tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6779789199459510502024-02-23T07:26:13.630-08:00Chicken Soup for the Kuwaiti SoulFor the cold days, nights, and hearts.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-76664728123232914442011-01-30T11:59:00.000-08:002011-01-30T13:37:37.457-08:00GOLDEN ROSESNighttime trickled in throughout the indigo skies of Cairo, chasing away the blazing orange sunset. The cool winter breeze swept in through the pane-less window, making the flimsy curtains of Nafeesa's humble abode sigh in exasperation. Or was it relief? One would never know. The frayed edges of Tamer's old car bedsheets flapped in the wind, and almost immediately Nafeesa had wished she'd never gifted her new cotton curtains to her newly-wed sister-in-law.<br />Nafeesa had saved for months, dropping pound after pound into an empty orange juice container, until she had acquired enough money for the beautiful curtains. <br /><br />She vividly remembers the day she had first seen them in the shop's window, the cream colored cotton intricately woven and embroidered with golden roses. Nafeesa eagerly eyed Haleem, her husband, when the shopkeeper mumbled the price while rummaging through his store catalog. '280 pounds?' she asked herself incredulously, 'That kind of money could feed us for weeks! The curtains will have to wait.'<br />Haleem squeezed his wife's hand as they shuffled through the Khan Khaleeli marketplace, aware of her disappointment. A wave of guilt crashed over him, making it hard to catch his breath. He loved Nafeesa with every bone in his body; every fiber in his very being. Marrying her was the best decision he has ever made, and he wanted to do anything in his power to make her happy. After all, she cooked delicious meals for him, listened to his mindless chatter, doted on him, and bore his first child, Tamer.<br />But the curtains were a luxury that they could not afford at that moment in time. Nafeesa had slept that night with a heavy heart; for once, she wanted to have something beautiful displayed in her home. The ratty second-hand furniture passed down from her grandmother and mother has seen better days, and the plastic flowers in the glass vase were graying and weathered. Still, Nafeesa was humble and thankful for all she had, even though it wasn't much. "Alhamdulillah," she sighed into the darkness of their bedroom, and Haleem slipped his arm around her slender waist as they slept, lulled to sleep by Tamer's gurgling.<br /><br />Now, Tamer had outgrown his car bedsheets, wishing for something a little more tailored to his ever-changing infatuations. First, it was safari animals. Then, it was football. Nafeesa and Haleem had to wallow in their self-disappointment everytime they refused Tamer's pleading cries for new bedsheets, but for the time being, him sleeping on a bare futon would have to suffice. The car bedsheets soon became make-shift curtains. "We will move out of here soon," Haleem assured Nafeesa. "I promise."<br /><br />The joy painted on Nafeesa's face as she stepped back into the shop months later was indescribable. The curtains were still hanging in the window, and the shopkeeper had recognized her immediately. "Came back for the curtains, hmm?" he'd asked her from the jet black tuft of his mustache. Nafeesa nodded excitedly as Haleem tightened his grip on the old orange juice container. Two hundred and eighty pounds exactly - Nafeesa had counted them at least 5 times before leaving the house. The weight of the container lessened as the shopkeeper cupped handfuls of coins onto the glass counter and slid them to the side, one by one until all 280 coins were counted off. <br />He gave Nafeesa the gleaming plastic package, it's contents boasting themselves. Two neatly folded drapes, and at least ten plastic hooks to hang them with. Nafeesa gingerly slid her fingers across the top of the package and shot a radiant beam at Haleem. Haleem smiled back and kissed the crown of his wife's head and led her home.<br /><br />It was only a couple of days later that Nafeesa's sister-in-law sent the wedding invitations. Though Nafeesa was ecstatic for Shareefa, she couldn't help but think of her brand new curtains' fate. They were the nicest thing she owned, still brand new, and they had no money to spare for a gift. Nafeesa's heart crumbled when she gave them to Shareefa, but she would rather die than be known as the stingy sister-in-law who didn't come to the wedding with a gift.<br />The curtains went, but the yearning for them remained. She was sure that Shareefa would love them and enjoy them as much as she would've, and she could still see them everytime she went to Shareefa's home to visit. The tiny assurances filled her heart with rest, and it was only a matter of days until life went on as it normally had in their household.<br /><br />-----<br /><br />The faint chants of the January 25th protests were carried in with the breeze, reminding Nafeesa that the struggle of their poverty, God willing, would soon be over. Oh, what she would give to stand in the face of danger in Tahrir Square! She wanted so desperately to be a soldier fighting for her country's rights along with the thousands of other civilians, but Haleem was having nothing of the sort. "I will not allow my darling to be subjected to danger! Don't you hear the gunshots?! I won't risk losing you and neither will Tamer."<br />So Nafeesa stood tall and proud in her cramped tiled kitchen, rolling savory dough for their "emshaltat" dinner and chanting with the distant cries. The ivory dough stretched itself thin over the counter top, and Nafeesa wistfully prodded rose designs into the edges, smiling at what could have been her beautiful curtains.<br /><br />One day, Egypt will be free of it's social and economic shackles, and the luxuries Nafeesa had once dreamed of will be a laughable memory.<br /><br />** This post is a dedication to our Egyptian brothers and sisters fighting for their rights. To whoever is reading this, please send them your strength and prayers. They are taking a huge step towards a reformation, and they need our support more than ever. God bless. Ta7ya Ma9r! **Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-84776385298819574142011-01-26T20:52:00.000-08:002011-01-26T21:09:38.482-08:00AND I'M BACK!Hey guys! <br /><br />I know it's been a while (a really really long while) since I've last posted. <br /><br />My December finally came around and I had the most exhilarating, relaxing, and self-defining moment of my life. I went overseas alone for one month. No friends, no family, nothing but some money and a dream.<br /><br />It was seriously the most liberating thing I had EVER done in my life. You know how some African-American women resort to shaving their heads as a symbol of their freedom and independence from hair chemicals and relaxers?<br />My symbol was a plane ticket.<br /><br />I met the greatest people, ate the most delicious food, enjoyed my OWN company, didn't miss anyone, and was exposed to the best music there ever was. I was so inspired, day in and day out. My camera died on me time and time again because I couldn't stop taking pictures of every little detail.<br /><br />Wherever you decide to let the charter fly you, do it, and do it without any inhibitions. I could go on and on forever about every little experience I went through, but some things are just too personal.<br /><br />I have forgotten everything that held me back, and though I was extremely sad to be home again and back to my routine life, I feel so blessed to have gone through everything I did. I came back happier, more responsible, and more assertive than I've ever been.<br /><br />And most importantly, I don't feel the slightest wince of pain when I think about Mubarak. As a matter of fact, we've driven side by side on the way to work at least twice now, and never once did my heart race. Never once did I feel like I needed to stare at him or call him or text him.<br /><br />I am free.<br /><br />And I'm back. And inspired. So I hope you guys are ready to read :) I've missed you guys!Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-75820142216699322102010-09-07T00:38:00.000-07:002010-09-07T00:59:00.802-07:00DECEMBER"Sometimes I want you here, then I wish you'd vanish."<br /><br />The phrase repeats itself in my head so many times, it's starting to become the only thing I know. I live on a twisted emotional rollercoaster that suspends me upside-down in mid-air every single time you cross my mind or when I'm with you. Stomach churning, heavy breathing, feeling the chunks and lumps rise in my throat. Waiting for the harness to give way to my heaving chest, come loose, and send me tumbling down to a dark pit where I will surely die or break some bones. But at this point, no pain is more unbearable than the fact that I've lost you. Somehow.<br /><br />That is why I need December. I need to be a million miles away from you - disconnected, out of the coverage area. Don't try to call me or e-mail me or text me or poke me or tweet me or utter my name on your lips, those very lips I've kissed a thousand times in my dreams when I ache for you.<br /><br />You don't feel it and you wouldn't understand it. You wouldn't understand why a specific song playing at a specific moment in the day elevates my senses. You wouldn't understand seeing me standing on the roof of an old building in nothing but heels, a bandage skirt, a crop top and wild hair in the freezing cold, dancing to old-school Hip-Hop like I was the only one in the universe.<br /><br />Or would you understand?<br /><br />I.<br />Don't.<br />Know.<br /><br />What I do know is that you need to stop doing whatever it is you're doing. I don't think your wishy-washy bipolar behavior is funny or attractive or remotely mysterious. It just turns you into an indecisive (and not funny) fly that keeps buzzing around my nose, lips, eyes, and ears when I'm trying to have a delicious home-cooked meal after being starved for so long. <br /><br />I need December, and I need you to not be a part of it. <br />I'm leaving it all behind.