29.

Today I am 29.

Twenty-nine. And I still look about the same as my 8-year-old self. Except, sadly, my nose has grown. I should go find those old glasses...

So I have now entered the last year of my twenties. The end of life as I know it? Quite possibly. I'm trying to work out some way to come to grips with getting older...I'll let you know if I come up with anything. In the meantime, here's an interesting list of some of those who share my birthday.

1667 Jonathan Swift

1768 Jędrzej Śniadecki (I've never actually heard of him, but I wanted to type a coolies Polish name. Try and say it. Apparently he's a writer/physician/chemist/biologist)

1835 Mark Twain, aka Samuel Clemens

1874 Sir Winston Churchill

1929 Dick Clark

1955 Billy Idol

Other random facts about 30 November (thank you Wikipedia):

• The first international football match took place between Scotland and England in 1872.
• Oscar Wilde died in 1900.
• My saint is Andrew, a warrior saint and invoked against injustice, sterility, gout, dysentery, and, of course, wry neck. He is also the patron saint of Greece, Romania, Russia, Ukraine, and the Ecumenical Patrarchate of Constantinople.
• Barbados and South Yemen celebrate their independence from the UK today.
• Lucille Ball married Desi Arnaz in 1940.
• Ken Jennings finally lost a Jeopardy match in 2004.

Happy birthday to me!

ma'am or miss

While standing in the metro waiting for my train, a noticed a man standing nearly in my bubble of personal space. "Excuse me, ma'am" Who on earth could he be talking to? "Ma'am, do you have a dollar? I'm down to 80 cents on my train fare and didn't bring any cash with me." I think he's talking to me. But ma'am? Since when do I look like a ma'am? 

Which brings me to the question: which do you prefer, ma'am or miss? Or neither? I've always thought of ma'am as the title reserved for WOMEN. Moms. Grandmas. Miss is for young women who look like they might be in college. Or teenage girls. People like me. But apparently I look like I'm getting on in years, at least enough to be called ma'am. Or perhaps, as I prefer to think, miss is simply falling out of fashion. For example, I know that in German the charming word fraulein is falling out of use to be replaced across the board by the more dignified and all-encompassing frau. Is the same thing happening in French? Portuguese? Spanish? (I should know the answer to this in Italian, but it's been too long). Is this a conscious politically-correct thing to do (we don't know if someone is unmarried or young, so we'll call everyone ma'am to avoid potential mistakes) or something else? 

Whatever the case, ma'am just makes me feel so old. 

gratitude

I have been an ungrateful, cynical wretch the past few months. But mostly I'm impatient. After nearly 8 years of schooling between the two of us, many short-term jobs or career changes, and very little direction in our lives, I'm antsy, to put it mildly, for a little stability (note- I'm not antsy to settle down. That's a terrifying prospect), especially of the financial variety. I dream not of huge houses or fancy electronics or cars we can buy, but of having two incomes (that have no end date in sight) and a savings. I dream of hoarding my money.

I suppose all of this should have taught me patience, but it hasn't. Instead I've been more impatient and irritated when things haven't gone the way I planned. Or hoped. Or demanded. So in order to remind myself of all the things I do have, especially considering the approaching holiday, here's a short list of my blessings, in no particular order.

I have a job. It pays my bills.
I get to teach at G-town, and next semester I'm even scheduled for two classes. Here's to the start of me slowly weaseling my way into a full-time position...(cross your fingers, please!)
I'm married to the most patient, understanding, and generally considerate person I've ever met.
My parents.
My kitchen is huge. And our apartment is reasonably priced in a great neighborhood close to everything.
I live closer to my family and can easily go home and visit.
I have some of the best friends in the world who, even though they're far away, are still my best friends.
I live in one of the most beautiful, historic, lively cities in the US. There's always an adventure waiting.
I get to eat delicious and healthy food every day.
Democracy.
My body is strong and healthy (knock on wood, this is not an invitation to tempt fate).
I have health insurance.
Sweet potatoes.
I get to travel.
I live in a country where it's ok for my Muslim co-workers to take time out of their day for prayers, and I can leave for Christmas or Easter.
Sisters.
I finally found an armchair for my living room which is perfect for rainy afternoons and a book.
I work in a multi-cultural environment and learn about faraway places every day.
Saffron, cinnamon, cloves, rosemary, garlic, lemon, chocolate, thyme, vanilla...
Harry Potter and my secret books. Let's be honest- really all books in general.
My in-laws.
Google.
Holidays.

