Tuesday, November 29, 2005

PHOTOGRAPHS (the nerd gets serious)

For as long as I can remember, I've been trying to figure out my place in a family that I've had to piece together in my imagination.

I never knew my grandparents. I grew up looking at them through faded and yellowing photographs. There they were, forever frozen in time for me. While my other cousins, and even my brothers, have real memories of them, I have only these photos and stories to go by. I still search the maps of their faces---the gentle slope of a nose, the curve of a mouth, the depth of a gaze---for my own face. I listen to my relatives tell stories about them and wait for them to mention idiosyncrasies that I may share with them. Which one of them chewed their bottom lip when deep in thought, the way I do? Like me, did they find solace between the pages of a book? Were they animated talkers like I am?

My Dhadha (paternal grandfather) was an engineer; he was a stern man who rarely smiled but loved his family fiercely. He fathered 15 children but didn’t actually hold a baby until years later, when my oldest brother was born. Moreover, he had a love for learning. Raised by a widowed mother, dhadha dreamt of being more than just a landowner like his own father, who died when dhadha was five years old. I can see him in my mind’s eye, a little boy reading by the light of an oil lamp, late into the night. In the photos I have of him, he cuts an impressive figure: he is a rock of a man, tall, dark and broad, and he stares at me from the past with small, piercing eyes. My parents, brothers and I were still in Libya when he died. I was only a few months old and he never got a chance to see me.

Mommy---my nahni (maternal grandmother)---was a wisp of a woman, known for her beauty. With her pale complexion and reddish-brown hair, she was constantly mistaken for a foreigner. A bride at 13, she had her first child a year later. She would have eleven more, four of whom would die in infancy. In my photos of mommy, she wears a sari, her long wavy hair tied away from her glowing face. In every photo I’ve seen of her, a ghost of a smile seems to have just settled on her lips. She is a woman of dignity, a woman who commands respect in spite of her slight stature. Mommy, too, passed away when I was a newborn, without having seen me.

And, finally, there is my pappa---my nahna (maternal grandfather). As tall and gangly as a teenager, pappa’s frame belied his brilliance. He was a respected physician and a poet. Of his children, only my mother shared with him his passion for poetry and, so, everyday after he returned home from the hospital and before dinner, he would call for her. He would lie in bed, his eyes closed, and ask her to read her poems to him. After she was done reciting the poems, he’d ask her to sing them for him and she would do so happily. I met him when I was a toddler and, even though I hadn’t learned to verbalize more than a few grunts of hunger or sadness at the time, I carry imagined memories of that summer with him close to my heart. My first, albeit forgotten, sights of Pakistan were taken in from the perch of his arms, from the eagle-eyed vantage point of a tall man. However, I had forgotten him by the time he died, when I was 6 years old. I cried upon his passing, not for him, but because I’d never seen my mother cry before.

I suppose, my quest to find my grandparents is a quest to find myself, to define myself in a larger context of history. Questions about them haunt me: did they ever think about me, their granddaughter who was born in a far away land and being raised in a land even farther away? Did my pappa, who had promised my cousin that he would live long enough to see her turn seven and died the day after her birthday, have the briefest thought of me when he passed? Did he love me as much as he loved her or was I just a fading memory for him, the way he was for me? Would my grandfathers, both avid hunters, recognize themselves in me, an animal rights activist and vegetarian? And what about my nahni? She was a conservative woman of her time, a wife and mother who took pride in her place in the family. What would she say of me, the first working-woman in her family? Would she approve?

I have nothing to go by when I try to determine the answers to these questions. I often thought that growing up in Pakistan might have helped me in my quest to know my grandparents. I believed that—had I walked the same paths they walked, touched the books they touched, the clothes they wore, or simply been in the spaces they occupied—I would be able to pick up residual memories and experiences, feelings and thoughts that they’d left behind. These would have been dropped along their lives like stones in a dense forest, leading me back to them.

