apropos of anything

W. Mark Felt finally admitted he was the “Deep Throat” referenced during the Watergate investigation. To Vanity Fair. The same Vanity Fair whose last big breaking story was about the infighting amongst the desperate housewives.

Yeah, I don’t get it either.

Why VF? Why not just tell the Washington Post crew, hey, go ahead and spill the beans! Or, if he’d had a falling out with the fine folks at the Post, perhaps sister news mag Newsweek? Actually, I can see why he wouldn’t want to go with Newsweek (more on that in just a bit), but there’s still Time. The New Yorker. The New York Times, even, if he wanted to go for a combination of the two. Dozens of serious news outlets that would have climbed all over each other for the chance to break this story… and he picked style magazine Vanity Fair.

It’s like naming a bowler “athlete of the year.” I mean, you can, but there’s undoubtedly more qualified people out there.

The Newsweek snub, however, is not entirely unfathomable. After all, this is the magazine that got the bulk of the Quran desecration story correct, yet under pressure from the government, they retracted it before we even had time to adequately express our outrage. Obviously the journalistic integrity of their predecessors didn’t stick within the corporation. If I were W. Mark Felt, Newsweek’s spineless backpeddling probably wouldn’t inspire me into giving them the scoop either.

There’s a larger issue here about the media doing their job regardless of the pressure put on them by the subject(s) currently under their scrutiny, and of the public needing to have faith that they’ll get the story, the whole story, each and every time. There’s also an issue of the media ensuring they’ve gotten everything straight before sending a story to press (or to air, these days). I suppose we’ll completely never know how much of the quick cave-in at Newsweek was due to a shaky source and how much to external pressure, but if their source wasn’t solid, they should have gotten independent confirmation before printing, and if it was, they should have stood their ground.

Because they were, after all, right.

The supporting evidence that has come out of the woodwork is too numerous to link. Report after report after report of abuses claimed by the detainees, and unflattering new nickname to boot. I wonder what the history books will say in fifty years about the “Gulag of our time” and how we responded to it, particularly our president who said today the allegations of abuse were made by “people who hate America.” So… Amnesty International hates America?

Of course, at this point, I’m kinda wondering who Bush thinks doesn’t hate America.

That’s me today, a world-class hider-outer who spent the bulk of her day reading and eating ice cream and watching The Incredibles on the shiny new DVD player that Aamir got her. Also sometimes making or taking phone calls with TNT’s Law and Order marathon for a soundtrack, and definitely thinking about all the cleaning she should be doing but wasn’t.

This was my wallow day, my downtime, my t-shirt-and-Georgia-Tech-sweatpants interval. I didn’t even watch the news or read CNN… much.

It’s only for the day, though. Tomorrow, not only am I not allowed to be anything but productive, I also have to get reacquainted with what’s going on in the world. Those are the rules. Oh, and I have to leave behind all the things that made me want to wallow in the first place. That’s the biggest rule of them all.

If you’ll excuse me, then, I have about ninety minutes left. See you on the other side!

Dear women who use office bathrooms,

Flushing is your friend, as are trash receptacles. We’ve had this conversation already, so I know you know what I’m talking about. Eww. Seriously. Do you do this at home? I didn’t think so, which begs the question — why do you do it here? Do you realize how absolutely disgusting it is for the person who walks into the stall next?

Stop it. Now. This is no longer a request.

Thank you,
All the women on the floor, and the janitorial staff to boot

Dear people who park in two spaces,

If you’re so worried about your “baby” being dinged, you may want to consider leaving it in your garage and taking public transportation. Otherwise, you can suck it up and park in your allotted space. I hear sometimes parking waaaay in the back where nobody else wants to go works too. But every time I see you straddling the spaces, I have to fight down an urge to whip out my keys and leave a nice message on your car.

Much appreciated,
Drivers everywhere

Dear parents who took your kids to Revenge of the Sith this weekend,

Which part of the abundant the pre-release press, particularly the ones that highlighted the darkness pervading this film, made you think it’d be okay to take your tots to see it in the theaters? You’re old enough to have some familiarity with the original Star Wars flicks. You know Vader and the Emporer killed all the Jedi. Did you think that would happen off-screen?

