[Poll #1291939]

Keep in mind that just because you request it, you still might not be on a filter.

Get Your hands on a mirror.

Look at yourself.

No really. Look at yourself.

Now look past yourself.

I'm sure you're beautiful today. And you will be tomorrow. And you will be next week. Remember that past the freckles and laugh lines you are so beautiful and the physical aspects are just superfluous icing on your tasty cake.

Okay, so I know I have a lot of updating to do. But this si a drive by post before I start actually getting up and getting prepared for my birthday weekend and such.

I woke up today to birthday well wishes which included one from a  girl I have known since kindergarten. She says like most of my highschool friends, that she's married with a kid. Then she says she loves Twilight and named her baby after Bella Swan.


WHAT THE HELL. WHY?! WHY .

  "I don't understand. She's not going under."

"Stress, probably. She's scared."

"Well, we need to start now."

It was a moment that will be pressed into my memory for life. Something I cannot forget even if I tried. I remember every word. The sterile smell. The sweat on foreheads. I remember the feel of the sheets. The hardness of the operation table.  I was terrified. The type of terrified when you are almost sure that everything is over. I remember the surgeon looking at me with frustrated eyes. They were all a little upset. I was just a little girl after all. Pale and barely holding onto life. I had seen my mother crying, they basically told her the operation was my last chance. If it didn't work, then all they could do was make me comfortable. It was no longer about if, it was about when.

They piped in music. A nurse remembered I went to sleep to my Michael Jackson tape every night. To drown out the sound of the beeping of the machines. There were so many. I refused to go to sleep without it. I was alone and scared, especially after my roommate died, a little girl diagnosed with HIV. 

There are two things I remember before falling asleep. One was that Man in the Mirror was playing. Two, was that the surgeon put a mini monchichi by my cheek, and I watched it clap until I went under anesthesia.

The surgery was successful. They removed half of the sack around my heart. I got a nifty scar. I survived.

The entire time I spent in the hospital (various hospitals), I carried my Michael Jackson tapes. My grandmother, who never left my bedside, got someone to take a picture of her standing next to a Michael Jackson cut out. A black and white Polaroid. The way it was shot, she looked like she was standing next to the actual man. She told me, that I needed to get better. That Michael Jackson (who was now on the level of Santa Claus) needed me to get better. He sent the picture to me. She even spent time forging his autograph. Like her, it remained at my bedside. She bought me a set of cheap fake nails one time when she knew that I was going to have a series of blood tests that would last hours. Smooth Criminal was playing, and she told me that I looked just like Janet Jackson with them on.

Nurses joked that I would Moonwalk when I got out of my wheelchair.

I remember it. I can't forget it.

I played my Thriller record so much that it holds loving scratches and grooves. I know everywhere my Bad LP skips. I crowded around the television to watch the Do You Remember the Time video. I cried when he married Lisa Marie, because I wanted to grow up to marry Michael Jackson. I forced my cousins to watch Moonwalker so many times the tape is pretty much worn out. Joe Pesci's hair. Michael Jackson turning into a huge robot.

"Oh, It's just a plug."

His music allowed me to open myself to other music. I realized that music could shape a life. That you have your very own soundtrack.

 Smooth Criminal for when my cousins and I kept falling over silly trying to do that anti gravity lean. PYT for Shannon and I driving in the car. Will You Be There was the first piece of music I had ever bought for myself. I was ten. Earth Song was played at a highschool recital, the dancers in black. Stranger in Moscow for my descent into depression in College; it cycled through with Aimee Mann on repeat while I worked in the studio. Dancing Machine at a late night study session in Jesup. Dangerous was on a mixed CD given to me by a shy admirer. I have auditioned to so many of his pieces. I have danced and loved and been shaped by his music.

As a little girl, alone and afraid in the dark with only the beeping of machines, I listened to his music. I believed I could get better. I believed I could be like other kids. I could move to Hollywood. I could be someone. I could do things. I could get better.

So I did.

 Hi Ya'll more substantial post in the afternoon. Promise. But in the meantime I have a super link soup for you.

1. Great article about Race and steampunk over at Racialicious. I myself love steampunk, but I often wonder about the time period and racial impact of the history. I think it could be fun.

2. Hilarious joke guide about talking to women who wear hijab. I would like to remind you all that I will be going to Comic Con as Dust, from the New X-Men. I'm thinking of taping a sign that reads "Not Oppressed. Just a Superhero."

3. "Fallen Princess Jasmine" . A photographer has done some pretty throwaway work on reinventing Princesses for the modern age. Honestly I think she had something going, but the execution of her statements are poor. Personally as much as I appreciate Jamsine kicking ass, I just want to know why she Agrabah has to be a war zone. I would think Agrabah would be Dubai. Also, purple camo? Really?! Here is a link to the other pictures, which are eh.

Famous Country Client: Oh My. I have never been around so many beautiful women. How do they get you all in one place?

Moi: They import us, sir.

FCC: They import you?!

Moi: Yes sir, we move. To California.

FCC: OHHHHHHH.

There's a Revolution Going on in Iran.

