history:

.

.

enter, obama. 

.

.

.

.

.

Trail of Turds.

For the past several weeks, I have unabashedly been ordering carry out pizzas from one of the most prized Italian establishments in San Diego County -- Zappy's. Their pizzas are not only $5 each, but these masterfully leavened culinary treats are among the most delicious pizza pies I have yet to encounter. Needless to say, it's amore. In fact, I've become so fond of Zappy's menu that I've taken it upon myself to advertise their services to my neighbors, friends, local grocers, and anyone else who knows what's good for them.

Earlier this evening in an attempt to avoid writing a paper, I started sorting through my wallet, and in addition to the dozens of Zappy receipts stuffed in my coin compartment, I found a magnet from Zappy's that I had saved for promotional purposes. And, well, upon a closer examination of the contents, I was left a bit.. alarmed.

What's wrong with this picture?

Uh, yeah, looks like Zappy took a crappy.


After careful thought and consideration, I've decided I'm going to bring the magnetized fecal matter to the attention of the manager. Or at the very least, with the young chap behind the counter who, by now, has my order memorized. I'm just not quite sure how to address the issue -- "Uh, yes sir, I've noticed that there's a trail of turds on your company magnet, and while it's uh.. cute, I wonder.." Or, maybe I'll write an anonymous letter and leave it in one of their bathroom stalls. Fitting, no?

In other news, this evening's trip to Zappy's marked my fifth time this month¹ driving in the opposite direction on a one way street. And while I love the natural rush of adrenaline flowing through my pizza-coated veins, after the fourth time or so, the experience has begun to lose its adventurous appeal.

¹ the last thirty days.

engrish.

"here crippie, have my seat."

will booz for money.

As you all may know, it is not uncommon for harsh economic times to give rise to higher rates of depression, crime, fraud, suicide, substance abuse and rationalizations such as the following: 

an e-mail received on 09/24/08

I just want to keep you all informed on your investments. 

If you had purchased $1,000.00 of Delta Air Lines stock one year ago, you would have $49.00 left. 

With Enron you would have had $16.50 on your original investment of $1,000.00.

With WorldCom, you would have less than $5 left. 

But if you purchased $1,000.00 worth of beer one year ago, drank all the beer, then turned in the cans for the aluminum recylcing refund, you would have $214.00 in cash. 

Based on the above, the best investment advice is to drink heavily and recycle. 

It's called the 401-Keg. 

God bless save America. 

in the words of dwight schrute, "question."

.

can the United States government bail me out of my last three exams this week?

------------------

.

maraz.

all the things i've done in the last three hours to avoid studying:

take a personality quiz by his holiness, the dalai lama

eat 4.5 apples

watch martial arts on YouTube

try to figure out Faraz's Facebook password

browse the cover of private myspace profiles

pet my roommate's cat 

offer it the remaining half of my apple

investigate the feathers currently popping out of my pillow

google the calories in an apple

trace my childhood history to figure out when i contracted ADD

leave a message on my parents home phone about the results of my personality quiz

google my name to see if it yields any new and exciting results

attempt to fold an index card more than 5 times

investigate the identity of my anonymous commentor, BOOBGRL

calculate the sum of my four starbucks transactions made today 

google the recipe for homemade olive oil soap

attempt to coat the entire inner wall of my candle jar with wax, unsuccessfully 

listen to Nila express her frustrations with the United State Postal Service 

look at DOPEBOY's pictures and screen his comments

try and figure out who android is

try and figure out who astutely placed the word dying in the term "studying"

browse all your blogs (yes, even yours)

i better go. 

endorphins¹

..

.

.

I'm always left breathless when I delve into the intricacies of the human mind, especially into the world of chemical wonders that tirelessly work behind the scenes. 

These past few days, I've been researching the brain's uptake of endorphins for a class and ran into this article where a medical missionary vividly shares his experience being subject to his own endorphins powerfully at work. 

Starting, and looking half round, I saw the lion just in the act of springing upon me. I was upon a little height; he caught my shoulder as he sprang, and we both came to the ground below together. Growling horribly close to my ear, he shook me as a terrier dog does a rat. The shock produced a stupor similar to that which seems to be felt by a mouse after the first shake of the cat. It caused a sort of dreaminess, in which there was no sense of pain nor feeling of terror, though quite conscious of all that was happening. It was like what patients partially under the influence of chloroform describe, who see all the operation, but feel not the knife. This singular condition was not the result of any mental process. The shake annihilated fear, and allowed no sense of horror in looking round at the beast. This peculiar state is probably produced in all animals killed by the carnivora; and if so, is a merciful provision by our benevolent Creator for lessening the pain of death.