Sometimes, especially now that the years separating us multiply in leaps and bounds, and my life seems so far away from what their lives were, my grandparents threaten to slip away into the realm of fiction and unreality for me. It is at these moments, that I savor looking at their photographs. It is at these moments that I think of my dhadha’s love for learning, my mommy’s dignity and beauty, and my pappa’s passion for poetry and I know that I don’t need to have all of the answers. I exist because they existed. I am who I am because they are in me. And no matter what happens, I’ll carry them inside me for the remainder of my life.


I died a little inside when I heard the following news:

1) Nicole Richie's Diamonds Are Forever debuted on the New York Times extended best-seller list;
2) 50 Cent is now a publisher. He's launching an imprint called G-Unit Books at Simon & Schuster. The imprint will publish novellas and graphic novels of the "street fiction" genre.

I want to cry.

Monday, November 28, 2005


For those of you on Naseeb.com, I posted this up in my journal earlier today. Comment here or there if you're so inclined. Enjoy!

For three years, I bought my morning joe from a nice Afghan coffee vendor on the corner of Hudson and Houston. He was a tall and spindly man, so gaunt in appearance that his clothes always seemed to wear him, instead of the other way around. He brewed a mean coffee with a smile and often threw in free bagels or muffins for me. He asked after me with genuine concern if I happened to be out of the office and sometimes, he brought his son to work with him. The rolypoly boy would stumble out of his dad's van and bid me hello, his eyes glazed with boredom.

The coffee vendor was fast and efficient. He knew how I took my coffee (medium with skim milk and two Equals) and always had a cup ready for me when I reached him. Yes, I had a good thing going.

During the summer of 2004, however, I noticed something different about the coffee: it tasted horrible, as if an athlete's feet, recently removed from a pair of sweaty socks and sneakers, had been soaked in the beverage. I nearly gagged and, dumping the cup with its contents in the trash, I bought a weak coffee from the office cafeteria.
While the coffee vendor was back in top form the next day and the day after, the nasty coffee made a comeback the following week. The days of the week when I had good coffee progressively lessened, while my palate became increasingly accustomed to the taste of what I liked to call "skunky feet coffee."

That's when I began to notice the coffee vendor parked on the corner of Hudson and Morton. I happened upon him on my walk from the Christopher Street path station to work every day and wondered what kind of coffee he brewed. It couldn't have been worst than skunky feet. Nothing was as bad as skunky feet.

Yet, I continued going to the Afghan vendor out of guilt, habit and a sense of loyalty. His coffee might have been skunky, but he still smiled warmly at me, didn't he? He still told his son to say hello to me, and he still gave me freebies. How could I stop going to him?

The first time I crumbled under the promise of a decent cup of coffee, I almost whispered my order to the other vendor. He was an older man who, I'd later discover, came from Egypt. As deft as the Afghan vendor was, this one moved almost lethargically, not caring about the line that grew longer and longer as he carefully prepared one cup of joe at a time.

And the coffee was delicious. I was smitten.

On that day, I rushed past my Afghan vendor, pressing the coffee into my side so that he couldn't see it. I couldn't meet his eyes the next day when, as usual, he had my cup ready and waiting for me when I reached him. Our conversations--my side of it, anyway--became forced and awkward. I wondered if he knew that I was occassionally buying my coffee from someone else. I braced myself for the day when he would confront me.
Eventually, I stopped going to him altogether. When I walked past him, I made sure to look at the building to my right with feigned interest, so that all he saw was the back of my head...which really, could've been the back of ANYONE'S head. I practically jogged by each time, as if I was rushing to make the light or a meeting.

Even now, more than a year later, I sometimes steal a glance at him, standing inside his cart, tending to the caffeine addictions of men and women, who struggle to wake up in the early hours of morning. I look away before he sees me.
This past summer, I saw his boy leaning against the hood of the van, consuming large gulps of air as he yawned one, two, three times. He saw me before I could look away and he smiled.

Good coffee is worth it and coffee shouldn't taste like feet, I reminded myself as I skittered away.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

Another one by ee.....