Even if your precious moppet insists, sometimes as a parent you have to channel Nancy Reagan and just say no. Unless, of course, you have no problem with them seeing Anakin Skywalker slaughtering children just like them.

Seriously, did you think about this?
Concerned moviegoers

Dear people who are always “too busy”,

Let me go a little country on you: You ain’t that busy.

You’re not too busy to find out what’s going on in the world or whether it’s going to rain today. You’re not too busy to return phone calls, send RSVPs, or keep your engagements. That’s not being busy. That’s being rude.

The people in your life deserve more from you, and it’s about time you grew up and realized what it means to be an adult.

Sincerely yours,
The entire world

Quick, it’s a multiple choice question! Is the above:

A) My email signature

B) Something Homer said on The Simpsons this Sunday

C) Something I said at our lovely North Carolina hotel this Saturday

D) Not a good sign

E) Both C and D

Those of you who said E, well, you’re just brilliant. Or cheating because you were actually in the hotel with me, and therefore you are disqualified and will not be receiving any charming surprises at all.

But enough about the hotel. The less said, the better, actually, for all our sakes, especially because there was so much more to North Carolina this weekend than our hotel.

	A familiar sight in the South.

Take, for example, the Yankee half of the family discovering Waffle House.

(They claim our fine southern establishment has crept north of the Mason-Dixon line, but I can’t imagine it’s the same up there, where you can only pick from two Waffle Houses in the entire city, while here we have a certain intersection on Tara Blvd. where you have your choice between four, yes four, different Waffle Houses.)

We had one next door to our hotel, so of course we had to go the first night. This particular Waffle House didn’t have vanilla or cherry syrup, nor did they have apple butter that didn’t come in pre-packaged, so apparently there are honors to be won even in the South.

The gas station across the street, however, with its mini grocery store, and its camo hats and hunting paraphernalia, stands in a category entirely of its own.

There was also our trip to the lovely Duke gardens, halal Philly cheesesteaks, ice cream from a family-owned dairy out in the middle of farmland — the ten-minute drive out there was half the fun — and then a frenzied dinner at Mansoor’s apartment, complete with twelve trips to Harris Teeter. And that was all Saturday.

Sunday was the graduation ceremony itself. No fewer than three sources told me I was flayed in effigy Sunday morning when the boys discovered I’d put all the water bottles in Mansoor’s freezer; thank goodness I’m not Debra Messing (with her awful, awful hair), or I’d have felt compelled to do the told-you-so dance in the middle of the muggy outdoor ceremony when we discovered the water bottles had melted just enough to be both drinkable and deliciously cold. Hah.

So, ceremony (with surprisingly good commencement speech courtesy of Dr. Peter Gomes of the Harvard Divinity School), hurried pictures, lunch, and more pictures. To wit:

Just the kids, fulfilling a family tradition on a campus full of traditions.
(That’s the old well in the back.)

We are quite the paparazzi family. No less than five cameras got that shot, and there’s an even funnier one on Sumaiya’s camera of all the photographers going after the same picture.

And that was that. We’re good for another year now, until Rashaad flees the Illini coop.

The end.

P.S. Yes, Dan, I’m at work.

On the one hand, hijabi women are dowdy and primitive, too feeble-minded to realize they’re being oppressed by their misogynistic cultures. They never had a chance! To see what they could be! Oh, if only some cowboy could ride in on his F-14 fighter jet and give them some freedom.

On the other hand, hijabi women are a disgrace to the religion. Did you see what she was wearing? Why you could almost make out the faint shape of her leg if you focused so hard on her pants that you came dangerously close to passing out.

Back on the first hand, those hijabis need education and exposure to the western world. Even the ones who already live in the western world. Obviously if they think they’re putting that scarf on their head voluntarily, they haven’t been properly enlightened. After all, this is the twenty-first century. We’ve long since left such archaic traditions behind; now women can wear what they want!

But on that second hand (can’t forget the second hand, by far the more irritating of the two), hijabi women, they’re so hypocritical. Can’t you see that wisp of hair peeking out from underneath the scarf? And her shirt is so short! Not as short as mine, but still, it only goes halfway past her butt. Can you believe it?

