Advice… What should I do?

Who would YOU choose?

A:

The person who you have been able to depend on

The person who makes you laugh and act in a way you never thought you’d be (all light and happy and joyous)

The person who you never thought would understand you but actually has managed to understand you in a way that no – one has even begun to comprehend

The person who is sweet, kind and caring

The person who isn’t Arab, isn’t university orientated but is able to provide for you a stable loving home

Quite good looking, slightly taller

 

Or

 

B:

The person who hasn’t taken the time to know you (yet)

The person who is ok, nice enough, sweet and seems caring

The person who is both Arab and Muslim

The person who is university qualified

Semi-good looking, average height

 

My example here (in order to simplify the situation) with both parties is this:

I am leaving my house to go to Baskin Robbins… the whole ride there I am thinking; “hmmm, cookies and cream ice-cream…” through each set of lights I am dreaming, drooling, knowing that cookies and cream is both what I want…. What I need. It meets almost each and every single requirement I am looking for (please people… go with me on this… I know ice-cream doesn’t really meet any requirements)… I am parking the car…. Cookies and cream…

 

I am standing in the store… waiting to be served…. Cookies and cream going through my head

 

“Hi… what can i get you?” says the girl behind the counter

 

I look down – before me is cookies and cream – what I have always, always wanted. Oh, that one next to it looks good!

 

“I’ll have a scoop of the strawberry cheesecake thanks”

 

I walk out… this is awesome… amazing… brilliantly satisfying with dreamy chunks of actually cheesecake in it!!! oh, the heavenly texture and taste of it all.

 

I now never get cookies and cream from Baskin Robbins….

 

hmmmm.... ice-cream

 

 

 

My question dear readers is this:

 

Can I use this theory, this notion; this experience to this situation?

All answers are MUCH appreciated!

Sir Gillette… The best a man can get!

The humble razor

 

Oh, how far we have travelled! Once upon a time the humble razor was born; created by a Sir Gillette. No doubt a loved one of the inventor told him (I am assuming here it is a ‘he’) that it would be a creation that no-one would use; that it would be a dud and that he was far, far better off toiling his crops than this madness.

 

 

 

 And now where are we? When does the need, the drive for a closer shave end? Once there was but one blade, then the wondrous dual blade with aloe strip. And then the manly Mach3… three blades guaranteed to give YOU a closer shave. Rejoice! Oh how did the male species without the triple blade? Aahh, but Master Gillette; genius that he is, is never one to rest on his laurels – cue the M3 power Nitro… oh, how masculine the name! Promising to give its user a “totally new shaving experience” through its innovative battery-powered shaving system that will stimulate hair and provide…. “The best shave ever”

 But now I am beginning to think that this quest for a closer shave has harboured on obsessive compulsive – how many blades do you men really need? Forget 2, 3 is only going to last the typical Arab man until lunch – and who needs four when you can have 5… 5 blades… or 6… yes 6 (Mach Fusion)! Today in Australia; in an environment where we’re talking about saving this environment; about being economical and bringing our own shopping bags when doing the weekly shopping; about car-pooling, catching public transport and all that stuff the men are increasing landfill by buying razors with 5 or 6 blades????? Am I the only one who thinks this is totally laughable?

 In the mighty words of the Spartans; “this is madness!” (I’m sure the Spartans were more than happy with their humble little blade knife to do their shaving)

What’s next Gillette? A little Google search led me this….

Introducing…. The Mach Fusion… 15 Blades… One swipe and you’re outta there….

The best a man can get!

 

Imagine the agony of the possible razor cut? Ouch!

 

 

Please place your order when you’re ready

McDonalds Meals

 

 

McDonald’s to Power Police Cars

11:06 AEST Wed Jul 30 2008

 

Police in the Philippines are looking to convert their patrol cars to run on a mixture of diesel and used cooking oil from McDonald’s.

With oil prices at crippling highs, the project would convert cars in the Makati financial district of Manila to run on a mix of 40 per cent diesel and 60 per cent cooking oil, police chief Senior Superintendent Gilbert Cruz said.

Used cooking oil will be donated by Makati outlets of the hamburger giant, said McDonald’s franchising manager Buth Salaya.

Other restaurants are also considering donating their used cooking oil as well, Cruz said.One police car has been converted to use the diesel/cooking oil mixture and is already in use, and the government is studying how viable it is to convert more vehicles.

“It’s a win-win situation for us because we will both benefit,” Cruz said.

