I'm definitely getting on. Meaning I'm old. What other explanation can I offer for the fact that if I don't get to bed by 11 pm every night, I'm a wreck the next day. It's 11:06, I haven't prayed isha, I'm still in my work clothes, and I'm writing a blog. This is a recipe for disaster when I have a press event at 9 across town tomorrow morning. If I'm lucky, the chairs will be cushy and the room dim, so I can doze off unnoticed. How geriatric of me.

Sigh.

What's next?

Soft food? I already practically live on Weetabix, taking it to the next level of boiling everything I eat wouldn't be much of a stretch. Boiled Weetabix... now that may actually improve it.

Blue hair? If in my senility I overdo it with the bluing and end up with a shade of electric perwinkle, I won't mind. We'll call it the continuation of my dormant punk phase.

Bifocals? I did just get my first pair of glasses last month or so. And since then, I've become a full fledged granny, giving people the stare from over the rims, pushing them up unartfully most of the day, taking them off to try and read things.

Slow movement? I'll be doing that soon, age or no. I started weight lifting again to beat creeping flab, and being lazy, I left the extra weight on instead of unscrewing the dumbbells. I expect to be a walking ache, in oh, a day or so. On top of that, my mom accidentally dropped the pressure cooker lid on my bare foot. Nothing like a becoming limp to add to my mystique.

Bad memory? Is not being able to remember the last time you forgot something a good thing, or a REALLY bad thing? 0_0

Incontinence pants? Let's not go there.

Ah well. I always was ahead of my time.

Work is a beast. It's like having a tiger by the tail every day. And to think that for some people, this is the end all and be all of life. All they wanted was their personal tiger to be chased by or chase. Now that they have it, they'll spend the rest of their days running that small circle.

There's a lot of posturing and politicking in my office. We have monthly coupes and skrimish battles. Management comes in, management goes out. There's a constant revolving door of power. A game of alliances and image is constantly being played. But if I'm in that arena, I must be the janitor. I push dust bunnies around with a broom while the gladiators go at it.

I don't at all see the appeal of that world but I understand why my bosses feel compelled to desperately struggle for a piece of the pie. How else will they justify their existence to themselves? For those who measure their worth by the scale of the dunia, work is your defining experience. How far you get, how fast, and who you outmaneuver to get there are all part of your glory, when you believe in nothing else.

My sense of worth, Alhamdulllilah, is not dependent on how far I'll take my career. My God is not the god of ambition and gain. Work is just a means to an end. I need something to do and some money to do it with, so I work. If this job ceased to do that for me, or caused me to compromise my beliefs, or strained my peace of mind, I'd find another. My work is not who I am.

I measure myself by a scale that is completely within. How tiring it must be to look outwards to find your value. It's much simpler to answer to God alone. Afterall, His criterion is absolute and never changing. He requires your faith, love and practice. Purify your intentions and keep that in your mind at all times, and you're set.

So who cares if I don't have five bylines in today's issue of the paper? Who cares if they've chopped my story to smithereens? Who cares if I didn’t get the raise I was promised? Who cares if I'm never promoted? Will having those transient things make me happy? No. Will any of it change who I am in the judgment of Allah? No. Will it alter my final destination? No.

Peace is with Allah alone.

Attention Owl,

This is Einstein.

We, the Twins and I, have escaped captivity to write this letter addressing the low quality of service and poor condition of Hamster Rights in the Chateau. We would like you to know that we resent the removal of the hamster-shaped habitat from our enclosure. It contained most of my schematics for hamster world domination as well as half of a carrot stick that we had been saving to bicker over later. We would like that back.

We would also like you to stop giving us haircuts, as it is beneath rodent dignity to be manhandled as such. No self respecting hamster gets his mane mangled with house scissors when there is a perfectly nice beauty parlor across the street.

Also, Twin B has reported that the Christmas CD he selected on his last outing to the box in the far bedroom has failed to be delivered yet. Please rectify.

Thank you

Einstein

(aka- the white fluffy one)

Here is something actually worth sharing.

My work sent me to 'the Middle East's biggest event' - the Petrol Mogul's Gala (name changed cuz um, I dunwanna get sued). I wasn’t planning on going, but after writing an expose on false advertising of their lead attraction, they sent me a special invitation. Pegged as having the who's who of the region's oil companies, my boss thought it'd be good for me to go, and sent me along.

When I got there, I did not see any important sheikhs - the petrol moguls I'd been wanting to meet - but rather lots and lots of Scotsmen in full skirted regalia and tons of quickly reddening Anglos. There were also scores of barely dressed women, and waitresses in what can only be described as 'when Hooters goes West.' I waved to our paper's fashion and society writers - who were there to do a red-carpet fashion walkup - and headed for the press table. No, schmoozing with this crowd was not very appealing.

The press table included some very nice fellow journos - a BBC head honcho, a sweet business reporter, some slightly catty writers from a society mag and grubby French media.

