I got nuttin. I don't know if it's that I'm not having any thoughts (thawts to you) whatsoever, or whatever thought I'm having isn't the type I would blog about. In the interest of argument, I'm going to blame the latter - quality control - on why I haven't written a decent update in forever. What little brain activity I've been having lately has centered on the mundane and personal - junk that I don't usually bother you all with.

Perhaps then I should reevaluate my criteria for topics. In other words, lower the bar. See what a dedicated blogger I am. I'm going to sacrifice my image and your braincells perhaps for the sake of readership. :)

*scrapes bottom*

Alas, I can find no exciting drama to spice up this place with. I don't have an evil twin, a criminal background, or a propensity for dipping squirrels in glitter glue and throwing them up against the wall. Though, come to think of it, that does sound a bit fun. It turns out that I really am just pretty blah. Enough so that, last week, I discovered that a colleague had the impression that Islam had its own version of the Catholic monasticism, and I was the Muslim equivalent of a nun. And the sad thing is, I had a hard time figuring out how I really wasn't.

I mean, looking past my snarkiness, trouble with authority, and disregard of personal welfare - I guess I can be seen as pretty nun-like. I wear a lot of black. My (mythical) hair is curtained by an unfashionable article of headgear. I wear sensible shoes (if rubber-toed Converse and knee-high boots are considered sensible). My good friends are nearly all like-minded women, forming a sort of pan-national convent if you will. And I'm married to God.

*crashes to a halt*

Hold up. No I'm not. Astaghfirullah! (God forbid)

"But you are not married?" the colleague asked. No, I'm not. "And yet you do not date?" Er, no. "And you do nothing to change your state of being?" I guess not. "So you are like a nun. Except, they get to drink sacrament wine and show their legs. So you are worse off."

*blinks rapidly*

Haha, um, yeah, I guess that's one way of looking at it. But come on, we've been hearing that sort of thing from the world at large for a while. The difficulty in imagining how the 'other half' lives goes all which ways. The eskimo doesn't understand the nudist, and vice versa. But the weird thing is, as of late, my own half has been turning the screws as well. It's as if everyone has upped and noticed that there ain't no mysterious gold band on my finger, and suddenly, it's become a collective challenge to rival Global Warming. "Can we save Earth?" may be the Issue of the Generation to the world at large, but in my world it's becoming "Can we marry off Owl?"

*gags*

It's not I'm against marriage. It's a fine institution, for those who need to be committed. *rim shot* But I'm really loathe to throw my hat in the ring and join the huge and growing ranks of the Desperate to Weds. So far, I've not been married because I haven't wanted to be. There's no failure or responsibility on my part. While all my girl friends moan about the lack of 'good guys' and the perils of courtship, I can sympathize from the outside. It's not my problem. I'm independent and I don't measure my happiness or success as a person on whether or not I've managed to sign a domestic compact with someone.

So to be 'looking' to marry, to want to 'upgrade' my status, seems a big honking dependency. Not just on those well intentioned friends who are itching to set me up with every diamond in the rough that has mysteriously escaped noticed thus far, but also on that other 'person's' existence. To join up would be to say I'm walking around incomplete and needy, which is something I'd rather not believe. Or say anyways. It just looks so, I dunno, frail. Or human. Which is a classification problem when you're De Owl.

Ok, I'll stop blaming my geographic location for my own shortcomings. I can be anything I want, anywhere. So it's not America's fault my blog sucks. By Owl, the end.

Sigh.

Sorry, I guess I'm just sick. As in unwell. Not psychotic. At least, I don't think I am. I could be wrong though. 0_0

Moving along. In today's instance, sick means I woke up sounding like Pink. Now, generally, I'd love to sound like that chain-smoking, raspy voiced hellion - particularly when I'm warbling along to my anthem "I'm a Hazard To Myself". But ironically, illness-induced octave depth doesn't lend itself well to singing. Your voice either cracks on the most humble notes, or each breath sucked in results in a hacking fit. Bummer.

But now I am faced with a dilemma. Do I stay home and hope that whatever is brewing in my lungs blows over with some rest and double doses of vitamin C? Or do I get on my bike and cycle down to the doctor's office - risking aggravation of the bug or an asthma attack? Or I suppose I could take the bus - but that would mean about 20 minutes of waiting in below freezing weather.