“The cooking oil of their Makati stores will be re-used and the Makati police will use it as a component for their bio-diesel and also save money.”

The head of police forces in the capital Manila, Geary Barias, said that if the project is successful, he may recommend it being adopted by police forces across the Philippines.

Oh the madness of it all… does this mean that McDonald’s is good for the environment?

Imagine going thru drive-thru; “I’ll have a McChicken Meal, an Oreo McFlurry and the 15 litres of oil thanks for the car thanks…”

Interview VS Proposal

When I went to get the job I have now it was after a rigorous and rather intensive interview process. Bear with me a moment because I swear to you I am getting to a point! I went to the first interview with the recruitment agency, followed by the completion of not one, or two but three psychometric tests (of which I said that due to what I had studied and worked in would not be considered as valid as I was pretty familiar with the responses of psychometric test(s)… they made me do it anyway and later exclaimed that they had never had a person’s responses be so extreme – hello???? What did I just tell you? The results won’t be valid!!!!!). I then (that same day) had the individual interview with that agency and then had a group interview (3 weeks later) with the department; then a panel interview (me vs. 3 of them) and then had this medical examination. Sheesh! Apparently I have spoken to other people who have worked or did work for other government agencies where the interview/selection process was up to 7 interviews! Seven!!!  The insanity of it all! Although in saying that the retention isn’t that great so maybe the interview process needs to get smarter rather than getting longer.

 

In saying that I understand that this done in order to ascertain a candidates suitability for a position… a 38.5 to 40 hour a week position that a person rarely holds for the rest of their lives. So what on Allah’s earth makes someone think that after ONE lunch (that last just over an hour) and ONE ride to their brother’s house (because he lived rather close to my house and so I was going that way anyway) that proposing to me is a good idea?

 

Why?

 

I don’t get it? Last night he calls me asking how he wants to come around this weekend with his parents to talk to my mum and ask for my hand in marriage – to discuss intentions, dowries!!!

 

OH….

 

MY….

 

GOD!

 

You can’t see me people but I swear to you that I was… no AM hyperventilating! I’m all for doing ‘things’ the ‘right’ way, the halal way, but gee… can I take a minute here? It’s taken more thought and time to think to buy a pair of shoes! Do we not think that you’re maybe just getting a llliiiitttttlllle ahead of yourself? One lunch and a ride home does not a marriage make! He doesn’t know me… and for that matter I don’t know him – he might have 3 testicles for all I know! Maybe he suffers from MPD (multiple personality disorder)… maybe I do? I have always felt very split personality-ish!

 

I told him that sadly (ahem) this weekend my mum and I had a lot planned…

 

So, running to those ‘dem hills is looking pretty good at the moment…

I’m sorry….

I have learnt through bitter experience both personally and through work that you cannot (ever) please all of the people all of the time (duh). I have learnt and continue to learn the bitter truth, the heart wrenching epitome that I personally will never be able to make some specific people happy; for this I am writing this post – for this I am verbal vomitting saying how truly sorry I am.

 

I’m sorry for never simply being able to make you feel this sense of contentment with me; for spending my life constantly,  increasing and more ardently trying to measure up to your ideals that I didn’t know who I was anymore – where i could no longer find the line of where your expectations ended and who I really am begins. I am so sorry that I allowed it to get to a point where I would look in the mirror and be appalled at the grotesque person looking back me, and sorry all the more for deciding that this was not the person I wanted to be – for believing that I was worth more than the feelings of lifelessness, of emptiness and feeling dormant.

 

I’m so, so sorry for not being married yet; for not giving you any grandchildren and being this good little hijabi wifey and all that goes with it. I’m sorry to all the uncles and aunties who have’t been able to see me get married in this huge traditional Arabic wedding; I’m sorry that your nieces and nephews are having children and that I haven’t been able to fulfil your expecting and their expecting looks. I’m sorry for all the men that you and the family have introduced me to that I’ve turned down for reasons that I believe to be legitimate and I am even more sorry for all the guys that I have hoped, prayed and yearned for that have either left my heart shattered, desolate and cold or proven to be totally mad.

 

I’m sorry for having an opinion in what I want from life; from this feeling of self-worth. I am sorry for having these hopes, dreams, aspirations and yearning for this sense of happiness; to actually become what my name is. I’m sorry that I have this name because it somehow seems like my curse; to be called what you will never be. And yet in saying that I am so desperately sorry for searching so stubbornly in such a foolhardy fashion in order to find this happiness. To not be a trophy wife or become some ‘business acquisition’ between two families in order to bring them closer (together).