Livingston, David. Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa. 1857.

There it is, yet another biological act of mercy, courtesy of Above. 

¹ One of the body's own painkillers, an opioid (morphine-like) chemical produced by the body that serves to suppress pain.

appeals for wheels

.

So, I'm pretty sure I'm suffering from a herniated disc or some other horribly morbid back condition after living through these last two weeks of school. Without exaggeration, I suspect that I carry about 30% - 40% of my body weight in my backpack in the form of textbooks. 

Yesterday, I was walking to my car and I actually felt delirious from the tingling sensations in my vertebrae. Objectively speaking, I don't think this situation qualifies under the accredited guidelines for backpack safety. 

Except, the problem at hand here is neither the pain nor the associated health risks of carrying around too much weight. Osteoporosis does not scare me as much as the alarming ideas that have recently been surfacing in my head as a result of all this delirious pain. 

You see, these past few days I've found myself wondering what it would be like to carry a rolley backpack... and for a moment or two, these thoughts fill my mind (and soothe my back) with blissfully alleviating images. But when I begin to think of the reality of actually carrying one around, other images begin to precipitate. 

Images of 

• my wheels falling off and having to pick the thing up, wrap my arms around it and walk it all over campus
  
• people pointing and laughing, especially friends and family
  
• the compelling need to explain myself (and more specifically, the ownership of my rolley backpack) to anyone who will listen
• not holding on tight enough and watching it roll down a hill 
  
• realizing my rolley backpack is strikingly similar to that of the librarian's 
  
• not being able to fit in a bathroom stall with it
  
• carrying the germs from the bathroom stall to all subsequent destinations 
• the grave implications of a faulty zipper
• attracting attention to myself from the noise of the wheels streaking across the floor 
• freaking people out from the gradually increasing sounds of my wheels getting closer and louder from behind 
• being interviewed by the school paper on my rolley backpack lifestyle 
• leaving various-colored wheel traces behind me, everywhere i go 
• feeling the need to appropriately accessorise my rolley backpack with a helmet
• accidentally nicking people's ankles with my wheels
• accidentally nicking my own ankles, and having my rolley backpack watch me roll down a hill

 

This list could very easily go on forever. The bottom line is, first a rolley backpack, and then what? A fanny pack. That's what. I'm not rolling down that road. I've got to come up with something before Monday morning or else I'm going to have to ask campus health services for some morphine. 

.

...

Dedicated to: all the times during elementary school when I use to fling my 12 oz. backpack onto one shoulder, mimicking the strides of Stephanie Tanner and Kimmy Gibbler.

.

.

.

to facebook, or not to facebook?

.

Apparently, that is the question. 

.

Recently, I've been noticing a rise in the number of inquiries regarding the deactivation of my Facebook account which strategically took place in the beginning of the summer. Specifically, friends, family, and neighbors are wondering when (and presumptuously, not if) I will be reactivating my account and joining the rest of the modern world. As socially unorthodox as my decision to deactivate was, I'd like to make a public statement that I stand (er, technically sit) resolute behind my decision. Instead of writing a comprehensive list of all the marvelously stimulating and fruitful things I've accomplished with the large intervals of time that have newly opened up in my schedule since the fall of Facebook in my life, I've decided to dust off my Microsoft Paint skills and illustrate the following: 

..

.

See what I mean folks? I don't want to grow up to be a Facebook potato. 

It's noteworthy to mention that you could very feasibly replace the 'Facebook' label on the graph with video games, crack, Myspace, online Texas Hold 'Em, Sudoku, reality television, and all other forms of recreational indulgences, and the graph would still hold true. I say this from experience. Except, I haven't really experimented with crack. But one can only imagine. 

Although, I must admit that I feel a form of transference has taken place over the months -- instead of signing onto Facebook I find myself powerless over the urge to check my Gmail account 37 times a day. 

Not gonna lie though, there's no sensation like a notification. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

..

.

P.S. I give it another two months. Tops. 

.

.

Chrome Poem

.

