Graceful Day

Dear devoted disciples,

As I have grown older, the one thing I have learned is that retrospect teaches you everything. I am lucky to have been a genius child as well as adult, and have kept journals for a very long time. You are lucky because you will now join me on an adventure through time, back to the simple times of 1995.

Transcribed exactly as written, I present the Nasrin c. 2nd Grade Collection.*

(*Not for psychoanalytical purposes.)


The Day Before Cinco de Mayo
Miss Edwards let us practice for Cinco De Mayo. Natasha did it wrong. She had to go back and do it again. Then she poked Brittney in the eye. Natasha had to watsh. Iliana got poked by Ashley and she got poked by Holly. Miss Edwards said No MORE Cinco de Mayo. So nobody poked anybody else. The End.

Miss Edwards and Mickey
One day Miss Edwards went to disneyland she met Douneld duck, Goofy, Miney mouse, and pluto. At last she met Mickey mouse. Mickey din't like her. Miss Edwards was sad Mickey said he thote sheh was fat. Miss Edwards started to cry. She died of crying. As for micky he was a hero for killing Miss Edwards. The End.

Miss Edwards Gets Fat
One day Miss Edwards saw a junk food store. she wanted some choclet bars but her mother said NO. evreyday Miss Edwards asked her mother the same qushtien. One day Miss Edwards's Mother said yes. Miss Edwards went back to the junk food store and ate all she could find till she got as fat as an elephant! The End.

Miss Edwards
Miss Edwards is 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 and 56. Miss Edwards is a lepercoune. Miss Edwards is a big mean bear. Miss Edwards is a pig and she has four eyes. The End.

Flowers are red
Flowers are red
Violets are lazy
You are a fool
and I am crazy.

Miss Edwards and Her Money
Miss Edwards needs money said her sacratary so she told Miss Edwards. Miss Edwards got on the taxi she sad BANK! really loud but on the way the taxi broke down just then the phone rang Miss Edwards ansered it was her mother. She said to come over. So she did. Miss Edwards told her mom that No Money. So her mother kicked her out. So Miss Edwards got to walk to her house. She got in her little car and went to the bank and on the way back her car broke down. She walked home and took a nap. In her dreams she said At Last Money. The End.

The Worst Nightmare of All (incomplete)
Miss Edwards was about to go to sleep when the doorball rang and it was MC Hammer. But she couldent get the door because she fell asleep. In her dream well it was a nightmare, But anyway she was in a palce palece dressed in rags. She saw this hold huanted house out sideside. She looked behind her she saw a ghost. She thout , "A gost in a palece?" Well it was true. So she ran and bumped into a skeleton. She was so scard that she fainted. After she got up and was on her feet she called "Mama!" Miss Edwards got out of the Palece. But when she got outside the huanted house was gone. So she woke up. She ansered the doorbell. No one was there. She was beganing to think her dream came true. So she tried to run aaround the house, she din't bump into a skelaton. She tried looking behind her. She dint' see a gost. But while...

Graceful Days
Graceful Days
When I walk on the mountain,
Thats a gracful day,
Having fun with my sister
can sometimes mean we have to play with a horse without no mane.

When going to my friends house,
Thats a graceful day.
But if my friends not home,
Her dog will be laying in hay.

When playing ressas at school,
that's a graceful day.
But if its raining,
Heads up 7up we play.

So don't ever say,
It's a graceful day.
If your dog, Poopsy
won't stay.


I should explain that these entries were written by a very sweet eight year old who never got in trouble and loved her second grade teacher, Miss Edwards. Miss Edwards was by no means fat, ugly, wretched or cruel.

Also, this eight year old did not own, know someone who owned, or had ever heard of a dog named Poopsy.

Only one child can explain these, but she is now grown up.

Signed,
Prudy

Lit Major? That's nice.

Dear potential proteges,

I was talking to a new coworker today and he asked me what I was studying. When I said, "Writing!" he blinked at me for a few seconds like that was the first time he had ever heard the word.