 

How can I tell you how desperately sorry I am for every single hope that you placed on my shoulders that seems to have burdened me and made me feel so desolate; made me feel weak in the knowledge that this is too much to bear, but that I have chosen to stay resolutely silent about. How you will never know the sincereity of my apology that I have pretended to not hear you sitting on your prayer mat after almost each and every salat (prayer) making dua while you cry to Allah for me to find what you want me to have. I’m sorry that it seems I’m always making you cry – that whenever I do something well, there’s always that extra 5% better that you think I should be… could be. I’m sorry that things were so hard for you – that you fought tooth and nail to be where you are now, to raise me and keep me at a private school, gone through as many tears as there are grains of sand in the desert; that so many people have hurt you and massacred your heart that you have been left fragile and that I have to pick up the pieces and be your saving grace. I’m so, so sorry that I just don’t know how.

 

I’m sorry for wanting more; for needing it. Sorry that when I was growing up I hurt you by crying in front of you when things got too much so that now I’m sorry I sit and cry in my room so no-one see’s me to a point that I am gasping; that my sides hurt from the agony of it all and that I don’t know how to make it stop.

 

I’m so sorry. I’m sorry… so sorry that this is all just too much sometimes… a lot of the time. That I’m writing this and you’ll never read this – I’m sorry that I’m glad about that because I know if you did that it wouldn’t be about me or us anymore but about what I say hurts you. How me being this way is killing you. How me being like this tells you that I don’t love you. When I do – oh god, I really do… so much. So much that all the words, each and every one of them I eat up; even the ones that I say don’t hurt me – they lay in the darkest depths that is my cracked and fractured heart and make me bleed… I’m sorry that loving me has been so painful for you.

 

I’m so sorry – I’m sorry that I don’t know what else that I can give you because I just don’t think I’m good enough. I’m sorry that this is all I am and that for you this just isn’t good enough. I’m sorry that I just don’t know where to go to from here….

New Zealanders & their names

And the madness continues…

 

Further to my post about the madness with some parents here and their attempts of demonstrating their madness to give their children ‘unique’ names is an article that Susi (see Susi Spice on my blogroll – shameless ad for Susi) passed onto me to demonstrate that further down from Down Under is greater madness uniqueness.

 

In the paper today a New Zealand a judge is trying to pass legislation to see certain names banned after the discovery of the following child’s name:

 

Talula Does The Hula From Hawaii – At least the parents know how to rhyme… Right? Gee, do you think she’ll end up on So You Think You Can Dance or run for prime Minister?

  

Number 16 Bus Shelter – Susi thinks that this must’ve been where this child was conceived. I am choosing to think that this is so either parent or parents remember what bus number they need to catch to get to Social Security

 

Violence – hmmmm? I don’t even know where to begin?

 

Benson & Hedges – I have to quote Susi; “well guess we all know that you are a 2 pack-smoker a day kinda mum! Hows the trailer park today?” Although it could be something as innocent as they wanted to name the child after object that brought them together…

 

You know what I can’t help but wonder? What are these people naming their sheep if this is what they name their kids!!!

Get the book – watch the movie…

The Woman of the Joy Luck Club

 

 

When I was in my teens’ one of my favourite movies of all time was The Joy Luck Club. Recently I stumbled across a second-hand copy of this book; well, I had to buy it didn’t I? After reading it I remembered just how much I truly, truly love this story. Although based on 3 Chinese-American daughters; each of their stories somehow resonates quite deeply with me. so much so that when doing my TEE (tertiary Entrance Exam) I used this movie as a feature film (I had seen the movie ssssooo many times that the video I had of it had had to be fixed and refixed so as you can imagine I was really familiar with quotes from this novel/film). Not to blow my own horn (which means I am about to blow my own horn) but I actually got a really good grade with this essay.

 

I had tried to get mum to watch this movie with me a few times…. She would sit through an hour and say “what for you want me watch this movie? Is too sad – I have enough sadness in my life….” I resigned myself to giving up on this. There was no point – the diplomacy that I was trying to evoke was not gonna happen.

 

Anyway here are some of my favourite quotes that even now – actually perhaps more so now ring very poignant to me:

 

Quotes from daughters to their mothers:

“You don’t know… you don’t know the power you have over me. One word from you, one look, and I’m four years old again, crying myself to sleep, because nothing I do can ever, ever please you.”

