En Route to Turkey

The day had finally come for my family trip to Turkey. Before we could all argue about which direction to go in the maze of tourist attractions, we had to endure the joy of a transatlantic flight. I tried to check us all in the night before the flight so we could all sit next to each other. For reasons that were not explained, British Airways decided that my little sister Sami would not be allowed to check in, and her seat assignment was left in limbo. I always wonder who I may be sitting next to on airplanes... Why are they on their way to Europe? Will a hairy old man snore loudly and take up the armrest? Will there be a cute boy? No matter who would be next to me, surly they would switch seats so that two sisters could sit next to each other on an eight hour flight.

Fortunately, we found that we weren't seated too far from each other. Sami's window seat was directly in front of mine. We walked onto the flight to find a gentle looking woman in her 50s to be seated next to me, and a friendly guy in his 20s to be seated next to Sami. I asked the gentle looking woman if she wouldn't mind switching seats with my little sister. I gestured towards Sami as if to say, she is young, and will get lonely and scared on this very long flight. The woman wasn't fooled (Sami has always looked older than me), and asked, "Well, where is she sitting?" I pointed to Sami's window seat just one row away. The woman said, "Oh no honey, I need an aisle." I instantly hated her. I took a look at the guy in his 20s to see if he would be receptive to switching, but he lowered his gaze as if to say, "Please don't make me sit next to her." Feeling annoyed, I told the woman she was blocking my path to my seat, and squeezed past her.

A polite looking guy in khakis and a polo shirt came by to help the woman put her bag in the overhead storage. They appeared to be traveling in the same group, but did not actually know each other. Mr. Polite commented on the book in the woman's lap full of writing in the margins and page markers.
"My, that is a well used Bible," said Mr. Polite.
"It surely is - I wore my last one completely out! I always have it with me to read and take notes - I can never get enough!" exclaimed the woman, a little too loud, forcing me to overhear her conversation.

It was then that I realized she would try to convert me. I immediately remembered an episode of This American Life where they interviewed a preacher who talked about how he would ride planes with his Bible in his lap. The preacher would wait for the person sitting next to him to ask him about his Bible as an invitation to talk about religion. Now, I don't care what you practice - I just don't want to be converted. I knew no matter what I did, I could not ask about the Bible.

She tried to start a conversation with me, and apologized for not switching seats with Sami. She told me she had to get up a lot during long flights (she got up a whopping two times), and needed the aisle. I found out she was going on a mission trip to Uganda. I told her I was going on a medical mission trip to Nicaragua in August so that she might get the point that I was already a good person, and I didn't need her religious enlightenment. She asked if I was a nurse, and my dislike for her only grew. I looked forward to the seat in front of me to see Sami getting along famously with the 20-something guy. I was angry about her better seating for a few seconds, and then decided to write her a note on the back on my boarding card. The woman offered me a piece of paper from her notebook full of notes from the Bible. She was both trying to butter me up and willing me to read her notes on the other pages, so I politely declined and went back to writing on my boarding card.

Dear Sami,

How is life? I missed you a lot during the take off. Take off is always so boring because you have to turn off your iPod. I see you have found a BFF. Maybe later, you can facebook him, and make the friendship official. Hope to hear from you soon. We could watch the same movie later and pretend like we didn't have to sit so far away.
Love, Farrah

She wrote back on a barf bag.

Dear Farrah,

Life is good. Watch out for the lady next to you. She's trying to CHANGE you. I overheard her conversation with that guy. The guy next to me is named Matt. He is from Texas, and his favorite movie is Brokeback Mountain. I miss you too!
Love, Sami

I managed to make it through the flight without being converted, and I stopped talking to the woman to watch The Namesake. Sami managed to make it through the flight with a new friend, and didn't even need to watch a movie because she was talking to Matt the whole time. I always thought that friendships blossoming out of airline seating only happened in the movies. Leave it to my sister and her bubbling personality to make a friend anywhere, and bring the movies to life.

--By Farrah, who got to sit next to Sami on the way back, woo!

Amjad's Day of Fun

Last Saturday, my neighbors auctioned off their house as well as all of their fancy belongings. It was one of the most exciting days in my small, boring town's history. All of the notable town personages were there - from the president of the local hospital to my own dermatologist - to see what kind of deals they could scrounge up.