.

Google Chrome Haiku 

.

Oh Google Chrome, you

make me want to go on the

In'rnet all day long.

.

.

The End.

.

.

.

Inspired by: 

"Haiku, the sushi roll of poetry." 

.

.

Best Blonde Joke Ever?

.
.
A blonde calls her boyfriend and says, "Please come over here and help me. I have a killer jigsaw puzzle, and I can't figure out how to get started."
.
Her boyfriend asks, "What is it supposed to be when it's finished?"
.
The blonde says, "According to the picture on the box, it's a rooster."
.
Her boyfriend decides to go over and help with the puzzle. She lets him in and shows him where she has the puzzle spread all over the table. He studies the pieces for a moment, then looks at the box, then turns to her and says, "First of all, no matter what we do, we're not going to be able to assemble these pieces into anything resembling a rooster." He takes her hand and says, "Second, I want you to relax. Let's have a nice cup of tea, and then .." he said with a deep sigh,
.
.
(scroll down)
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"Let's put all the Corn Flakes back in the box."

[Dedicate to all my blonde friends.]

honey, i shrunk the cake.

.

.
As an edible tribute to the last week of my summer children's class, I decided to make cupcakes! After all, history (err, elemetary school) has proven that cupcakes are practically synonymous with celebration. And by virtue of my love for the science of chemistry, I'm always eager to seek out and attempt a new baking recipe. Not only did my newly discovered recipe turn out to be suprisingly simple, the final product was almost too precious to eat. Allow me to explain.

R. a. i. n .b .o .w .....C .u .p .c .a .k .e .....R .e. c. i. p. e

.....1. make a box of white cake mix

.
2. separate batter into little bowls

.

3. armed with various food colors,

dye each invidual bowl a different

color of the rainbow

.

.

..............4. stir with glee!

.

.

5. spoon one color into lined cupcake pan,

and then another color, then another...

.

.

6. bake the batch as instructed on the cake mix box

.

7. allow cupcakes to cool to room temperature

.

8. dollop the tops with fluffy white frosting

.

9. and what's a cupcake without sprinkles?

.

10. at this juncture,

if you haven't done so already,

graciously proceed to lick all utensils and bowls in eye sight.

.

.

When you top these babies off with fluffy white frosting,

they begin to look like a Rainbow amidst the CLoUDs!

.

.

.

note: these are NOT to be confused with "gay pride cupcakes," as previously referred to by a cheeky member of the family. FARAZ.

.

yesterday.

.
This summer my mom and I have valiantly undertaken the task of dusting, sorting, organizing, consolidating, labeling, boxing, and preserving all of the material remnants of me and Faraz's childhood. You name it, we've tackled it -- old pictures, baby clothes, arts and crafts from grades K-12, Baha'i school projects, home videos, dusty science fair posters, book reports, boxes upon boxes of Disneyland memorabilia, Halloween costumes, journals, paintings, picture frames (harboring enough glued-on macaroni to feed the Mediterranean), old baseball gloves, soccer jerseys, Tae Kwan Do belts, trophies, piano books, Brilliant Star magazines that pile up to the heavens, high school ceramic projects, homemade jewelry, homemade sock puppets, puff paint t-shirts, homemade gifts, old scrapbooks, shoe boxes upon shoe boxes filled with all sorts of nick nack patty wacks...

.

...do you really want me to keep going? I didn't think so.

.

So, in an effort to preserve these memories, I took pictures of just about everything. I could probably create an entirely new blog based on the colossal collection, but for the sake of simplicity (and also, not exploiting all of Faraz's nude baby photos), I'll stick to sharing just a few items.

.

The following is a card that I made for Father's Day circa 1997 while [apparently] on a tight budget.

.

Despite my initial satisfaction with the final product, I'm beginning to seriously question how touched my dad was upon receiving this.

.
.

.
.

.
.
.
.

I would like to close by saying that very few memories and personal artifacts in this world bring me as much sorrow and remorse as the flowery faded maroon outfit featured above.

.

.

note: just to shed some light on how much time has passed since the days of my childhood (or simply note the poor quality of the card stock I used), the original color of the background paper for this card was a deep blue. If you notice now in the first picture and also on the edges of the subsequent pages, the color has blanched into a weird yellow/green/olive color. Luckily, the same has not happened to me over the years.

