THE NERD WHO BROUGHT BACK REVENGE OF THE NERDDD'S NERD OF THE DAY

It's been quite some time since I've bespectacled (yes, I'm totally using the adjective as a verb) someone Nerd of the Day. I could say that I am sick and tired of the politics and competition that come along with choosing a NOD; that the quality of nerds in my life is rather unfortunate; or that the internet age is transforming even the brightest minds into insipid drones, leaving me with a pretty shallow pool of nerds. But the truth of the matter is that, I totally forgot about NODs.

Well, that is until I came across a nerd who made me remember.



I've seen Aneesh Raman reporting on CNN countless times but last night was different. I felt like a nearsighted tourist in Jersey City who, after hours of staring at the muddy blobs of light that are supposed to be the Manhattan skyline, finally puts on her glasses to discover that, oh my, the blobs are, indeed, the Manhattan skyline. I never noticed before how handsome, intelligent and engaging the CNN Middle East correspondent is. He can recite the alphabets or read Beatrix Potter's Peter Rabbit on air and he'd have me riveted. Plus, he's pretty damned smart: after graduating magna cum laude from Harvard, he spent a year in India as a Fulbright Scholar.

I think I'm in love.

Read more about him here (but please note that Aneesh Raman's pic here doesn't do him any justice): http://edition.cnn.com/CNN/anchors_reporters/raman.aneesh.html

FACEBOOK

Am I, at 27, too old for Facebook?

Shit!

I joined the networking site earlier today because my friend invited me and I didn't have anything better to do (I'm still ill). It seemed like a good idea at the time. The realization that I'm way past Facebook prime set in well after I'd already set up my profile, uploaded a pic, and invited a bunch of people I know from work to be my friends (I couldn't help but notice that all of them were younger than me). I'd delete my profile but I've already invited those folks. And can I really delete my profile or is Facebook (shudder) forever?

Eff.

SICK: DAY 4,039,789

It's day 4 of my week off from work and GUESS WHO'S STILL SICK??!!!!!
...you post one lousy letter breaking up with bloody 2006 on your blog and the year suddenly hates you back. Sheesh...

LIVE FROM THE SICKBED

This blows. This really, really, really blows. I best be cured by tomorrow.

The end.

CLEARLY, THE JOLLY OL' GEEZER DOESN'T LIKE OUR NERD

That sadistic, sick, old man gifted our nerd with a stomach bug this Christmas. Feeling a sense of deja vu at the sound of that? Well it's probably because you've read about a previous bout that our nerd waged with gastrointestinal terrors earlier this year. The culprit that time was bad sushi. The culprit this time can be none other than the jovial fat man. Our nerd, however, seems to believe that the My Super Sweet Sixteen marathon on MTV that she watched for hours--she likened it to a traffic accident--after her morning run had something to do with the waves of nauseau and busy stomach, which are still tormenting her.
With a shrug, our nerd sums up the diarrhea and vomiting (SO much vomiting) with the following words of wisdom:

"Better me than someone who observes Christmas."

Someone elect that nerd to public office!

And she also wishes all of her readers a Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah and Happy Eid (Eid's next weekend!).

2006: An Open Letter

Dear 2006:

Wallace Stegner once said, "Most things break, including hearts. The lessons of life amount not to wisdom, but to scar tissue and callus." The years that came before you had broken my heart so that I was encased in caution when we met on vacation last January. Yet you wooed me anyway, using the foreign land in which we were deliberately and happily stranded as your chisel. The air was different in that part of the world. It pressed against my skin, heavy with history; it was fragrant with culture and tradition. I'd never felt more alive before and, somehow, it all seemed possible only because of you. Suddenly, you were a fresh start, a resolution to forget the past and move forward with purpose. I fell in love with you under those now-distant skies.

I thought I could make the feeling last forever with you 2006 and we made it work during those first few months back from vacation. You made routine seem euphoric and new; the world was luscious and sweet and I, I was invincible--to heartbreak, pain, regret, fear, loneliness. I was unflappable. We were happy. I have memories from those early months that I will take with me wherever I go. I hope you can do the same.