<br />So if you're thinking you have the upper hand right now and that the ball's in your court, think again. You weren't playing to begin with.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-39808585188843774242010-08-12T03:52:00.000-07:002010-08-15T04:30:49.276-07:00YOUIn that glimpse of a smile that she'd witnessed, chapters upon volumes were being written. An amalgamation of fiction, because it was in fact too good to be true, and a whirlwind of feelings. <br />The emotions she felt reminded her of a vintage washing machine sitting on a grassy lawn, twisting and turning and churning, beating away dull colors and bitter stains that tribulations have left on the t-shirt that was her life. A slap to her pink cheeks, shaking her senses. Or a light punch in the stomach that would awaken the butterflies that had been asleep for far too long.<br /><br />She couldn't speak about it, not because she didn't want to, but because words would fail to describe the experience.<br /><br />A smile: your smile. Confined to a several-hundred pixel dimensioned square, but screaming out at me and telling me everything I need to know about you.<br />It was polite and demure yet devilish, lifting your boyish face up ever so slightly and effortlessly giving you that heavenly glow that most people dream of achieving. I could've stared at it for hours, and at one point, I did. The gleam in your eyes, the contours of your skin, and the million things that could've been running through your head at that moment - I'd analyzed and thought about it all. Simply because I've never seen anything quite like it.<br /><br />So how did you expect me to react with you standing there in the sweltering heat, with your ghetra billowing around your angelic face? You were right there, in front of me, like an Aurora Boreale radiating a symphony of colors on a calm horizon. Surreal. Did you really expect me to pull myself together? <br />I covered my eyes time and time again and tried my hardest to give off the impression that I didn't want you to go away. I didn't want you to go. In fact, I wanted to capture every detail of you in a jar and take it with me wherever I went.<br /><br />There was just no way to describe it all. No words in the dictionary did your eyes justice; wide and wild like an innocent child's, pulling all of the sun's rays into a big beautiful twist and making it beam off of the surface of your pupils. Chocolate. Then hazel. Then honey, and then chocolate all over again. Your curled eyelashes fanned out perfectly, like synchronized swimmers or a line of military soldiers standing tall and ready to protect you.<br /><br />If I could have taken a thousand pictures, I would've. But even then, the finest resolutions and sharpest lens wouldn't be able to replicate the divinity that is you.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-82163142433454126872010-07-12T22:29:00.000-07:002010-07-13T12:10:50.812-07:00LIGHT YEARSThe clammy darkness of his hands encased her eyes, like a giant second eyelid that was more difficult to open, more persistant in hiding her vision from what was to come. She could smell the unusual scent of Dior's Fahrenheit and pretzels on his fingers. It was her last night, after a long and beautiful two months, so he'd treated her to a large doughy pretzel from a street vendor, amongst other things. <br /><br />It wasn't much; other guys would've taken her to a fancy restaurant or bought her exquisite gifts to take home and commemorate the wonderful time she'd had in the city. <br />He was different, though. He knew she could get any of the finer things she wanted back home - giving her the last taste was the best gift he could give. They'd already spent the slushy cold morning ploughing through the streets, eating cheese pizza slices for breakfast from Mama Sbarro's like she'd requested. Then, they had drifted in and out of art galleries, relishing every drop of paint that their eyes feasted on together. She'd posed in the most ridiculous and hilarious poses beside sculptures and statues, and his arm stretched out in front of them with the camera pointing at them, ready to snap the most candid pictures of them and make the memories everlasting.<br /><br />He preferred Polaroids. There was something about the instantaneous response from the camera that thrilled him. Back at his apartment, he'd watched her slowly get dressed for the day, slipping her tights on, and then pulling her undershirt over her lacy black bra. They'd become best friends over time, and she'd learned to appreciate his voyeuristic side. He'd spent the earlier hours of the freezing morning sprawled on the couch, snapping away at her with his Polaroid camera, documenting her every move like she was a wild animal in the jungle.<br /><br />He would miss her, and that was a definite.<br /><br />The pretzel he'd bought for the both of them was exactly what they needed. The already gloomy sky was becoming more overcast, as if darkened by the sadness of her leaving and going back home. "Don't cry, Concrete Jungle," she smiled, looking up at the sky. "I'll be back soon."<br />The magnificent skyscrapers dabbled with lit windows looked down on her with such sorrow, as if to say "You'd better be back soon. Please, don't go."<br />She blew a kiss to the sky as he finished up paying the street vendor for the pretzels, handing her the hot twist of dough in tissue paper. She wolfed the pretzel down like a homeless man would, only then realizing how hungry all that walking had made them. "How about some roti?" she asked.<br />"Not now," he smiled with satisfaction. She had never tried Trinidadian cuisine before she met him, and when he popped the first piece of roti in her mouth, he sent her up to Heaven and back. Now she wondered how she'd ever go back home to live without it.<br /><br />She tore off bits of her pretzel and dunked them into the creamy yellow mustard that he held out in the tiny plastic cup. The salty warmth of the dough and the depth of the mustard's flavor settled itself on her lips against the faint sweetness of the slushy rain.<br />"The city tastes so good," she closed her eyes in bliss.<br />"It only tastes better when you're here," he enveloped her small hand in his, and they continued their walk.<br /><br />A block away from their destination, he'd stood behind her and covered her eyes, guiding her through the city bustle as if she were blind, or as if he were teaching a baby how to walk. At first she protested, annoyed with the fact that his hands were stealing her last looks of the people walking by. She wanted to capture every image in her mind, and all he was doing was filtering the images with his dark palms and fingers. <br />"Shhhh," he hushed into her ear, and for the first time since she got there, his voice had sent warm tingles up and down her spine. "Trust me."<br />"I do," she closed her eyes underneath the nest of his fingers, as if to affirm her trust for him by blinding herself just a little bit more.<br /><br />"Good evening, sir," she heard a woman say, and the freezing cold of the February night was replaced with a warmth that only a fireplace in a hotel lobby could bring.<br />She was right: the elevator dinged and they shuffled into it together like two bodies frozen to one another, his palms still covering her eyes. <br /><br />"Where are we?" she asked, the frustration and anticipation building up inside of her.<br />"You'll see," he replied, the smile audible in his voice.<br /><br />The elevator dinged again, the doors opening and making way for the surprise. The bitter cold slapped them in the face again, and though it was unpleasant on her skin, her insides where bubbling over with excitement.<br /><br />His fingers made way for her vision.<br /><br />And what a vision it was.<br /><br />They were on the rooftop of the AKA Hotel. It wasn't the highest building in the city, but it was high enough. The rooftop was aglow with city lights radiating from the skyscrapers surrounding them. Tall fathers and mothers protecting their beautiful child. She gasped at the wonderous sight.<br /><br />Gaslamp heaters stood in every corner, watching and waiting to see what will happen next. He led her to a white table with a short vase of white roses (her favorite) in the center.<br />"What is all this?" she asked in wonder and amazement. The sight took her breath away. He didn't answer, but she was used to his random bouts of silence. His silence spoke words to her and inspired her to ponder and answer her own questions. He challenged her every chance he got, and she loved it. He built her up higher than any tall building, so rigid and strong-willed and determined, with a foundation of the strongest heart.<br /><br />This moment was for them to cherish. He tucked her hair, which was being whipped around her face by the unruly wind, behind her ear and seated her to a feast of fresh roti, Doubles, curry, and all of her favorite Trini foods which he'd accustomed her to. They ate as if it were their last meal on earth, mopping up the traces of curry on their plates with bits of roti and their fingers, and kissing their fingers clean.<br /><br />Again, he took her by the hand and helped her up, her body weighed down by the delicious meal. As if on cue, Stevie Wonder's "Love Light In Flight" came on on the surround-sound speakers, serenading them as they danced the night away.<br />The city lights twinkled over them lovingly, lighting their way as he held her close to his chest and swayed to the smooth disco rhythm.<br />In her mind, she was at the highest point in life, right below Heaven, gliding through the galaxies in a glass spaceship. No one made her feel that way, and no one will make her feel that way.<br /><br />All that was left were Polaroids strewn on the apartment floor.