saaleha.com

Pedobear fi Misr

saaleha — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 20:49:20 +0000

We spotted this on our way to the Cairo Book Fair:

They were probably aiming for défilé.

Acute Fail.

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14 – dream things

saaleha — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 22:14:06 +0000

Some are born
in to their skin,
Some have their beds made by others.

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13 -of sons and daughters part 6

saaleha — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 22:51:11 +0000

On those Sundays in simpler times, she’d wake to Nisa’s toes tickling her ear.
It followed invariably that her mother would toss off the gudrus, to expose the yinyang of their economy to the elements of raw morning and her not so dulcet tones.
“Get up you lazy things! Sunday! Mijwaan aawaano!”
‘But he comes every Sunday Ma!’
It was not long before little Zeenat and littler Nisa realised that Mijwaan was not a specific person, but encompassed a whole range of visiting aunties, uncles and cousins they had to get the house neat in time for.
Zeenat had never known a Sunday without a steady stream of family washing through their home on tides of tea and cold drink.
The families of Fifth street were all related by some link or two. Most shared a communal yard and those who didn’t, lived close enough to be just a few doors away. This meant that anyone’s guests were hosted by the entire neighbourhood.
And it was among the flotsam of fried samoosas that Zeenat got to know all her cousins and their cousins and their cousins.
These were her friends and cohorts. She holidayed at their homes in those bundu towns one usually drove through to get to somewhere that mattered, and she wrote letters to them when she returned home.
It didn’t matter if it was the half-sister of a third cousin related by marriage, everyone was family and that bond was concrete and came with obligation.
That was how Ridwaan ended up boarding at Aunty Khayroon’s. A tale followed him and his bags to Fifth street; a whispered bit of sordidness involving the young wife of a certain well-to-do back home. As the son of Khayroon’s second cousin’s husband’s nephew, she couldn’t refuse him a roof. She hoped the local girls would have better sense and heavier skirts.

—

A few months after her wedding, Zeenat had heard from Aunty Khayroon’s daughter-in-law that Ridwaan had crossed over the seas to the UK to work in a biscuit factory his uncle owned.
Some time after, she was told he was planning to return to South Africa and settle in Cape Town.
News of him petered off as the bonds lost their stretch to passing years and families relocating to suburbs many kilometres off from Papa Seedat sneezing and Uncle Joe saying yarhamukallah from four doors away.
In families trying to put more space around them, there was no preventing the spaces that had sprung up between them. That’s how Zeenat felt, anyway.
No one visited anyone anymore. Scattered phone calls, weddings, births and deaths afforded the only times to reconnect. That she had become something of a recluse didn’t help things along either. But that was out of her own sense of shame, what excuse did other people have?
Now, she slept in on Sundays; a luxury even her late mother had begun to appreciate in her advancing years.

—

When Shakira told her that Ismail’s parents would be coming over to visit on Sunday afternoon, Zeenat made sure she greeted the morning in good time. Her ear tingled uncomfortably from an accidentally slept-on folded pinna. This made her think of Nisa and her cheese-curl toes. She would call her sister after the visit. As adults, they made better friends.

She’d once confided in Nisa her concerns about Shakira
Her daughter never spoke about boys. No one called the house. There were no furtive midnight conversations on her cellphone. No one ever picked her up from a few blocks down so that her parents wouldn’t see. And it was not that they were too strict with their daughter. They believed they’d raised her with a decency and common sense that often eluded her peers. Shakira was not denied any freedoms. She just wasn’t interested.
‘Nisa, do you think Shakira could be gay?’
‘Hai, don’t say such things.’
Zeenat was used to living by tip-toe between eggshells. It did seem God had let her off too easy that time; a lesbian daughter would’ve been rather fitting.