Yes, yes I can. And I have a message for all of you, so listen up, because I’m only going to say this once.

STOP JUDGING US.

	A cartoon, but I didn’t want to use the face of a woman I didn’t know. Plus, it kind of fits.

Those of you who aren’t Muslim and don’t understand why we do it: We would love to sit down and explain it to you, or not, as you choose. But we don’t judge your taste in clothing (or lack thereof) or your religious beliefs (ditto), and we’d really appreciate it if you didn’t judge ours. We don’t need your women’s lib organizations staging an intervention on our behalf. We’re fine. Really.

Those of you who are Muslim and wear hijab yourselves: You should know better.

And those of you who are Muslim and don’t wear hijab yourselves: Exactly where is that leg you’re standing on? If a hijabi woman bent down to pick something up instead of squatting (and the squatting rule applies to all women, thanks), I don’t want to hear your horrified shock as you stand there talking to me in your short lacy sleeves and exposed head. Until you’ve gone through it, through the comments, and the staring, and the coveting of something beautiful you can never wear because it cuts just a little low or a tad too tight, I don’t want to hear it. When you’ve made the effort yourself, I might care what you think about another woman’s hijab… but I don’t really think so because that’s between her and God.

Sometimes a hijabi can use some guidance. We welcome that. It’s like when I was sixteen years old, facing my high school graduation, and wanting desperately to fit in when I walked across that stage. I wanted to find some way around the hijab, some other way to cover my head, possibly by tucking my hair into the hat. (I tried it, but my head is so abnormally huge I had to get an extra large hat, and even then there was no room for the hair.) My mother said I could do whatever I wanted — wear it, not wear it — but that I should remember it was the decisions I made in times like this that really mattered. I wore it. The other hijabi who graduated didn’t. All that meant was that I had the direction I needed; perhaps she didn’t, but what she certainly didn’t need was the resulting chatter throughtout the entire religious community. Guidance is not the same thing as judgement. Or criticism. Or gossip.

You non-hijabi Muslims understand why we cover, you don’t do it, yet you’re completely nonplussed about excoriating a hijabi’s attire, even one unknown to you. Hello, pot. Meet the kettle.

And finally, to those of you, Muslim and non-Muslim, hijabi and non-hijabi, who stand beside us and support us every day, who fight for our right to wear what we want where we want, who understand when we slip up, and who see the person before the hijab: Thank you so much. You have no idea the strength you give us.

There’s a certain Chinese restuarant at the corner of Buford Highway and Shallowford Dr. that has been a perennial favorite of me and mine since our college days. Friday night out frequently meant an early dinner at Little Szechuan followed by a movie at the gaudy Regal Hollywood 24 just up the service drive. It was a cheerful, delectable pattern that crumbled soon after people began graduating and leaving for parts unknown. Eventually, going out to Buford Highway meant trekking all the way across the city for some, and our frequently, almost weekly visits faded quietly away.

I think it’s because we’d forgotten what we were missing. I went last night with Heather and Jason, who were in town for the weekend (yay!), and who I haven’t seen in quite some time. And with one bite, all three of us agreed immediately: the food really is that much better than the Chinese you find everywhere else. It’s worth the drive. It’s worth the inconvenient timing. (Although the restaurant has recently moved its closing time back by half an hour, 9:30 is still a tad early for any night, and especially a weekend. We won’t even get into how they’re inexplicably closed on Tuesdays.) And it’s definitely worth the price.

Instead of kitschy fortune cookies, the Little Szechuan crew brings you orange slices. They remember your name and your favorites; when we were regulars, rare was the meal they didn’t bring us complimentary green beans or a complimentary appetizer. And I particularly appreciate how the waitress was quick to point out (more to me than to Heather and Jason) that a certain soup had pork in it, and were we sure we wanted some? (We did, because we knew there was pork in it, and I hadn’t planned on having any, but it’s Jason’s absolute favorite.)

Little Szechuan’s not the place you go for glitz or glamour. It’s where you make your comfortable memories, that tucked away informal spot you go to in your favorite jeans and with your favorite friends, the one that always has that exact something you didn’t even realize you’d been craving.