You see, 2006, I don't have any regrets about our time together. It was fun while it lasted. You were a better conversationalist than 2000 could ever be (it's all about a person's BREADTH of knowledge, isn't it) and way hotter than 2003. 1999 could learn a few things from you about kissing and I'd like to forget that 2005 ever happened. I must say, however, that you rather pulled the rug out from under me. I don't want to dwell on the issues for they might seem inconsequential, trivial when compared to the massive amounts of sorrow, pain, and agony you've likely brought to others who, regardless of whether or not they fell under your spell, were, and still are, subject to your indiscriminate will. But you still hurt me. You became full of the kind of unrequitedness that leaves a bitter taste in one's mouth and a tight, cold fist where the heart used to be. You toppled ideals and hopes and I cried one time too many because of you.

Yes, this is exactly what it sounds like 2006. I'm breaking up with you...in an open letter...on my blog. I want you to know that thanks to you, I'm fully and securely armored against all of the years that will follow. And, don't get it wrong: it's YOU, not ME. You're old, outdated and fast approaching your expiration date. Thanks for the memories, but 2006, you bastard, I'm afraid we're through.

THE NERD KNOWS STATE CAPITALS

As you all know, I've been behaving rather cantankerously of late for reasons listed a couple of posts below. One of the reasons, of course, is the family blind date, which hovers over me like a bad premonition. The number of ways this can go wrong are infinite and yet I must go through with it.

How I'm railroaded into such things is beyond me.

So, I was at Target eariler today, intent on wasting as much time as I could (because it's been one of those weeks, you know). Lingering over notebooks (I heart notebooks and journals) and pens (I heart pens) in the office supplies aisle, I barely noticed when a salesperson, dressed in the Target-issued red polo and khakis walked by. He startled me when he suddenly stopped and asked: "Excuse me. Do you know the what the capital of Montana is?"

I looked over my shoulder to see if he was addressing someone else. Nope, we were the only two people in the office supplies aisle.

I reached back into that sliver of brain where 4th grade geography resides. "Um, I think it's Helena," I told him.

"Helena?" he confirmed.

"Yah, I think so."

"Helena," he repeated and smiled. "Thanks."

I returned to the notebooks and pens that I loved and didn't think much of my exchange with the salesperson.

Now, I can't stop wondering if I look like the kind of person who knows what the capital of Montana is. Sweet baby Jeebus, do I LOOK like a nerd???

GONADAL TIDINGS: Sexual Politics and the Holiday Dinner

I met the bffs—you know them as R&R, don’t you—on Friday night for our annual bff holiday dinner. The night, very rapidly, (d)evolved into an interesting study of sexual politics. After ordering appetizers and entrees at a swanky JC eatery, R had just started to share a fantastically entertaining story that was, ultimately, heartbreaking at its core, when a man wearing a festive red sweater appeared next to me. We were startled.

Could he join us? Would we let him sit in the fourth seat at our table and order us drinks? His buddies—he pointed to the long table directly across from ours where his twenty or so mostly male colleagues sat—had bet that we wouldn’t let him join us. We asked if there was money riding on the bet. $20, he told us and proceeded to plead his case. Obviously, the stranger saw this as a test of his masculinity and an opportunity to reinforce his alpha male status—he was their boss, a claim that was confirmed shortly thereafter by his inebriated colleague—in the group.

But the three of us weren’t going to sit aside and be docile little pawns in this game of testicular strategy. R announced that he could sit with us if and only if he paid for our meal. We were confident that this man, who would later introduce himself as Gucci, couldn’t refuse our proposition. Refusing would result not only in his losing the bet but also in a sort of financial emasculation by which he would be left a virtual economic eunuch before a trio of females.

And, so, needless to say, he agreed to our proposition and scrambled into the fourth chair when we nodded that he could join us. Gucci, his sozzled director of human resources and the rest of the merry band of engineers across the way from us—I happened to be the one facing them, so I felt obligated to wave every once in a while as they craned their necks towards us in various stages of drunken curiosity—provided us with endless comedy relief all night. The pair eventually left us to our meal, allowing R to continue the amusing tale of her via dolorosa to the realization that, in the end, all men are the same. We laughed and asked our waitress for the dessert menu. At my suggestion, we ordered the dessert sampler; our waitress, who assured us many times throughout the meal that the Gooch was, in fact, paying, nodded her approval.

