Imagine me channeling the guy at the mall kiosk that asks you whether those are your real nails or not… and then starts spouting about how the Dead Sea has healing salts…  Okay, done?

I’m doing research into how to optimize the efficiency of my blog reading.

(READ:  I do not have three hours to read blogs and as a result have read about 5% of the posts in my reader.)

1. How many blogs do you read?

2. How do you read them (i.e. GoogleReader) ?

3. How do you organize them?

4. About how much time do you devote to reading them?

5. How often do you comment?

6. How mad would you be if I stopped reading your blog?   (KIDDING.  No.  Not really.  How mad?  Like, “Meh, whatever” or “I will stalk you and boil a bunny rabbit in your kitchen”?)

7. Do you have any suggestions to help me out?  Other than paying more attention to my husband and abandoning the Internet completely, Tariq?

When I was growing up, my parents were generally good about giving me “space.”  If my door was closed, they usually knocked before coming in and I don’t think they listened in on my conversations on the phone.  Or, at least, if they did, they never told me.

And, yet.  I remember a particular instance when my mom found a note from one of my friends that had some questionable content in it.  Like, you know, multiple uses of the “f” word, something about a boy, the usual stuff.  She very calmly placed the note in front of me, and said, “Who is this?”

I was mortified.  And then, I got angry.

“That’s MY note, mom, you can’t just  read other people’s stuff without asking…” I raised my voice ever so slightly  in an effort to really push across the indignation I felt at this obvious violation.

“I do not read other people’s stuff, but I will read your stuff.”

“What about my RIGHT to privacy?”  I saw the look pass across her face.   The one that I had seen so many times before… Oh, lovely, here goes my American child again going on about her rights…

I assume that this was a cultural disconnect because every time I tell my husband some version of this story, he reacts as though I’m telling my mother that I’m a Martian who has come to Earth in order conduct experiments on the human race.  In other words, a fourteen year old talking to her mom about privacy rights is just plain crazy.

But, back to my story.

“In this home, your privacy is not a right.  It is a gift, remember that.  You should know that whatever it is, I will know.  You might not know that I know… but I will know.”  To this day, that sentence was said with such conviction that, twenty years later, I still shudder at the idea that there are things that she knows that I don’t know about.

She wasn’t done.

“Also, you should remind your friend,” she gestured at the note, “that words are eternal.  Remind her that what she writes and gives to someone else can be seen by anyone even if it’s intended only for you.  Her words matter.  People will see them.”  And, then, in her classic style, she left the note laying on my bed, walked out and softly closed the door behind her.

Her words matter.  People will see them.

Again, this lesson resonates with me until this day, to the point that I always think twice before I hit publish on anything.

Who is the absolute last person I would want to see this?  How would they react?  Am I willing to pay that price?

And, yet, I’ve had the inevitable conversation with more than one person, “was that post/update about me?”

It’s a difficult question to answer.  I mean, sometimes, it’s a yes and a no.  I think people have a hard time understanding this because they don’t fully understand the creative process behind writing.  Something happens to you or you observe something that someone has done, and it sparks a range of thoughts in your head.

Some of those thoughts have nothing to do with the original situation or person.

I wonder if people understand the distinct difference between a writer intending to exact vengeance and a writer who has simply been inspired to write about something they’ve experienced.  I imagine that only the writer knows, and, interestingly, only the reader can decide.  (Unless, of course, they blatantly ask).

The consumption of any kind of literature generally necessitates that the reader look for themselves or some semblance of what they know in the words before them.  It’s almost narcissistic, yet I argue that if that search for one’s self to some degree comes up empty, the person will simply stop reading.

So, in a way, yes, it is about you.

But, for writers who have the purest of intent, the intent to express and create and tell the truth as they see it, it’s not about you in the way you think.

Something to keep in mind.

Geeks rule.

Something you should know:  I intensely disliked the movie Slumdog Millionaire.

I know it was a huge hit here in the United States, but I think what bothered me about it was that it played to the stereotypes that many people living in the West have about India.  Poverty, despair, filth, crime, hopelessness, corruption… and something about the movie made me feel intensely awkward.  Maybe the attempt to mix in all that joy, hope and other similar fuzzy feelings with what I perceive to be real and deadly serious problems.

Plus, it’s not the India that I know.  So, yes, Slumdog Millionaire, super-duper-pseudo-Bollywood-crossover hit of the aughts, bothered me.

I feel the imperative to disclose here that my distaste for the film was exponentially compounded by the fact that I imagine hell is walking a treadmill listening to “Jai Ho” on repeat.  I hate that song.

Still, it occurred to me very recently that just because Slumdog Millionaire doesn’t represent the India that I know doesn’t prove that this India does not exist.  It does.

Furthermore, I realized that joy can live anywhere.  It can live on Park Avenue or a slum in Bombay or Calcutta.

Because joy is not contained in geography, but within the human heart.  I learned this when I watched another film tonight.

I’d seen bits and pieces of the documentary Born Into Brothels (2004) over the years, but for the first time this evening, I watched it in its entirety.