Oh boo. This is too much to think about this early on a Saturday afternoon. I should just go drown my woes in a tumbler of gravy. Mmmm.... gravy.

I invited my uni's Muslim students' association members to my house for halal Thanksgiving last night. You think the promise of a free, homecooked meal, would have had my home awash with college kids. But nay, these Ivy Leaguers are not the hungry slackers of my youth. Despite the fact that they had a four day weekend at their disposal, nearly everyone who hadn't gone home for the holiday was promised to days of labs, projects and studying. I only managed to pry a few of them from their books long enough to stuff them with turkey, mashed potatoes, pie, cranberries, gravy and of course stuffing. It was fun. It's a rather badly kept secret that behind my blustering brainy tomboy exterior, I'm a quiet domestician who loves to bake. So as long as the food was good and went to good homes, I was happy.

And if this entry wasn't already random in the extreme, I gotta tell you about my turkey adventures. The whole dinner idea came when I was at the local halal butcher and I noticed he was selling halal turkeys. I'd not cooked a turkey in years and I thought it'd be cool to give it a try again. So spur of the moment, I slapped down the cash for a 12 pounder, bagged it up, put it in my backpack, and cycled home. I threw it in the freezer until the day before the dinner, where it was taken out to thaw.

It wasn't until it was time to spice the thing that I finally took it out of its packaging. Remembering my mom's horror stories of meat from halal butchers (feet still attached, organs wrapped in plastic and stuffed under the breast skin, etc), I wasn't too surprised to find that they'd forgotten the giblets and liver. I'm not a big offal person so no worries, I thought as I flipped it over to wash it, when I discovered THE HEAD WAS STILL ON!!!! THE BIRD WAS LOOKING AT ME! EEEEEEEK!

What on earth was that butcher thinking?! "Well, the iron rich liver and stuffing-ingredient giblets are rubbish. But this head, that's got meat in it! Cuz we all know how big turkey brains are!" Or, "I've plucked, gutted, and partially skinned this bird, but I can't cut off it's head. That would be taking liberties!" Maybe I'm not giving him enough credit. Perhaps it was well intentioned "We halal butchers have a bad reputation for ripping off our patrons. I'll leave the head on this bird so she KNOWS it's a turkey, and not say, a mutant chicken or artfully arranged tofu."

It took me a few minutes to compose myself after the shock and figure out what to do. I'll spare you the gory details, only to say that the solution involved my own mini-episode of CSI. *shudders*

With that very gross mental image, I shall call an end to today's entry. Enjoy your Thanksgiving leftovers!

I do NOT want to write. Cuz it's too blah. Everytime I open up this Create Post screen, all I can think about is the weather (cuz I'm cold), biking (cuz I'm sore) and class (cuz I'm confused). Boring.

I have to think, what was it when I first started Degrouchyowl that gave me so much blog fodder? My life wasn't particularly exciting back then. A failed attempt at 'turning Turk' had landed me in Pakistan, and as my plans to go all other-worldly and study Islam didn't work out, I'd decided to get a job. By 2003 I'd been an editor for a few years (so my resume says, though honestly, it's all a blur), and was wanting to do something a little more creative than fixing grammer and chasing after correspondents, so I took up blogging. Degrouchyowl was formed and became my little corner of the internet where I cooked up crazy ideas, shared thoughts that were better left unshared, and ranted at the world.

I guess then that my writing was the product of an unstimulated mind. I was bored. I didn't have a TV, internet access was limited, work was unchallenging, and my friends were all far away. I was frustratingly directionless and all I did have were many hours in the day that needed burning, and a fairly empty head where all sorts of eddies of oddness were let to swell and spin out on screen. And not to mention, when you're younger, you're just that much sharper. I can honestly feel my mind grow dull as I get older. If 17-year-old Owl met 25-year-old Owl, she'd have left her in shreds.

But come to think of it, despite the emptiness and simplicity of my life back in Pakistan, it was good time for me. I've never been as focused, productive and centered. There was no pressure and few demands on me, and I had the luxury to think about what to do with myself. And blogging was only one of the many areas I dipped into - also venturing into short-story writing, family nurturing and a whole lot of personal growth.

I miss that. I'm always a bit overwhelmed and confused when I'm in the 'first world'. Here, it's constant stimulus overload with static blaring at you from all directions. You never get to really address anything, and instead are always rushing to the next 'must do' or to get the next 'must have.' Slowing down is defeat or death. So we race forward like chickens with our heads cut off, never really knowing what we're doing, or why.