The sampler, before and after shots of which are pictured above, was absurd. We savored it thoroughly and, yes, I confess, we blushed a little each time the Gooch dropped by to say hello.

The Gooch successfully paraded his alpha masculinity before his buddies but he also lost $160 for the $20 he won.

We enjoyed a ridiculous $160 three-course meal free of charge, affording us the opportunity to extravagantly tip our sweet but clearly overworked and pregnant waitress.

I think the women won this one.

BA HUMBUG

My qi has been a bit frazzled of late, hence the waning posts. I’ll blame it on the following: the holidays, excessive consumption of sugar, the sun bloody going down at four bloody thirty every single bloody day, workplace busyness, the stress of which, I was recently told, may lead to type II diabetes and the ‘rents recharged determination to marry me off (they seem to have regained their own lost focus after vacationing in Jeb Bush-land). Yours truly is set to double blind date a family with her own this weekend.

And I feel neither very intelligent nor terribly cute at the moment. Damnation.

I need an effin’ break...the bears get a good one with hiber-freakin'-nation.

In other news, I did guess the Final Jeapordy answer quite effortlessly today; it was Samuel Beckett. And praise the gods, Alex Trebek has gotten rid of that pedophilic moustache--hasn't he?

SWEET TOOTH JUJU

Apologies for my gross negligence in updating the blog on a daily basis. 'Tis the season, after all and this week's been very long. Tuesday felt like Thursday, Wednesday felt like Friday, Thursday was tortuously endless and Monday was downright awful. Earlier during my staggeringly perpetual day, I thought that perhaps I could create some positive juju by baking cookies for my compadres at work.

I thought about the cookies some more when I got home. I thought about baking them during my run (the formerly bum hip, which had been acting up of late, didn't cause any problems, thank goodness), then after my run, and later as I ate dinner. I was still occasionaly thinking about baking cookies while watching DVR'd episodes of Cold Case and Bones after dinner. To be honest, I didn't think about cookies at all as I read a great piece about RK Narayan in this week's New Yorker (you can read it here: http://www.newyorker.com/critics/books/articles/061218crbo_books), but I did think about it for quite some time after I was done reading the article.

Finally, I carried the ol' G4 here to the kitchen, plugged it in, visited this website--http://www.joyofbaking.com/cookies.html--for cookie recipes and realized: 1) the time this project would take, 2) the energy this project would take, 3) the mess I would have to clean up after completing the project, and 4) the many ways this project could go horribly wrong.

The folks at Dunkin' Donuts best serve those Munchkins with a side of juju tomorrow morning.

"WHERE IS THE FISHES?" Shudder

Making my way through the building that houses my gym, I found myself a few paces behind a young mother and her adorable, blonde-haired toddler. It was a precious scene: she pushed his empty stroller as she looked over her shoulder and encouraged him to stop dawdling. He was clearly in awe of the hordes leaving work at the time. As we came upon a restaurant with a large fish tank built into its wall, the mother saw her opportunity:

"Where is the fishes?" she asked him. "Can you see the fishes? Fishes, fishes!"

I nearly fainted.

Sure the toddler was practically running in the direction of the "fishes" and his mom by this time but that's beside the point. How dare this woman expose her impressionable child to such glaring grammatical errors??! And why, in the name of all that's good, didn't she have even the most elementary grasp of what, by all appearances, was her native tongue? Am I unfairly assuming that blonde hairs and blue eyes equate American? If this is the case, I apologize most profusely. Her accent, however, would prove otherwise...

I can't help but react passionately to such blatant abuses of the language.

GOODBYE FRIENDS: Brain Cells on the Rapid Decline

So, after the age of 20, people lose an average of 50,000 brain cells a day.
The key to preventing and reversing this very sad fact of life is exercising the brain as you would exercise, say, the glutes. No, no, no. Squats and gluteal flexing won't help you boost your cognition (though they do wonders boosting your derriere) but reading, doing crossword puzzles and sudoku will.