–

(Part 7 to follow)

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12 – of sons and daughters part 5

saaleha — Sat, 16 Jan 2010 00:10:56 +0000

Now, her forehead throbbed as she scanned over the bodies wrinkling the leather on the couches in her lounge.
‘Don’t you worry about Shakira, Zeenat. It’s also good that girls these days are so independent and busy with their careers. I’ll teach Shakira everything. In our family, we’re not so fussy about cooking.’
Feroza looked every bit a woman who wasn’t fussy about eating.
Bite it back Zeenat, it wasn’t unusual for her to hear her ten-years-dead mother’s admonishments.
“Well, our Shakira is quite capable in that sense when she wants to be.’
Shakira’s cough distracted the lioness from attacking her cub’s aggressor.
Now that she was an adult in her own right, Shakira had much of her late nani’s mind and Zeenat sometimes felt the victim of a haunting.
Is this really what her daughter wanted? A lifetime with a morose looking boy and his unimaginatively typecast mother.
Marriages are not built on dhal ghos. Not anymore, anyway.
Where did Ridwaan find this Feroza? He never came across as the settling kind; him of the easy smile and easy everything.
Perhaps he too had realised not too late in his life that it was better to be safe than alone.
He’d changed in more ways than that, Zeenat surveyed.
The cocky grin had long been suffocated by the generous shrubbery framing his mouth and extending out towards his chest. He’d picked up weight. Quite a bit too.
She shot a look at Iqbal. Trim, groomed and proper. Score 1 Zeenat.
But for all of Ridwaan’s hirsute and latitudinal transformations, there was one part of him that took her right back to that damned afternoon.
Those almost-oriental eyes belonged on a twenty-three-year-old.
Eyes that showed not even a scratch of recognition when she returned his salaam and asked if he’d like a bit of masala in his tea.
He was either kicking down the same demons she was or he really, genuinely, didn’t recognise her.
If there was indeed an armageddon behind those eyes, she hoped it kept him too occupied to count back the years and come to his own unsettling conclusion.

–

(part 6 to follow)

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I am allowed one lookie-me moment per year

saaleha — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 16:09:33 +0000

If I had known I’d be seeing six of my words in typesetted/isbn-ed glory, I would have put a bit more pith into them.
Though still, freaking yay! And they send you your very own contributor’s copy. I’ve got nothing but heart for Smith Magazine and HarperCollins.

–

Our travel preps de-geared my slick momentum for The Year of Thinking Recklessly project. I’m committing myself to finishing the short story by tonight. I’ll have to jippo the entries so that they all number up to today; a bit of a cheat to maintain consistency and keep me on track.

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11 – of sons and daughters part 4

saaleha — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 23:51:51 +0000

She often wished that the man she married was a disgusting tyrant; that he’d beat and belittle her and sleep around.
She would have deserved that.
She didn’t deserve Iqbal.
Big-hearted, warm-natured, easy-going Iqbal.
In her blasphemous moments she wondered if he could be an incarnation of Ayub**, so patient he was to put up with her many episodes in the early months of their marriage.
When her pregnancy became apparent, he was even more attentive and loving while Zeenat just felt bereft.
She knew there was a very real possibility that the child may not be Iqbal’s.
She took to her musallah with an insane ferocity, remembering desperately the God she once tried to forget.
When her forehead began to bruise from her penance, she prayed even harder, convinced that the larger the mark on her head, the smaller the stains would be on her soul.
She stopped accepting invites to suppers and weddings; these pesky things disrupted her conversations with God. When visitors came to the house they would find her in prolonged prostration, without even an acknowledgement of their presence.
Her behaviour was just not rational anymore. Her family and in-laws were convinced there was a jinn possession at play.
They brought over the india moulanas and people who could communicate with the fire-born.
But Zeenat just kept on praying.
As unwavering as she was, so too was Iqbal.
Kind, sweet Iqbal.
He would change the alarm clocks Zeenat set for 1am so that she’d sleep through the most part of the night and only awake for the Fajr prayer.
He made sure she took her supplements and ate full meals.
He didn’t leave her side during the labour and only followed the nurses to make sure Shakira was tagged properly and safe in her cot.
When Zeenat held her baby girl for the first time, she immediately inspected the hour-old face.
There was nothing of Ridwaan.
Zeenat read a few verses of the Quran softly and blew over her baby. She handed Shakira back to Iqbal and closed her eyes. The inside of her lids no longer felt like leaded sandpaper and she slept better than she did in a long time.
But despite the initial relief, Zeenat would always question Shakira’s paternity.
Over they years, she’d plot her daughter’s features, looking out for the incriminating, double-checking the trick of light that once made the eyes look a bit curved at the corners..
But she never found it. Shakira was the image of her mother. So much so, it didn’t even seem that Iqbal had any hand in the matter.
It was almost as if Zeenat’s importunate pleas had rendered a miracle. An immaculate conception to her mind, the fruit of forgiveness.
So while Zeenat did still pray regularly, it was with a little less fervour and the marks on her forehead faded.