<br /><br />----------------------------------------------<br />FOR YOUR LISTENING PLEASURE<br /><a href="http://hypem.com/track/1129611/">Theophilus London - Light Years</a><br /><a href="http://hypem.com/track/1102192/">Theophilus London - Hey Wonderful</a><br /><a href="http://www.4shared.com/audio/gMU7zJE0/Stevie_Wonder_-__Love_Light_In.htm">Stevie Wonder - Love Light In Flight</a><br /><a href="http://www.4shared.com/file/87409914/b0866405/D-Train_-_Youre_The_One_For_Me.html">D-Train - You're The One For Me</a><br /><a href="http://www.4shared.com/audio/tjKNShs6/Jean_Carne_-_Was_That_All_It_W.htm">Jean Carne - Was That All It Was?</a>Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-90018025742860617662010-06-28T22:14:00.000-07:002010-06-30T05:17:38.479-07:00The Love HarpoonOohs and aaahs.<br /><br />YES.<br /><br />The Love Harpoon is in full effect. <br /><br />I don't know what it is, how it is, why it's here and where it came from, but it's eating me alive and I can't shake it away. <br /><br />It could be day or night, rain or shine; I could be happy or sad. <br />All of a sudden - out of nowhere - like a fireball or a blazing comet, a fiery pleasureful pain shoots itself into the center of my back and shocks my body. And for that moment, time is suspended and I feel this out-of-body experience where I'm rocketed into outer space in a beautiful dress with no shoes on, my arms and legs and hair flailing about like I'm drowning in a sea of Love. I'm surrounded by stars so big and bright and beautiful, they sparkle more radiantly than a cluster of the finest diamonds.<br /><br />All of this happens for about three seconds. You know when people say before you die your life flashes before your eyes? It's the same thing, but the difference is the feeling of the BEGINNING of life and not the end. The three seconds are filled with overwhelming love, speckled with hope and the tingle you get in your toes when you jump off a high place.<br /><br />Sometimes it brings tears in my eyes, but not too often. <br /><br />I wish you could feel it. For those three seconds, I get to forget my worries and troubles, and feel so insanely good that I just want to put my hands in the air and inhale all the love there is in the world.<br /><br />Tonight, stand outside; in a parking lot, on a rooftop, anywhere open and airy. Stretch your arms towards the sky and take a deep breath with a smile. Look at the stars. <br /><br />Multiply that sensation by a million to the power of eternity.<br /><br />You'll feel it, too.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-53852094756122310742010-06-25T00:57:00.000-07:002010-06-25T01:36:06.358-07:001992Only some would claim that 1992 was of no significance to them. To me, it was everything. I was only 5 years old then, but I felt the independence of an 18 year old who'd just gotten their license, and the overwhelming joy of a 27 year old who'd finally found the love of her life.<br /><br />Everyday was love. Everything was perfect.<br /><br />The simplicity and comfort of having very few friends, or just one best friend, was enough for me. Who cared about boys? Or having a social circle so big you'd get lost in it? Not me. The few friendships I'd formed when I was in the first and second grade were the only bonds I needed to get me through the days. <br /><br />Sharing wasn't caring. Sharing was something, and caring was another. We were so selfless and young and happy, my friends and I. I remember sitting on the floor during my lunch break everyday at school with four other girls. We'd dump all of our lunches in the center of our little barricade of bodies and eat whatever was in the middle without a single complaint or feeling of resentment towards whoever ate the last piece of chips. Our gossip revolved around which Disney princess was our favorite and why, and which books we wanted to read over the weekend.<br /><br />So innocent and happy.<br /><br />Closets consisted of a couple of pairs of jeans, all acid-washed with an elastic waistband (we were too young for buttons), printed t-shirts, and a dress for Eid. There never came a day where I'd look into my closet and think about what to wear - I'd just pull out a bright shirt and a pair of jeans, pull on my favorite sneakers and go. Do you remember the sneakers that lit up whenever you took a step? Or the sneakers that "made you run faster"? I felt on top of the world everytime I put my shoes on, dancing around to Michael Jackson tunes and pretending I was in the Billie Jean video.<br /><br />Music was another thing. Music was on a whole different level, and I'm sure many of you would agree. <br />By the year 1992, so many of the greatest artists and songs had set their names in stone and came out with, undeniably, the best music anyone has ever heard. Prince, Michael Jackson, Janet Jackson, and Mariah Carey hold an extremely special place in my heart. Sometimes we were too young to fully understand the depth of their lyrics, but they sounded good and we could sing along, or at the very least, dance to it.<br />Even now when I listen to Mariah Carey's "Emotions", a wave crashes over me and sucks me into this deep trance and takes me back to 1992. Sunny mornings, wild hair, big smiles, going swimming at Le Meridien with my family and cousins; it was and still is perfection to me.<br />Even old-school Hip-Hop was everything it should be today. The lyrics were so simple, the beats were so ridiculously fresh, and the song didn't have to be peppered with bad words and negativity for it to work.<br />The music videos on MTV were relevant to the song, and VERY rarely did you see scantily-clad women exploiting themselves.<br />Music was everything to me during those years. Everything. You couldn't even compare an iPod filled with songs from the late 80's and early 90's to an iPod filled with today's music. You seriously can't.<br /><br />There are some days I remember so vividly - laughing so hard in the back of the car with my cousins because we were so outrageously happy. Laughing so hard, in fact, that we warned our aunts that if they didn't slow down on the speed bumps, we might pee ourselves. <br />When was the last time you laughed so hard for no reason?<br />I can't remember either.<br /><br />If I had one wish, it would be to bring 1992 back, forever. Every year should be 1992. There's so much more that I wish I could put into words, but sometimes words don't do the feeling justice.<br /><br />Tell me some of your thoughts and memories :) I'd love to read what you all have to say!Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-11672121395116602932010-06-02T12:25:00.000-07:002010-06-02T12:39:49.766-07:00Tagged!I've been tagged by the lovely <a href="http://www.glitterpowder.blogspot.com">Glitter</a>!<br /><br />So this tag is called Il-Taj Il-Sultani.. I would upload the picture thingy that's supposed to go with it, but I'm clueless when it comes to stuff like this.<br />Anyways, so the tag says that I have to tell my beautiful followers 6 secrets of mine. Whoever knows who I am or doesn't, I don't care. I really have nothing to hide so whatevs! Here goes!<br /><br />1. More often than not, I think about running away. Not just leaving my house, but leaving Kuwait. Running off to a big beautiful city that's so enriched with culture and life and REAL people. The thought of it gives me goosebumps, and there are days when I'd give up my family for a taste of another life.<br /><br />2. I wish I never dated. Not because of the whole reputation thing (I could care less), but because of all the days, months, and years spent worrying about the significant other and crying and all the other sad bits that come with a relationship. A word of advice, spend every moment you can with a smile on your face.<br /><br />3. The thought of marriage, which was once so beautiful and sacred to me, repulses me now. I secretly feel sorry for all my friends who are married, because 90% of them are miserable. I just pretend to be interested in committment when I'm around them.<br /><br />4. As much as I regret ever knowing Mubarak and hating him for what he did to me, a little piece of me misses him so much. It always will.<br /><br />5. I can never forgive my dad for leaving. I don't care how happy he is in his new life; I think what he did was extremely selfish.<br /><br />6. I stole a piece of gum from the baqala when I was a kid once, and when my mom asked me if I had paid for it, I nodded. I still think about it till this day, and I still feel like crap.<br /><br />There. I said it. LOL.<br /><br />I tag whoever wants to do this thing. Link me back to your blog in the comments section if you did this tag! I'd love to pick your brains :)Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-74054606542241090732010-05-12T03:08:00.000-07:002010-05-14T02:09:40.745-07:00Love YourselfLeQuan heaved her baby pink backpack over her broad shoulders, sighing at the added weight on her back. Her muscles ached. Her bones were tired. Her feet were sore. But no matter how far she walked everyday or how little she ate, the massive rolls of fat seemed to make deeper folds in her skin, pushing against her heart and making it ache. Even breathing was hard - she had to pace her steps precisely so that she wouldn't breath too loud or too hard; "The Bulldog" as her neighbor's kid called her.<br /><br />She tried to shuffle out of the door as quietly as possible, but her mother's voice resonated through the puff of smoke from her joint. "You better walk to school. Don't be takin' no buses. You better walk all that fucking weight off."<br /><br />LeQuan nodded slowly, running her hand against her hair. "Bye," she mumbled, and continued making her way out onto the landing of the run-down apartment building in which she lived. She shifted her schoolbag time and time again, its heavy weight pushing the hooks of her bra deeper into her skin.