik Li sehingga ia mati. Kita idamkan sukses yang lebih manis, bukan? Apabila anda bersedia, cabutlah 2 sesungut Cik Li. Cik Li akan kelihatan sedikit hilang orientasi. Pada peringkat ini, anda boleh meminta rakan untuk mengambil gambar dengan SLR yang tergantung pada leher anda, atau dengan camera kodi Point & Shoot seperti yang dimiliki penulis dan paparkan ekspresi seceria mungkin.

Tapi, itu belum pengakhirnya lagi, saya ada langkah ultimate yang boleh membereskan semuanya. Takungkan air dalam singki, dan kemudian campak Cik Li dengan gaya bersahaja. Anda boleh tampak Cik Li berusaha tekun untuk lari ke atas, dan gagal. Tunggu sehingga Cik Li terapung dengan terbalik, dan anda akan tahu dengan pasti bahawa misi anda berjaya!

*****

Sekian sahaja tips-tips yang tidak seberapa daripada saya. Eh, tidak mungkin lah saya kejam sebegini. Jangan tuduh sebarangan. Saya bakal mengambil minor dalam Pembelajaran Alam Sekitar, tau! Saranan ini hanyalah hiburan dan acahan semata-mata, walaupun keadah-kaedah ini tidak dirangka dengan spontan (bermakna mereka benar dan sahih). Ah, tapi kadangkala adalah bagus untuk melepaskan segala inhibisi, tidak begitu? (",)

A Memo to Men Out There

Dear men out there,

I am calling your attention to some disturbing actions taken by a fraction of your clan. It may not be personal or pertaining to you, so forgive me for singling you, out of the billions out there. But really, this has been wanting of my time for a long time coming now. I am rendered sleepless nights, worried to the spine with what the eyes see and dislike.

Disturbing, in my books, dear men, is the sight of some of you in flesh-gripping, ultra-tight skinny jeans, crotches bulging. It may be what you dig as fashionable, you kaf-wau-raw-ya-alif-nun people, but to my eyes at least, it's very perturbing. One does not have to be a pervert to have his/her eyes led to that focal point with that kind of jeans. And one does not want to, mind you. Not when we're talking about a 2-hour long stage performance, when, truly, your virility is the last thing on my mind.

If you think you are empowered with that skin-tight designer skinny jeans just because it magnifies and fortifies your symbol of manhood down there, I beg you to think again. The world would be a calmer place without such eyesore.

Oh, while we're at it, let it be known here that flare and boot-leg cut does not flatter your manly curves (or lack thereof). I'm sorry to rain on your parade, I truly am. Here, to illuminate some of you who may be utterly clueless about my ranting thus far, I have provided with you with some images thanks to Google Image search.




Those styles are a no-no, okay? I have faith that you can be salvaged. Heck, I pray that your soul is spared from such fashion-murder thoughts. Stick to the conventional, straight-cut, loose-cut, slim fit, and we ladies would swoon over those any time.

Your friendly "I don't want you to look ceria" friend,
njahmat

Disclaimer: Note that the author has a qualifier for her argument on skinny jeans: ultra-tight, skin-tight, and thereabouts. She does not find fault with skinny jeans in general, just those obscenely crotch-centralizing ones. Run and be free with your normal skinny jeans, if you want. . . run and be free, I have no problem with that!

Salutations to you, kekasih(s)

Kekasih malam Rabu #3, thank you for appreciating the love we made, albeit just a tenth higher.

Kekasih 10.30am today, you can go die, I hatechew.

Kekasih negara jiran, I can't wait to caress your body. Once you arrive in my mailbox, I'm yours baby. I'm soooo yours, you are soooo mine, and the world is sooo ours.

Bekas kekasih, saya tidak boleh lagi. Harap paham.

Kekasih yang bukan kekasih, busy sign itu just an excuse. Okay, okay, to be honest, I cringe at your "arr"-s and your "larrr"-s. Tidak boleh *shakes head*. Really.