Talk about playing around with words for a double meaning. Here's another (slightly more scandalous) poem by ee. Enjoy.

she being Brand

-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff i was
careful of her and(having

thoroughly oiled the universal
joint tested my gas felt of
her radiator made sure her springs were O.

K.)i went right to it flooded-the-carburetor cranked her

up,slipped the
clutch(and then somehow got into reverse she
kicked what
the hell)next
minute i was back in neutral tried and

again slo-wly;bare,ly nudg. ing(my

lev-er Right-
oh and her gears being in
A 1 shape passed
from low through
second-in-to-high like
greasedlightning)just as we turned the corner of Divinity

avenue i touched the accelerator and give

her the juice,good


was the first ride and believe i we was
happy to see how nice she acted right up to
the last minute coming back down by the Public
Gardens i slammed on

brakes Bothatonce and

brought allofher tremB
to a:dead.


ee cummings

ee cummings rocks for many reasons. He wasn't emotionally constipated; he experimented with form, syntax, punctuation, spelling, as he attempted to rectify the inadequacy of language to address the experiences of life and feelings and--sigh--love; he was lambasted by critics for being overly sentimental (what a rebel and, seriously, what is it with critics, anyway?); and, as you can see, he was such a cute kid.
Anyway, here's one of my favorite poems by him---or by anyone else for that matter:

since feeling is first
e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis


I don't care for pecan squares, probably because I care so much for them. Sigh.

Saturday, November 26, 2005


The medicine ball at the gym, which helps me to myofascially release.


Well, the fact of the matter is that I'm at home on a Saturday night with no plans and no one but my cat to hang out with (she's actually great company). The 'rents are out partying, which is rather ironic. All of this is making me realize how much I love great conversations/conversationalists.
But don't cry for me Argentina. I'm actually quite all right.

Friday, November 25, 2005


Lessons learned from the book:

If he hasn't asked you out, he's just not that into you.
I am a fox.

If he hasn't called you, he's just not that into you.
I am a fox.

If he's selfish and doesn't care to ask about your day/hobbies/likes/dislikes/family/issues/fears/dreams/quirks/friends/work/ allergies/chicken pox stories/horoscope/sore bicep femoris/stalker/cat/dog/hamster/dearly departed parakeet, he's just not that into you.
I am a fox.

If he's not ready to commit, he's just not that into you.
I am a fox.

If he's promised that he'll meet you outside the theater half an hour before the movie starts and the movie started a half an hour ago and you're still standing outside the theater thinking that maybe he's hurt or lost or has been kidnapped and his phone's dead, go home sister, because he's just not that into you.
I am a fox.

If he's suddenly nowhere to be found, he may be dead--and not by a phone or computer or blackberry--at the bottom of a ravine somewhere, but it's more likely that he's just not that into you.
I am a fox.

If he's telling you that he's just not that into you...he probably means it.
I am a fox.

Okay, so I haven't gotten past the first 20 pages of the book.
However, the above-mentioned lessons I've learned in those first 20 pages (including the table of contents) are important ones.
And the book's funny and stuff. But can it really be that simple? Can it? If so, that's it!
Man of my dreams aka my future crush aka stud muffin aka my perfect hubby: you gotta do all the work buddy, I'm not taking the initiative, or taking the plunge or whatever, because the book's telling me not to. I'm just not doing it. If you're into me, you'll freakin' move mountains to be with me. The ball's in your court, so pick it up.
Of course I mean that in the nicest way.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

My gift to you: Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf"

So, I heard Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf" three times today. First I heard it at the gym; next I heard it in the car, as my mom and I drove to the mall (I couldn't help but listen to it. There was nothing but ads on the other stations); and then, I heard it at Macy's (their idea of Christmas music, apparently).
I figured this was all a sign that I needed to post the lyrics of the song on this blog, that I need to reacquaint you, dear blog reader, with "Hungry Like the Wolf." So here's my good deed for the year (*disclaimer: I am NOT hungry like a wolf. I'm not hungry like anything. I enjoyed a lovely dinner and happen to be full at the moment. Also, there is no way that I could ever be hungry like a wolf, seeing that wolves are carnivores (or are they omnivores??) and I'm a herbivore...well I eat fish, does that make me a herbi-, pesce-vore...or am I in fact, a carnivore and, therefore, hungry like the wolf when I am hungry? I have a headache. Enjoy the song lyrics below). I present to you "Hungry Like the Wolf." :

(ha ha!)