**Job

–

(Part 5 tomorrow)

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10 – of sons and daughters part 3

saaleha — Mon, 11 Jan 2010 23:51:37 +0000

Zeenat found Nisa crying in the cupboard of the room they shared. Nisa’s paw-paw place, that’s what Zeenat called it. Whenever Nisa was teased or scolded, she would creep in amongst the packets and bales of their mother’s unsewn fabric and sponge her tears with the corners of her dupatta.
‘I should be the one crying in a cupboard,’ Zeenat thought.
‘How Nisa? What’s wrong? Who’s troubling you now?’
Nisa was incomprehensible when she was in one of these states.
Zeenat could just about make out the words ugly, fat and never get married.
‘Don’t be silly Nisa! You’re not ugly! A bit chubby, but that’s because you’re always eating the ghor* out of the pantry. You’ll be fine if you just watched yourself a little.’
Nisa responded with more unintelligible wailing.
‘Please Nisa. Stop crying. Mummy will think I’ve done something again.’
Nisa looked up at Zeenat with the big round brown eyes inherited from their mother, the only difference being that the matriarchs eyes had never flooded in front of her children or husband.
She sucked back her fullness in her mouth and said the first clear sentence Zeenat had heard from her all day.
‘I want to be you Zeenat.’
Zeenat fell to her knees and clasped her sister’s clammy hands.
‘No, you don’t. I’m a bad person Nisa. I’ve done a bad… I’ve done bad things. You’re nothing but good.’
‘Good for nothing.’ Nisa whimpered, her cheek cradled against a packet containing the scraps from the dresses her mother had sewn for Zeenat’s trousseau.
‘I also want someone to like me enough to want to marry me. No one ever likes me. Even that Ridwaan. I see how he looks at you. And that Ayesha from the butcher. He never once looked at me like that.’
At the mention of his name, Zeenat felt a coldness unfurl in her stomach.
‘Stop this Nisa. Ridwaan is not worthy of you. You’re a good person. You have a good heart. There are no demons in your shoes. You will get married and it will be to someone wonderful. You won’t be like me. I don’t even want this Nisa!’
Zeenat held Nisa close and tight. In the dark quiet of her sister’s sanctuary, with Nisa’s snot soaking into her shoulder, Zeenat cried for what she lost and was still to lose.
It wasn’t just about her virginity. Something about her decision to follow through on an impulse had altered her forever. A pyrrhic victory. She’d read that somewhere and it fitted.
Who did she spite, what did she achieve? She was still marrying ‘the boy’ tomorrow. She couldn’t leave with Ridwaan, if not for the scandal breaking her parents, she knew she’d be miserable with him. She’d be miserable anyway. She would not fight it.
With resignation steadying her, Zeenat lifted Nisa out of the cupboard and walked her to the bathroom to clean their faces and lift the pall of mourning. It was a wedding house after all!
The next day Aunty Khayroon came over to help set the tables and said that Ridwaan had left for home quite urgently, some family emergency, and asked for maaf that he could not attend the wedding.
While Nisa had her mother’s eyes, Zeenat got the poker face.
Soon, it was time for the nikah.
Zeenat took to making shapes with the clouds while everyone fussed around her. It was only when she found herself being hugged furiously by her strangely glossy-eyed mother the Zeenat knew she had become a married woman.
The aunties led Iqbal in to sit with her. That was ‘the boy’s’ name. Iqbal. She had to start calling him something for the rest of their lives together.
When he smiled at her, Zeenat felt more wretched than ever.
If she was more present at her own wedding, Zeenat would have said that it passed by like any other unremarkable Indian Muslim wedding in Jo’burg in the 80s.
After the feeding and the bawdy small talk from elderly relatives and newly married cousins, Zeenat was led to her mother’s room where she sat on the bed in her heavy dress and greeted all her relatives with customary eye rain.
Despite the spectacle of it all, she wanted to loop the scene infinitely.
But it was time to leave with Iqbal.