I had never been to an auction before, mainly because paying money for used items seems wasteful. However, this auction was written in my kismet by Allah, the all-knowing. I was sleeping late per usual, and suddenly Bushra's face appeared in my hazy line of vision. Her father, Dr. Amjad, had awoken her bright and early to bring her to our illustrious abode because auctions were a lifelong passion for him. I hastened to awake and quickly changed clothes. Bushra, a practical soul, had no use for auctions that did not include nice handbags and accessories in the mix, so she settled down and Web-surfed for the latest celeb gossip on defamer.com and pinkisthenewblog.com.

Everyone was at the auction - my parents, her parents, Bushra's nameless sister, my aunts and uncles. So I put on my good shoes and walked through the thicket of woods dividing our homes. I wasn't used to the wildness of the North Carolina greenery, having lived for a year in the urban wasteland of Toledo, and apparently Bushra wasn't either as she got poison ivy on the torturous journey over.

The auction was the epitome of a mela (Urdu word for crazy, cool festival time). There was a hot dog stand selling overpriced food and water, Fox 8 news, and personages from all walks of life. At the center of it all was Dr. Amjad and my nameless friend, his daughter, sitting front and center. I had never seen Uncle so happy and content. When it came time to bid on a beautiful mahogany pool table, where I had watched many of my neighbor's boyfriends impress her with their super premium pool skills, I was surprised to see that Bushra's dad "won" the big ticket item. The official reason as to why such a huge fancy, unnecessary table was bought was for their son (who was moving out of the house this summer to go to college), but I think the family was enraptured by the mesmerizing voice of the auctioneer (similar to what happened to Odysseus with those pesky Sirens).

As I sat on a plastic folding chair on the front lawn, where I had spent my formative years gossiping about the incestuous dating patterns of Carlisle School, I, too, got enthralled by the auction. I felt the strange desire to bid on items that I didn't need - a Bulova watch, potted plants, and even a stack of magazines on Lady Diana, Princess of Wales. My parents bought useless items like a doctor's scale, and even Bushra got the auction bug - buying a mixer "to make really good whipped cream in." Uncle Amjad, at one point, was scratching his head, and accidentally bought an a toy car and a stone home massage kit.

Ultimately, auction day brought an unexpected excitement to all of our lives. It touched each of us, even naive, little Bushra, who came out winning a mixer for her new apartment. My nameless friend even found fame as she made it onto the local news.

Link to local news story with nifty video!

--By Mariam, whose obsession with European royalty now supersedes any previous interest in the Holocaust.

The Dark Side of the Gym: Part Deux

In seventh grade, I joined the field hockey team. Not willingly, mind you, but because Carlisle Upper School had this Stalin-like rule that every student must play at least one sport each year. This ensured that the sports teams would have enough people since our Upper School had a paltry 107 students.

Sadly, I was a horrible field hockey player. I lacked the drive, the energy, and the brute, physical strength required of a girl with a plaid skirt and wooden stick. I hated running the two laps around the field hockey and soccer fields because I'd always be the last one at the finish line - I'd be all red, sweaty, and panting - not an attractive site - as all the cute soccer players watched.

Because I lacked the athletic prowess necessary to climb the field hockey ladder of success (aka a much coveted starting position), I was banished to the far corner of the field, where all unathletic losers were placed, as a fullback. The fullback's job is defensive - help the goalie keep the ball away from our side of the field. Usually, the fullback merely hits the ball back to the halfback, who carries the ball far, far away, and then, said fullback stands around and makes conversation about the weather with other defense players. Nevertheless, I was a benchwarmer for even a loser position such as this.

My field hockey coach, Betty Meade didn't really know what to do with me. I was nice, quiet, uncomplaining, and relatively unobtrusive, so she didn't have any reason to hate me. I was just a fundamentally bad field hockey player, and no amount of practice in the backyard was going to help a lost cause like me.