.

.

one [wo]man's spam is another [wo]man's treasure.

.
.
I received the following message in my Gmail inbox this evening:



date: Tue, Aug 19, 2008 at 9:32 PM
subject: Fwd: PLEEEEEASE REEAD! IT WAS ON GOODMORNINGAMERICATODAYSHOW ,DO IT!!!!
mailed by: yahoo.com
signed by: yahoo.com




Fwd: PLEEEEEASE REEAD! IT WAS ON GOODMORNINGAMERICATODAYSHOW ,DO IT!!!!


PLEEEEEASE REEAD! IT WAS ON GOODMORNINGAMERICATODAYSHOW ,DO IT!!!!
This was sent to me by my accountant... if you think this is ridiculous I have no problem giving you his contact information...
Read carefully...

THIS TOOK TWO PAGES OF THE TUESDAY USATODAY - IT IS FOR REAL


To all of my friends, I do not usually forward messages,

But this is from my friend Pearlas Sandborn and she really is an attorney. If she says that this will work - It will work. After all, what have you got to lose?


SORRY EVERYBODY.. JUST HAD TO TAKE THE CHANCE!!! I'm an attorney, And I know the law. This thing is for real. Rest assured AOL and Intel will follow through with their promises for fear of facing a multimillion-dollar class action suit similar to the one filed by PepsiCo against General Electric not too long ago.




Dear Friends: Please do not take this for a junk letter. Bill Gates sharing his fortune. If you ignore this, You will repent later.



Microsoft and AOL are now the largest Internet companies and in an effort to make sure that Internet Explorer remains the most widely used program, Microsoft and AOL are running an e-mail beta test


When you forward this e-mail to friends, Microsoft can and will track it (If you are a Microsoft Windows user) for a two week time period.



For every person that you forward this e-mail to, Microsoft will pay you $245.00 For every person that you sent it to that forwards it on, Microsoft will pay you $243..00 and for every third person that receives it, You will be paid $241.00. With in two weeks, Microsoft will contact you for your address and then send you a check.



Regards. Charles S Bailey General Manager Field Operations
1-800-842-2332 Ext. 1085 or 904-1085 or RNX 292-1085



Thought this was a scam myself, But two weeks after receiving this e-mail and forwarding it on. Microsoft contacted me for my address and within days, I received a check for $24, 800.00. You need to respond before the beta testing is over. If anyone can afford this, Bill gates is the man.


It's all marketing expense to him. Please forward this to as many people as possible. You are bound to get at least $10,000.00 We're not going to help them out with their e-mail beta test without getting a little something for our time. My brother's girlfriend got in on this a few months ago. When I went to visit him for the Baylor/UT game, she showed me her check. It was for the sum of $4,324.44 and was stamped 'Paid In Full'.




Get the MapQuest Toolbar. Directions, Traffic, Gas Prices & More!

-------------------------------------------------------




Is it wrong to report your mother as spam?
.
.
.

i ♥ dogbert.

.
.



Disclaimer: The thoughts and opinions expressed herein by Dilbert's anthromorphic pet dog creature thing do not necessarily reflect that of my own. Although, I do think this is hysterical.
.
.

safeguarding the innocent.

.
.
The Muslim Network for Bahá'í Rights recently released this video:






Images from this clip have been borrowed from Marjane Satrapi's feature production "Persepolis." If you have yet to see this film, I highly recommend it.


A suggested course of action in response to the recent injustices on the Iranian Bahá'í community can be found here. More information and news on the current situation of the Bahá'ís of Iran can be found here.

i win.

.
.
So, if the blogging world were to conduct an Olympics of their own, I'm pretty sure I'd win the gold medal for the most infrequent blogger alive.
.
.
In other news, last night after watching Nastia Liukin, Shawn Johnson, and Yilin Yang twirl and flip their little¹ hearts out, I attempted to do a cartwheel in my living room in front of my mom.


Let's just say that won't ever be happening again.
.
..

¹ Shawn Johnson: 4 ft 9 in
...Yilin Yang: 4 ft 10 in
...Nastia Liukin: towering in at 5 ft 3 in
.
.

ain't that the truth.

.
.

.

college, the ten best years of my life.

.

alas,

[dawn, dusk] has turned into [dusk, dawn)

woe betide me.

.

ps:

sometimes¹ i feel like i'll be in school from:

[now, ∞).