Anyway, the night got under way with performances from the opening act. They sounded great, but looked, um, amiss. We spent their first two songs trying to figure out the performers. When we'd settled the lead singer being a male with lots of hair it turned out she was female. Her accompaniment was a guy who was a dead wringer for a high school math teacher - old, fat, and fruity. Somewhere in the middle of an impassioned performance, they actually played patty-cake. Suddenly, why this extremely talented act was playing warm-up gigs in Dubai made sense. Well, we commented, this is just to prepare the crowd for the star attraction.

Then came the awarding of the prestigious 'Petrol Mogul Prize.' Last year's winners were asked to come up on stage to congratulate this year's selection. They were BOTH old Scottish guys in sporrans and all that AND Stetsons. When the MC asked them what sort of advice they'd like to give to this year's winner, my table burst out with - don't mix kilt and cowboy! After playing the opening music to Dallas so loudly we thought this year's winner would either be launched from a cannon or come riding up on a horse - the portly victor stepped forward.

He turned out to be someone very high up there in the company that now practically owns Iraq and is chaired by some very important US government office holders. The business chief lady beside me gasped. "Don't they know how much in poor taste that is in the Middle East?!" Last year's winners were from similar companies. A quick look at the night's programme revealed that the entire event was sponsored by Evil Oil Exploiter and its subsidiaries. As if this night wasn't a foray into Sodom and Gomorrah enough.

After a long and windy acceptance speech, the Mogul was awarded a new luxury convertible for the weekend. Again, disgusted commentary from my table. "Which he'll probably lend to the maid. Do they not realize he probably has five of those things at home?" After an unhealthy dose of self satisfied back patting, more Dallas music and rot, they called out the star attraction of the show - the Vinels (again name changed).

This is what I'd been waiting to see. When the guys filed out onto the stage, I couldn't help but notice how very stiff they looked. When the music started, it became evident that their looks were the least of their problems. Only the lead singer sang, and the three others - who in the original band shared a lot of the spotlight - harmonized - BADLY. And where were the slick dance moves that were the hallmark of the original band and so widely advertised as being matched by the branded one? Dunno. They got eaten by Tellytubby-esque hand waving and squatting that looked like sound was being squeezed out. Our two fashion and style correspondents - both former professional dancers - at this point nearly fell out of their seats.

When the attendees got up to match terrible dancing with terrible dancing at the foot of the stage, I bid my hasty exit. As I walked quickly to my car, I couldn't escape the cracked voice, cringe-inspiring renditions of songs I'd once loved. I laughed much of the drive home.

I couldn't help but wonder, gosh, this is what people go to Hell for? Music and ambiance so terrible you have to be sloshed out of your mind to appreciate it? This is what those greedy fatcats have drained Iraq for - gloating rights and a goodoldboys' club? What a reaffirmation of faith! If this is what the world does for kicks, I'm missing nothing. Subhanallah!

while she's on sabbatical we get to wreak havoc! so all this pressure to write up something really cool for my friend has been drowned out by my own motto of quantity not quality baby! here goes. ima talk about the first time i met her. alright the first time we met was at my nana ji's house in pakistan. i remember i wore some red shalwar kameez [just in case they also wanted my hand in marriage] um. ok. focus. so they walked up to me and i thought they were going to run me over the speed at which they covered the drive way with their big old smiles and their big old jilbabs flapping [did i mention enough times i want a super hero cape? i know i did. i was just making sure i did it again] which were highly fashionable might i add in comparison to my ripped kameez. but that's another story for another...oh you guys have the time...i've read her enteries! speaking of. hey so who's with me on this when we say we will burn tires and break windows and riot in the streets if she starts up this crazy talk about quitting her blog? can i get a show of some hands? well by the end of the evening i had forced them to hang out in my room with their feet up and bare [i'm a promoter, yes]. and that. was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. i'm getting tired. these more than one liners are exhausting! i'll have to do this again some time. unless my privileges are revoked. but you know where to find me. oh yeah she's not really as grouchy as she says she is. just wanted to dispell such a vicious and vile misunderstanding. and she laughs all the time around me so i don't know what she's talking about

Elo beebles. Sorry for the silence. I’ve just been very busy and sigh, very stupid.

Long time ago, when I started this blog, I realized that if I ever had to communicate regularly with the world outside, this thing would lose its novelty. Forsooth, then is now. What with the daily writing of news stories and for a while, a Ramadan diary, I have absolutely no original thought left to share wiff you guys. The stuff that remains untapped in my brainbox is there for a reason. It’s crud.

So yeah, I’m seriously considering closing the joint down. The stuff that’s been going up here for past few months has been formality alone. I should spare you guys the two minutes of your life some lose regularly when they check if I’ve updated. Myself included. I forget this blog isn’t self-automated.

Sigh.

Until I figure this out, I’m taking offers for guest blogging. Come one, come all. Oh, and I reserve the right to edit or ignore any of yous who goes beyond the bounds of propriety and suchlikes.