Which brings me back to a thought I've been having a lot lately. I want to go back to Pakistan. I know it's in the soup nowadays and has been steadily getting worse, but you know, that part of it was never all that great anyways. Pakistanis manage without a functioning government, as there you require far less than your needy first-worlder. Alls I need is freedom and quiet. I wonder if Pakistan can still offer that.

As of right now, I am sitting in a pair of grass stained pants, torn jersey and socks with two new holes in them. My face is bruised, my wrist is welted, my leg is aching and I broke a nail. And there is a huge smile on my face.

Call me a sadist, call me nuts, or call me a wannabe. I don't care. I just spent the past two hours playing soccer and football with some kids down at uni and it was awesome. As goalie I stopped a shot with my face (hence the bruised lips, eyelids and nose) and while attempting defense got flipped over by the errant limbs of a passing Goliath. Playing football, I pulled a muscle (the same one that did me in last softball season) trying to out-sprint a 90 lb teenager, and ate dirt diving for a wild ball. I have no idea whether either of my teams won. Alls I know, is I GOT TO PLAY! Wheee!!

There have been times when I have tried to reason out why I was so into sports. It was cuz I was attempting to win the respect of the male authority figures in my life by succeeding in their realm. Or my insistence on playing basketball, football and softball with the guys was a rejection of society's expectations of me as a female. Or my worse, my outright denial of my gender. As I got older, I worried that maybe my running on the field was really me running from old age and mortality. Not to mention, propriety and settling down (hard to marry me off when you can't catch me). Or maybe I really just needed to constantly be pushing and punishing myself from some deep rooted feeling of inadequacy. And yes, I should never have got my hands on all that pop-psychology.

Bah. Who cares. Now I realize, there really just is a part of me that, like a happy puppy, loves to run after a ball. I'm not the best player, and I'm not even that competitive. Try as I may, I can never remember more than the basic plays and strategies. I'm not out to do much but play. Any game will do. Put me out on a field and I feel happy and alive. Generally, I'm not the most effervescent of people, but being in a game gets me grinning and laughing. I heckle the opposing team, call out to my teammates, and giggle at my own bumblings.

And that's what I did this evening. May I never outgrow it. 50 years from now I'm going to be a crazy old lady, creaking down the bases, diving after balls and cackling away to glory. Gives us all something to look forward to, no?

It's raining outside. At nearly any other time in my life, this would be a joyous thing. I love inclement weather and splashing in puddles. The smell of the earth after it rains ranks up there with the magical 'gramma's house' fragrance and the scent of baking. It's something I've really missed in my years of living in deserts and arid plateaus.

But alas, now I am a biker - a road warrior of the most feeble kind. A kid could send me flying through traffic with a well aimed pebble. Hit me in the eye or the head with anything bigger than a Milk Dud and I'm a goner. And raindrops can be pretty darn big.

I had a taste of this last night, when I was biking home from a program dinner. At first the 'rain' felt like random prickling on my hands and face - sharp little bites of coldness. Then the raindrops got bigger, and started hitting me in the eyes. I'd vainly not worn my glasses so suddenly beyond the usual out-of-focussness I had to deal with intermittent attacks on my eyeballs. Thankfully, my ocular orbs took turns being put out of commission, though I wonder what my railroad crossingesque eye behaviour must have looked like to the observer. *ding-ding-ding-ding*

Once the raindrops got big enough, the ride became like a mini assault. You can't help but flinch a bit when a goodly raindrop whaps you on the nose. It was like being pelted by small water balloons thrown by airborne imps. But I pedalled on, squinting through the rain.

As the downpour continued, then came the puddles. America might be one of the richest countries on earth, but I think it's cuz they're saving on road repairs. Beantown and its accompanying cities have pocketed streets with sudden potholes that spell pain and possible dismounting for bikers. And when it rains, they're doubly lovely - wet death maws. Despite my best efforts to avoid these mini lakes, it seems like drivers take special joy in slicing through them, squeezing out their contents in a cascade of water that tends to hit me, the biker, in the lone eye (and remaining face) I was using at the time.

Even the shallow pools of gathered rain water alongside curbs are a menace. You can't help but bike through them, which they repay but sending a spray of water up the back tire. If you've not got a mudguard, like me, you sometimes arrive at your destination with a skunk's stripe of bilge on your back. My chic denim jacket is now artfully splattered in chalky cement spots, which thankfully look like even more chic 'weathering.'