<br />LeQuan was the only one in the 5th grade that wore a "real" bra. All the other girls wore light undershirts, or cotton training bras for the budding teenagers. She, on the other hand, had to steal an old bra from her mother to support the heavy load on her chest.<br /><br />Just thinking about walking down the long winding road to her school made small beads of sweat form on her upper lip. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, and wiped the back of her hand on her weathered jeans. The walk of shame began. <br />People walking on the sidewalks would always throw nasty comments at LeQuan, especially the younger boys. Always making stupid quips about her weight. "I'll show them. Someday," LeQuan would think to herself.<br /><br />The sun beat down mercilessly against her forehead, causing more sweat to dribble down the sides of her face. The heat made her clothes cling to her body. Added weight. Sweat stains in the most unforgivable places. LeQuan felt the perspiration form between the folds of fat on her belly and her back.<br />"Fatass," a boy in his early teens yelled, lowering the volume on his boom box to make his voice heard. <br /><br />LeQuan thought of glaring at him with her tiny slits for eyes, but she knew that his retaliation would be much stronger; more painful. <br />Just like the other day when she'd told a boy to shut up after he'd called her a whale. He'd thrown his tin lunchbox at her heavy-set legs, hurting her. The contents of his lunchbox spilled out onto the concrete pavement, and a hungry LeQuan had examined them quickly before hurrying on her way to school - an apple, some carrot sticks, and a juice box. "Are you gonna eat that?" the boy had roared, cocking his head to the side like he was ready to fight. "Fucking whale. Go on!"<br />She put her thumbs underneath the straps of her heavy backpack and continued walking, a multitude of colorful threats chasing her.<br /><br />School was no different. LeQuan sat in the back of her class and had no friends, except for this one scrawny Mexican girl, Amelia, that hung around her because she was the only girl in class that couldn't speak English as well as the rest of the students. Amelia got called names too; Wetback. Illegal immigrant. Taco breath. The list went on.<br />LeQuan and Amelia would sit on the steps leading to the playground, and Amelia would give LeQuan half of her sandwich everyday. "Quieres mitad de mi bocadillo?" she'd ask in her squeaky voice, and LeQuan would nod slowly as she watched Amelia part her sandwich in half. They ate the same cream cheese sandwich everyday, but LeQuan didn't complain. She never got to eat cream cheese at home, or anywhere else, for that matter.<br /><br />By the time LeQuan came home everyday, she was soaked from head to toe in her own sweat. Funny enough, the scale gave her the same number everyday. Sometimes it would go up a little, but never down. She would sit under the shower head and scrub herself silly, as if the weight would come off the harder she scrubbed.<br />Lunch was deep fried. Everyday. It was the easiest way for her mother to cook - frying anything and everything in hot oil or lard so that her child would be full and so that she could go back to smoking joints and watching old TV shows.<br /><br />LeQuan would be too hungry to refuse a meal, and though she understood how too much grease could clog her arteries and kill her, she didn't care. Sitting on her ratty bed and staring at the pictures of modelesque black girls on her wall made her want to die anyways. When she'd close her eyes to sleep, she'd imagine herself to be as skinny and flawless as Halle Berry. Halle was her favorite.<br /><br />She remembered as a child when her father would pick her up and hoist her over his shoulders. His laughing angelic face was one she'd never forget, and everytime he'd parade through the hallways with LeQuan on his shoulders, she'd feel invincible and free. "My little bluebird," he'd sing to her. "There's a bluebird on my shoulder!"<br />He'd always sing songs from "Song of the South" to her, and her heart would swell with love for him and his beautiful voice.<br />One day, when she was 6, she'd woken up and searched the house for him. But he was long gone by then. Trying to decipher the few words she understood from her mother's scream-fests with her grandmother, LeQuan knew that her father found out about her mother's love affair with drugs.<br />LeQuan wondered where he was now, or how different things would be if he was still here. She would be happier. Maybe even smarter. She'd be thinner, for sure.<br /><br />But she wasn't. And that is the reality of an obese child growing up in a world that is depleted of love and care, and abundant with hate.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-70838654676101252802009-11-06T23:28:00.000-08:002009-11-07T02:51:16.793-08:00Sheepskin"Yalla, I'm waiting," her friend had said bluntly.<br />"Give me a minute, I'm leaving now" she replied, before hanging up and throwing her phone on her messy bed.<br />She opened the doors to her closet in search of a jacket. The wind howled outside and she could see the tiny droplets of rain flick themselves against her windows. Something warm.. Something to keep her dry.. The choices were infinite. Puffy ski jackets, smart blazers, crocheted capes and bright ponchos filled the racks, and she ran her hands along her collection of clothing until her hands stopped, feeling down the one jacket she proudly owned but never wore in public.<br />Gingerly pulling it off of the hanger, she inspected her sheepskin jacket. It was so elegant yet so worn out; the years had weathered the soft leather lining and matted the wool of the vintage piece, but it only gave it more character.<br /><br />She slid her lean arms into the sleeves, putting the jacket on. The putrid smell of sheepskin always made her gag - one reason why she never wore it - but she craned her neck, elevating her head above the stench. Looking herself over once again in the mirror, she smiled at how ridiculously small she looked in the jacket. Like a pea in the pod, the jacket enveloped her, almost diminishing her upper body from existance. But that's exactly how she liked it. As small as she looked, she felt powerful. The shaggy wool had curled from the previous nights of rain, broadening her shoulders with rich hues of champagne, tan, and a deep chocolate brown.<br />Underneath the heavy jacket, she wore thick black leggings and a matching bodycon top, outlining her perfect figure that was hidden by the big beautiful jacket.<br />In her boots, she felt taller. With the jacket, she practically lurched when she walked, looking like a broad and strong woman with direction. In actuality, she felt as lost as the sheep that adorned her back, as cold as a child without his mother, and as frail as a praying mantis in the blowing desert wind.<br />Still, she walked, checking her reflection in the picture frames, in every mirror, in any surface that relayed her image back to her until she was finally out the door and into her car.<br /><br />She sat in silence for the longest time after revving up the engine, and she ran her hands up and down the curly fur of her sleeves. Closing her eyes, she imagined running her hands through his hair the way she used to when they'd kiss passionately, and the way her fingers would carress the sparse hairs on his chest when he'd cradle her in his arms.<br />Yes, this jacket was all about him: the way it warmed her and protected her, the way the curling wool felt under the soft touch of her fingertips, the way the brown patches of color reminded her of the deep pools of cocoa in his eyes. Her love for him suffocated her the way the smell of the jacket invaded her nostrils. It was always about him. Every decision, every thought, every purchase was made with him in the back of her mind. She slowly backed out into the street and drove onto the endless highway.<br /><br />'Wainik?' she thought to herself. 'Where in these streets are you? Who's house are you in? What are you eating? What are you saying?' Her fingers, which were starting to numb, grasped at the tendrils of sheep wool on her sleeve, desperately trying to absorb whatever feeling pertaining to him that the coat could bring her.<br />At the traffic light, she rested her head against the fogging icy window, gazing through the cloudy condesation. Her neck ached from twisting and turning in search of his car, and her eyes grew tired of straining themselves to find him. A lock of hair, a scruffy beard, a doe-like eye, a pearly smile - anything that could be him or a part of him made her ache.<br /><br />A car inched closer to her, and the driver looked up at her. His large brown eyes and curling lashes gaped at her in awe - she was the most beautiful thing he'd laid eyes on, and she hadn't changed a bit. He gazed at her and she stared back at him while her stomach did somersaults, her heart fluttered, and her knees buckled. He flashed his million-dollar smile at her, and she let herself melt into the now hot sheepskin overcoat. Driving off as soon as the light turned green, she watched him speed ahead and turn into a residential area - probably going to the diwaniya.<br /><br />Her coat felt brand new for the first time in the 30 years since its creation. Like the reincarnation of a lost soul that has been found, the coat seeped its liveliness into her skin as tears of joy danced on her lower eyelashes.<br /><br />This is what you do to me.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com45tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-19773917573647764242009-04-12T13:54:00.000-07:002009-04-12T14:20:31.138-07:00I Wish I Was A Fly..Just for one day out of my years of existance, I wish I was a tiny, smart, strong fly, so I could buzz over the twinkling lights of the country, past the zipping cars on the streets, through the narrow streets, and finally land at your doorstep.