Did They Look Taliban?

(This post has been brought to you by the Department of Homeland Security.)

The other day I was getting café con leche from my favorite Hispanic restaurant in Journal Square when I witnessed something odd.

A Muslim couple (bearded man, woman wearing a headscarf) was standing outside on the street with a giant, battered suitcase on wheels. An older Muslim man in his 60s with a big white beard walked by. He was very devout -- I could tell by the prominent prayer bruise on his forehead.

The younger man approached him and began speaking in Arabic. Now, I know maybe five words in Arabic, but it was enough for me to notice that this guy was not a native speaker at all.

The older man immediately responded in perfect, unaccented American English: "I'm sorry, but I don't speak . . . " and he and the younger man started talking in English. It seemed the couple was looking for a certain mosque.

The most mysterious part of this whole occurrence was the older man. He looked more Egyptian than Pharoah, and from his advanced age it seemed unlikely he'd been born in the United States. But he spoke perfect English
. . . and no Arabic? Then how does he understand the prayers at the mosque?

Fast forward to today: I'm coming out of my favorite café con leche place again, and there's the Muslim couple on the street again, along with their ubiquitous battered suitcase.

I realized they were standing there probably because that building -- which is right next to the Hispanic restaurant -- has a mosque on the second floor. I also remembered that this was the mosque that was once the redoubt of the infamous Sheikh Abdel Rahman, the blind cleric who helped plan the first World Trade Center attack in 1993.

I don't know what this all means, but I'd like to think these three people were all inept American spies attempting to infiltrate the mosque, about 15 years too late. Sort of like when undercover cops show up at rock concerts to bust pot smokers, but you can spot them a mile away because they're wearing their big black shoes and white tube socks.

P.S. The title of this post was inspired by something that happened to a friend of mine shortly after 9/11. She was on an Amtrak train and a large family sitting nearby was making a lot of noise and creating a disturbance. She went to find a conductor to complain about the noise. When she finally found one, he demanded, "What did they look like? Did they look Taliban?"

Mother's Milk, the Magical Elixir

When I got home from the office today, Snookums had a fever of about 101. It had come on suddenly after 5 o'clock, the nanny said, and she was very sleepy and not interested in playing.

I breastfed her for a few minutes. And lo and behold, the redness in her eyes went away and the color returned to her cheeks. And she suddenly wanted to play. And climb up the stairs. And eat.

She still has a fever (of about 103, the last time I checked) but she already seems much, much better. It was an amazing transformation.

Maybe I should try some mother's milk the next time I'm sick.

Too bad it tastes like ass.

Hello Kitty: Sold into Slavery

The dolls shown at right were obtained from a McDonald's in Kuala Lumpur several years ago. They depict Hello Kitty and her groom, Dear Daniel, dressed in Malay wedding costume.

Hello Kitty getting married? Wait a minute. Hello Kitty is supposed to be a CHILD. Who still lives at HOME. Relishing her mama's apple pie and playing with her twin sister, Mimmy.

No doubt Dear Nefarious Daniel purchased her virginity from her parents. Daniel, who learned pornography photography from his father, wants to be a "cameraman" and likes "cheesecake."

Is anyone seeing a pattern here?

On the other hand, maybe Hello Kitty isn't so innocent after all. She is, after all, depicted on a vibrator massager. (It has three speeds: regular, fast, and Helloooo Kitty!)

Hello Kitty. Children's toy? Or synonym for pussy?

Ai Yi Yi!

I have my period. Which means the second attempt at IUI (intrauterine insemination) didn't work. Sigh.

Just to bring you up to date: I was lucky enough to get pregnant spontaneously (i.e. without fertility drugs) with Snookums in early 2007, just a few weeks before Zany Dad had surgery for prostate cancer. I don't know if you're as versed in the male anatomy as I am (and really, could anyone be as much of an expert on male anatomy as Joan?), but after a man has his prostate removed, he doesn't ejaculate. So, no baby goo. Hence, IUI.

When I went for the IUI on December 23, the doctor let me look at Zany Dad's sperm under the microscope. "The motility isn't very good," he said, by which he meant the sperm weren't especially active.

I looked under the microscope at what looked like a few teeny-weeny black dots here and there, just sorta chugging along. It reminded me of Zany Dad in the morning when he has to get up for work and can't get out of bed.

Like father, like sperm.

Let's hope the next IUI round works.

Paging Dr. Freud . . .

I awoke from a delicious nap today having had a most horrible dream in which some retarded guy was pursuing me, wanted to get next to me, kept coming after me, and I kept fleeing. I remember the sense of feeling overwhelmed and just wanting to be alone and away from this repulsive creature. 

I awoke and reflected on the meaning. Hmmm . . . a drooling, semicoherent creature running after me, pawing me, grabbing me . . . 

I wonder who that represents? 

Snookums' New Address

It has come to my attention that Snookums has moved. Her new address is:

1000 Doo Doo St.
Poopytown, NJ 12345

I swear I never changed so many diapers in my life.

A New Year's Observation

All the practice I've had communicating with Snookums sure came in handy on New Year's Eve. Over the past few months, I've learned how to interpret -- or at least pretend to interpret -- nonsensical babblings, like "Ga ba da ga ba ba?" and "Fweh?" I found myself drawing on those skills frequently the other night talking to people who'd had too much to drink.

Like the totally soused lesbian who told me she made jewelry. I asked, "What kind?" and she mumbled, "Centrifugal, centrifugal," as she waved her little one-hitter around.

Bonus observation: Everyone thinks Barack Obama got that "Yes we can!" stuff from Cesar Chavez. But he really got it from Bob the Builder.