I wanna write a funny blog! I read all these great blogs, and they’re cracking me up with their madness. I get all inspired and I go and open my blog document and *WHOMP* it’s like getting smacked upside the head with a calculus textbook. Yeah, and I do know what that feels like. It was the only thing that dulled the pain of Ms Weisberg’s Math of Horrors.

What is up with this crap man? Abez asked me to write out the story I told her about how I procured a turkey for us and it came out like a damn thesis. See, there’s the problem. Right there. After ‘I’ and before the ‘a’. The word is procured. Who let that in here?

And I don’t want you guys all clogging the comment box with “Oh, but you ARE funny Owl, I look at your face and I just LAUGH!” cuz it’s not reassurance I’m after. I know funny, and I know this ain’t it. It might have been back when this place first took off, but lately, this place is about as fun as washing curry-covered dishes.

You know what the problem is? It’s work. It’s killing me. It sucking the lemonyellow insanity right out of my soul. All I’m left with is something that looks like wet newspaper all crunched up. It’s work in general and editing in particular. And this isn’t just any editing, this is the Queen Mother of all horrendous editing – the correction of DESI ENGLISH!

That’s my dark secret. In the still hours of the morning I go from being a relatively laid-back smartalleck to being a dry as a bone editing troll whose job is take articles written by the sort of idiots who IM a girl with “VIL U FRENSHIP ME?” and try to pass them off as international grade journalism. And no, I’m not successful. All I’m doing is rotting my brains.

Editing, and here is where all those years of bio are gonna come in, is like osmosis. No, better yet, it’s like diffusion. Sure, the piece does get tweaked a bit, so the references to “monies to the tune of rupees 4 billions” and “our wictorius leader” are being axed, but at the same time, running this crud through my mental mill is seriously killing the grindstone. Both things take away a bit from the other – the stories are no longer sinking so greatly with the weight of deadwood and somehow I find myself saying things like “dusky damsels” and “strangulate.” And people wonder why it is I feel the urge to strangulate the dusky damsels who’ve been sending me this stuff.

Yeh, so that’s why this place is dying. I can’t say the simplest thing without peppering it poly-syllabic words and running the thought through a labyrinth of parenthetic babble. And when you get to the middle of that maze, there isn’t even any cheese to make it worthwhile. Your prize is an ugly troll in horn-rim glasses with a dictionary in one hand and a block of wood in the other.

If only there was some cheese.

Life is weird.

A couple years ago if someone told me that I’d have a regular website I’d have laughed at them. I’ve never been overtly technical and even less social, so the idea of me spouting my guarded thoughts to the WWW at large would have been more than unlikely - it woulda been, as Homer says, unpossible.

Then if someone would have told me that I’d actually go around meeting people who I knew through said website, I’d have probably laughed uncomfortably and wondered at their sanity. That would involve me getting to know people, paying attention, assuming them to be genuine and then actually picking up a phone and calling them; all things very un-Owl-like.

And the crowning oddness, if the same prophetic somebody would go on to tell me that I’d even be so bold as to meet people THROUGH the bloggers, otherwise completely unrelated to me and my site, and then form friendships with them, I’d probably no longer be in the room. I’d prolly be on the telephone calling up the local Nut House, asking them if they had an escapee on the loose.

I never would have believed one day I’d be sitting at my computer, visiting an internet microcosm that I was very much a member of, wearing the poshest PJs ever gifted to a girl (thanks Chai, guess what I’m wearing to the next wedding?), with a stomach full of Chinese food (Crayon can I have your takeout recipe?) after just having returned from a visit with Lahore’s best product – Hemlock. It just wasn’t me. But I guess I was wrong.

Last March I got my own blog. This, after weeks of shoulder-surfing and peanut gallery sitting as my sister Abez happily manned her own. Me though, I was far too cool and self-contained for anything as self-gratifying and horn-tooting as that - so I said. All I wanted to do was comment on Abez’s blog, but Xanga wouldn’t let me unless I signed up too. That’s all the excuse I needed, so I did, and thus Degrouchyowl was born.