Dark in the city, night is a wire
Steam in the subway, earth is a fire
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
Woman you want me, give me a sign
And catch my breathing even closer behind
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do

In touch with the ground
I’m on the hunt I’m after you
Smell like I sound, I’m lost in a crowd
And I’m hungry like the wolf
Straddle the line, in discord and rhyme
I’m on the hunt I’m after you
Mouth is alive with juices like wine
And I’m hungry like the wolf

Stalked in the forest, too close to hide
I’ll be upon you by the moonlight side
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do
High blood drumming ony our skin it’s so tight
You feel my heart, I’m just a moment behind
Do-do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do

In touch with the ground
I’m on the hunt I’m after you
Scent and a sound, I’m lost and I’m found
And I’m hungry like the wolf
Strut on a line, it’s discord and rhyme
I howl and I whine I’m after you
Mouth is alive all running inside
And I’m hungry like the wolf


(hungry like the wolf
Hungry like the wolf
Hungry like the wolf)

Burning the ground I break from the crowd
I’m on the hunt I’m after you
I smell like I sound, I’m lost and I’m found
And I’m hungry like the wolf
Strut on a line, it’s discord and rhyme
I’m on the hunt I’m after you
Mouth is alive with juices like wine
And I’m hungry like the wolf

Burning the ground I break from the crowd
I’m on the hunt I’m after you
Scent and a sound, I’m lost and I’m found
And I’m hungry like the wolf

Strut on a line, it’s discord and rhyme
I howl and I whine I’m after you
Mouth is alive all running inside
And I’m hungry like the wolf...

Tuesday, November 22, 2005


OY! There's no escaping the rishta (rishta is Urdu for engagement) aunties! My mom and I were walking around Macy's today when we ran into an aunty and her adorable 2-year-old granddaughter. This is the same aunty who, at the mosque after Eid namaz, clasped my hand, looked into my eyes and said, so earnestly: "There is a time and a place for everyone, beyta. We have no control when it comes to these things." She married her own daughters while the family was vacationing in Pakistan. The girls were 19 at the time.
So, anyway, my mom and this aunty are talking and suddenly, her little granddaughter holds up her arms to me. I've never met the kid in my life, but clearly she wants to be held. So, we all "awwww" over this turn of events (I do, in fact, love babies), I pick her up and walk her around the home goods section, looking at dinnerware and cookware and I'm carrying on a conversation with the kid this entire time. The baby rests her head on my shoulder as I point out Rachel Ray cooking on the flat screen tv that hovers over the cookware.
As the minutes tick by, the baby gets heavier in my arms (and I've had a killer upper body workout in the gym earlier, so she's really hurting me now) but my amma and this aunty are chattng away. And so I keep on strolling around with the baby, who CLEARLY LOVES ME. Finally, after like 20 minutes (I kid you not---ammas and aunties sure can TALK), I rejoin the ladies, and they notice as I struggle to keep my bag on my shoulder AND readujust the baby on my hip. They finally get it, I return the now crying baby to her grandmother and amma and I resume shopping.
It's not until we're walking to the car that amma tells me what they were talking about. Apparently, the aunty has two prospects in mind for me: a family friend SOMEWHERE in the USA and a nephew in Pakistan.
I grumble a whatever when amma isn't looking and climb into the car.
Seriously, there is no escaping the rishta police for us girls. And now, I'm kinda convinced that the baby was in on all of it. She wanted to distract me so that amma and aunty could talk. It's a well thought out plan, I tell you!