On top of this, I passionately hated away games because the schools we played were hours away; I was more academically inclined and liked to spend after school hours doing homework and being the best I could be in English and biology rather than wasting away in the glaring heat warming the bench at some crappy school in Chatham, Virginia. Also, away game bus rides gave upperclassmen an opportunity to harass us freshmen girls about who we were going to take the big Upper School Homecoming dance (sadly, for a Moslem like myself, the answer was no infidel would be quite appropriate as a date).

Once, we traveled three hours to get to Salem Academy for Girls, and when I got there Betty Meade told me she had "forgotten" to put my name on the field hockey roster. This meant I couldn't play for that game - convenient wouldn't you say? I have always been a conspiracy theorist and thought that this was just a passive aggressive way for Betty Meade to not play me. I spent that entire game fetching water for the team at time outs. That was fun.

I was finally put out of my misery my sophomore year when Betty Meade told me she wanted to talk to me. She told me that there wasn't enough room on the Varsity team anymore (I wasn't aware that the a crappy field hockey team was as selective as the Viper Room was in the early 90s), and she wanted to demote me to JV. Now, everyone knew that no self-respecting 10th grader would play on the JV team. I started to cry and fed Betty Meade some bullshit about how my parents made me study all the time and that was why I was a completely inadequate field hockey player. Coach felt sorry for me and referred me to the guidance counselor because she thought I was disturbed. Sure, I looked like a crazy, potentially self-destructive Asian kid on the verge of a breakdown, but hey, it got me off the field hockey team. I never played another sport at Carlisle despite our stupid rule. And that, dear blog reader, is why I am a badass.

--By Mariam, who only joined the field hockey team, really, so she could get her locker decorated at Homecoming by the cute soccer players.

Live from Turkey!

That is right. I am blogging from Turkey because İ am that dedicated. İf you think it is really difficult for me to find the right keys on the stupıd turkısh keyboard, you are correct. My brother has to download all of hıs e-maıls for work, so I am keeping him company in the mıddle of the nıght at the ınternet cafe down the street from where I am stayıng. We passed not one, but TWO camels on our way here. Pretty rural, huh? At least the beach is really pretty.

Anyway, ın my boredom here at thıs cafe for the past two hours led me to take a look at my Armenıan frıends blog, but I got Access denıed! Is thıs because of the turkısh government, or ıs thıs because I do not understand enough Turkısh to actıvate cookıes on thıs computer? (for example: Gönderme, Dosya, Ayarlar???) Dıscuss.

--By Farrah, who ıs beıng bıtten by many dıfferent types of Turkısh bugs... damn turks!

a short and unimportant blog

During my whirlwind adventures in Chicago last weekend, I noticed that my back was evenly tan while my front had several tan lines from my tank top. I haven't worn any backless shirts lately, or gone running around nude in the sun, which means there is only one possible explanation - somebody has been tanning behind my back!

--By Farrah, whose baby nephew not only pooped in her hand, but also threw up down her shirt, and she fears this may be a preview of what's to come in medical school

The Dark SIde of the Gym: Part 1

"We're going to the gym. Wanna come?"
"You should exercise. It's good for you."
"The gym is really magical. You make friends there and socialize. Come on!"

All year, many friends tried to get me to enter the hallowed halls of the gym at medical school. I would merely say, "I don't do the gym" in the manner of Whitney Houston turning her nose up at crack. Some assumed I was fundamentally lazy. Others thought that I didn't have the energy because I never ate, and who needs to burn calories when you're never consuming any? Many thought I was a prissy girly girl, who hated sweating and weird body smells. Okay, I admit that the last one is true, but my gym-aversion is a much more complex case - going to the gym would be like revisiting a former life humiliation.

Dearest blog reader, do you remember the hell on earth that is middle school? Well, my own private hell was my middle school P.E. class complete with a Satanic torturer, Mrs. Collins, the gym teacher. In middle school (pre-growth spurt), I was short, awkward, completely uncoordinated, and the most unathletic person to grace the Carlisle School gymnasium. I was always, always picked last for teams. This was not because I was that weird kid with head lice everyone was afraid of, but because I was a liability for a team; my klutzy ways would guarantee a loss.

When that special time of the year arrived to do the Presidential Fitness test, I cursed the heavens and yelled dramatically, "A plague on both your White House, Mr. President!" Without fail, I always got an embarrassingly low number of sit-ups (12 in one minute) and push-ups (none), while all of the athletic girls waltzed their way through the tests.