Over the months I went from being a green and uncertain little blogger, ignorant to the world outside Xanga, to a worldly blogspotter with their own well-traveled path through Blogistan to their favorite haunts. Yes, by then, there was Blogistan, a term I believe coined by Binje.

Then sometime in November one of my favorite bloggers - Chai - mentioned she was moving to Islamabad. Hey, I thought, I live in Islamabad. Very boldly, and again un-Owl-like, I emailed her, contact was made and digits exchanged. After settling in, she called me up and invited me and Abez over for tea and society. We’ve been a regular fixture at the Admiral’s Quarters ever since.

Oh yeah, and it wasn’t enough that we hang with Chai on her lonesome. No, she introduced us to her uber cool khandaan and they’ve been found to be just as fun. Thus, we’ve met T-Baji, Lil Baji, Ismo, Literaunty, Cybermom, H-Biddy, the aunts, uncles, grandparents, and pretty much everyone. Last week when we were down in Lahore to visit another blogger (Hemmie!), we stopped by and made a cookie delivery at the home of Ushi and Co, without a Chai to get us in the door. Mwahaha. These Chicago girls. You give them an inch, they take a mile.

Blogistan has turned out to be a pretty awesome place with great citizens. We’ve managed to meet quite a lot of them over the months.

Bloggers: Chai, Hemlock, Iman, Bushra, Chij, Niqabified, and Poppie

Friends and rellies of aforementioned bloggers who have since then become bloggers: T-Baji, Ismo, Literaunty, Cybermom, H-Biddy, Chan and Ushi.

Friends and rellies of bloggers who aren’t yet bloggers: Lil Baji, Smalls, Big Bro, Demi-Hemmie, Maichoo, TD, Lali, Amber and Amina Baji.

This is not counting the bloggers who I happen to be related to, or already knew: Abez, Momma, Crayon, Amira, Sam and WhiteLily.

And then there are those who’ve received Abez’s globe-trotting gingermen – Binje, Jaded, Junjun, Najm and gosh knows who else.


"We are chameleons, and our partialities and prejudices change place with an easy and blessed facility, and we are soon wonted to the change and happy in it." -Mark Twain

Lessee, what to blog about? How about an Eid-thought re-run?

We went to Faisal Masjid again this year, and again, Subhanallah, we did make it in time for the actual prayer - unlike the other three times (see previous Eid blogs). In fact, in order to be certain of our punctuality my dad had us out of the door half an hour earlier than usual. Good thing too, cuz there was a bit of a jam at the mosque when we got there.

As we neared the country’s largest prayer hall, the proximity of our companion cars tipped us off that something was amiss. It was a cold Sunday morning, and in the land that originated Desi Standard Time, Eid prayer or no, actually seeing traffic so early and miles away from our destination was unusual.

The density of the melee thickened the closer we got to Faisal Mosque and we soon learned why. At half a mile from the masjid was the first ‘police chawki’ – a STOP barricade blocking half of the road behind which two rifle-toting cops idled. They weren’t stopping anyone, but did manage to constrict the usual 2.9 lanes of free-flowing traffic into one slow moving merge lane.

Right outside the prayer place perimeter was the second obstacle - a white-gloved guide officer directing officials and VIPS to one side of the mosque, the hoi polloi (us *waves*) to the other. There was another small delay as most of us weighed our place in society – to the left with us or to the right? – and either with a smug smile or a bitter grimace, joined the appropirate lines.

Rightfully sorted, one would assume we were now free to break the 5 mph barrier and find a parking space post haste. Not yet though. The undercarriage of every car had to be checked by the ‘No Fear’ Special Forces with angled mirrors. Actually, one set of cops checked one side of the car, and a block down, another set checked the other, in case I suppose whatever unsavory barnacle we brought along might choose to change sides in that time. Hatches, trunks, diggies and backseats, were all of course, ignored.