<br />I wish I could fly into your house; through an open window, an open door, or even through a keyhole large enough to squeeze me through.<br />I wish I could see the inside; see how colorful or drab, how luminous or dim, how animated or dull, how neat or messy, how funny or sad life is for you on the inside.<br />I promise, I won't be a pesky fly. I won't bother you while you're eating or sleeping or studying, or even when you watch TV. I just want to watch.<br />I want to watch you eat and drink and smile. I want to smell what you're eating and silently pray to God that you enjoy every single bite from the first to the last, and every sip from the brim of the glass to it's bottom.<br />I want to see and hear your laugh while you're watching TV or talking with your family. I want to watch what you are watching and absorb the bubbling laughter and silly snorts that escape your lips everytime something makes you smile.<br />I want to sit on the headboard of your bed and watch over you while you sleep. I want to make sure that the covers are tucked tightly around your strong arms and that the pillow beneath your breathtakingly angelic face is fluffed to your liking. I also want to hear you recite your mu3awethat, followed by your soft yet heavy breathing.<br />I want to see you first thing in the morning and the last thing at night.<br />I want to listen to what your parents tell you, or what you tell them. I promise, I won't intervene or sting them when they say anything to hurt or bother you; I just want to listen.<br />I want to perch myself in the strap of your gym bag and be with you when you go to work out. I want to tuck myself in between the criss-crossed safety of your shoelaces so that I can be with you from start to finish, to make sure you don't get hurt and to make sure that you drink plenty of water. I don't care if it gets too hot or too stuffy or too smelly; I just want to be with you.<br />I want to ride with you in your car and listen to your favorite songs, and listen to your sweet voice singing them. I want to follow you into your diwaniya to hear what you and your guy friends talk about, and to make sure if you've had your dinner or not. I promise, I won't annoy you - you won't even know I'm there.<br />I just want to see, hear, smell, and touch you, and absorb everything that goes on around you.<br />Because maybe then I'll understand.<br />And maybe you'll understand how much I love you.<br />I wish I was a fly, just for one day.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com49tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-86340588290928166142009-04-03T16:09:00.000-07:002009-04-03T16:14:13.477-07:00Sweet Summer HeatThe ripe sunset-orange mangoes sat bunched in Tala's ceramic fruit bowl, the one that her cousin had gifted to her the day before her wedding. She read the inscription on the inside of the rim, tracing her fingers along the textured glazed paint: "To endless days, nights, and meals filled with love - Congratulations!". Tala smiled at the bold lettering, pressed her index finger to her plump lips, and touched her cousin's name. This very bowl brought her comfort every time she stepped in the kitchen; every time it was in her eyesight. The word "love" seemed to stand out more then the other words, making Tala's heart wince with pain at the thought of 7amad's recent abandon and neglect. 'Dawam,' he would sigh with exasperation every time she asked to go out with him, or tried to have a romantic evening alone. As a newlywed, asking her mother for advice was only necessary in the most crucial situations - Tala knew that her mother would very well brush off her childish complaints with a stream of retaliations - "Hatha rayal, ya 7abeebti; yeshte'3el 3ashan yi3ayshich ibra7a! La ta'6qe6een 3alaih!" her mother would say sternly.<br />Tala picked up a small mango - almost the size of her dainty hands - and examined its glowing leathery skin. Not a blemish in sight; not a single spot to soil it's organic beauty. A shade of red blushed itself against the crown of the orange hued mango, reminding Tala of the regality of mangoes. She pictured warm summer evenings in India, with a maharaja and his doting wife seated on plush cashmere pillows in the open air, and a silver bowl of red mangoes in between them. They would enjoy the mangoes as well as each other, lovingly and carefully, while they waited for a fresh breeze to pick up and cool them down. The sweet fumes made their way into Tala's nose, and she inhaled them far into the depths of her lungs, trying to capture the sweet scent and it’s imagery for as long as it would last.<br /><br />Just then, 7amad burst through the main door and hollered "Salam" to whoever was listening, stripping Tala of her thoughts. His raspy voice echoed against the stark walls of their barely furnished villa, startling her. The firm mango escaped the grasp of her smooth hands, landing on the wooden table in an audible thud. 7amad turned his head to the sound in the kitchen, leaving Tala in awe at the sight of him. He had a tendency of doing that; the way his head would whip at the slightest sound, the way his large chestnut eyes would widen at the simplest things, and the way his pouty lips would curl into a devilishly sexy smile made Tala fall in love with him over and over again. <br />"Manga? Mino yayib manga?" 7amad smiled excitedly at the sight of the flushed fruits, bunched together in the bowl like a pan of gold nuggets. He hurriedly strode towards Tala, planting a hasty kiss on the side of her face.<br />"Ana," she replied half-heartedly. "Shloonik?" She watched him with eagerness as he plucked the biggest mango from the bunch and compared it to the size of his hand. <br />"Tamam; ma'3sooleen?" 7amad asked, satisfactorily rubbing the mango’s silky skin.<br />“La,” Tala replied as 7amad picked another mango up from the bowl. The word “love” was now in full view, bolder than ever, unveiled by the two mangoes that sat in 7amad’s palms. “Tawni yaybat’hum.”<br />“Mashkoora, Toota,” 7amad called over the rush of the faucet water. He ran his sun-kissed hands over the mangoes, quickly enough to wash them thoroughly as well as to enjoy them sooner. The mangoes, tightly tucked into the crevices of his palms, glistened with beads of cool water, like full breasts rising from a swimming pool. Without drying them, he adoringly brought them to his face and inhaled their scent, now magnified by the water’s touch.<br /><br />Tala watched with envy as she set the table; two round plates, a large steel knife, and a two small spoons. ‘Why is it that he is so enticed with mangoes; so eager to touch them and to smell them while I – his wife – am standing here waiting for some sort of appraisal?’ she thought angrily. The stainless steel knife gleamed in the corner of Tala’s eye, luring her to pick it up and stab each and every one of the Alphonso mangoes so that 7amad could never enjoy them again. But, like a cruel joke or a painful reminder, the word “love” screamed at Tala again. ‘Love, honor, and obey,’ she would remind herself at her weakest moments. ‘Love, honor, and obey.’<br />He turned around from the sink, holding the orangey treasures with such care. The placed each mango onto a plate and drew back Tala’s chair as well as his, motioning for her to sit. “Taw innaas; al7een mo mawsem ilmanga!”<br />“Madri, 7amadi,” Tala replied with a shrug, and reached over for the giant knife, ready to butcher the fruit that had captured the ardent affection of her husband. <br />Before the sharp blade could graze the surface of the matured mango, 7amad pried the knife out of Tala’s hands and placed it back onto the wooden table. “Ib eedich,” he instructed, picking up the dense fruit with his two hands and tearing a small hole at the puckered tip with his teeth. <br />The pale orange mango pulp peeked out from under the scarlet flesh, coaxing 7amad’s lips closer to the cavity. In rhythmic movements, his thumbs tenderly massaged the side of the mango, pushing the pulpy nuggets towards the tear in the flesh. Tala watched as 7amad’s lips sucked the meaty sweetness into his mouth, chunk after chunk, careful not to let any bit of the mango escape. The bright juice trickled down his scruffy chin and dribbled down the sides of the mango’s flesh, twirling streams around his thick fingers and down his palms. Tala watched with great intent, her mango sitting patiently on her plate, as 7amad continued to bite and suck and tear at the mango’s skin with such ardor and want – she couldn’t help but feel a little jealous. He scraped every last bit of the mango pulp off the skin with his teeth, gently tugging the soft tissue against his dentures.<br /><br />After 7amad had satisfied his craving, he licked the syrupy lattice of juice from his hands and fingers before reaching for a wad of tissues. “Ma kalaitay,” he said breathlessly, nodding his head at the untouched mango on Tala’s plate.<br />“Al7een,” Tala replied quietly, her cheeks turning a faint crimson. The nervousness-induced warmth of her hands clashed significantly with the icy cold water droplets that decorated the mango like crystals. Just as she was about to bring the mango to her lips as 7amad had done earlier, 7amad encased her hands with his and guided the mango safely to Tala’s hungry lips. Her big brown eyes pierced through 7amad’s eyes warily, trying to decode whatever mischief he was up to. With her eyes still locked onto his, she tore a bit of the mango skin away from the top with her teeth. She felt a bit of the juicy fruit make it’s way up into her mouth, thanks to 7amad’s gentle pushes. As soon as it entered her mouth, 7amad pulled the mango into his own hands and dove in for a long, passionate kiss. His tongue stroked hers, probing her mouth in search of the luscious lump of mango he knew was nesting in there. The sweetness of his lips, tainted with the traces of an early afternoon cigarette, mixed with the tropical taste of the fruit, and once found, they shared it between their warm mouths.