I must say that as much as I read, I do feel as if my mental acquity has taken a blow over the past several years. I was much smarter when I was a kid and my ability to retain all kinds of information was amazing. Now, not so much...

I wonder if those find-the-hidden-word puzzles count as exercise for the brain or are they the Wheel of Fortune of puzzles.

I should take up sudoku, maybe.

THE F WORD

I've found that older Asians have no qualms at all about throwing around the "f" word: fat. Now, I'm referring to Asians from all across the continent (actually, one of my biggest pet peeves is folks who insist that I'm not Asian because I'm not Chinese or Japanese or Filipino. Please people, Asia is the largest continent on the planet and includes many regions besides the Asia-Pacific region. How about flipping through an atlas every now and then? Jeez).

For example, while in the throes of an awful hip injury that sidelined me from my usual workout regimen a couple of years ago, I went to a newsstand that I regularly frequent to buy some gum. The two Indian women who worked behind the register were always sweet and friendly, until on this day, when one of them exclaimed, "Oh, you're so fat now! You were so nice and thin! But look at you! Now you're BIG and FAT!"

I knew that the clerk meant no harm. If anything, she probably felt more at ease with me than her other customers because we shared an Asian subcontinental motherland. Nonetheless, I was shocked and upset. All eyes seemed to be on me and suddenly I was that tubby kid who tried desperately to not be noticed for fear of being teased. My jaw dropped as I squeaked out a "Really?!" and then proceeded to explain my excuse for being fat: bum hip (which, happened to be a result of working out), doctor's orders to take a break from ALL EXERCISE until I was through with 4 months of physical therapy, etc, etc. I wanted to cry.

As upsetting as that particular experience was, nothing really compares to the ruthless taunting and teasing kids are subjected to in school, right? Well, imagine if you were the butt of the jokes and your tormentor was an infuriatingly clueless, FOB teacher. It makes it that much more awful when an adult hands kids a free pass to make someone cry. It was the third grade; the teacher's name was Ms. Yunis and she had recently immigrated to the US from the Philippines. She was young and energetic and fun. She sang songs in class. She taught us how to spell Mississippi by singing M-I-double S-I-double S-I-double P-I, MISSISSIPPI! I mostly liked her except she had this terrible habit of making comments about my portliness in front of the class, which was, as you can imagine, mortifying.

So, one day, she comes up with this stupid exercise in class. She went from row to row and asked each one of us what we would take with us on a camping trip (strangely enough, I think this was during Religion class). Now, I don't know how the hell this bullshit exercise was supposed to be helping us scholastically but I do know one thing: I was terrified. I was freakin' scared as all shit that she would make fun of me for my food choice. She went from student to student--each one announcing foods that were wholly inappropriate for camping trips--without making a single comment. The closer she got to me, the more nervous I became. My hands were clammy and my heart was lodged in my throat as I racked my brain for a healthy food I could take on a goddamn bloody camping trip. Marshmallows, Twinkies, ice cream--the other kids declared as my turn fast approached--a Snicker's bar, pizza, candy! And then it was my turn:

Apples, I told her solemnly.

She laughed. "You must eat lots and lots of apple! That's why you're so FAT."

And the rest of the class laughed.

So, to all you great, dear Asians of the world: stop calling people fat. It's awfully impolite. Furthermore, who died and made you great weight critic? Get off it you jerks.

It's all about the O: NOT!

I'm sure you've all seen those "sexy" Overstock.com ads on television: a brunette who seems to have a gift for projecting to the camera nothing but the most anemic attempts at being sexy, sighs, "It's all about the O," against a virginal white backdrop. Needless to say, I find this ad campaign to be very annoying. I should have followed my instincts and dismissed my friend's suggestion to visit Overstock.com when I was on the market for a coffeemaker.