And with that, I wish you all a Happy Thanksgiving.

25 ways to wear a scarf

Watch this. Don't you think this girl is adorable? 

And when you're finished, you can click on a specific style and watch the tutorial in regular speed.

reality check

I have a good imagination. And I'm overly curious (nosy, you say?), so as I pass people on the street, I like to concoct a story of who they are, where they're from, and what they're doing out and about. In my mind, they are unfailingly foreign, speaking a language that I also just happen to speak. I work out an entire conversation in my head, generally beginning with a look of desperation in their eyes, begging me to say something in a friendly tongue, and ending with me helping them on their way in perfectly communicable (but not perfect- I'm not that conceited even in my day dreams) Russian or German or Italian or wherever I decide they should be from. I am never nervous or bashful speaking their language; my grammar is correct and my accent decent. And best of all, my words do not fail me.

Enter reality. Let me replay a recent conversation T-rav and I had at the Russian Cultural Center:

We walk into the building on a Saturday afternoon. The door is open and there's a very-Russian looking guy (skinny, round face with angular features, thin hair) standing in the middle of a room that would make a better ballroom than space for a receptionist's desk. Trav says hello and asks about language classes. The Russian guy says something very fast in Russian. Ooo, I think I caught something about them not working. But how can I be sure...we stand there awkwardly. Trav simplifies his request in slow and basic English. The Russian looks bewildered and slightly irked. We ask him if he speaks English. Obviously not. So then, we think, we'll switch to Russian! Pause. What were those words I used to know? Trav and I stand there and look at each other and stare at the Russian and the Russian stares at us. I switch to staring at the floor. I notice that there are several pieces of paper blowing around on the ballroom's wooden floor. It would look quite nice if they refinished it. I'd like to put up a mirror and dance a jig. If the Russian weren't there, that is. Damn. All I can remember is "I want to see your rubber boots." I suck. We continue staring. Finally I blurt out Russian class in Russian. A light turns on in the Russian's eyes and he starts talking on the phone in rapid Russian. Ah, it's the head of the Cultural Center. We find out what we need to know and give the Russian back his phone. We manage to mumble a Russian thank you on our way out.

And that is the difference between my dreams and reality.

random

Today is 11/11/11. It seems significant somehow. You decide.

Editing page after page after page of textbook makes me want to stab my eyes out. Unfortunately for me, editing is all I've been doing lately. Which is why I've been checking facebook incessantly, reading loads of blogs/websites/news articles, and posting a bit more often than usual. Anything to distract...

When I was a freshman in college, I was never cold. I walked around campus in the middle of winter late at night in jeans, a sweater, hat, and gloves, and was almost never cold. I'm now freezing 95% of the time no matter what I wear. Maybe it's because I'm getting old.

T-rav and I have been eagerly engaged in a month-long Prison Break marathon. We finished the last episode last night. I feel as though it has left a small hole in my heart.

Thanksgiving is less than 2 weeks away. It can't come soon enough.

impulse buy

Yesterday our sturdy hp laptop of 6 years finally went kaput. Because it kindly alerted us to its imminent demise by randomly freezing up, shutting down, and beeping sorrowfully during the previous week, there was no meltdown from me like there could have been without proper mental preparation. Just acceptance and a tinge of sadness. It has been with me for a long time through master's thesis, resumes, lesson plans, UVU presentations, and a second bachelor's for T-rav.

But this tinge of sadness wasn't enough to keep me from buying a new one right away. As in less than 1 hour after we played a requiem for our old one, we were on our new laptop, checking email and reading the news as if we'd had it for years. And the best part: it cost us less that $400 thanks to some killer deals at Staples. Impulse buy? Maybe. But you can't really go wrong with a laptop that is twice the computer you had before at a fraction of the price.

my secret stash

I have a secret stash of books. Books that I keep hidden in a box or on a separate shelf away from prying eyes that I'm a little (ok sometimes a lot) ashamed to admit that I love.