<br />He brought the limp mango near Tala’s lips once again. The intensity of their kiss caused 7amad to squeeze on the mango’s body a little too hard, first causing a gush of viscous juice to spill along the feminine curves of Tala’s lips. The fragrant syrup ran down the groove of her chin and the length of her neck, pooling at the small hollow that formed at the top of her ribcage. A tiny cry of shock and delight escaped her throat, but 7amad quickly muffled the sound with the crashing of his lips against hers. His tongue traced the faint orange line that swept down her neck, and softly lapped up the sweet pulpous juice before it dried into a sticky mess. Tala reclined against the back of the wooden chair, craning her neck every which way in order to allow 7amad access to the most inconspicuous places. Another reckless squeeze of the fruit tore the opening into a wide gash, causing the bright orange shaggy pit to sail out of the mango skin pouch and onto Tala’s chest, where 7amad tried to catch it. <br />“7amad!” Tala squealed like a child, suppressing the uproarious laughter that she knew was to come. The pit slipped out of his fingers like a wet bar of soap, but he tried again, this time succeeding in keeping it in his grasp. <br />“Shhhh,” 7amad soothed Tala’s giddy fit, shushing softly in her ear. With the wet pit in his hand, he rubbed Tala’s neck and exposed chest, staining her fair skin with mango residue. The pit glided over her skin until she was swathed with fiery-colored mango pulp, and they both breathed in the heady mango scent that wafted off of Tala’s skin. Like a golden sun goddess aching to be worshipped, Tala melted at the feel of 7amad’s touch, succumbing to his every desire. Normally, she would never allow 7amad to mix passion and food, as she was taught that it was a sin to use food in an erotic manner. But today, she gave way, letting his lips gather the shards of mango mash that tickled her skin. Tala opened her eyes for a moment during her escapade, eyeing the ceramic bowl that sat on the kitchen table, laden with more mangoes for the days to come.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com44tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-13726252462595531892009-03-07T11:50:00.001-08:002009-03-07T11:52:38.473-08:00Sorry everyone..I know I've been a super bad blogger bes walla I'm going through a really rough time right now oo I'm trying to get myself through a few things.. So, Chicken Soup's on hiatus for a little bit.. Ed3ooli :( I really really need it..<br />Hugs and kisses to all of you..Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-45572785411637408142009-02-19T01:34:00.000-08:002009-02-19T01:36:04.818-08:00E-mail for stuff..Hey girlies and guys :)<br />I created a new e-mail account for those who want to send e-mails or ask for advice or whatever the case may be. The e-mail is chicken.soup.q8@hotmail.com :)<br />Hope to hear from you!Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-84075830067759288732009-02-17T13:19:00.000-08:002009-02-17T13:49:21.251-08:00The Grumpy Tag ;pTagged by <a=href="http://7aleebkakaw.blogspot.com/">7aLeeB KaKaW</a> ;***<br /><br />1. Put a picture of any grumpy person.<br /><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41PNPWS0C6L._SL500_AA240_.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 240px;" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41PNPWS0C6L._SL500_AA240_.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br /><br />2. Then Mention 3 things that are just abnormal.<br />- My mother's obsession with "fa5ama"<br />- Mit7ajbat + leggings<br />- Boys that haven't hit puberty yet (or probably don't even know what puberty is) hitting on girls old enough to be their mother. THIRD TIME THIS WEEK! WAI3!<br /><br /><br />3. Two things that irritate you.<br />- When people talk to me and ask me questions when they can see that I'm on the phone with someone else.<br />- When people barge into my room without knocking, and even when they see that I'm praying/getting dressed/busy with something, they still hang around!<br /><br /><br />4. One trigger to your anger.<br />- When akoon 7adddddi mishta6a for a 6al3a oo I spend hours getting ready and expecting the best, and two minutes before the event, the person cancels or yakser feeni in an equally distressing way.<br /><br /><br />5. Three people you can't live without.<br />- Mama ;* 7ayati Mama!<br />- Il-Semi ;*~<br />- Pigeon ;***<br /><br /><br />6. Two of people you don't want to see.<br />- Two crazy chicks that I was with in univ.. 7mdilla wishikir.. Their brains combined probably amount to 3/4 of an actual human being, so I gave them the benefit of the doubt and counted them as one person. Is that okay?<br />- The idiot who robbed Il-Semi :/ If I see your face I'll break it, I swear. 7alaya 7awajbich chinna a7ad rasem 3ala yabhitich with a Sharpie marker. And I'm not talking about the thin ones either. No, I'm talking about the ones they use for street tagging.<br /><br /><br />7. One of your favorite foods.<br />- Pizza, without a doubt. Pepperoni with pineapples willi ma ya3jeba yi6ig rasa bilferen ;p<br /><br /><br />8. Three of your favorite songs.<br />- 3abood 5owaja - A'6naytani Bil-Hajr ;******** <br />- Lloyd - Girls All Around The World (Ft. Lil' Wayne) (If I don't hear this song at least once a day, I feel incomplete :* and Lloyd if you ever ever read this, I love you and I wanna be in your next video.)<br />- M7amed 3abdu - '3areeb Il-Dar<br /><br />Tag only 5 people:<br />Whoever wants to do this. That means:<br />- You<br />- You<br />- You<br />- You<br />- YouChicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-45877761903351865242009-01-28T12:51:00.000-08:002009-01-28T12:53:41.382-08:00Alive & WellSorry guys, I know you're expecting a YotL post, but I had to clear my head. This post is a *very* special dedication to my uncle, Bu A7mad, who'd won a tough fight with cancer. It is a joy to have you back home, healthy and safe, and you make my heart swell with pride. Allah yisalmik oo ya7meek min kil shar inshallah. We all love you :*<br /><br />-------------------------- <br /><br />Her rich boisterous laughter filled the air of our dim dining room, and I watched from the doorway as her grandeur captivated every single guest sitting at the table. The flickering candlelight skittered from stone to stone of her giant crystal peacock brooch – the one I had brought her for Christmas. Today, it is her birthday; my big, beautiful Etta is turning 48.<br />Holding a bottle of Pinot Grigio in my brown leathery hands, I took in the sight of her radiant mahogany skin, with her cheeks so round and full of joy, and her almond shaped eyes that twinkled, outshining the glow of the candles. My Etta is turning 48, but she doesn’t look a day over 29. She says it’s because of the cocoa butter she applies so delicately onto her face every night before we go to sleep, but I say it’s because of the laughter that never ceases to escape her raspberry-stained lips.<br />I love the way her bosom heaved up and down with every sweet breath she took. I love the way she daintily dabbed at the moisture that accumulated on her neck every Sunday at church, when the churchgoers would heat up the pews with every “Amen!” and “Praise the Lord!”. I love the way she hovered over pots and pans everyday at noon; I’d find her sashaying in the kitchen as if it were a model’s catwalk, slicing the bright orange carrots and stirring the thick brown gravy. Even today, her birthday, she’d managed to wake up at 7 AM without hitting the snooze button on our rickety alarm clock. I’d watched from bed, pretending to be asleep as she slipped into her favorite maroon dress; the one with the satin ribbon at the hem. She applied her make-up ever so carefully, and I fought the urge to spring up from bed and yell at her to stop – she didn’t need all that chemically infested make-up; she was beautiful just the way the Lord had created her. She spoke out loud, even though she knew I probably wouldn’t have heard her – she told me she was going to the beauty salon. Again, I had to stop myself from bolting upright and telling her not to go – she didn’t need all of those hot irons and chemical relaxers; I loved every kink in her hair just the way it was.<br />By the time I’d come back from the liquor store with the bottles of wine for her birthday dinner, I saw that she’d beat me to the cooking. There she was again, craning her neck over the hissing pots and pans, careful not to let the piping hot steam ruin her immaculate hairdo. I’d noticed that her nails were also done; they were pressed with blood red acrylics that I’d normally detest, but today, they looked like candy attached to her fingers. I’d kissed her hands and the nape of her neck, and she flirtatiously shooed me away, telling me that I’d have my share later on tonight.<br />Etta was, indeed, a one woman show. When our guests had arrived, the dining room lights were dimmed to perfection, making even the ugliest beast look like a fawn. The flame of the long ivory candles swayed from side to side along with the Jazz classics that were playing from our makeshift surround sound system. The table was set with our best china and Etta’s prized silverware. From the scent that was wafting from every steaming plate, I had known that Etta had once again outdone herself; Maple-roasted chicken with Creole spices, a seafood and sausage Jambalaya that would put the French Quarters to shame, and an endless array of sides including my favorite, buttered baby peas. Plates were laden with roasted new potatoes, sweet corn on the cob, succulent butter biscuits, and mouthwatering coleslaw. No, Jane Fonda was not a guest at this dinner, but Etta always told me that if the food doesn’t warm your heart, then it is not food at all.