So on rain days, I arrive at class wet, cock-eyed, skunk-striped and pond scummed. Yay! This is why I sit at my comfy computer, typing a blog update, when I should be pelmel on my way to class. *sigh*

For the past couple years I've been on the run. Not from the police or anything exciting like that. But from life. Monotony. Ordinariness. Comfort. I move a lot, have had a number of job changes, and am constantly immersing myself in new things. But you won't hear me complaining. I love the change-ups. They allow me to reinvent myself.

Yet one does make some sacrifices doing that. One of the big ones has been 'my people' - the folks I grew up with. I have managed new friendships along the way, but they are never the same sort of bond you share with the people who knew you before you got mature and polished. Or in my case - less odd and scary. No one knows you like your old friends and family, and though annoying at times, interactions with them are always a blast from the past. As I happily have been reminded of in the past few weeks.

Take for instance my visit from the Big Bro. He came down for a little more than 24 hours and in that time managed to upgrade my bike from butt-breaking deathtrap to easy ride and helped me sort out paperwork. My ride is now a Lazyboy recliner on wheels whith a padded seat, quick release mounting post, and a superpowered headlight (courtesy of the lovely landlady). While he labored I got to play the lil sis and just stand there and occasionally hand him a wrench or somesuch. And I also got an awesome pair of weatherproof gloves in the mix and a neato thermal face mask so's I don't turn into a Popsicle. Afterwards he bought me dinner ("Owl, lets eat meat!")and advised me about banking and grownup matters. And I let him. :)

That was wistfully awesome, and before I could get lonely again I had another random visitor. My buddy Nadia, who I've known since she wore braces and I was fat. Yep. That long. :) We share a bond of being the youngest sister in oddball families, with all the chipped shoulders and neurosis that comes with that role. We're the serious self-sacrificing ones who don't have much fun. Till now. She kindly came down to Beantown and let me drag her all over Kingdom Come, doing the tourist thing I'd not had a chance to do since I'd moved here this summer. We shared Mile High Mint ice cream cones in Salem, something called tofurki/tofutti/tofunky at a retro diner in Watertown, and both nearly died when we got caught out in a rainstorm in Cambridge. And of course, like most chics, we interspersed our madness with girltalk. She laid out my problems like only a good friend who runs faster can. ("When are you going to learn how to be ok with eye contact?") Good times.

And as she and I were hungrily roaming the city, my dear dad called. The topic? Dinner. "Beta, I made chicken curry and you're invited to come and eat." That I'm, oh, about 1,000 miles away is totally irrelevant. My dad is the family 'feeder' and I am the child he thinks is in most need of being fed. "It smells so good! I'll wait for you if you want to come." He then ordered me to be a good student, gain some weight and go to the doctor at the earliest sign of sickness. Ah me, it's such a rare and nice feeling to be fretted over.

And from some cosmic fluke (or nagging parent), I was treated to a call from the Lil Bro just a few days later. My younger brother is someone even more transient than I am. Last time I saw him I asked him to again tell me where he'd been for the past couple years, and even he had a hard time remembering when he was on which continent, and what he was doing at the time. So if I'm illusive, he is doubly so. Which is why it was such a lovely treat to get a call from him yesterday. But despite the fact that we hadn't talked in over a month, that didn't mean we'd be having a heart to heart. No, we don't roll like that. The convo was about cockroaches, horrible Sunday-morning D-class movies and slacking off. The most pressing question: how could we tell if said brother became the mindless host of the superior roach species ala The Nest. "If they HAD crawled inside your brain and laid eggs that hatched and took over, what do you think they'd make you do? Eat too much, sleep too much, and shun daylight. Uh.... sound familiar?" I forgot how much we make the other laugh. My sides were hurting by the time our talk was through.

*wipes a tear*
*smiles happily*

Oh my. I am ever so tired. These boots weren't made for walking, but that's what I made them do. I shall have to beg leave of my next update for a few days till I recuperate from my latest excesses - which involved polenta french fries, a mile-high ice cream cone, train-jumping and copious walking. In the mean time feel free to take over the comment board and run wild with it. Post recipes. Confess secrets. Question authority. Tell me what superhero you would be. Whatever. I'm listening. :)