*jaggery/molasses

–

(Part 4 to follow)

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9 – of sons and daughters part 2

saaleha — Sat, 09 Jan 2010 22:55:10 +0000

“Good family. Good boy. We will not hear anything of this. Bis!”
Her father turned away and her vision filled with his back turned to her.
She could not remember a time when it didn’t.
Her sister Nisa was the timidly acquiescent one; eyes always downcast, jee ma, jee pa, in that kowtow caricature that scratched on every one of Zeenat’s common senses.

Her mother wouldn’t show face to her either. Everything was already arranged. The degs had been hauled out, the khalas had already cleaned all the chickens. Everyone knew Zeenat was flighty and four-minded. This was best for her. A good family. A good boy. It would sweep out her nasaarah fancies. Imagine, she wanted to bring home a white boy!
Zeenat sat in her room as the walls around her closed in to crush her ribs and the roof fell in on her head.
It was just like what she’d learnt in madressah; the aadhaab of the kabr. She even remembered the exact moment she died. She was hovering outside of herself, tethered to her shell by a silken thread. She saw her mother asking her something and her own empty head nodding consent. She could not get back in time.

And when she finally squeezed into the corners of herself, she saw how her mother’s brow was less a few lines. Could it be? A smile in those eyes; it had been a long time since Zeenat had seen that.

God was merciful, in His way. The white boy met what they usually call an untimely end; a freak accident at the factory where he worked as a welder. A beam fell on his head.
Zeenat mourned quietly, wishing it didn’t feel as painful and as comical as it did.
She didn’t even love him. Not like the way she read that people loved. He was a simple, kind man, the first who’d ever spoken to her as if he really cared to hear about her ideas on the world. She enjoyed their conversations whenever he came in to her father’s shop.

It was a mistake to tell Nisa about him.
The very next day her mother ambushed her in the kitchen. Zeenat always had the devil in her. Her mother told everyone it was because she never listened to her warnings about playing near the fig trees at Maghrib time. Perhaps it was a type of possession, for Zeenat often took great pleasure in riling up her mother with flamboyant untruths.
That was how a few conversations over a shop counter turned into midnight lovers trysts and an elaborate plan to elope.
Her mother’s jaw fell off of its hinge. Zeenat had gone too far.

After cutting the sleeves off of all of Nisa’s dresses, Zeenat fell onto her bed headfirst and wondered if it was possible to smother herself with the pillow.
She woke to Nisa’s wails and her mother’s shrieking threats of dispatching her to Mia’s Farm where they would beat the Shaytaan out of her.
It was less than a week before the Ahmeds came to ‘see’ her.

The mother was meek, the father seemed kind and the boy, well he just seemed average.
Polite enough and soft-spoken, Zeenat found the whole thing strangely bearable.
That was enough for her parents. Zeenat was just a handkerchief pegged to a washing line while the wind had its way with her.
A few phone calls, a few trousseau trips to town, a few awkward conversations between her and ‘the boy’; and now she wished a beam would fall on her head.

Or she could run off with Ridwaan.
Ridwaan. He boarded at her Aunty Khayroon’s house.
He was from some far-away farm town with a name she could never remember. He worked at some place in Jeppe and would often come to their house to drop off something from her aunt. He was really bad at pretending and Zeenat never missed the look he’d give her. She knew that look. She’d read lots about that look and how girls could get into trouble because of it. Nisa thought Ridwaan was like something out of the film magazines. Poor Nisa, stupid and naïve, Zeenat knew her sister would have her heart broken at least ten times by five different people before she learnt anything of the ways of the world. She did agree with Nisa on one thing though. Ridwaan was something of a looker, with those almost oriental eyes and cocky smirk.

While everyone busied themselves with wedding preparations, Zeenat slipped out of the house to look for him.
He was in Aunty Khayroon’s backyard, fixing a wheelbarrow.
Squinting up at her, he motioned his head towards the garden cottage he rented from Aunty Khayroon.
Zeenat looked around the yard quickly, and flew into the cottage. It was only when she sat down on a milk crate to find herself again that she realised they’d barely exchanged one word.
How could he have known what she wanted? Did all men just know?
She started to feel something bitter rise up inside her. Guilt? Rebellion? She tried not to think too much of the God she dutifully prayed to. If there was such a thing as a necessary sin, wouldn’t this be it?
Tomorrow night, she would lie down with an almost-stranger, how would this be any different? At least this, what she was about to do, was on her own terms and not her parents. Before she died to herself, she needed to know she had lived for herself.