You see, a little over two months ago, I decided to transform my office into a hip, happening joint by tempting colleagues with fancy-pants coffee sent to me by a friend. Now, the communal coffeemaker in this quadrant of our floor wouldn't do since it's not in my office and it isn't digital (I don't know whether a digital coffeemaker guarantees superior cups of joe, but I want to believe that it does). Plus, I wasn't about to let inferior-coffee-residue get in the way of fancy-pants coffee perfection. See what I mean?

A friend, who has since confessed to never having actually used Overstock.com, informed me about the terrific prices for products on the website and insisted I check it out. I did. I found one that I thought was perfect, the DeLonghi 12-cup digital coffeemaker, which, among other delightful features, boasted the following:

*12-cup programmable coffeemaker lets you load the grounds, fill the tank, and set the start-time in advance so you can wake up to a fresh pot of Joe

*Automatically shuts off after 2 hrs. and the eco-friendly permanent filter eliminates the need for paper throwaways

*Showerhead design saturates all of the coffee grounds, bringing out the fullest possible flavor

So I purchased the coffeemaker (for something like $15) and was downright giddy when it arrived two days later. I bought skim milk and had our office manager make room for the coffeemaker on one of my shelves by shifting it down, which proved to be a project in itself.

I christened the DeLonghi with my assistant that very same morning; I was looking forward to drinking superior Hawaiian coffee brewed in a superior digital coffeemaker and served with skim milk, which is always superior to that nasty powdery shit with which the company provides us...that is until the coffeemaker started leaking a small flood in my office.

It was defective. Sigh. Even more infuriating, however, was the circus act I was expected to perform in order to return the bloody coffeemaker. I thought about going through with it until thinking about it made me way too tired to actually do anything about it.

So, now, the DeLonghi digital coffeemaker sits haphazardly on my shelf, it's wire spilling defeatedly onto my now-dry carpet. The coffee,which was sampled once in the communal coffeemaker but came out as weak as communal coffemakers are, rests next to the DeLonghi, folded over in shame.

Damn you Overstock.com and damn you lying, wanna-be seductress of Overstock.com.

ADIEU

As some of you may know, my dear friend H has been visiting from Pakistan this month. A born and bred Pakistani, H lived in the States for 8 years before heading back home permanently four years ago. Her family and mine go way back, with our grandparents being great friends (the story goes that my grandfather, who was a physician, delivered her father); her father and my mother were also friends and now the tradition continues with us.

This weekend was her last one with us before she heads back to the motherland. So, yes, I'm sad. I love H; she's the sister I never had. I admire her carefree approach to the world (so, so, so different from my own uptight, type-A approach to all things) and her ability to look past even the most glaring faults in people and, somehow, unearth their souls. She's an extraordinary human: patient, empathetic, and unassuming. She makes everyone around her strive to be better.

Yes, I'm sad but for good reason.

WHAT NOT TO DO

Vigorously scratching any part of the body during a meeting is something that folks should know not to do.
Thanks.

THE PLIGHTS OF PORCELAIN or EWW or HOW MY DELICATE SENSIBILITIES ARE GROSSED OUT AND LATER RESCUED

Ladies,
You know how there's that one toilet in a public restroom (or more than one, depending on location of said public restroom) that someone's taken an uneartlhy dump in and has, for whatever reason, neglected to flush away? And, in a public restroom of ten toilets, you walk into the stall housing the nasty toilet because, like, that's your favorite one, right? What you see there in front of you shakes you to the core so, nearly drowning in wave after wave of nauseau, you save yourself from the undercurrent of crap and scurry out of stall, backwards, nearly falling down on your ass as you utter a loud expletive and curse the disgusting beast of a human being who doesn't know how to clean up after herself.

It takes you a while to calm yourself. You hold your breath because now everthing reeks of crap and, very cautiously, you tap open the door of a stall on the opposite end of the restroom, as far as you can possibly get from that feculent toilet. Upon catching sight of pristine porcelain perfection lapping with nothing but crisp water, you exhale with relief (no pun intended).