 

“I like being tragic, Ma. I learned it from you.”

 

Quote from mother to daughter:

“I was raised the Chinese way. I was taught to desire nothing, to swallow other people’s misery, and to eat my own bitterness. And even though I taught my daughter the opposite, still she came out the same way. Maybe it is because she was born to me and she was born a girl, and I was born to my mother and I was born a girl, all of us like stairs, one step after another, going up, going down, but always going the same way”

 

A very poignant conversation had in a kitchen between mother and daughter:

Daughter: I’m just sorry that you got stuck with such a loser, that I’ve always been so disappointing.
Mother: What you mean disappoint? Piano?
Daughter: Everything: my grades, my job, not getting married, everything you expected of me.
Mother: Not expect anything! Never expect! Only hope! Only hoping best for you. That’s not wrong, to hope.
Daughter: No? Well, it hurts, because every time you hoped for something I couldn’t deliver, it hurt. It hurt me, Mommy. And no matter what you hope for, I’ll never be more than what I am. And you never see that, what I really am.

 

One of the daughters is engaged to a non Chinese American, her conversation with her ‘Anglo-American/white’ fiancé

Fiancé: So what did your mom said when you told her about the wedding?

Daughter/fiancée: It never came up

Fiancé: Why not?

Daughter/fiancée: She rather get rectal cancer

 

I strongly recommend anyone to read this book, watch the movie… But have some tissues handy!

Mum & the Tree

One of many Gum Trees

 

I had to take the day off work yesterday – I woke up feeling like my head was the size of a whale, filled with water! So I made the executive decision that listening to people whinge & whine about show terrible their life is and how what this country gives them is apparently their God-given right (it’s not people! It’s a bloody privilege! Getting a home through Homes West + Social Security + the Baby Bonus is NOT a right – sorry for the outburst, I’m still not quite well!) would be a very hard pill to swallow. When I later re-awoke it was 11.30am I still felt dazed but a little better (I still sounded somewhat nasal and had a sore throat L).

 

My mum was stoked, overjoyed, jubilant to have me at home for the whole day. Really, it was as though all her Eid’s had come at once (well, I can’t use Christmas since we don’t celebrate it can I?) – she had me stuck there all day. By about 3.30pm I was wondering if maybe being at work would’ve been less stressful on my nerves! Its not that she’s unbearable per se, nor is it that I don’t enjoy her company but I think time with parents (or in my case just my mum) is like a fine jellab (since I’m on a role I’m not using ‘wine’ either! Jallab – very yummy, is a type of syrup popular in the Middle East; made from dates and rose water) in that you can have too much.

 

Yesterday’s antics involved a call to the council about a tree that had recently been planted in front of all the houses on our street. Obviously this is on council property (meaning after the letterbox); I don’t quite know what their rationale for these trees are – probably better drainage? They’re not roses or anything; they are young eucalypts. For anyone who doesn’t know gum tress grow to be quite large and have the tendency to drop lots of leaves (yes, I will admit they do provide great shade). Anyway, my mum is NOT happy about this tree that is currently sitting innocently in my front yard; her rationale is that it will grow to be too big. It will fill our gutters with leaves and will mean more work for her as she will have to rake up the leaves on the ground. Apparently she is far “too old” to be working in the garden, especially when it’s someone else’s mess!

 

Can I say that my mum is not old – she has just turned 52! I think that this is not old! I did explain to her that it would be years before this tree got that big and cluttered our gutters (there is at least 4 meters distance between where the tree is to even a glimmer of gutter!) and that if there was fallen leaves on the garden that they would be on everyone else’s garden also! This did not appease her at all. Apparently I was told that I was siding with the council because I worked for the government when really I should be on her side since she gave birth to me. And that the answer is… we have to move house now!

 

*Internal scream with frustration*….*external silence*

 

*Insert ‘patient’ smile* I told my mum that selling the house over something trivial like this maybe isn’t the way to go – maybe she should contact the council? Get the tree removed or changed with something else? It then became my job (have we remembered that I was taking the day off because I felt like total crap?) to locate said phone number for said council; I refused to contact them and told her that she had the issue so therefore she should call (can I say that my mum has been in Australia for nearly 30 years; she speaks with a fairly strong accent and has been told that she speaks a little fast but she understands English just fine). So she called; telling them why she needs the tree removed, how it would grow to be too big, that it was affecting the number of cars that could park on that part of lawn and how it would be bad for gutters. But even I had to smile when she threw in some guilt to the person she was talking to; “how can you do this to a person who is older? Expect her to look after a big tree? Would you like someone to do this to your mother?”