Ridwaan entered the room.
“It’s not proper for a bride to be in a strange man’s room.”
“I couldn’t give a fuck about propriety.” Zeenat was outside herself again, a bopping helium balloon strung to the arm of a fairground mannequin.
She was the omniscient narrator and Zeenat and Ridwaan were the characters from a chapter in one of the novels she read while her mother and Nisa prattled on about stupid things like pastry dough.
It was over quicker than she’d ever read about. And no one had ever written about the burning. Or was that because she’d sinned so greatly, the devil had finally signed the papers for her soul?
“Zeenat, let’s get married. I know this one moulana who will do the nikah. We can go live in Cape Town. I have a bit of money put away.”
Zeenat lunged for the bin at the table side, and proceeded, in one solid gush, to hurl the day’s breakfast and lunch.
“I’m so sorry! I’ll clean this, I’ll take this outside. I don’t feel well. I must go. I’m sorry Ridwaan, this was a big mistake. A huge mistake.”

–

It would be 27 years before she saw those almost oriental eyes again.
They were now in the face of a portly middle-aged man, who shifted his weight on her leather sofa and coughed to hide the rude noises the movement made. Next to him sat his portlier wife and their son Ismail, a boy her daughter had met at a business conference and who was now determined to make her part of his family.
If only you knew the half of it Issy-boy. Zeenat hoped that only sounded uncharacteristically loud in her head because everyone else was so quiet.
“Ridwaan, Feroza, please have some biscuits with your tea.”
As she dipped one of the chocolate-coated ones into her cup, Zeenat wondered why it had taken so long for God to begin punishing her.

(part 3 tomorrow)

(for a glossary, leave the words/terms you’re unfamiliar with in the comments)

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8 – of sons and daughters part 1

saaleha — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 22:25:07 +0000

The ginger biscuits would just have to be the buffer.
There was no way she could have the chocolate dipped ones right next to the butter biscuits.
It felt muggy in the kitchen and the coating had already begun to soften.
They would leave crude skid marks on the lighter-coloured biscuits.
Really ugly stains.
She knew all about those.
A slight tremor from her hands almost cast the contents of the plate to a game of hopscotch on the smooth tiles.
She leaned on the kitchen counter, her palms drawing equilibrium from the cold granite.
She needed just a few seconds to pick up the millions of little beads that had spilt all over the floor of her mind and begun to jab into the backs of her eyeballs.
A few seconds of macro-staring into the nothing of biscuit crumbs, and Zeenat was fine.
She picked up the plate and walked towards the lounge, streaming worst-case scenarios with each step.
There really was no easy way tell her daughter that the man who’d come to ask for her hand may very well be her own brother.

(Part 2 tomorrow)

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A guide to productive procrastination [part 1]

saaleha — Fri, 08 Jan 2010 21:41:51 +0000

How to kill time to great effect:

Improvise a notepad-wallet using bits of things you may have around your home office.

Or in my case raid the craft junk accumulated over the years looking for something that will double up as fasteners because the paper-brads I had in mind just weren’t working out. Hence the gogga-like fuzzy black things (pipe cleaners in their not-so-secret lives).

However, I had something of a brain-drizzle while blogging this and reworked the cover-fastenings so that they looked less like toxic caterpillars (and a bit more like displaced boobs).

What went in?

For the notepad: A4 printer paper cut into quarters with the bottom corners rounded, two staples, piece of lace sticker tape to hide the staples.

For the wallet: Corrugated cardboard, scrapbooking paper, two paper-brads to secure the loops made from a rubber-band, rest of the fastener fashioned from four paper circles and two brads, four eyelets (two for the loops to enter the cover and two for the fastening-brads to be secured through), a velcro dot.

I’m giving this to my little cousin who starts Grade One this year.

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Two Ways with Tomato Boxes

7 – between memories

saaleha — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 22:38:42 +0000

If we do not write,
we will forget
and be
forgotten.