.

.
.
Anyway, enough rambling (I told you I'd be back in no time). I have good news and bad news.

Good news is I discovered Yonaise™ today while brainlessly staring at the back of a yogurt carton, bemoaning the plight of my Saturday evening. Yes, Yonaise™. It's basically all part yogurt : no part mayonnaise. A mayonnaise substitute, if you will. And it's fantastic. Just as I was about to fall asleep, face down, into my notes I noticed the trademarked idea on the back of the yogurt carton, and 45 minutes later I was feasting on a new and improved version of my old spinach artichoke and cheese dip.

Do it:

1 cup fat-free yogurt (instead of mayo)
1 cup grated Parmesan cheese
14 ounces of spinach
14 ounces artichoke hearts, drained and chopped
dash of garlic powder
2 tablespoons finely chopped green onion
1 to 2 tablespoons chopped ripe tomato

[fyi: 14 ounces translates into about a can]

Spread the mixture in a 9-inch pie plate (or any small casserole dish). Bake at 350° for about 25 minutes, or until lightly browned. Garnish with the green onion and chopped tomato. Serve with assorted crackers or tortilla chips. Or, your Multivariable Calculus notes.

---

Bad news is I discovered Yonaise today and as a result, ended up losing more valuable time (while gaining a whole army of probiotic, active cultures). Hence the ill-fated [dusk, dawn) schedule aforementioned.

Speaking of which, I better go :/

.

.

¹ all the time.

status update.

.

.

.

Ladies and gentlemen, it is officially 7 o'clock in the evening and I have yet to do anything remotely constructive with my day. I woke up at 7:30 a.m. (on a Saturday, mind you) so that I could sit down from dawn till dusk and saturate my brain with the nightmare that lies within the confines of my textbook... and, well, it's 7:00 p.m. and I have yet to even open the thing. And here I am blogging, because I've somehow convinced myself that it's oh so important that I do this right now.

.

It's funny how time flies when you're doing absolutely nothing.

.

.

Shalom!

.
.
I promise hope is not lost. I barely have enough time to make myself a turkey sandwich nowadays, nonetheless write an inspired post. Once summer school (and life, in general) releases it's merciless clutch on my free time, I'm sure I'll be back to rambling in no time.


In the meanwhile, I thought I'd share this with you:

The picture shows Ben Bernanke¹ reporting on our economy to the Senate Banking Committee in Washington a few days ago. Forget numbers, charts, and graphs. His facial expression alone pretty much wraps up the state of the economy in a nutshell. I, for one, am definitely not interested in taking over this man's job.

Keep up the great work Ben!

¹ Full Name: Ben Shalom Bernanke. Seriously. If I ever run into him, I can't wait to be like, "Shalom, Shalom."
.
.

boom.

July 4th: To be honest, I'm not a fan. The whole ordeal is just a tremendous noise fest featuring drunk people playing with fire, while their children threaten my life with sparklers. I, for one, have always been in favor of starting new traditions on this national holiday. After all, the United States of America didn't get to where it is today by playing with TNT and eating hot dogs. Or did it?

..

Commentary aside, by the end of the night, the group dwindled down to a few of us laying out on the grass in my backyard, downing watermelon by the spoonful, watching the clouds of smoke dissipate into the atmosphere, and attempting to wrap our feeble minds around some of life's greatest mysteries: how Larry King inexplicably remains alive, why Tila has forsaken the universally recognized last name of "Nguyen" and opted for "Tequila", whether Yankee Doodle was a fashion icon or just really liked pasta (what kind of nonsense is sticking a feather in your cap and calling it macaroni?), and more.

.

Anyway, it's 3 a.m. and I'm exhausted.

.

Happy Birthday America. Please keep your pants on.

.

.

what blows up, must come down.

.

A few moments ago, I was surfing RateMyProfessor.com, attempting to gauge the levels of misery and desperation I'll be experiencing next semester, and I decided to browse my previous professors' ratings and comments.. you know, to see if the submitted opinions correspond with my own.

My curiosity automatically leads me to look up a friend of the family, who also happens to be my freshman Honors Calculus teacher, who also happens to be the most hopelessly difficult professor I have ever taken in my academic career, who also happens to be the biggest fob I have ever encountered in my lifetime (i.e. unabashedly pronouncing 'third' as 'terd' in front of a classroom filled with bewildered students, so on and so forth). As I'm reading the multitude of comments confirming my opinion, I stumble onto the following and the rest is lost in hysterical laughter:
.