"I want to get the Presidential Fitness Award!" exclaimed Saira, a lean dancer. I would scowl at her and think, I just want this torture that we call 'fitness' to be fucking over!

The horrific week would end with running the mile. My goal in life was to somehow "fortuitously" break an ankle or at the very least sprain something so I could get out of the grueling 5 laps around the gym. One year, in seventh grade, I was determined to get such an injury; I spent an entire weekend mustering up the courage to throw myself some stairs so I could get out of P.E. for an entire semester. I lacked the cajones though, so instead I aggressively bent my ankle a couple hundred times in a futile attempt to sprain it. I must have ligaments of steel, because all I got were leg cramps, which got me out of P.E. for a mere day.

When the dreaded day of running the mile arrived, I got so tired after the second lap that I just walked part of it. And as result, I was the last person to cross the finish line with the slowest time ever - 13 minutes. Ah, the joys of the American educational experience.

To be continued (with stories of my time as a field hockey player)...

--By Mariam, who finds athletic prowess to be such a turn-off in people.

An Origin Story: About Sally

Once upon a time, on a cold January day, when the wind chill was around -23 degrees, I started to call Farrah "Veronica" and "Sally." Now, why I called Farrah Veronica is obvious. Anyone who has ever talked to me knows my three-year obsession with the CW show Veronica Mars. The show got canceled this year, and I was left heartbroken (damn you, Dawn Ostroff, damn you to hell!). I truly aspired to be a sassy, super-sleuth like Veronica, but I digress, and that is a blog for another time.

Anyways, Farrah, being the perpetually quirky, emo friend that she is (she is better served being on sketch comedy rather than being a lowly medical school student), just went along with her new name. Soon, "Veronica" got phased out (too many syllables), and all the backrowballers were "Sally." If you called out "Sally," everyone would look up. How convenient! All of the boys thought it was the dumbest thing ever. Since I was the biggest pushover, they would tell me that calling someone "Sally" was "very second grade," "stupid," and "weird." Elvis psychoanalyzed the situation as my sad attempt to fit into mainstream American society. Nevertheless, this blog is a type of origin story (a la comic books) as to why I chose Sally as a moniker for all of my friends.

Sally (aka Sarah Louise) is my good friend from grade school. She always did really crazy things when we were at Carlisle that got her into trouble. For example, once on a choir trip, a larger girl named Ruth Decker tried to strangle Sally on the bus for some transgression or another. Sally defended herself and got in-school suspension. Now, shenanigans such as these seem commonplace in middle school, but when you go to an uber-preppy school such as Carlisle, where no one has physical fights except maybe over the score on the 18th hole at Chatmoss Country Club, this was huge, front-page gossip news.

The most awesome thing Sally ever did was in the ninth grade. I was sitting next to Sally on the school bus as we came back from a field trip to the local community college. My friend Liz was sitting two seats in front of us with her new hunky, eleventh-grade boyfriend, Cullen, the school golden boy who was destined for preppy greatness at Notre Dame. Cullen and Liz were the Carlisle Upper School's version of Brad and Jen (before Brad left her for that sultry hussy, Angelina). All of a sudden, Sally pulled out a maxi pad from my bag, opened it up, and stuck it (sticky side down) on Cullen's head.

Although Cullen was resident golden boy, he was an unimaginative, dull one, so he just looked vaguely shocked and pulled the offending product off. Then, Mr. Owen-Williams, the stern Welsh headmaster, sprung into action. Since Mr. O-W was foreign and had a snobby accent befitting of a headmaster, all the students knew not to screw up under his watch, except Sally, the wild card. He hovered over Sally and me, and asked, "What is this?" Sally looked frightened and had to sit with Mr. O-W for the rest of the ride home as she received a stern lecture on not putting maxi pads on cute eleventh graders' heads. Later, Sally told me that Mr. O-W called her mom to tell her about Sally's faux pas. I often wonder how that conversation must have gone - a tall, dignified Welsh educator explaining about a prank involving feminine products is always very....awkward.

--By Mariam, who hopes (fake) Sally had a nice birthday!