<br />Marion held up her fluted champagne glass to toast Etta’s 48 years of life, and it was then I realized that I had been standing in the doorway for too long. I quickly walked past the countless heads of glossy curls, tight braids, and nappy cuts until I reached the empty chair that was right beside my Etta’s. <br />I sat down and raised my glass as well, looking at my shining star with all the endearment my eyes could muster. Forty-eight years of life, my dear Etta, and we’ve only been married for two. Forty-eight years of life, and not a worry in the world has defaced your joyous demeanor. Forty-eight years of life, and you’re still as graceful as a hummingbird flittering in the warm sunshine of the South. You make life seem so effortless; not a single gray hair has sprouted in your lovely mass of curls. Never once have you complained about the Southern heat, and never once have you complained about the fatigue you’d felt after you’d collapsed in the living room.<br />Today is your birthday, my dear Etta, and tomorrow is your first chemotherapy session. I know you are not afraid to lose all of that beautiful hair, and I know you’re not afraid of losing weight and having your life drained of color and joy. In fact, your battle with life will probably be harder for me than it will be for you, just because I know that’s the way you are.<br />Today, you are enjoying your birthday to it’s fullest degree, because in your heart of hearts you are aware that this may be your last. Your friends don’t know about your sickness, because you don’t want anyone to worry – I’m lucky you didn’t keep something so serious from me as well. But that’s the way you are, my dear Etta. You’ve never stopped living, never stopped listening, and never stopped loving.<br />Today, I am by your side, holding your hand and feeding you a spoonful of your heavenly spicy creations. Tomorrow, I’ll be by your side, holding your hand and nourishing you with my love and energy. But always remember that even though I’m gone, the Lord is by our side no matter where we are. <br />I smile at you, and though I know that deep inside you are petrified, you still smile back. This is how I know that you will overcome. Happy birthday, my dearest Etta. May you live a thousand lives for the next hundred years to come.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-16929694219444387422009-01-01T01:46:00.000-08:002009-01-01T01:49:16.894-08:00Happy New Year!Hey all! <br />A very very very happy new year to all of you. I hope 2009 is filled with wonderful memories and the best luck for all of you. Allah yi5aleekum li :) Thank you for keeping this blog alive and being so supportive! I love you all and hope you all had a safe and fun new years!Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com59tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-3926354957466833642008-09-20T17:41:00.000-07:002008-09-20T18:10:51.841-07:00Red RageAla'a watched the two cars behind her from her rear-view mirror as she waited at the traffic light. Two young mit7ajba women squeezed, giant 7ijab and all, in a red Porsche Turbo that seemingly wasn't their own by the way the were driving it. The woman in the driver's seat had flipped down the sun visor to check her bright red lipstick in the mirror, while her friend licked her vanilla ice cream cone, careful not to smudge her glossy pink lipstick.<br />The young men in the white Lexus next to them stared unabashedly, trying to get their attention. The woman driving the Porsche knew that people were staring at them - that was what she wanted. She puckered and pursed her lips in the mirror over and over again, knowing and not knowing that the men next to her were squinting their eyes and gaping with lust.<br />It was the next thing she saw that made Ala'a's stomach churn with disgust - the woman eating the ice cream cone turned to look at the men in the Lexus, unashamed and unaware of all the people that were staring at her and her friend. She then stuck out her tongue and proceeded to swirl it around the vanilla ice cream in the most seductive and suggestive manner she could, and then offered it to the men in the Lexus with a cheeky giggle.<br /><br />Ala'a's jaw dropped in shock, not even realizing that the light had turned green a few moments ago. She drove ahead and turned to check in her rear view mirror, only to see that the men in the Lexus had, most likely in disgust, taken the nearest exit away from the girls in the red Porsche. Ala'a smirked at no-one in particular, and continued her way home.<br /><br />'Is this what the women of our country have come down to?,' she thought to herself. Ala'a had recently started hearing more and more stories about Kuwaiti women throwing themselves onto men and degrading themselves in the process. Stories about girls following unsuspecting guys home; about girls leaving phone numbers and e-mail addresses on guys' car doors - the most recent one was of a girl getting the number of a guy she was eyeing through a friend who worked at Zain, and calling him at ungodly hours of the night, trying to seduce him.<br />Ala'a wondered - Do these women truly believe that any worthy man would respect them and their actions?<br /><br />Nearing her home, Ala'a slowed down at the turn only to see the girls in the red Porsche behind her. They gained on her and swerved to the left side of Ala'a's car. The girl who was licking the ice-cream wrung her hands at Ala'a as if to say "What? Shtabeen?" and her mouth moved, angrily shouting inaudible words. 'She probably thinks I made the men drive away from them,' Ala'a thought. She rolled her eyes at the girls in the Porsche and drove off in her own direction, thanking God that she has a good head on her shoulders.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-77104386733081055242008-09-01T19:15:00.000-07:002008-09-03T07:22:06.065-07:00Mbarak 3alaikum Il-Shahar :)Reham hovered over the hot stove, stirring the thick 3adas soup and watching the heat bubbles pop. 7amad hated it when the thin vermicelli noodles clumped to the bottom of the pot, because he would always find pastey lumps in his soup.<br /><br />7amad was never the angry kind - he was only very particular when it came to his meals. Especially now that they were married, 7amad longed for his mother's cooking. And it was not that Reham was a terrible cook - she could get by in the kitchen, but she was no match for Um 7amad. 7amad popped into the warm kitchen to see his wife stirring the soup gently, her dara3a hugging her womanly curves.<br />"Ya36eech il3afya, 7abeebti," he said with a smile. He was lucky to have a wife like Reham. All of his friends' wives had the maids do all the cooking while they went out and melted their husbands' credit cards shopping.<br />"Allah yi3afeek," she replied, grinning from ear to ear. Reham hoped to herself that he wouldn't come any closer - she smelled of vegetables and hot grease. 'Just a few more minutes and I'll head inside to shower,' she thought to herself. 7amad had gone inside to watch the last of the TV shows airing before Fu6oor.<br /><br />Reham turned off the stove and hurried inside and upstairs as quickly as she could, trying not to leave a stench of "6baa5" trailing behind her. Her cousins always told her that though a Kuwaiti man likes a hard-working woman, he likes a hard-working woman that smells good even more.<br /><br />In the bathroom, she slipped off her dara3a and started the shower. Steam began to fill their small bathroom, drowning the thick smell of grease. Reham let the hot water blast in her face, and she squinted, not wanting to get soap in her eyes.<br />She thought of the past few months she had spent with 7amad. He wasn't the most romantic husband in the world, but he treated Reham so nicely and spoke to her gently, careful not to hurt her feelings or raise his voice at her. They travelled whenever they had the chance, and he never left her alone late at night. Still, she missed the innocence they once shared - when it was hard to look him in the eye without blushing. The faint kiss he'd leave on her lips when they'd see each other. Being married to 7amad and living with him left Reham feeling deflowered at times, but having him this way was better than not having him at all.<br /><br />Downstairs, 7amad flipped through the TV channels until he came across 3amr 5alid's show, Il-Janna Fee Beyootina. 7amad admired 3amr 5alid's way of speaking and his principles, so 7amad listened carefully about how emotional and sexual energy should be dealt with during the Holy Month of Ramadhan.<br />"All women have needs and desires, and as women are to fulfill the desires of their husbands, husbands are urged to do the same," 3amr 5aled spoke to 7amad, pointing his fingers and flailing his hands every which way for emphasis. 7amad smiled and drummed his fingers on the leather armchair, thinking about his dear Reham who worked so hard to please him. Many women like going the extra mile for their spouses, and though some husbands do what they can to satisfy their needs, how do they know that their wives are truly happy? He couldn't help but wonder, was he pleasing his Reham? Was this marriage all she had hoped for?<br /><br />Reham interrupted his thoughts when she bounced down the stairs, her stringy wet hair flapping against her back. The call for prayer echoed throughout the streets of their fireej, and it was time for them to break their fast.<br /><br />7amad scooted his chair closer to Reham than usual, and he ladled the viscuous soup into her bowl. Reham was taken aback by his chivalry, but appreciated it deeply.<br />"7abeebi, ana a7e6lik! Don't worry," she smiled, pouring heaping ladles of 3adas soup into his bowl.<br />"Tislam eedich, Rahoomti," 7amad took her hand into his, "Yalla, bismillah."<br />They drank their soup in silence, with the exception of 7amad's "mmm"s of delight. Reham lowered her head bashfully, only to find 7amad's spoonful of soup near her mouth. She looked at him with a shy smile, and immediately understood the romance he was trying to rekindle. She sipped the hot 3adas from his spoon, and before she could swallow, 7amad leaned in to kiss her lightly. The taste of the peppery lentils danced on his lips, and a wave of emotion hung over them like a joyous cloud.