Kekasih yang angkat diri masuk bakul, endearment terms by people I don't know well just don't quite make it to Nj's A-List. Please.

But really, kekasih malam, whylah? Why is it so hard for you to come into my dreams again ah? Cannot just snap my fingers leyh? I try so hard you know. Come lah, come lah. I kacau you in your dreams also good, but I want also lah. Don't jual mahal sangat, can or not?

Kekasih Malam Rabu

Awak suka cari saya malam-malam Rabu macam ni kan? Saya tahu saya kurang beri perhatian pada awak kalau hari-hari lain, dan awak pun memang pandai cari ruang kasi saya terdesak. Saya sembunyi sepanjang minggu, tapi malam Rabu awak datang hantui saya. Hai, sampai bila agaknya perhubungan kita nak kekal begini.

Awak tau saya tak boleh nak kata tidak. Otak kata pergi, tapi hati membentak dan kata mari. Saya memang tak boleh. Tak tahan dan tak sanggup. Hendak tak hendak, saya layan jugak. Sebab saya pun ketagihkan apa yang awak boleh berikan, sebenarnya.

Hm, atau patut saya luahkan sebenarnya, saya teruskan perhubungan intim kita ini sebab saya masih tidak paham sepenuhnya diri awak. Saya nak kenali awak luar dan dalam. Saya mahu kenal awak macam saya kenal belakang tangan saya. Saya nak rasa perasaan syahdu bila sampai puncak klimaks itu, itu yang pasti.

Tiap-tiap kali awak sentuh saya, saya rasa macam kena kejutan elektrik bercas 7 voltan. Perasaan haru-biru, resah dan lemah semua terpa saya sekaligus. Saya tak tahu kenapa, memang kalau pandang wajah awak macam begini selalu, saya jadi bingung.

Degupan jantung tak payah cakaplah, memang pantas; kalah jaguh pecut Malaysia dulu, Watson Nyambek. Nafas saya? Fuh, jadi berat dan tersekat-sekat. Memang aktiviti-aktiviti bersama kita ganas. Ganas sangat. Dahsyat sangat. Saya tak tahu macamana nak terangkan kat orang segala apa yang telah awak lakukan terhadap saya; kesemua yang telah kita eksplorasi bersama.

Saya mengeluh. Saya menjerit. Kadang-kadang saya mengerang penuh pujaan, kadang-kadang saya mengerang perlahan dalam kesakitan. Saya cuba tukar banyak-banyak posisi dan perspektif. Tekak saya jadi kering, meskipun dah berbekalkan air botol dan coklat kegemaran kita bersama, Flipz. Saya pandang awak dengan tekun dan kerjakan awak dengan penuh taat.Tapi awak masih tak puas lagi kan?

Awak panggil pulak semua rakan-rakan dan orang kita berdua tak dikenali. Mula-mula kami beri layanan peribadi lagi istimewa, awak pulak mahu kami kerjasama puaskan nafsu dan kehendak awak yang seribu itu. Orgy kita memang meriah, sehinggakan kadang-kadang hampir semua orang di tingkat A itu nak turut serta. Setiap beberapa minit muncul bunyi "owh" dan "aah" panjang menyelubungi tingkat terkeji itu. Masing-masing ingat masing-masing dah puas dan sukses; semuanya dah beres.

Tapi saya tau awak pura-pura sahaja puas, atau acah-acah sahaja supaya kami gembira sebentar. Lepas itu, awak tunjuk kelibat awak yang sebenarnya dekat orang lain, terus semua orang hampa semula sebab awak masih nak kami berikan awak henjutan yang terbaik.