No, they're not dirty romance novels. What kind of girl do you think I am?

They're fantasy novels. And they're not that well-written and the story isn't so unoriginal (thanks, Tolkein for inspiring a generation of plagiarists writers) but I can't help myself. I've loved them since my tween years. And every so often I have the urge to read them again. All 12 of them (and some 6000 pages).

Which brings me to my current dilemma: there are so many books I'm longing to read. I have 4 on hold at the library, several on my shelf just waiting to be picked up, a queue on my kindle, and dozens waiting for purchase on my amazon list. It doesn't make sense to me to waste my time reading silly books that I've read, literally, dozens of times. But sometimes I just need to. And they never get old, no matter how many times I read them.

So tell me. What can you read without ever growing tired of it?

(Do you like how I have neatly avoided mentioning the title of these hidden books?)

a different Halloween perspective

One of my Afghan coworkers today was asking me about Halloween. Well, mostly he just wanted to know why I didn't have treats for him today since it was "Halloween weekend" (yes, that man can EAT). Here's about how our conversation went:

Me: Are you planning to dress up or go to any parties?
Him: No, probably not. I'll go like this [wearing jeans and a fleece jacket)
Me: What? Why? Have you ever celebrated Halloween? Gone to any haunted houses or anything?
Him: No...well, I almost went one time last year, but then I didn't.
Me: Why not? Haunted houses are fun!
Him: Well, I've seen real dead bodies and watched people die, so fake ones don't scare me. In the village where I grew up, there were a bunch of houses down the street that exploded with the people still in them. I used to walk past those houses late at night by myself when I was a kid. And I played hide-and-seek in the basement with the windows nailed shut. I even followed a ghost once, but it got away from me.  Once you've seen the real thing, the fake ones just aren't scary.
Me: [blank stare]

What do you say to that?

mansplaining

My new favorite word (T-rav, don't you wish you had never sent me that link?)
to mansplain: 

1- to delight in condescending, inaccurate explanations delivered with rock solid confidence of rightness and that slimy certainty that of course he is right, because he is the man in this conversation 

2- To explain in a patronizing manner, assuming total ignorance on the part of those listening. The mansplainer is often shocked and hurt when their mansplanation is not taken as absolute fact, criticized or even rejected altogether

(from urbandictionary.com)

Now just to be clear, mainsplaining isn't just explaining something while being male (though for some it seems to be). It's when a male tells a female how to do something she already knows how to do, or how she is wrong about something she is actually right about, or miscellaneous and inaccurate "facts" about something she knows quite a lot more about than he does. 

I also recognize that many men, and women, for that matter, are know-it-alls by nature. They'll condescendingly explain things to men, women, children, dogs, cats, whoever will listen. And some people go in to teacher mode when talking about something they know about (I'm sure I occasionally do this when discussing English. But at least I actually know something about it). It happens.  

Off the top of my head, I can think of about five or six of my friends/acquaintances/co-workers who can't talk about a topic without mansplaining. I've experienced plenty of linguistically related mansplaining (some of them seem to think that speaking a second language or living in a foreign country somehow makes them an expert on grammar, semantics, phonology, or language history)--a science or math or engineering major telling me all about something I've spent 6 years formally studying (and many more informally). And of course, the mansplainer was always wrong. But much more often I have to endure mansplaining related to women and their roles, their feelings, and, worst of all, what they can/can't or should/shouldn't do. 

Naturally, it infuriates me and my reaction is instantly prickly. I really hate being told what to do, but I especially hate it from a mansplainer. What gives him the right to tell me what I can do, how I really feel about something or how he's sure I'll feel when I get there, where I can go, etc. 

When I take a step back and think about this logically, I realize that many of these guys may not realize that they're coming off in such a condescending or overbearing way. They may not even be particularly chauvinistic at heart. But that doesn't really make it any less irritating. 

So my questions for you are: do you know a mansplainer? If you do, what does he mansplain about? And how do you respond?