<br />They enjoyed the rest of their meal, and their beginning of a very blessed Ramadhan.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-58677351637230374072008-08-27T22:03:00.000-07:002008-08-28T07:04:17.039-07:00Longing and BelongingJana couldn't stand it. The way her mother acted, sometimes. It was enough to drive any normal teenage girl up the wall.<br />Jana's mother seemed to always be hungry for attention since Bo Fawaz left her. From family, from friends, from strangers - she always tried to flaunt herself and exaggerate her stories in order to make herself feel wanted. It broke Jana's heart sometimes, but at other times it became absolutely ridiculous and embarrassing. Um Fawaz had a way of talking - stretching out her words and babying her voice, and a way of dressing - wearing colorful high heels, tight jeans, and even tighter tops. Even when she'd go out to restaurants with her children, she'd make it a point for all the men to look at her. Jana hated more than anything being the daughter of divorced parents, and this was the exact reason why.<br /><br />One summer night, Jana had fallen asleep late after staying up on the internet. Her mother barged into her room 15 minutes after she had dosed off and told her to take her to the hospital.<br />"3asa ma shar, Mama, shfeech??" Jana asked worriedly, springing up from her bed.<br />"Daggat galbi saree3a, madri shfeeni!" Her mother croaked in the dim light of Jana's room.<br />"Yalla, Mama, al7een awadeech," Jana wasn't in the mood to go anywhere at this hour, especially since she knew exactly what the doctors would say and what would happen. This wasn't the first time this happened. She slowly pulled her black Adidas sweater over her head and tied her hair up into a messy ponytail. "Are you ready to go, Mama?"<br /><br />She peered into her mother's room only to find her mother getting dressed up in jeans, a long tunic, and high heels.<br />"Wain ray7een? Mo giltay binroo7 ilmstashfa?" Jana asked, sarcastically. It was 3 AM; there was no need for high heels and all that get-up, especially since she was so used to her mother throwing on an 3abaya for these instances.<br />"5al9eeni," her mother grumbled, grabbing her purse from the armchair, "Yalla."<br /><br />The drive was quiet, except for her mother's loud breathing.<br />"Shfeech, are you ok?" Jana asked.<br />"Ee, ma feeni shay," her mother replied quietly. Jana raised her eyebrows, fed up with the silly charade her mother kept pulling.<br />They pulled into the parking lot of the hospital, and Jana's mother got down and teetered in her high heels towards the emergency room, Jana lugging behind her.<br />Her mother popped into the doctor's room, paying no heed to the people waiting in line before her. "Mama, fee nas gablich yayeen," Jana said, annoyed.<br />"Ma 3alaih," her mother replied. She began explaining to the Dr. M7amed about how she was in a deep sleep and how she suddenly jolted from her sleep because of her rapid heartbeats. She put her hand on the left side of her chest for emphasis. "Diktoor, madri shfeeni," she told him in a sad tone of voice.<br />"Ma feech illa il3afya, inshallah," Dr. M7amed replied, and proceeded to place his stethoscope along the lengths of her back. When he came around to put the stethoscope on her chest, Um Fawaz pulled the neckline of her shirt down, purposely exposing a little too much flesh. The doctor's face turned a deep pink, and Jana sucked her teeth and hid her face in shame.<br />Quickly, Dr. M7amed pulled away and said, "You heartbeat is normal. You might be just a little stressed out."<br />"Ee Dr., tadri ba3ad ilshi'3il wilbeit..," Um Fawaz began. Jana rolled her eyes in disgust. She knew there was nothing wrong with her mother; it was just a little act she'd create to make others pity her. Or to show herself off. Whatever it was, Jana was tired of it.<br />"I understand," Dr. M7amed smiled politely, and Jana and Um Fawaz made their way out of the doctor's room.<br /><br />The drive home was quiet once again, untill Um Fawaz's mobile rang. It was Um 6areq, her best friend. Um 6areq was nocturnal - she would sleep for long hours during the day, and would stay up all night watching movies on MBC. "3alamich hal 7azza 6al3a? 3asa ma shar?" Jana could hear Um 6areq's loud voice from the phone.<br />"Ta3bana, walla, kint nayma chan afiz min ilnooma walagi galbi ga3d yidig bser3a! Madri shfeeni!" Um Fawaz repeated the story to her friend. Jana tried to stop herself from dozing off at the wheel, and luckily, they made it home in a few minutes time.<br />"Tabeeni anam 3indich?" Jana asked her mother, just in case she would have one of her incidents again.<br />"La, la, no need. Thank you, 7abeebti," she replied.<br /><br />The next days went on as they usually did, with Jana waiting sourly for her mother's next performance.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-677978919945951050.post-87282090076776073952008-08-27T04:21:00.000-07:002008-08-27T10:32:13.526-07:00Like Chai for ChocolateMishari was always so stubborn with his ways.<br />'He's so difficult! Mashallah 3alaih, rasa shino yabis!' his wife Nuwair would think to herself while clearing off the dinner table.<br />It was hard being a newly-wed wife. For Nuwair, it was harder being married to Mishari. Even though they married after a wild love affair of two years, it seemed as if all things between them related to romance had just about died since their marriage certificate was sealed. Some reminders of this included the half-full plate of food that she had prepared especially for him - she had slaved in the tiny kitchen of their apartment for at least two hours, baking the chicken lasagna that she had prided herself so much in learning. All Mishari could do was fork his food around the plate to make it seem like he had eaten, and made some quick excuse that he had to meet the guys at the diwaniya for the final football match between God-knows-who.<br />He hadn't even thanked her for the dinner.<br />"Mita bitrid?" Nuwair tentatively approached their bedroom, where Mishari was pulling his creamy white dishdasha over his head.<br />"Madri, laish?" Mishari replied flatly.<br />"Kint bag3ad wiyak shway..," she spoke softly and suggestively. Nuwair had recently gone on a shopping expedition dedicated entirely to lingerie - classy, flirty, downright sexy; she had bought every piece she liked without hesitation, and couldn't wait to try them on for Mishari.<br />"Yimkin at2a5ar," Mishari added quietly, feeling a pinch of remorse at leaving his wife at home alone. "A7awil arid imbachir. Ok?" he asked, walking towards her.<br />Nuwair nodded quickly and he kissed her head, grabbing his wallet and keys on the way out.<br /><br />The next couple of hours were spent primping and preparing for a night of seduction. Nuwair was sure that Mishari understood her subtle hint, and that he would really try to make it home as soon as possible. She curled her hair into bouncy luscious tresses, and teased it to maintain it's puff. She even went as far as applying make-up, something she'd never do for a night of intimacy. Nuwair stood bare in front of her closet, greeted by the array of colored lace, chiffon, dantelle, and ruffles.<br />"Which one of you will I be wearing tonight?" she spoke aloud happily to her lingerie collection. She sorted through the hangers with her perfectly manicured fingers, and finally settled for a baby pink dantelle teddy.<br />The lace on the sides of the teddy hugged her caramel curves, and Nuwair tied each end into a neat satiny bow.<br />After a few persistent text messages to Mishari, he finally told her he'd leave the diwaniya and come home to be with her. Butterflies danced in her stomach as she drew a warm bath for the both of them, sprinkling in a handful of scented bath salt and watching it fizz and bubble. There was nothing left for Nuwair to do but wait. And wait she did.<br /><br />She waited for what seemed like forever, trying not to lay down too much on her curled hair, in fear of flattening it into a teased mess. But she couldn't help her exhaustion, and the fact that she had clumped make-up on her eyelids made her even more sleepy. Giving in after realizing that Mishari wasn't coming home anytime soon, Nuwair fell asleep in her pink teddy, her curled mane, and her delicately made-up face.<br /><br />An hour after Nuwair had fallen asleep, Mishari creaked the door of their bedroom open only to find his wife sleeping, beautiful, sad and alone. His heart winced at how she could allow herself to sleep before her husband was home, but when he saw the lit candles in the bathroom, surrounding the now cold aromatic bath, a thick wave of guilt swept over Mishari. He made his way over to their bed, where Nuwair was sleeping soundly. He felt a surge of excitement at the sight of her sexy lingerie, and the longer he stared, the stronger it became. But he knew it would be absolutely selfish to wake her and ensue what she had started. After all, it was his fault he was late.<br /><br />So Mishari blew out the candles and drained the bath, turned off the dimmed lights and crawled into bed, snuggling next to Nuwair as if to make up for his negligence. Anyone walking into the room at that moment would had envied the perfect picture they created, but only a fly on the wall would know what really went on. The reality gutted Nuwair with gloom at times, and even in her sleep it scared her that she couldn't keep up with the battle with holy matrimony.<br />But in her sleep, she smiled, feeling Mishari's soft breath near the curve of her neck.<br />There was always another day, and always more lingerie.Chicken Souphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11854257112093702805noreply@blogger.com10