When I first began applying to colleges, I looked at what skills and passions I could translate into a major.

One of my good friends was going to study mechanical engineering. I thought, “Hey! I can do derivatives.” But then I learned about integrals and double variable integrals and I realized that if I don’t know what mechanical engineers even do and if I can’t even function a graphing calculator without slamming it on my desk, then maybe engineering isn’t the right track.

Another classmate of mine was studying human biology. Well, I liked biology in high school. Meiosis, mitosis! But physics? Organic chemistry? Why do I have to study that? I think not.

After exhausting numerous general catalogs and taking multiple personality and career aptitude tests (apparently I would be an excellent drama school teacher) I remembered that I have always loved to read. And writing has been second nature since I could grasp a pencil.

There it was right in front of me! A literature and writing major!

Then I finally understood why it was called “declaring” a major instead of “choosing” or “picking”. Because once I became a literature major I had officially declared myself a particular type of person.

For instance, did you know that all literature majors will never make any money? I have had countless awkward conversations with distant relatives about this very prospect. According to an estranged aunt from Texas, I am doomed to write the paragraphs found on the backs of novels. Also, I will be forced to remove misplaced periods and semicolons from articles in local magazines about fruit mold or freeway additions until I retire. No offense meant to anyone who holds these positions, but they do not hold up well against entire families of engineers and doctors. Many phone calls have ended with, “Oh, lit major. That’s nice.”

Also, I have read every single book registered in the Library of Congress. If a Jeopardy category has the words “literature” or “fiction” or “book” in it, then I am obviously the expert. How dare I not know what city Hemingway was born? I’m a lit major! What? I don’t remember how many scenes are in the second act of Romeo and Juliet? But I’m a lit major! Wait, I can’t remember if it is alumnus or alumna or alumni? Come on, lit major!

But I think my favorite part about being a literature major is that whenever I use a word longer than three syllables someone has to roll their eyes and groan, “lit major!” This is true, even if, in most cases, they know what the word means. For example, we were watching an interview on television and I said that the man was very ostentatious. Right away, my best friend said, “Okay, lit major!” Also, if they’re shorter words but the person I am speaking to doesn’t know what they mean, then I am obviously a literature major. I was joking with this same friend and I mentioned the word “smite”. She looked at me with a blank expression and said, “Gosh, lit major!”

I suppose as far as stereotypes go, working a boring under-paid job, being well-read, and having a large vocabulary aren’t so bad. But if I hear, “You made a typo. Aren’t you a lit major?” one more time, I think I’ll go into a diatribe.

Signed,
Prudy

How To Not #1

Dear numero unos,

Since I am positive that the males among us are wondering how to win me over every minute they aren't thinking about reading my blog, I have decided to give them a little guidance.

How to NOT win a date with Nasrin Aboulhosn:
1. Ask what my name is and then laugh.
"Hi, I'm ____. What's your name?"
"Hi. I'm Nasrin."
Chuckle. "Oh, really?"

2. Ask me where I'm from and then say, "No, you're not."
"I'm from Brazil but I'm visiting the states for a while. Where are you from?"
"Oh really, I was born there!"
"No, you weren't."
"Yes, I was."
"I don't believe you."
"Um, well I was."
"No. No you weren't."
"..."

3. Start the conversation with a piece of trivia.
"Have you seen the music video to this song? The director shot it in slow motion."
"No, I haven't."
"...Oh."

4. Tell me how drunk you are.
"I'm so drunk, but if I weren't I would say nice things to you and tell you that you were beautiful."
"But I'm not beautiful right now?"
"I'm so drunk!"

5. Pretend you know me.
"Excuse me, are you the girls who live next to me?"
"No, we aren't."
"Oh, I thought you were the girls who live next to me."
"Well...no."

There are of course many more ways but this is all I can think about after a frustrating few weeks. As always, there are many ways TO win a date with Nasrin Aboulhosn, so keep trying my fellow fellows.