No, Seriously. The Government is cracking down on the media, and we can't see much, but through Twitter, Facebook and other networking sites, the voices are coming through.

Have some links. There's not much to say, except I wish we had thrown a large scale riot when our election was snatched in 04. 

Asim- He has tons of info, and it is through his LJ that I've been keeping tabs. Honestly, I like him so much more than CNN.

The Boston Globe has some great shots of the protests. the Policae are actually opening fire on the crowd now, so some of these are grapic. 

The LA Times also has some good shots. 

Wanna help with the cyber war? Corey Doctorow has some tips. 

one_hoopy_frood has a fantastic post. Get educated and get going folks!
If any of you know of a protest going on in LA let me know. I have my khimar, green shirt and red flag at the ready. For those of you still unconvinced that Muslim woman are not wallflowers, take a close look at some of those women in the streets of Tehran. I like to think Aisha (MABPWH) would be so proud. 

 
This weekend was family heavy. I don't feel the need to clarify whose family, as I staunchly regard Tony's family as my family. I have longer thoughts about this weekend, most of which involve the realization how much I love his family.  But I found myself at all of these events looking furtively to T, who I pretty much consider to be my husband in all things but law. 

I found myself looking at him out of the corner of my eye, and loving him intensely. I can't even begin to actually describe it. It's the type of love that I remember being in my mother's eyes for my father. Except without all the sadness. I think that's why I started to cry this morning as I straightened up the house in my gym gear. 

It just hits me suddenly sometimes. T keeps suprising me by being everthing I wanted, and somethings I didn't even realize I wanted. 

I straightened and cleaned, like my mother would do every Saturday. She'd put on records or the radio, and sing her heart out. Like she still does every Saturday. The artists have changed over years, but it was always the same. Here I am on a Wednesday, thousands of miles away doing the same thing. Except there's nothing bittersweet about it. 

Maybe I'll make him a cake. 

 
There was money under the doughnuts. 

Fourteen dollars to be exact. 

It was strange to see it there, even though T and I had joked about money under the doughnuts the night before. Maybe I didn't think he'd get up early and go to the atm and bakery. But he did. I had some secret girlish glee at the doughnuts, but still frowned at the bills. They were there, blissfully crisp waiting for me to hand them over to Marie at IDA.

But if I said something like, "I suck at life," while looking at bills I knew T would get some sort of Bat Signal and call me to tell me to shut up take the damn money and go to dance class. 

The money is still under the doughnuts. 

But this is more because my dance class has switched times and days, making it impossible for me to attend it anymore. I'll have to reschedule. 

Speaking of which,  with T's new schedule, I start to notice little things which were a rare pleasure becoming the norm. Like seeing my fiancee in the daylight. Or going to bed with another person.

It's like a love revolution. Except we've both been  a love revolution. T and I have hit that comfortable groove in our relationship where we start saying things like, "Remember when I first came to your apartment and all you had were tortilla chips and expensive salsa?"  or "Remember that time my Uncle yelled at you while you were in the bathroom?" Ah the early days. 

It's no secret to say that Tony and I consider ourselves already joined at the hip for life. The fact we haven't had a wedding to show this, is more because of time and logistics and dough. We'll get there, but right now all that matters is that I make him happy. And lest you all shout, know that he makes me happy and deals with the ridiculousness of moi. It's a partnership. We're awesome.  I get a little bit of glee when he sleeps in on his odd days and sunlight hits his face. It may sound cheesy, but I do. Days like that I say to myself:

I'm Jo. I'm Muslim. 
He's T. He's Catholic. 
Together in our little apartment in the heart of Hollywood, we fight crime.

We don't actually fight crime. But it's a nice thought. 

That money is still under the doughnuts. 

It's another day in Hollywood and I am sitting here, hot glue running over fingers, hoping that sometime inbetween today and tomorrow there will not be another casting call that reads like an Aryan Brotherhood member's wet dream.

Please Ladies. If you are a Caucasian woman, 5'5, size 0, naturally blonde and drive a luxuary car please call us!

And I put down the phone and make my hats which threaten to explode out of the hutch I have for the finished ones. I get half a chapter done on my novel and worry that the character I've made is too rough and tumble. Turn on some Tori and make a smoothie. Write a little more.

I consider answering some e-mails and then I close the window. I'm embarrassed. I should be doing something fantastic with my 200,000 dollar degree. But the only fabulous thing I'm doing is being myself.

Which is in all aspects a pretty neat thing to be doing.

I say my prayers. My Fiancee has a great promotion. I live in Hollywood. I love my in-laws more than anyone has a right to. I'm healthy and looking fantastic. I'm not hungry. I'm not horribly unhealthy. I'm alive and in love.

I am fufilled in others, but not with myself.

Ah hah. In there lies the rub that makes my couch look like a pleasing place to be.

And so I hibernate and snuggle in until everything feels a lot better. Or at least until 90 people kick my ass and tell me to update LJ.


And so you have it. Me updating LJ and telling you all that I am alive and making stuff as usual and not being terribly more exciting than I was the last time I updated.