Harus saya akui, kalau awak dampingi saya malam-malam Rabu macam ini, saya gemar dengar lagu-lagu yang rancak dan catchy. Rancak dan pantas supaya saya juga boleh rancak dan pantas sehingga kita datang bersama, sayang. Hm, tambahan kalau lagu-lagu yang saya memang cintai macam "All For You" dendangan Sister Hazel, "Catch My Disease" oleh Ben Lee, "Be OK" dari Ingrid Michaelson, lagilah kaki saya hentak-hentak ikut rentak dan jiwa rasa lebih teruja untuk menguasai awak macam awak menguasai tubuh saya ini.

Tapi kenapa sayang, kenapa awak perlu jual mahal? Kenapa perlu awak buat hidup ini lebih sukar daripada yang sepatutnya? Kenapa awak perlu ada banyak sangat anu, sehingga saya kepala pusing nak fikir yang mana perlu saya dampingi dan rangsangkan dahulu? Awak memang pandai perangkap saya habiskan masa sekurang-kurangnya dari pukul 6 petang sampai pukul 2pagi dengan awak, kan? Awak memang.

Saya korbankan masa untuk bersama awak, tapi awak tak pernah beri ganjaran yang lebih memberangsangkan. Atau beri saya jawapan yang lebih pasti, jawapan yang lebih suci. Tolonglah, malam tadi saya rasa bangga dan gembira sangat dapat layan awak sorang-sorang untuk salah satu syarat awak yang melampau. 35minit untuk sampai ke penghujung cubaan kita, tau. Selalunya saya biarkan awak guna teknik pengunduran macam saya belajar dalam Biologi Tingkatan Empat sebelum dapat saya selesaikan.

Tapi malam tadi, entah kenapa saya biarkan diri saya teruskan. Jadi, harap-haraplah awak hadiahkan lebih tinggi dari 9.4/10 untuk prestasi saya. Saya mahu jadi unggul dari segi ini, sebab ini sahajalah yang dapat bantu saya teruskan kehidupan pada akhir hari.

Kalau tidak... Hmph, baik habiskan masa dengan kekasih malam saya yang lebih menarik.

Buat masa ini, selamat tidur kekasih gelap malam Rabuku.


p/s: Set masalah ekonomi lah. Kinky lah you!

Lest You Be Fooled

Don't be fooled

1. One day I wake up smiling,
the other I arouse scowling.
Should I feel guilty;
should I say nay;
should I stay away?
But beaming so hard,
and beating so fast,
thy heart feels.
Something.
Oh yes it feels.

2. So I have a dream.

A dream that goes far
beyond the horizon
beyond the continents
beyond the seas.
Can't you see and smile for me?

Will you notice and smile with me?

3. Despicable are my actions,
ugly are my thoughts
void are my promises.
But can you blame
a heart so weak, a life so broken
a hole so empty?

. . . into thinking that this is poetry or lyrical thoughts of any sort. It's a shameful jumble of thoughts hiding behind a guise so decent that you could be fooled. I have attempted (and failed) myriads of times at writing verse and have resigned to the fact that I can't write poetry for peanuts!

Yes, laugh and be merry,
oh this poem sucks don't worry! ; )

Small Talk and Verbal Niceties, Please!

Loyola Red Line Stop, 2.30pm:

I was waiting for the #155 bus that would take me to Devon Street and wildly disbelieving the temperature since I was shivering to no end even though I have on wellies and my warmest down jacket. I shifted from leg to leg, and blew hot air onto my gloved hands while cursing the subzero temperature.

Suddenly, a Desi lady donning a black pea coat and head scarf with protruding henna-ed hair stood opposite me and smiled, looking like she wanted to make small talk. Having mastered the art of small talk, and kononnya very confident among strangers, I decided to relieve her of the torture and made the first step.

"It's very cold today, huh?".
"Yess. Werrry coll".

I made a show of trembling and stuffing my hands deeper into my down jacket pocket and violently shaking my legs to ease the numbness that was creeping up my toes. That was done for fully functional reasons as well as aesthetical (to further demonstrate my question-statement).

"So are you waiting (pronounced waiding) for the 151?".
"I'm an ESL student".