All I can say is, “Ouff.”  That’s the Urdu equivalent of “Oye” or “Oh, boy.”

This was a very difficult movie to watch.  It’s a documentary about the relationship a visiting photographer forms with several children living in a particular red light area (that’s foreign for brothel) in Calcutta.  Zana Briski, the photographer, gives the children cameras and begins to teach them about photography.

You should see the photos the children took.  They are simply amazing.

As I assume would be the case with anyone, Briski becomes increasingly involved in the children’s lives and tries to help them escape the life that they seem absolutely destined to live.  Her efforts are noble, but throughout the film they seem simply insurmountable.

And, make no mistake, these children’s lives represent every manifestation of what I envision to be hell on earth.  Prostitution, deprivation, negligence, violence, addiction, discrimination, Jai Ho blaring in the background… Maybe not that last thing.  Inappropriate.much?  I couldn’t resist.  Hate that song.

Seriously, it was absolutely heartbreaking to see children have to endure this place.  And why?  Because they just happened to be born there.

There’s this idea that anyone who lives a life of despair chooses to do so.  This is so incredibly false.  Especially when one considers that many of the people living these lives are kids who just happened to be born there.  It’s not like they had a say in it.

I’ll say it again. Ouff.

You know what I did see tonight, though, that was astonishing, incredible and made the whole movie completely worth it?

Hope.  Joy.  Dreams.

If someone could bottle these kids’ abilities to hope, they would be a gazillionaire.   They live in conditions of which we cannot begin to conceive and, still, they talk about leaving… going to a university… maybe studying in London… maybe even becoming a famous photographer.

And, oh, they laugh, and dance, and sing… and their faces are full of joy.

Of course, the mind says, “Hope doesn’t get you out.  They’re doomed… there’s absolutely no way out for them.”

The mind is pesky and mean like that.  Let’s just tell the mind to shut up and go balance our checkbook because that’s its job.

Besides, hope doesn’t live in the mind.  It lives in the heart.

I could wallow in the despair I feel as I watch these children, but I’m too busy being in total awe of them and their ability to capture the beauty in the darkness around them with a camera lens.

And, of course, I am struck with admiration for their incredible ability to smile and dream big.

I watch them dream and I feel less afraid to do so myself. 

They gave me courage.

Astonishing.

(Born Into Brothels is available on NetFlix On Demand.  If your heart can bear it, you should watch it.  Come back and let me know what you think.)

I am not at all above admitting that I’m a little bit of snob.

Back when I first got an iPhone, nobody had an iPhone.

People that I didn’t know would wade across the room to come and look at my phone.  “Wow,” they’d say, “is this an iPhone?  This is so coooool.”

And, I felt cooool.  Yes, my cell phone made me feel cool.

And, then?  Apple decided to make a newer iPhone, and suddenly, I was dated.  Old news.

And, then?  Apple decided to make a newer newer iPhone and suddenly, I was double dated.  Old old news.

It was in those days that I started hating my iPhone, despising it for how uncool it made me feel.  To make matters worse, not only was it dated, but it was making me look stupid.

I could see it in people’s eyes, every time I pulled that old relic out.  Hello, why didn’t you just wait for the new new one to come out?

Moderately cool people just do not understand that very cool people are only very cool because they do not wait for coolness to be thrust upon them, but they go forth and conquer the cool.  The problem is, of course, I’m not so cool that I would discard a perfectly good phone just because there was a newer version out.  Because I love the environment.  Plus, I’m kind of a miser.

So, anyway, I was stupid looking and uncool.

And then ::cue angels singing:: the Android!!

This was my moment for redemption.  I switched providers and got the HTC Desire which is a pretty great phone.  Cool, even.  I love the free apps, the Google friendly functionality and the fact that I can use it as a GPS device.

I also love the scan technology.  I can basically scan UPC codes and do comparison shopping OR it can upload the calories of the food I’m consuming into a calorie counting application.  The possibilities of the scan technology are endless, they say!  But those are the only two I can think of, right now.

Except.

My Android is possessed.  I should have known this was going to happen.  The phone is named Desire.

If I’m trying to Twitter or text, it autocorrects me.  It clearly does not realize that I am not someone who needs autocorrect.  Not only does it autocorrect, it does so with some strange sense of … a personality.

It’s always correcting “Tariq” to “Tariw,” yet it does not correct my name.  Strange.

Also, when I try to type MisterBritt‘s name, which is Jared, it autocorrects to “Hated.”  I have no idea why my Android hates my friend’s husband who is a perfectly nice man that opened almost every door I walked through in NYC.

If I try to type “crap,” it autocorrects to “veal.”  Apparently, it is either a member of PETA or it really dislikes veal.

And, then, it just does annoying stuff like turn “of” into “if,” or “day” into “fay,” or “to” into “ti.”

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, TI IS NOT EVEN A WORD.

Anyway.  I’m just going to say it.

I miss my iPhone.

And, no, iPhone mafia, I don’t expect you to take the high road in the comments section.

I know how you people roll.