 

Needless to say the lady she spoke to was as unmovable as a large Gum tree. She gave my mum some options that involved writing a letter of complaint about the tree and about why she feels it should be removed. After much ‘discussion’ in regards to how she is my mother and how I should want to help her without being told and how no one told her to look after me but she did so anyway and made sure I went to school so that I became educated enough to speak perfect English, have both a bachelors degree + honours, that I should be begging to write this letter for her. I tried to explain that she had provided with an exemplary example of child rearing and that I would take all this on board when it came time for me to eventually raise my own children but that I would not be writing this letter as I did not have any issue with the tree. In case anyone is wondering what I am doing tonight after work I will be writing said letter regarding said tree.

 

Needless to say today I am at work.

For advice – Turn to Kyle and Jackie O

The Kyle & Jackie O Show

Yesterday on the radio while I was on my way home from work I was listening to The Kyle & Jackie O Show; Jackie was lamenting commenting about the lack of decent eligible men in Australia for women in either their late 20’s or early thirties. How she has friends that meet guys; go out for awhile and then nothing long-term eventuates from this ‘relationship’.

 

Hallelujah! It is not just within the circles of Susi or me and the Muslim circle of decent eligible men! Why oh why??? I know they exist – I have seen friends and friends of friends meet decent eligible men and they get married and all ends well (I’m only talking about Australia here people!).  I do meet guys – but where oh where is that person who has less baggage than a Louis Vuitton store? Or is at least borderline sane (see? I’m willing to accept a mild sense of insanity) with some sense of humour and wants to make something of themselves and will actually be stable and dependable? Where are they? And why are there all these really sweet, nice and seemingly wonderful guys (because for some reason if their insanity ‘idiosyncratic’ traits aren’t instantly apparent you will come to realise their asshole-ness after a certain time period) who are also really good looking to boot significantly younger than me? Why? Where is the justice in that?

 

Anyway; Kyle (who is known to be a person who totally speaks his mind) said that the problem was that these women are dating or looking for men with a 6 pack (abs) and total hotties. Ok, so that explains that problem apparently! But what I loved, what made me laugh and instantly call Susi to tell her what apparently was going to be the answer to all our problems was Kyles’  answer on how to find true love:

 

“If you want a decent guy; if you’re looking for true love date a man with a belly”

 

Now before you comment that I’m being “weight-ist’ or that Kyle is being mean to those with bellies or  a little on the plump side please be advised that Kyle Sandilands himself most definitely does not have a 6-pack (and has landed himself a bit of a babe – a Lebanese one at that; the 2 of them recently married).  Ok, maybe I am making an assumption about him (Kyle) not having a 6-pack; but I think it’s a pretty safe bet since he said so himself.

 

Now; where’s that ‘plump’ (putting it mildly), balding Arab man with the lazy eye that I met 4 months ago

 

Can i quickly say that a 6-pack is not one of my prerequisites!

I don’t get it…

v Why do the people I encounter on the road here not know to merge (bloody Perth-ians)? Its not hard people; it’s as the word suggests – merge. Not “oohhh, there’s a car that’s slightly ahead of me, but if I speed up I’ll end up in front of the red bubble” (yes, I drive a little red bubble of a car!)

 

v Is wearing a thick jacket and a scarf around the neck really keeping girls who wear little more than a belt (and call it a skirt) warm? Why? Surely they must be cold – here’s a thought – pants? How about a longer skirt? How about this wonderful invention called leggings? Tights? What’s the deal?

 

v What is it with people with V6 or V8 cars who think that the must rule the road and overtake all us little zippy vehicles? Why? Why? Why do you think its ok to cut in front of other cars because “I’m so big” & “I’m so powerful”? Why? Have ye forgotten that your ‘fantastic’ car guzzles down fuel faster than you can afford to fill it? Or do you really have something to prove? Freudian theory with the preoccupation of size somehow comes to mind!

 

v Why do my mothers friends think that because I am not married that I would want to marry a person who ‘works’ (read: cash in hand/not paying taxes) in a kebab store and has no intentions to do any further study? Why?

 

Feel free to add your own “Why’s” and “I don’t get it…” people…