Aaah, her strong Indian/Pakistani accent betrayed her, and I could tell that, like me, she's not from around even before she misunderstood my question. To not embarrass her, I ignored her reply and asked again.

"Oh, yes, I'm going to Devon".

So we stood there for another 5 minutes, while I ceaselessly tried to forget the cold by rubbing my hands that was under my pockets, against my jeans.

The lady looks at me and after a long while exclaims, "You should realllly wear a long coatteh. I know children don't like to wear long coatt but you should really try it!".

I gave her a dirty look, just as the #155 pulled up to the bus stop, and just as she turned away.

*Aduh* Strike one for me.

Super Clips Salon, Devon St., 3.10pm:

I was lying on my back, stinging from the underarm waxing I just received and throat still dry from laughing since I am one sadly ticklish girl. Shahanaz, my waxer, was attempting to wax my legs then. She was a warm middle-aged woman who made me feel very much at ease and in that short amount of time we were already talking about my winter break plans, his son eating unhealthy junk food like pizza and fries (She'd be ghastly horrified if she heard about my diet during finals week) and our Thanksgiving sale catches.

"Aaah, no wonder those glamorous career women and rich mak Datins and Puan Seris all have a specific hairstylist from a specific shop; these sessions are heart-to-heart sessions as well", so I thought to myself. I vowed that instant that I was gonna quickly climb the ladder at wherever I'm working at and get a good pay so that I could afford monthly trips to the salon to receive this kind of pampering and indulgence.

Intermittently interrupting my thoughts were the "oohs" and "ouches" coming from my mouth every time she did her thang. *Sigh* A fantastic time in sunny Florida is all I think about to justify the pain I'm putting myself through. Since our conversation was coming to a lull, I felt the necessity for another session of small talk.

"This is only my second time waxing. People tell me that the more I do the more the hair doesn't grow, right?".
"No. The more you do, the more it DOESN'T grow".

I smiled to myself, wondering why these Desis can't seem to hear very well.

"Hehe, I'm quite hairy, huh?".

That was totally an attempt to continue the small talk, since I vehemently believe I'm not as hairy as Hairy Harry (pun intended) nor do I have man-like curling hair on my legs. Besides, the last time I tried that line on my waxer also on Devon, but at a different shop, she totally disagreed (exactly the reaction I was expecting).

But no. "Yessh. I can see that".

Sheesh, this woman must have standards of her own. Rather skewed standards though, since I'm sure, at the risk of sounding racist here, that Desis are very hirsute people, even the women. Isn't that why there are so many waxing salons in Devon, anyways??

Strike two.

After that blow to my ego, I kept myself busy by reading "The Paris Review Book of People with Problems" book I brought with me. That was, until she told me to turn around and lie on my stomach.


I obeyed her, and received another slap to thy self-esteem.

"Boyyy. Yourrr legs at the back even hairrrierr".

Strike three.

WTF. She must be jesting with me. There is no way I am hairier than she is. I don't think my hairiness comes close to any of the Pakistani/Indian people I've met. In fact, I know of a friend who waxes everything from her upper lip, to her arms to her tummy and legs. Screw the lady.

But she didn't give up.

"You want me to do your arrms as well? I give you 10 dollars, jii? Usuallly 15 dollars".

Strike four (Or I'm out, by now?)

#X55 Eastbound bus, en route to 54th and Hyde Park Blvd., 7.02pm:

I was sitting at the back of the bus, next to the window and thanking my lucky stars that the bus arrived just as I did at the Garfield Red Line stop that I didn't have to freeze my ass off in the cold. I was busy wiping the foggy window and peering outside when I caught a Black man looking at me.

"Whaadddupp, beautiful?"

Ah! Blissful words, his. Any given day I would have just ignored the comment and would have averted my gaze. But my self-esteem has been tempered with the whole day. I returned his glance and smiled widely. It took much self-restraint not to hug him and tell him he made a girl's day.