Signed,
Prudy

Having a Good Friend for Dinner

To whom it may concern, otherwise everyone:

Now that the summer is almost behind us, I feel comfortable looking back at my summer goal and seeing how far I have come in accomplishing it. As many of you may know, I have no idea what I want to do with tomorrow or next year or my life. But I have thought about including film in my future, and thought that watching all the Best Pictures would be a good background in showing me what “good” film is.

This summer I have watched 13, all of which have affected me in a small way. However, none more than the Jonathan Demme classic (I had to Wikipedia that), The Silence of The Lambs.

While my neighbors were barbecuing chicken and tossing a football in the park on Labor Day, I was laying down on the couch for a night with that infamous face muncher Anthony Hopkins. I was complaining to a friend earlier that day that I had to watch The Silence of the Lambs and she said, “Don’t worry. It’s not scary. It’s just weird.”

Not scary? Really? When was the last time an overbearingly cold-stoned* man grabbed your head and BIT your mouth off? Oh, never? Well, then you wouldn’t know would you, if it was scary or not. I really wish on my life I never meet Anthony Hopkins because I never want to hear him say “Hello, Nasrin”. Even if he says “Hey, Nasrin, what's up?” or “Yo, Naz” I would scream “CANNIBAL!” and bolt.

(*By cold-stoned I mean unemotionally creepy, not full of ice cream)

If you don’t believe me, please let me continue my story. After 118 minutes of gut-crunching terror (I had to IMDB that), I sat in silence staring at the black screen. How could Jonathan Demme make such an afflicting movie? I knew I would never be the same.

Suddenly the phone rang, and I jumped. But I wiped my brow because it was only my friend asking me to come pick her up from her apartment so we could have dinner together.

I grabbed my purse and started to walk out the door, but too late did I realize that it was dark out there. I slowed my pace but kept telling myself I was being silly. Hannibal Lecter was not real! And even if he was, he didn’t live in La Jolla. So I began to calm down as I walked to my car and climbed in. But even so, I looked around for a few seconds and quickly locked the doors. Better safe than eaten.

My friend’s apartment was suddenly far too far. Why did she have to live three blocks away? Anything could happen in three blocks. And it did. I was almost eaten that night.

I was stopped at an intersection, my friend’s apartment complex right in front of me and my destination clear. I turned up the radio, encouraged by the thought that I wouldn’t be alone soon. The Jonas Brothers were on and everything was working out in my favor. I danced along to their catchy rhymes but looked around to make sure no one could see me enjoying them so much. When I looked to the left, the coast was clear. I was free from Jo Bro ridicule. But when I looked to the right, my heart started racing.

A man dressed in a black long-sleeved shirt and black slacks stood motionless on the sidewalk, staring into my passenger side window. He began to walk towards my car.

Oh, God. Oh, God. Hannibal, it’s Hannibal and he’s coming to eat me.

I locked my doors again, hoping the loud click of the lock would distract him and I would be able to drive to the haven of the McDonalds across the street. This, however, did not affect him even the slightest bit, as now he was three inches away from my backseat door.

Oh, God. Oh, God. What do I do? The light is red and the traffic is heavy, if I drove into the intersection I would be road kill. But if I stayed still I would be dinner. I couldn’t believe that Hannibal Lecter was actually out to get me.

I studied my rearview mirror and saw Dr. Lecter slow down and walk behind my car, only his chest and upper legs visible.

I kept trying to tell myself, “Stop it, stop it, it’s just some creepy man who for some reason had to cross the street an inch behind your car. Obviously your magnetic personality attracted yet another one.”

But when he stopped behind my left tire, I couldn’t take it anymore and jerked my car forward, hoping somehow to scare him away.