Crawling along at a speed that challenges the nature of the word, you didn’t think it could get any slower. But it did. Every 50-odd meters the progress of cars was checked by indecisive and contradictory traffic police. One directed us to one lane of parking, while another, standing a few feet behind, discretely shook his head no and chummingly offered another. Some sent us were into full lots, while others sent us in circles. Our personal treasure hunt was ended when a tired looking tulla pointed to a low grassy median and gave us the blasé head motion that meant ‘go ahead.’

Parked some distance from the masjid gates, we got out of our car and joined humanity in the long walk to the entrance. The hopes of quickly getting out of the cold and into the warm and musty mosque, however, were crushed when we encountered another tourniquet – a metal detector.

The ancient, battered and wobbly looking sentinel was doing a brave job of stemming the tide of anxious Muslim men trying to get to prayer. At intervals the crush would move forward like a collective breath, wildly tipping the metal detector forward as two, three and four men at a time tried to enter. The tired looking security guards standing beside it did their best to keep it upright, all the while ignoring the steady ‘beeps’ of protest the machine issued as men pushed through. I think they thought it their job to simply send the men in one at a time, metal on their person or no.

All females had been told to go around the detector and up to the ladies prayer hall. We joined our kind in a barefoot and quick-stepping walk across the frozen marble floor, each silently thanking God for what we thought was a bit of fortunate sexism. We weren’t as lucky as that though, and found our last obstacle outside the women’s balcony – our own metal detector and no-nonsense looking lady guards who patted us all down before sending us up to pray.

Eventually, we did get to the carpets and lined up in wait for the beginning of the prayer. As I sat, looking over the hundreds of Muslims from around the world who had come to Faisal Masjid I had to wonder what each was praying for. Did they want money? Health? Children? Good grades? A promotion? Or did they pray for peace?

Did they pray not to regret the decision to bring their family to the region’s largest and most beautiful place of prayer in the worry that it may be their last? Did they ask that the Ummah’s fissures and deep-running divisions be healed so that there was no fear of dying at the hands of another Muslim simply because he is from a different sect? Did they plead for a government that wasn’t so reviled by its people that the mere rumor of the presence the men in charge could send any number disgruntled citizens to the venue with the aim to end their reigns and lives at the risk of countless others? Did they ask for another head of state, one who didn’t fear his dejected subjects so much that he chose to pray at the heavily defended Army General Headquarters instead of standing beside them as an equal behind one imam?

Or, like me, did they find it too hard even to pray for that, their thoughts scattered, their hearts troubled and their blood too chilled to be warmed even by the warmth of brotherhood?

Ramadan is over. Eid is done. Now all that’s left to do is count my eidi. Hah hah, just kidding.

Actually, this year was a bust as far as eidi goes. I know my darling sister very optimistically predicted her haul of the cash gift given by elders on Eid this year to be somewhere near $50, but in actuality, it was closer to 50 cents. My grand total was … Rs 100. *deflates*

But worry not, it isn’t that Owl and her kin have fallen on hard times. No, rather, this year we spent our Eidul Fitr in Islamabad instead of trekking down to my dad’s home city of Karachi. Without my beautifully generous uncles, aunts and other rellies, there was only one elder here in Islamabad to hand out some cash – my abbu. With your own dad, eidi is just a formality, as he spends way more on you on a weekly basis. This year, I nearly had to lend him some change to pass out to us kids.

Not that I really mind or anything. When you’re a big boring old grown up who gets a monthly paycheck, somehow the handfuls of fives and tens doled out by well-meaning aunties and uncles lose their shine.

Granted, the average Pakistani kid does end up with a pretty sizeable amount once they count all those notes they’ve been carrying around in their sticky fists. But sigh, gone are the days when that money meant instant happiness; when it was all ran down to the corner store and consumed in a heady binge of soft drinks, chips and candies.

With old age comes wisdom, and the knowledge that there’s only so many fried papard a girl can and should eat. Now eidi is just added to the ‘living expenses’ column, to be used to fill up a gas tank, buy a phone card, or purchase groceries. Last year I think my eidi was dispensed among progress-savvy younger cousins, nieces and nephews who decided that eidi comes from ALL salaried elders, married or not. Phooey.

