Letters to My Daughter

It's hard to believe that I have spent so much of my last days of Ramadan in a resume/coverletter stupor. A film now covers my eyes, and I suppose my heart too. I see only PT or FT, paid or unpaid, internship, search agents, and opportunities as catch phrases to my day. I have sent out 10 applications in total over the past week, but feel I am still lagging behind on follow-ups. Looking for a part-time job is no joke, my friend. I guess I always thought it would be. I imagined I would be a youth coordinator at SAYA! after I graduated, but now I guess I am designing my own intergenerational program in New Jersey. I have a lot of homework and research to do on my project actually. I want to get in touch with some possible mentors and that, too, seems difficult with all the pending work that lies before me. The mountain of applications is subsiding, but i am going to look into other opportunities for professional growth. Internships are simply one avenue. This Ramadan has been the bes

As the title gives away the conclusion and very thesis of this blog post, I will skip the intro and jump into my bizarre narrative. I have developed this strange and unparalleled attachment to my Roomba since I resurrected it from its technological slumber of two years. I received two Roombas as wedding presents, I suppose from people who knew I hated to clean (oh how long ago that seems now!). One Roomba is sitting in box in my parents' garage and the second, a red round thing of perfect proportions and weight, lives in my home. I had thought it died after constant use during the first two months after marriage when I refused to cook or clean or do really much of anything except watch tv and leave my wedding ring sitting idly in a ring box. I was taking Arabic that first summer at Rutgers New Brunswick and between tv and eating, I let Roomba roam like its never roamed before. Suddenly, tragically really, Roomba stopped working. Two years later, two days ago in fact, September 2, 2