This is when the Man in Black, who in the time I had taken to move my foot off the gas had continued to walk toward the sidewalk, turned around and looked me square in the eye. He stared at me and slowly smiled, sending a shiver from my nose down to my knees. The light turned green and, when a few seconds before I couldn’t wait to speed out of that intersection, now I couldn’t even move. A car behind me had to honk and flip me the bird before I realized that I should keep driving.

Not scary? I beg to differ.

Signed,
Prudy

Tents of Dystopia

Dear stalkers-in-a-good-way,

I apologize for being an hour late in posting this! It is technically Monday, I know. Please don’t be confused.

This week’s story begins just like any other story. An unsuspecting character is ignorantly enjoying her day when suddenly an enemy, some unforeseen evil, comes out of the blue water.

When I woke up today the sun was shining, so I decided to walk down to my community pool. I walked through the green park by our apartment complex, loving the breeze and the warm atmosphere. Children were riding along on Playskool three-wheelers with parents chasing them yelling, “SLOW DOWN!” in different languages. That is, different parents yelling in one language each. That would be strange for one parent to be yelling “SLOW DOWN! A’MIHLEEK! VAYA MAS DESPACIA!”

Lone rangers were sitting on benches reading the novels they’ve had on shelves for months. Sweaty teenage boys were gawking at the pool gate waiting for, well, me, obviously. It was a gorgeous day.

I walked into the pool area and tried to decide where to sit. I didn’t want to be in the moving shadow of an overbearing tree. I also didn’t want to lay next to an occupied chair and awkwardly try to indicate that my choosing the empty lawn chair next to your lawn chair out of a sea of empty lawn chairs does not mean I want to sleep with you or your child. Finally I chose a seemingly safe region and prepared to have a peaceful hour or two with the sunshine, the cool water, and George Orwell.

Just then, two little girls, both shorter than my ankles, ran to a corner behind me. That’s strange, I thought. And slightly frightening. So I kept my eye on them, in a very non-stalker type of way. I heard them mention a tent and towels, and the child in me became very excited. My younger sister and I would spend hours constructing tents out of blankets and chairs, towels and couches, anything we could drape over anything else. My parents loved the idea that their daughters would grow up to be brilliant and successful engineers. Words cannot contain their disappointment.

One of the little girls said, “I’ll throw this towel over this fence and we can put it over this chair!” The adult in me became very upset. Throwing a towel over a chain link fence? Really? Do you think that’s going to make a tent? All you’re going to do is throw your towel into the trees.

Which of course she did, except for one little thread still hanging on the top of a spike. She said, “Woops…too high.”

The little girl started climbing this chain link fence, while the other girl was just watching. This second girl, by the way, was very much the dud of the duo. She didn’t say one word or contribute one method of tent-making. Strictly there for show. A trophy friend with Dora the Explorer bikini bottoms. I have friends like that. Except instead of Dora it’s Blue. With a paw print on the back.

So this other girl was climbing this terribly high fence, which to them must have seemed like the Tower of Babel, without the blasphemous undertones.

I realized that she was probably going to fall and crack her skull so I got up and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll get your towel for you.”

She says, panting, “No, I got it!”

So I stood and watched as she kept placing her foot in the same exact place and slipping. Trying to climb and slipping.

Then she said, “Okay.”

I grabbed her hot pink towel and said with a smile, “I think if you’re going to make a tent, you should fold up the backs of these two lawn chairs and drape the towel over each one.”

Chubs snatched her towel and says, “Thanks. Okay.”

I walked back to my chair, offended by this rude reaction to my help. Here I am, a tent expert, saving her towel from the other side, and all she says is, “Okay.” Well!

I try to concentrate on 1984, which by the way does not make for light summer reading, but I can’t help turning around and observing their so-called progress. After half an hour they had finally succeeded in creating a “tent” that could fit only half of one of them. Wouldn’t even shade my left foot.

Then Towel Girl turns around to face me, glaring like I’ve never seen anyone do before. At first I thought maybe it was the sun, but I realized the sun was in my face, not hers. I have never been so afraid of a six-year-old, until now. I have never been so afraid of anyone.