Sunday, November 20, 2005

SPOILED MILK?: Pakistan's Marriage Conspiracy

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that Pakistani mothers--as well as aunts, cousins, grandmothers, fathers, uncles, sisters, brothers, dentists, neighbors, friends and/or neighbors' parents, friends and/or neighbors' grandparents, extended relatives of friends and/or neighbors, drug store cashiers, bank tellers, great-aunts, cabbies, great-uncles--who have (or know of anyone else's) single offspring (especially female offspring) must be in want of getting them married.
It's a compulsion that strikes all Pakistani adults that are older and already settled into the state of matrimony. It's the only thing they, particularly the mothers, can talk about after their single children hit a certain age. And, trust me, it's a compulsion that will strike your parent before you can say "ristha-walee" (Urdu for matchmaker). You'll be caught off guard. One minute you'll be discussing the weather or your suspicions that the milk has soured a day sooner than the stamp on the carton promises and the next minute your mother will be bemoaning the fact that you wasted the great match-making opportunity that was college by doing everything but pursuing suitable matches. Your reaction will be one of shock. You might stand there, milk carton in hand, frozen. What has happened to your sweet, smart, sensible mother? She's not like other Pakistani parents. She doesn't care that you're 24, 25, 26, hell 30 and unmarried. She loves you for you. She's proud of the person you're becoming, not waiting impatiently to pick out the generic Pakistani doctor/engineer she wants you to marry.
You WILL think to yourself: where's my mother and how can I get her back, dammit?
Once Pakistani moms settle into their new rishta-walle roles (oh, and the settling in process isn't so much a process. It's like coming home for them; I swear, Pakistanis must have a genetic predisposition "to marry"), things become very, very interesting--equal parts amusing and frustrating. A single Pakistani offspring will notice that news of recent engagements are increasingly interrupting otherwise pleasant conversations. Our mothers have a way of sprinkling them throughout the conversation, much in the same way they season meals; your mouth doesn't start burning from the red peppers until after you've swallowed a mouthful of the saalan and, by that time, it's already too late. Listening to who's engaged to whom is a lot like listening to someone read aloud those obnoxious engagement announcements in newspapers: Fatima Chaudhry, daughter of Dr. Ahmad and Mrs. Haleema Chaudhry was recently engaged to Ali Mohammad, son of Dr. Omar and Mrs. Zakeena Mohammad. Fatima and Ali are both pursuing their MDs in Grenada. It was a (scandal, scandal!) love match, but at least these kids made it happen, unlike my children who will most certainly turn their noses on arranged marriages but are too busy to find mates on their own. Look at Fatima, who, in spite of being as plain as they come, sure did show us that she is "fast" in matters of the heart.
Once your state of singledom has been compromised at home, you become especially aware of surrounding dangers, especially female relatives and friends of your mother. You will find yourself to be the only single woman of 26 at parties thrown by friends of your parents and, in your increasing state of paranoia, will swear, SWEAR that this was all planned ahead of time around the kitchen tables where married moms sit closely hunched over their cupfuls of chai, discussing the best strategy to discomfort you into marriage. But you don't let it bother you. So what if these married-with-children girls happen to be your age? They only seem to be able to engage in discussions about (insert dry laugh here) their BABIES and their HUSBANDS. Stick a hot poker in my eye if I ever reach a point in my life where those are the only conversation topics I can engage in. Please. To these girls, you're probably nothing more than what my friend's mother told her all single women of a certain age are: expired milk. But, dammit, at least you know how to be a personable conversationalist who can talk to EVERYONE about EVERYTHING.
So, you decide that perhaps you can engage in stimulating, mature conversation with your mother and her mature friends. But how could you forget, poor, silly, expired milk?! They are the masterminds behind this campaign to see you hitched and before you can smile at them, they start with their: when will we be receiving invitations to your wedding?; you really should start thinking about settling down because you're not getting any younger; I've heard of a website that you and your parents should check out; when we get married is already written in the stars, but that doesn't mean that we sit back and wait for things to fall in our laps; and, of course, the inevitable, my brother-in-law's wife's cousin's best friend has a son who would be PERFECT for you!
So you manage to pull yourself away from these matrimonial mavens and, limping and injured, drag yourself to the one group that will, not only take you in, but will most probably look up to you in wonder and awe: the girls in their pre- and early teens. You're so hip and cool, you MUST be close to their age, right? And yet, they know that you're no longer in school...but why aren't you married then? Why not? Because you're a glamorous fox who's juggling a fabulous publishing career in Manhattan and--oh, you're so busy, having meetings at Moby's place (who's that? oh, that doesn't matter...kids these days! insert throaty laugh here), and working with Cosmopolitan and Glamour and Elle. Oh, you have no time to marry, darling.
And, then, on the way home, as your mother gives you the latest engagement news, the realization that you spent an entire evening hanging out with people more than a decade younger than you simply because you're single and not ready to settle at the moment, hits you like a foul odor and all you can do is become sullen and bitter and frown. You've reverted into a teenager, helpless and directionless. Congrats to the older married people because they've gotten exactly what they've wanted; because now that you feel pathetic enough about yourself, you're primed to meet a gaggle of men your parents (or friends of their friends) have deemed marriage-worthy for you.
And so it begins.