This year though, Abez and I decided we were gonna do something personal with that Rs 100. The question was, what’s was a good and worthy use of that much money? It wasn’t enough for lunch at a nice place, or a new pair of shoes, or even a neato toy. It was too much for some crazy costume jewelry, stationary or snack food. Then we remembered our pact.

Last Eid Abez, Chai and myself made a pact for the next Eid to go wild and buy the ‘more expensive than gold’ Haagen-Dazs ice cream that we’d seen at the import market. If you notice any grubby nose prints on the freezer case at Kohsar, yeah, those’ll be ours. So serious was the nature of this exploit, what with us ignoring our loyalty to Mama’s Ice Cream and our spendthrifty common sense, that we each made the other swear to hold true to the plan.

Chai went home for the holiday for some much-deserved R&R (recreation and rowdiness), so it was up to Abez and myself to fulfill this vow. With solemnity befitting the occasion (us zipping out Eid night singing “HAAGEN-DAZS” at the tops of our lungs), we drove down the local ripperoffery, where after much deliberation we chose two tiny 88 gram tubs – one of strawberry cheesecake and the other of vanilla caramel brownie in exchange for our Rs 200.

In the quiet of The Replacement Car, we unsealed their contents and put spoon to frozen dairy product. Each deliberated on their mini-pint with expressions that wouldn’t have been out of place at a wine-tasting gala. The tubs were then passed across the stick-shift for a second opinion. The silence was broken by Abez’s voice –

“That’s it. This’ll ruin it.”
“Ruin what?”
“Us enjoying the local stuff ever again.”
“Ah.”
After a long silence I spoke up. “We’ll have to wipe this experience from our memories and never speak of it again.” She nodded in understanding.

Um, typing doesn’t count as speaking right? I just had to let you guys know. That was the best Rs 100 I ever spent.

I just woke up, so forgive me if I’m not wholly coherent. I think this is the first time all month I actually went to sleep before 1 a.m., and that too only out of boredom and absolute braindeadedness. It didn’t really work though. I was awake nearly on the hour, and got up for good at 3. I’m just killing time before I have to go upstairs and prepare Sehri for the Saxon Hordes (aka mi familia).

My dad announced yesterday that tonight would be the last Sehri for most of the world, and maybe Pakistan as well, though you never know with our inept moon-sighting committee. That means Eid is just a hairsbreadth away. That is so amazing. Despite the fact that the month is spent in hunger, fatigue and simplicity, the time still manages to pass quickly, too quickly really.

I did manage to accomplish a few of my goals for Ramadan, but missed out on some others (hello anger management). I guess I have all the rest of the year to accomplish them and perfect them before the next Ramadan rolls around. May Allah help me in doing that.

You know what’s amazing though is really all that you DO manage to accomplish during these 30-odd days of fasting. Things that would be nearly impossible at any other time are made easy. People set sometimes insanely ambitious goals, and yet, Subhanallah, are able to achieve them.

I guess the reason for this is two-fold. Firstly, in Ramadan our the daylight hours are suddenly empty of many of the things that claim our time normally – meals, unIslamic entertainment, difficult physical activity, aimless talk, etc. Even just avoiding something like watching television gives you so much more time to spend and keeps your mind clear of static and distraction. With a clear mind and schedule, we can devote more hours to prayer and learning.

The second reason we’re able to accomplish more in Ramadan is because of the fact that during the entire month, Allah locks away the shayateen (devils) who plague mankind with suggestions to sin. Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said, "When the month of Ramadan starts, the gates of the heaven are opened and the gates of Hell are closed and the devils are chained." [Bukhari] Of course, we still have our own nafs (lower self) to contend with, but Allah has kindly helped increase the odds on believers when it comes to the struggle for goodness.