I can't ever even understand half of what he is ever saying. Whenever he says "goes up" he says "blows up." That confused me real bad all semester. I never understood why things would blow up the x-axis.

.
On the bright side, he was pretty hot so I gave him a chili pepper.

.

wow-e.

.

.

this little guy stole my heart tonight.

.

the BMI, or not?

.

.

. .

One portion of fettucine alfredo

+ One slice of garlic bread

+ A slither of chocolate cake

+ One pair of skinny jeans

Do some very simple

[highly emotional]

addition and subtraction

and you can arrive at

a whole new way to see yourself.

.

.

Catherine Price introduces her own body image index:

The first documented instance of my distorted body image is an entry in my fourth-grade journal. "I just ate three cookies," it says. "I feel fat."

There is no way that I actually was; my jeans, though dorky, fit just fine. Nevertheless, the disconnect grew worse as puberty approached - especially in eight grade, when the body mass index (BMI) entered my life. This is a formula that tells you whether you need to drop pounds - and while it's generally reliable, it doesn't take body composition into account. At 5'4 and 140 pounds, I'm close to the overweight category, but that's only because I've got heavy bones and a sprinter's thighs. Everytime I calculate my BMI I get angry at myself, even tough I'm aware that I am in good shape.

But what do feelings have to do with numbers? Most women know that it is possible to immediately gain 15 pounds by eating one pint of Ben & Jerry's. And when it comes to your butt (which can enlarge six sizes in the wrong pair of jeans), the rules of physics no longer apply. We need a better way to quantify these fluctuations - a formula that goes beyond your BMI and calculates the feel of overweight. So I propose the personal body image index (PBII).

The general idea is as follows:

Start with your weight. Subtract seven pounds if you have just worked out. Add five if you've single-handedly finished a plate of guacamole and chips; four for macaroni and cheese; six for death-by-chocolate cake. Subtract ten if people nearby are fatter than you. If you're wearing black pants; subtract two; if in a bathing suit; add eight. If you are more than seven years older than the group average or are surrounded by bikini-clad undergraduates with toned stomachs and cellulite-free thighs, add 20.

I don't advocate letting the PBII dictate how you live your life; it could turn you into one of those people who spend their beach time camouflaging their lower halves with sarongs. But once you acknowledge that the PBII exists, you can take steps to improve your score.

Some suggestions:

Hang out with people older than you, preferably much older. This has three benefits:

(a) You probably have fewer varicose veins than they do.

(b) Truly old people are inspiring; they tend not to give a damn about what they look like in bathing suits.

(c) Except for my elderly neighbor, who once greeted me by announcing that I'd gained weight in my face, older people are usually effusive with compliments. My friend Luba, who lived to 99, used to tell me how beautiful I was everytime I saw her, even though she was blind.

Watch those college girls on the beach. Notice how often they adjust their bikinis and glance at themselves in other people's sunglasses. They are totally insecure. Granted, they are probably also judging you, but still - I find their self-doubt liberating. Isn't there some cosmic limit how much body insecurity the universe can handle?

Embrace the bikini now: "Look how skinny I was!" my mother says everytime sees a picture of herself from the 1970's. "I thought I was so fat. I was 130 pounds." My mother, now 66, is living proof that you should do everything in your power to enjoy your body as it is right now, so you never have to look at an old photograph of yourself and wish you'd spent more time in a two-piece bathing suit.

When it comes to my own PBII, I still have a way to go. It doesn't take too much extra chocolate to convince me that I should never be allowed to wear shorts. But recognizing the illogical logic behind my self-image helps me to control it better. And by my calculations, that's worth at least subtracting five pounds.

Catherine Price. "Weight Loss: How Women Do the Math." The Oprah Magazine, July 2008.

.

Note to male reader(s): I don't anticipate that you understand any of the above. Don't let your speedy metabolism hit you on the way out.

;)

.

.

fotografías!

.

.

picasa es su casa.

Summer photos and more!

.

.

p.s.

due to life being crazy beautiful at the moment,

i seem to be struggling to find the time to blog nowadays.

i'll be back though.

.

.

congraduation!

.