For the few of you out there who don't already know, my brother and I are going to be competing for the title of Iron Chef Thanksgiving this Thursday.
Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday ever since senior year of high school when I first decided that I would cook EVERYTHING (excluding the turkey, which my mom makes every year; I have a fear of salmonella poisoning my family) on my own, from scratch. Pie crust, stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce: you name it, I make it from scratch. Sure, by the end of the night, I'm exhausted, nearly in tears and not very hungry but my family and our guests' happily bloated stomachs make it all worth it.
Back in senior year of college, I cooked more than I've ever cooked in my life for 13 guests. The menu included 6 desserts alone (pecan pie, truffles, sugar-free apple pie, pumpkin bundt cake...and I can't remember the remaining two desserts).
So, my brother who watches the Food Network religiously is absolutley obnoxious when it comes to cooking. He pretends he has his own show and trash talks the entire time, about how he's a better cook than I am. However, the thing is, he doesn't know the fundamentals of cooking. Sure, he may have the passion, but without talent, you're not winning Iron Chef Thanksgiving!
One day, I had enough of his trash talk, so I threw him the Thanksgiving punk card, he picked it up and now the victor will prevail on Gobble-Gobble Day. Our family is going to judge. The not-so-secret-secret ingredient is the mighty pecan.
We're each going to cook two sides, one bread and one dessert (mom remains responsible for the turkey); our eldest brother is going to assist my brother in his kitchen, while our mom will assist me in my kitchen. Assistants can only cut ingredients and clean after the chefs; they cannot, under any circumstances, COOK.
I finalized my menu this morning.
Here's to winning!

Saturday, November 19, 2005


At the moment, I hate paan masala (for all of you who don't know what the hell paan masala is, google it, and then visit your local Indian/Pakistani market area for paan; it's actually very good, unless you gorge on the stuff with which they fill the paan leaf). I ate too much of it and now I feel ill. Someone, bring the stomach pump over to my place, please. :(

Tuesday, November 15, 2005


I do enjoy my scatological metaphors.


I don't care for emotionally constipated people. You guys need love laxatives and/or enemas.
Although, sometimes I don't like having emotional diarrhea.