Now, if this toilet happens to be in a restroom at a place like, say, work, you'll have to venture to the restroom numerous times (the number of times can fluctuate according to what proper hydration means to you) and, if you're anything like me, you'll accidently walk into the stall of crap each and every time because that was your favorite stall, after all, until some heartless, inconsiderate fiend decided to go and spoil that. Each and every time, you will likely have the same reaction: nearly falling as you scurry out of stall backwards, uttering loud expletive (depending on how many times this happens, the one loud expletive can very quickly multiply into a string of loud expletives). This experience will very nearly spoil your day unless, of course, a braver soul than you decides its time to rescue dainty sensitivities, such as your own, from such ghastliness.

It doesn't take much thought on the part of this maverick. She simply walks into restroom, then walks into the stall of horrors and, without even having seen you cowered and jittery in a corner, she sighs exasperatedly (this might be accompanied by a roll of the eyes and/or a shake of the head), and, flushing the toilet with a foot, she closes the door of the stall behind her, like it's no thang to be in the same tiny space as crap-filled porcelain, in the process of emptying itself out. As young or old as she may be, the restroom maverick, very much, has the same air about her as a tired mother.

So, to maverick toilet flusher lady, I say thank you, for everything.

NEW

60 is the new 40 and cosmetic surgery is the new black. I don't know about you kids but I'm totally jumping on the lunchtime lipo bandwagon when I'm 40…or 30…ahem...


In other news, 10 is the new 15, 30 is the new 20(according to JayZ, anyway) and early is the new late (a 2005 Boston Globe article revealed that Americans are doing chores that they would have relegated to the late afternoon in the early AM…but it has been a year since the article and I wonder if late is, in fact, the new early).

ON RUNNING

The blister is the blight of pink skin, skin that is naïve and pathetically pretty in its newness.

But, upon closer examination, it is evident that the blister is a defense mechanism, built to protect guileless skin from repetitive friction and heat and heartache. It may hurt like hell by the end of the race, but that bloody blister will help your skin heal; it will be the cushioning your wounded derma needs to pick up the pieces.

This is how it happens: your feet caught in the embrace of your socks caught in the embrace of your sneakers run along on a high of endorphins and pheromones, a concoction of extravagant fantasy of feet that were meant to walk bare, not fly. The fragile layers of their skin separate and the emptiness that results isn't empty for very long: it swells to a tear-filled tautness until it bursts. But feet never do learn their lesson. They subject their skin to the same process of heat and friction and heartache until, eventually, the skin--too tired to hollow itself out, too tired of tears--becomes so hard and so calloused that it no longer needs blistering to survive. Under layers and layers of scar tissue, the skin is strong enough on its own and immune to bouts of long-distance fancies.

And runners keep on running.

THANKSGIVING

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. It was good. There were much victuals for consumption. My brain cells are still hung over from the abundance of victuals; either that or they’ve been converted into fat cells. I suspect it might be the latter.

Must return to healthy eating today.

The following dishes adorned the Khan dinner table for seven:

Appetizers

Mushroom pizza
Pumpkin soup
Wheaten bread
European cheese and herb bread
Cornbread

Main Course

2 turkeys (18 lb and 16 lb)
2 stuffings
biscuits
Yorkshire pudding
Sweet potato casserole
Brussel sprouts
Mashed potatoes
Roasties
Gravy

Dessert

harvest pie
pumpkin cream pie
pancake cookies
blondies
apple pie

Food was abundant. So much so that it was rather absurd. The volume of leftovers makes this amongst our most absurd Thanksgivings ever.

Must return to healthy eating tomorrow (ahem).

Suffice it to say that Black Friday found me shopping at 6AM, not for clothes, but for accessories. Shopping was success.

Must return to healthy eating sooner rather than later.

BLOGGING NO LONGER EXCITING? SAY IT AIN'T SO!

For those of you who ask, is blogging no longer exciting for the Nerddd and is she, in fact, over it, I give you a resounding NO. I've been uber-busier-than-usual in my real-life life. Three meetings in one day (9AM-11AM; 12:30PM-3:00PM; 4:00PM-5:30PM) do a good job in reminding me that, holy shit, I'm an adult...because most of the time, I still feel like a twelve-year-old.