All the while her mother was just smiling from across the pool. Excuse me, I wanted to say, your daughter is melting my internal organs with the death-rays shooting from her beady little eyes and all you can say is, “Charlotte! Charlotte, do you want some watermelon?”

I would have liked some watermelon, but no.

Signed,
Prudy

Her Whole World's Come Undone

Dear adoring vassals,

I have decided that I will update this “blog” every Sunday, because a) I am lucky if one notable thing happens to me during any given week and b) I am sure you do not want to stay up every night thinking “Oh, God, when am I going to get another glimpse into the brilliant mind I so adore? Please let it be tomorrow, oh please!” Now you know that every Sunday you can look forward to laughing, crying, and really growing as a person. And then after you watch Oprah, you can read this.

Now, this “blog” entry is about an issue that is very important to me. There are many “blogs” out there dedicated to social, economic, and political concerns. And with the election coming up soon, I feel that this is the best time to bring this up, because it effects tens of people everyday and that is ten too many.

Last Monday, August 18, 2008, I was walking to the bus stop at approximately 12:45pm. I had poetry class (another issue that I have been lobbying against) and did not have time to eat a proper lunch, what with waking up and having to read poems all morning (please write to your congressman immediately).

I quickly made a sandwich of pita bread and lebneh, or what us Lebanese call sandwichit lebneh. We do this so no one knows what we are talking about. Lebneh is white and has the consistency of thick yogurt, but I believe it is technically a cheese. Regardless, it is delicious and it makes a yummy sandwichie. That means sandwich. Isn’t it nice that you’re being exposed to an entirely different language?

Anyway, I was walking down Cargill Avenue listening to my iPod and eating my sandwichit lebneh. Around the middle of “Janie’s Got A Gun”, I realized I must have spread way too much lebneh on the bread. Before I could stop and resituate the roll the lebneh started falling out and I started feeling cold yogurt/cheese all around my face and fingers. Why hadn’t I brought more than one napkin? And what happened between Janie and her dad? Was there really no way to fix it? Come on, guys.

By the time I took a seat on the bus, I was confident I had wiped off all the lebneh. I bent down to take a pen out of my bag and saw a long white line down the shin of my jeans.

“Oh, silly me,” I thought. “I got lebneh all down my pants! That’s weird that it didn’t get on my thigh, but oh well! I’ll wait until I get to campus and then I’ll clean it up.” And I rode happily to school unaware that my life had just changed forever.

Later I was sitting on a bench waiting for class to begin.

I mean, later I was walking around campus looking really cool and not caring whether class was going to start or not. But then I was a little tired from being so cool so I decided to sit next to a bench near my class.

I then remembered about the lebneh on my pants, and I took out my napkin, which was now almost torn to shreds. I began to wipe the lebneh off, sure that it wouldn’t be a struggle.

Why wasn’t it coming off? Why had it hardened? Lebneh doesn’t harden. No, I’m sure I’m just not pushing hard enough.

So I wipe a little harder and a bit of the white line comes off in the napkin, much like I had wiped off some wax. That’s weird.

I brought the napkin up to my nose. Still, to this day, I cannot explain why I did this. I know what lebneh smells like. I do not know what other white substances smell like. Did I think I was suddenly a CSI detective? Part of NYPD Blue? A Charlie’s Angel? And I know I’m not a Charlie’s Angel because I never got a call back.

But it didn’t take a detective to figure this one out.

It was shit. Bird shit. A bird shat on my leg. There I was was with shit on my pants and a shitty napkin under my nose.

Suddenly, in the nausea that ensued, my life flashed before my eyes. Walking to the bus stop humming Aerosmith, bird shit on my leg. Waiting at the bus stop thinking about what to have for dinner, bird shit on my leg. Sitting on the bus trying to avoid the drunkard at the back’s reproachful glances and screams about Harold and Kumar, bird shit on my leg. I had just spent the last sixty-five minutes with bird shit ON MY LEG.