*Yes, this was originally posted on Naseeb*

I was in a deep, deep slumber, dreaming about a first day of school (my best friends Roselle and Rachel were with me; we were in a science class and the professor---who happened to be rather hunky---gave us our choice of bronze medallions that would be assigned to us for the duration of the semester. They were all different sizes. One was as small as an eraser tip. I chose the mid-size medallion, which seemed reasonable enough. I lost it by the end of the class) when my mother woke me up. It was 7 freakin' 45 and I'd hoped to be in the office at 7:30. My damn hello moto phone failed to go off again.
In any case, I ended up throwing together what I realized later was an abysmal pants-shoes-cami-shirt-cardigan combo and didn't care to brush my hair. Plus, in spite of getting a good 7+ hours sleep, I was sluggish and rather uninspired. I'm NEVER sluggish in the morning. I'm the proverbial early bird. The (veggie) worm is MINE, dammit. WHAT THE FREAKIN' HELL.
So, I ran out the door, caught an elevator and prayed that it went down without stopping on every other floor.
The elevator stopped on one floor: 20. Two men got on. The elevator door started to slide shut; we were mere centimeters away from leaving the 20th floor and heading downstairs. Nano-centimeters. There was only the tiniest sliver of space left for the door to cover before we'd be on our way down........when it opened right back up again.
And on the other side of the door was a little girl---she couldn't have been more than 4-years-old---with the widest grin on her face as she stood on her tiptoes, keeping a hard finger on the elevator call button. She wore a puffy pink coat that seemed too big for her. When she almost lost her balance, one could've blamed it on the weight of the coat on her slight frame. So, she stood there, turning to look for whomever it was she awaited, and I stood inside the elevator fuming.
The nerve of this little brat! Didn't she know that people had to get to work! Didn't she realize that the alarm clock feature on my Motorola phone sucked wind and that I needed to get my morning coffee from my coffee guy who sits in a cart on the corner of Hudson and Morton and I couldn't get that coffee while I waited ON AN ELEVATOR IN NEW JERSEY BECAUSE THIS LITTLE OBSTINATE BRAT DECIDED THAT SHE WANTED TO BE A BIG FREAKIN' GIRL AND HOLD THE ELEVATOR OPEN FOR HER SLACKER PARENT WHO COULDN'T SEEM TO LOCK HIS OR HER FREAKIN' APARTMENT DOOR.
The little girl was still smiling after what seemed to be a minute when I, at the edge of reason, said "No, let the button go," opening my eyes wide the way my mom does when she comes across kids who misbehave.
Of course her dad waltzed in at that moment. The little girl half hid behind him, and peeked out at me with one eye.
Sure, I was the bad guy, wasn't I? In my pre-caffeinated morning daze I became paranoid that the other two guys were judging me based on my gritted teeth command to the little girl.
So, I played right into the role and glared at the kid the entire way down. Now I'm sitting in my too-cold office, busy as hell and contemplating breaking my one cup of coffee a day rule for a second cup.
I need a hug.

Sunday, November 13, 2005


I need a crush.
It's so nice to have a crush on someone.
Any suggestions?

How dare he just not be that into me???

I'm currently reading He's Just Not That Into You. It's supposedly going to change my life. I'm keeping a camera (for the "after" pic), confetti and streamers close by, just in case...........

Saturday, November 12, 2005


So, after 6 months of repairing my hip and sighing constantly about not being able to run at all, not only have I started running again, but I managed to run 6 miles today. It's been a while but I'll be back to clocking double digit mileage soon enough.
Thanks to my trainer, I can also lunge and squat 'til the cows come home.
Which is exactly what I'll be doing tomorrow morning to burn off all the damn peanut brittle I ate today.
I don't even like peanut brittle!
Boredom is the devil, I tell ya! It's the devil! And hell is lined with peanut brittle. Grrrrr.


I don't care for hip sprains. Hip sprains suck. You have people ask you "Do you realize you're limping?" ALL FREAKIN' DAY. Really? Thank you for pointing that out because the shooting pain making my hip stiff...I DON'T FEEL THAT AT ALL EITHER! The bloody fact of the matter is that 1) I sit and it hurts, 2) I stand and it hurts, 3) I walk and it hurts, 4) halfway through my physical therapy (which happened to last 4 months) I re-sprained my sprained hip, 5) my physical therapist told me NO EXERCISE for the duration of my therapy (I nearly lost my lunch when she said that);
Nerd: No weight training?
PT: Weight training counts as a physical activity.
Nerd: No elliptical-ing on the elliptical machine?
PT: No elliptical-ing on the elliptical machine.
Nerd: No yoga? C'mon. It's not as physical or active as running.
PT: No yoga.
Nerd: Throw a girl a bone, will ya? Say yes to pilates. Please, say yes to pilates!
PT: I'm gonna go with no.
Nerd: You tyrant! You heartless fiend! I am destroyed!
Things I do care for: un-spraining hips (as long as it takes), working out with the most BRILLIANT trainer on the PLANET, and the pleasure of running again (Gosh, I LOVE it).