The absence of the Whisperer really does make a difference. For me, this year, it helped me do something I’d always thought was too hard. See, I have a pretty awful memory and always have, or so I tell myself. I was the idiot in high school who actually never memorized the quadratic equation, this despite the fact that I always worked without a calculator. I don’t remember phone numbers (my own included), names, places, statistics and words. What I do remember, I have a tendency to muddle.

This convoluted excuse is why I never took the time to learn more Surahs from the Quran past the ones my father taught me when I was a child. I kept up with the odd handful, and always told myself if I tried to learn more, I’d just mess them up and recite them wrong. Rather than possibly sin due to my own stupidity, I’d rather just keep reciting the few I knew correctly.

At the beginning of Ramadan, after my disastrous Taraweeh at the masjid, I had to face the fact that my limited knowledge of the Quran was holding me back from enjoying communal prayer, as well as limiting me as a Muslim. Allah was kind enough to bless me with a sound mind, relatively anyways, and I was wasting it. I decided I should add more Surahs to my repertoire and study more Quran in general. There was no little pestering snotty devil to tell me I couldn’t, so I did.

Subhanallah, when you make the intention to do something for your Deen (faith), then Allah makes it easy for you. It was amazing how simply I was able to commit verses, albeit small ones, to memory. I know how my substandard mind usually works, and believe you me, memorizing anything is NEVER this easy for me. When Owl learns something, you know divine help is in play. ;) Alhamdullilah.

I just pray I can continue learning even after Ramadan, when the devil is released from his chains and returns to his post beside me. Do dua for me guys, I need it.

Things what shtink:

Finding an ant on your face while typing this blog.

Burning yourself three times while baking on the hands that have yet to heal from the cuts inflicted on them while cutting things just last week.

Getting sent articles from your co-worker, coming ‘highly recommended’ from the boss in which each paragraph begins with “He said…”.

Finding out that what you thought was an antibiotic ointment was actually steroidal anti-itch cream.

Spilling a pitcher of water down your leg at Sehri time.

Char broiling a tray full of homemade Iftar pasties.

Bollywood and all it’s massive brain eroding stupidity.

Playing the five minute game with the snooze button 45 minutes later than I should.

Telecommuting.

New tenants with four more kids than expected.

Having a broken washing machine.

Owning a dog prone to barking at clouds during the hours one would like to be sleeping.

Trying to spell Kyrgyzstan without any help.

Pakoras.

Forgetting to sleep.

Cold toes and cold tea.

Being an ungrateful little so and so. Like me.

(Warning: substandard update ahead. Proceed with caution.)

My closet depresses me. It’s not that it’s empty and I’m short of clothing or anything. No Subhanallah, Allah hasn’t tested me with poverty yet. Rather, the danged thing is jam packed full to overflowing with more clothes than I’d like. Cleaning it up isn’t the answer. Cleaning it out is.

See, I hate my clothes. All of them. It’s partly a matter of aesthetics and partly a matter of philosophy.

Let’s deal with the aesthetic first. They’re all shalwar kameez. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I can handle shalwar kameez, even though they’re not my thang. By thang I mean the clothing you identify your personality with and liken to a second skin. I grew up in the States on the tail end of the grunge phase, so my thang is cargo khakhis, funky T-shirts and a bit of camo. That all had to go when I moved here, so it’s all shalwar kameez at home. I wear them, I just don’t really like them.

The second problem with the shalwar kameez is their colors. For the first year I was in Pakistan I stubbornly resisted conforming to the social conventions regarding women’s clothing. I had all my stuff made in blues, greens, browns and grays. I shunned the flowery patterns, frills and lace and went for my typical minimalist function over form. The result was my fashion-conscious cousins dying of laughter and comparing my wardrobe to that of the house help and aged elders.

Somehow over the past few years though I've noticed my wardrobe has gone lighter and brighter, and thus more irritating to me. The root of this is I can’t seem to maintain any control over what I end up owning. I’m not big on clothes and I hate wasting money, so I tend not to buy a lot of stuff. That leaves me running around in shalwar kameez two million sizes too big, or extremely out of fashion, or a bit worn looking. Friends and relatives see me in that fare, feel badly for me and end up gifting me a few yards of cloth, which I’m guilted into having made into suits. That’s how I’ve ended up with a wide array of clothing I’d have never bought for myself and only wear because it’s there.