And what was worse is that it was just on the shin of my pants. Which means I had just slightly walked in the line of fire. I had walked into the bird shit. So it isn’t so much that a bird shat on my leg. I had, through my own freedom and will, subconsciously said, “You know what would look really great with these pants is some bird shit.”

I cannot wear these pants again. Call me wasteful, but I am a very spiritual person who believes that everything happens for a reason. This bird chose these pants to shit on. I don’t know exactly what this means, but I know he doesn’t shit on everybody.

Just me.

Signed,
Prudy

Introduction

Dear my surely vast amount of fans,

I have just spent three and half-hours creating this, as you call it, “blog”. I refuse to believe “blog” is a real word, but if I don’t say it this may not exist, so I’ll humor you.

I had no idea it would take me so long to finish. Why do you have to know HTML to put a picture on the background of your blog? You don't have to know any special code to put a picture up on a wall. If I want to put up a piece of notebook paper with the words "Signed, Prudy”, I just tear a piece of scotch tape and stick on the stucco!

(I did have a wall blog for about a month, though, it didn’t really work out. It was on one of the stalls of a Target restroom. I got tired of reading comments like "Susan is a bitch" and "Adam + Stephanie Forever".)

But with this here, I had to first make the "Signed, Prudy" image. Let's not even get started with how long that took me. I had to learn what a gradient was, and that alone was half an hour. Don't ask me to explain it to you. Then somehow I figured out how to upload it, but I didn't like the template, whatever that is. So then I changed the template, but then the "Signed, Prudy" went away.

Anyway, three hours later here I am actually writing a post! This is how dedicated I am to you, my friend. Even when I'm exhausted from all this hard work, I am still here to entertain everyone with my genius wit and almost equal incompetence.

I suppose a good introduction to my life must start with the namesake of this "blog", my middle name. My name is Nasrin Aboulhosn, a very Arabic name. My family is from Lebanon, which I will probably mention more than once so pay attention. Anyway, the correct way to pronounce my name is Niss-reen A-bull-hiss-in, if you roll the R and say an "h" sound that doesn't exist in the English language.

Rewind many years before I was born, although I'm sure this will be hard to do because the universe didn't exist. My mother was young and single and was living in Hampton, Virginia near her sister. My aunt knew a kind older woman named Mrs. Morrison who opened her home to my mother and let her stay. Mrs. Prudence Morrison.

My mother and Prudence fell madly in love, but the 70s were a time of great conservative blowback in Hampton, Virginia, and they just couldn't be together. Even after my mother married my father, she just couldn't keep Prudence out of her heart. When I was born in Belem, Brazil (a story I'll have to tell later), and the nurse said, "She's beautiful and will for sure grow to be a gorgeous and sexy woman. What will you name her?" My mother thought of her wild days in the South and said, "Niss-reen Prudy A-bull-hiss-in".

Well, I'm not quite sure that's what actually happened, seeing as how I wasn't alive. But anything before I was born doesn't really matter, so this story will have to do!

It doesn't make sense that my middle name is Prudy, I know. It is not Arabic, it is not Lebanese, it is not pretty, it was never a trendy name, and it does not alliterate with either Nasrin or Aboulhosn. It's not even a full name! It’s a nickname of a name that I never wanted.

No offense intended if your name is Prudy, Prudence, Prudent, or if you are a prude. But if your name is Prudy, Prudence, or Prudent, surely you agree with me. And if you are a prude, please exit.

Nasrin Prudy Aboulhosn. A !-?-! sandwich.

Much like the days that make up my life and which now you will get to be a part of. I am sure you are at the edge of your seat with excitement and anticipation.

I have to go now, because I promised myself I would never do five hours of anything unless it involved men, food, or spending money. And this is the opposite of all those things. Except spending money, because I’m not making money at all. So this is the opposite of men, food, and takes a neutral stance regarding spending money.

Signed,
Prudy