I don't care for cell phones with busted alarm clock features that threaten to jeopardize my schedule. Such cell phones will be marched back to the Verizon store at the mall later today and forced to explain themselves.
I have picked up the punk card (please refer to the post below for further information)!


I wake on the morning of November 11th, 2005 feeling more rested than I've felt in a very long time. I managed to fall asleep at midnight the previous night and---what time is it? 8:45---the nearly 9 hours' sleep has done wonders for me. I can feel the difference and I haven't even gotten out of bed yet. I do love getting up early on Saturdays and even though I'm later than usual, the sky is a crisp blue color and lays out invitingly beyond my window.
First thing's first: I'm going to go to the gym. Later, I'm going to hit the Korean market for fruits and vegetables. At home, I'll tidy up the place, hitting the corners that I can't usually get to during the week. It's going to be such a wonderful day. Ahh, I love productive Saturdays...
Hmm, that's interesting. If I remember correctly, I was pretty bummed last night. I may have been upset about forgetting to Tivo ER. ER is on Thursday nights! That CAN'T be right, can it? If today is Saturday, where did Friday go?!! Did Friday happen?!! I mean, today's Saturday and I happen to have big, productive plans. HUGE plans. PRODUCTIVE. GREAT PLANS THAT ONLY RESPONSIBLE, PRODUCTIVE PERSONS LIKE MYSELF CAN FOLLOW THROUGH ON.
I actually went to bed early last night, in anticipation of an early morning. WHERE'S THE BLOODY JUSTICE IN THAT??!!!!!! And my alarm clock? Why didn't my alarm clock go off??? Dammit!!!!!!! Oh, the humanity!!!!!!! OHHHH, MOTOROLA!!!!!!!!!!!!
So, now I've gone and done it. I've picked up the punk card that Motorola has thrown me and I have a message for the Moto:

I have a bone to pick with you Motorola! C'mon biatch. Bring it! I'm right here. You want to disrupt my schedule by making phones that have faulty alarm clock systems?? Huh? Huh? You'll have to get past me and my shiv first. I'm gonna mess you up with my shiv, Moto. Yah! I said it! Whatcha gonna do, huh? Huh? Yah, I wanna fight you punk! I'm ready!!! Wha? Wha? You scared??! HELLO MOTO THIS, BIATCH!
(Naturally, Motorola is now cowering in its cell-phones-that-suck corner).


Okay, so apparently 51% of Americans don't believe in the theory of evolution.
Some school districts are already teaching Intelligent Design in Science class.
I just have one question: WHAT THE HELL?!

*To all of my Naseeb peeps out there: you're experiencing deja vu, aren't you?

Thursday, November 10, 2005


Okay, I take full responsibility for being a delinquent blogger and I need a second chance. Life's been rough. My hours are crazy; I often don't get home until 9PM, at which time I scarf down an anemic dinner---for the record, I, myself, am NOT anemic---tidy up the place (I can't rest until it's neat...really, I think it's a sickness...not anemia though), read manuscripts for work and chat a bit online. The last thing I want to do is use my brain cells, you know.
I miss blogging. I have to change my life and bring blogging back into it. We'll be like a fork and spoon (shout out to my boy Rich R.!---don't worry babe, blogging CAN'T replace you), peanut butter and jelly, Hall and Oates, flipflops and summer, crack and Kate Moss, milk and cookies, a guido and a gold chain, a Jersey girl and hair spray, Tom Cruise and aliens.
Baby, I'm back!

Tuesday, November 01, 2005


I'm tired you guys. Why don't you send me what you would post up if this was your blog and I may very well end up using it.
I need to chill out.