Then there’s the philosophical side. I don’t like owning junk. The more I own, the more tied down and burdened I feel. I don’t want to be a Yahoo, but I seem to be collecting needless shiny junk that has little value aside from that which I place in it. Fancy and fashionable clothing falls into that category. And really, how many outfits does a girl need? You should have enough to fill your need, but not to fill your want. It’s not like clothing is any sort of investment that actually betters you or has a return. They’re just clothes.

So bleh, I have more clothing than I need OR want. You know what that means? It means I get to rampage through my closet and chuck out anything that I’m unlikely to actually get use out of in the next few months. This should be therapeutic. It will all get bagged up and taken down to this home for destitute women that my dad knows of. Inshallah, they’ll find the floral stuff more to their taste.

I wanna try and just flow instead of blog with a purpose or an idea. Fasten your seatbelts. This may be rough.

I feel like hell. Funny choice of words for a Muslim in Ramadan. Astaghfirullah, I can only imagine what hell feels like, and frankly I don’t want to. But speaking of hell…

Was talking with my bro at the dinner table the other day. He asked me to try and guess what level of heaven I’d get into. Whoa. My bro is wise enough in his own way, but still, what a question. I didn’t even want to attempt to answer it.

My little brother has this strange idea that he and I are two different species of human. Because I’m a ‘proper adult’ and ‘a girl,’ I cannot begin to understand the appeal in partying all night, racing cars, picking fights and being avarah (wild). Right, such a difference gender and two years of age make. Like I’m not and never was a crazy kid running after the dunia.

Trying copout number 1: “Who makes it into heaven and hell is for Allah alone to decide.”

He wasn’t having it. I looked up and he was still sitting there, looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to go on.

“Dude, I think I’ll be lucky if I just plain make it.”

“Naw, you’ll make it. You’re a nun. Look at the world. You don’t do diddly.”

I kinda dislike talking about heaven and hell. As far as I’m concerned, hell is bad, heaven is good, and God is just. End of story. But at the same time, I didn’t want my little bro to think I was ok with him thinking I was a nun. I’m not. I’m your average person. I have my sins, my issues, and my concerns. You can’t sum up a person’s worth just by looking at them, and you shouldn’t try. I guess that’s why we believe judgment is for God alone. Only He knows what’s in our hearts.

“It’s not so much what you do and don’t do, but your actions as compared to your temptations.”

“’Splain Lucy.”

“Aight. All Muslims are ordered to pray five times a day, right? Well, for some, that’s easy. Without fail, five times a day, we’re on that rug, worshipping our lord. We get the reward God promises us. For others, it’s extremely hard. We forget, we’re lazy, we’re not able to concentrate, we feel hypocritical, we’re proud. But when we fight against those problems and pray anyways, the reward is even greater. Sometimes that one prayer has more of a reward than a whole day’s worth of prayers that came easy.”

“Some of us have bigger personal stumbling blocks, but we all have the same potential. Our actions may differ, but in the end, we can all get to our own highest point. Some will do it by living the Deen to the utmost, while others will make it just through a simple saving grace like charity, or saving a life, etc. God will judge the action by the intention.

“Yeh, so um, me not running amok and chewing off chicken heads or whatever doesn’t make me a nun. It just means my issues are different.”

“Sure, but you’re still gonna make it you know,” he laughed. I shoulda been touched at his surety and vote of confidence, but I couldn’t be.

“Kid, the way I figure, most nearly all of us, me included, are going to rely heavily on God’s Rehma (Mercy) to make it into heaven. It’s just our luck that Allah says his Mercy is greater than is Wrath. If I make it in, that’ll be my ticket.”

He nodded meditatively. “Mercy. Yeah, me too.”

Not so different after all, us.