.

hats off to my little brother:

well done Faraz.

turns out, you're not as dumb as you look ;)

love,

roza

.

bravo.

i love this commercial.

.

what happens when you demand a latte.

.
.

Funny enough, the elaborate concoction aforementioned is precisely what I have been ordering on my coffee runs for the past several years, with the addition of an "extra, extra hot" request tagged onto the end. At times, I also take the liberty to follow up on my order by pitching a friendly supplemental reminder to the barista actually engaged in making my drink that he or she be sure to steam the milk well over 170°, quantitatively ensuring the extra, extra hotness of it.

I'm certain that not being punched in the head thus far in my life by these employees has either been a result of the baristas simply not being able to reach over the counter to actually make contact or Divine Intervention, protecting me.

Anyone know how Starbucks¹ and other coffee beaneries are doing nowadays, economically speaking? With a 16 oz. cup of coffee² now costing less than a gallon of gas, I worry for the state of the world, slash my bank account.





¹ Also known as, Fourbucks.
² Refer to footnote¹.
.

seeing is deceiving.

-
Earlier this evening, I decided to make a quick stop at the grocery store to pick up a few necessities before heading to the only place in the world I wanted to be: my bed. I strategically made my way through the aisles, zipping past the other nocturnal shoppers, trying my best to abide by my no-nonsense list of items to purchase, determined to get in and out of the store, through traffic, and into my pajamas as soon as humanly possible.

As I scratch off the remaining items on my post-it note, I get into [what appears to be] the quickest moving line, hoping that whatever price checks, cash register malfunctions, receipt paper refills, and nothing-but-trouble shoppers [who refuse to pay with anything besides exact change].. [that elusive change that conveniently always seems to dwell somewhere in the abysmal black hole that is, the bottom of their bottomless purse] are not among the things that will test my patience in this selected line o' mine.

As I'm placing my groceries on the rubber belt, I note that the elderly lady waiting in front of me has only one item to purchase and yet has decided to opt out of the designated express lane. What's more, she's carrying a baby and is beginning to engage in a non-grocery-related conversation with the cashier. Great. Then, as if the conversation isn't unnecessary enough, the lady proceeds to take the baby over to the entrance of the cashier's stand area, allowing the cashier to hold the baby and begin cooing over it.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm normally one to drop everything and go goo goo ga ga at the sight of a baby, but tonight, my haste simply wasn't allowing me to go there. And besides, by this point, I had a string of people waiting behind me. Helloo, lady? After what felt like an eternity (reality: 45 seconds) watching this cashier pour out every ounce of affection she had in her onto this baby, the two parties finally concluded the lovefest, parted ways, and it was finally my turn.

At this point, I had two options: either continue being senselessly irritated or take a chill pill and be human. So, I decided to dry gulp the chill pill and do the right thing: loosen up, smile, and comment on how adorable the supermarket-line-baby was.

Well, it turns out the infant was not just a supermarket-line-baby. The baby was none other than the cashier's very own child.

Yeah.

It turns out Karla (the cashier) works two jobs, and rarely ever has a chance to spend time with her darling Chase (the baby). The only time she can see her little boy is when Grandma brings him in to the grocery store during her evening shifts so she can spend a few quick moments with him.


oh.


Coincidentally (or not), I'm reading this book that discusses one of the most striking revelations of modern psychology -- how wildly wrong our perceptions can be. I can't help but feel like this experience was planted in my day (courtesy of Above) just to drive this point home.

It's amazing how deluded we can allow ourselves to become (and by "we" I mean, me) about the people and situations unbeknown to us and how terribly quick we can be to judge others without even realizing it. The thing is, in doing so we miss the beauty and overlook the suffering. But when you free yourself from delusion (and in my case, the effects of a painstakingly long day) you begin to see with wisdom.

Tonight, while driving home, I promised myself to make a conscious effort to seek out the inner nobility and dignity in people, especially in the people that I don't know, and notice how that can instantaneously affect my interaction with them, as well as my own heart.



FYI, I only slept 2.5 hours last night (hence my low irritability threshold as shamefully described above) and oddly enough, for the most part of the day, I've been super alert and energized. But my right eye keeps twitching. I think I may be dying.


And will you look at that, I'm finally going to make it it to bed by 10 p.m.!

Hip, hip, hoo... zzZz.

-