[I'm reminded of my late maternal grandfather who would keep rectangles of cardboard torn from cigarette cartons in his pocket and use them to note down any thing of interest. He was a meticulous record-keeper, and each family member had their own file in the curious grey cabinet I'd spend hours scratching through as a child. Birth records, school results, newspaper clippings, First Aid certificates, letters; that's how I met my mother's brothers who had passed on before I was born.]

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free calendar download for January 2010

saaleha — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 11:51:25 +0000

This desktop wallpaper has been created at a screen resolution of 1280X1024.
Right click on the image and choose “save link as” (firefox and chrome) or “save target as” (internet explorer) to download.

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6 – dream things

saaleha — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 09:37:43 +0000

Have you ever seen

the girl who can cry confetti?

Every shake of her head

scatters the celebrations

from her lachrymals

She wants to baptize you

In paper rainbows.

It’s freaky, I know.

But don’t turn away,

you can’t drown.

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5 – between memories

saaleha — Tue, 05 Jan 2010 21:02:15 +0000

Food, friends, family;
A full house
makes for a big home.

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4 – between memories

saaleha — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 21:51:08 +0000

While walking through the renaissance in Florence,
I found the Madonna on the floor
With chalky tears
from the hand of an Asian master.
I dodged the dervishes;
shroud swirling Senegalese.
Fong kong penny prada…
Sunglasses for Shehnaz…
Polizia!
And they take up the dance
With their sheets up to the sky,
and gone, just drumming souls on the cobblestones.

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the year of thinking recklessly

saaleha — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 23:33:17 +0000

It doesn’t have the same retweetability of 2000&Mine, but if there’s to be a year that’s going to be about adding a few more gears to the brainworks, this would be it for me.

My biggest fails of 2009 include not following through on the TEFL course and wasting obscene chunks of time doing fokall*. For dreams to remains dreams; all you have to do is oversleep (I’m pretty sure I ripped this line off of somewhere).

Well, we’ll be having none of that this year. I’m tailgating Irfaan and making myself accountable (link via Hasina).

I begin The Year of Thinking Recklessly; a few lines a day, every day. Part memoir and part made-it-all-up, it is an exercise in creative consistency.

So here’s to the words, lots of them, and again, to consistency.

*not as much ‘dolce far niente’ as putting sloths to shame.

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3 – completion made manifest

saaleha — Sun, 03 Jan 2010 15:47:20 +0000

Our love comes down to bread, milk and bananas.
The staff of life,
The stuff of bones,
The stomach-cramping fruit, his favourite whole,
I can only eat them baked, cooked or blended.

Our love comes down to who picks up the socks,
And who leaves them on the floor.
Who switches on the lights
And who changes the lightbulbs.

We’ve scaled no mountains (well, maybe Kilimanjaro one day should our bones obey)
We’ve swum no seas (need lessons first, the both of us)
We fought not long nor hard for us.
He did not write a song for me.
He didn’t have to.

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2 – between memories

saaleha — Sat, 02 Jan 2010 15:39:37 +0000

I don’t trust clowns.
Ever since
one stole from me.
I was ten
and he was shorter
than me.
He asked for a kiss
just on the cheek
and I felt stupid
bending my knees.
My lips brushed
pass yesterday’s shave
and then a rubber pout,
with the memory of booze
before I knew what that smell was.
That clown tricked me
by turning his face
so quickly.
Everybody saw.
And I hate him.

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1 – promises

saaleha — Fri, 01 Jan 2010 15:38:26 +0000

Mummy asked about you Daddy,
Asked me why I didn’ write,
It’s not that you’re out of mind Daddy,
Just the words were not in sight.

I didn’ forget you Daddy,
Wasn’ that I didn’t care to write,
I know you get these letters Daddy,
That’s what they told me. Right?

We’re doin pretty good Daddy,
A whole old year has gone,
I slept through livin my dream, Daddy,
But this year I’m not sleepin on.

I’m gonna write these words Daddy,
Gonna write them until they sing,
You’re gonna hear my voice Daddy,
You’re gonna hear every string.

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Two Ways with Tomato Boxes

saaleha — Sun, 20 Dec 2009 19:33:15 +0000

Upcycle chipboard vegetable-crates for home and office storage.

If you find these a bit too chick-chic, you could always cut up old comic books for coverage.

two coats of paint+antique crackle medium+gilding paste+varnish to seal
paper+modge podge/mod podge

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A guide to productive procrastination [part 1]