In other news, in spite of the extreme busyness, the day was punctuated by things that made me downright giddy, like:

*Seeing a nerdddy teenager who reminded me of me at 15 lost in the pages of Hamlet in the elevator as I left for work at 7AM this morning;
*managing to leave for the office at 7AM, just as I'd planned;
*being the first person to get off the train at my station (I really think this was a first for me; just for the record, this dude, who was very clearly late, blasted right past me on the stairs, so, alas, I was but the second person to exit the station. Hope the guy made it to wherever he had to be on time);
*singing Christmas carols under my breath with a hot cup of coffee in my hand as I practically skipped to work in my flats (wearing flats when I have to walk long distances makes me ridiculously happy);
*business lunch that was less business than it was lunch (when are business lunches ever business-y, really?) at one of my favorite eateries in the city, which became my most favorite eatery within a span of the second that it took me to absorb the lovely, tasteful holiday decorations that adorned the capacious space;
*seeing Spencer and Abigail Breslin eating two tables down from ours (he's lost all the baby chub...and I'm not a fan of the child actors, it was just random and amusing to see them);
*fancy tea time meeting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art's very fancy Patron's Lounge;
*pretending (in my head) to be famous and absurdly wealthy patron of the arts during meeting in Patron's Lounge;
*fretting about the risque neckline of my dress in the fancy and rather proper Patron's Lounge;
*even navigating exasperatedly through the dense holiday tourist traffic through the streets of the city

I really love this time of the year. There's something about the combination of crisp fall-turning-into-winter air, the exhilarting speed of work, and the Met that makes one happy to be alive. Life is good.

EXCUSES, EXCUSES, AND MORE EXCUSES

Apologies yet again for being a delinquent blogger once again. Following is long list of excuses for why I've been neglecting my vengeful blog:

1) The Penguin's being an especially horrid, slave-driving pimp this month;
2) EVERYONE (ie business associates) wants to meet for lunch before the holidays;
3) Amma was in the hospital but a couple of weeks ago;
4) I think I'm developing adult onset ADD (I used to have scary focus when I was but a babe and now, not so much...let's blame it on the kamikaze brain cells...aging dumbs one down);
5) I have a great friend visiting from a continent far, far away;
6) I had a great uncle visiting from a state far, far away this weekend;
7) the THOUGHT of Thanksgiving and cooking that lavishly overindulgent meal is making me slightly nauseous;
8) the THOUGHT of grocery shopping tomorrow night in preparation for said overindulgence is making me slightly nauseous;
9) the THOUGHT of cooking is reminding me that I'm mostly allergic to cooking;
10) being reminded that I dislike cooking/baking/spending excessive amounts of time prepping food is making me wonder why I subject myself to slaving away in the kitchen for days in preparation for Thanksgiving;
11) which is all reminding me of the horribly rigged results of Iron Chef Thanksgiving: Khan Family Edition last year, something that I'm still not fully over;
12) I was waking at ungodly hours in order to commute to Connecticut last week;
13) I got lost at the Stamford train station last week;
14) ...okay, stop laughing! Getting lost at the train station in a sleep-deprived state of delirium ISN'T funny!
15) I have two words for you: carpal tunnel;
16) I have another word for you: syndrome;
17) Oh shmack! My left hand just went numb yo! I'm like psychic or something! Righteous;
18) I slept for a very long time yesterday (see 12, 13, 14...and 1-3, 5-10...and 19...);
19) I'm way too stressed most of the time;
20) I'm saving my energy for Black Friday shopping!, which leaves very little time for blogging

So, whatever. I'm back. I'll post a more proper blog tomorrow, I swear! Love ya, byebye!

PUNTY, PENGUINS, AND PANHANDLERS

Apologies for being a most delinquent blogger. I've been extremely busy of late. Last night, for instance, Punty and I had a hot date during which I wooed him with free advance screening tickets to Happy Feet, chocolates from Jacques Torres, my unrivaled knowledge of all things pop culture, my doe eyes and that pouty thing I do with my lips.

Yah, so it didn't work.

This, however, readers, wasn't the most bizarre part of the night. Punty not falling for my downright nerdchanting ways was eclipsed in that category by my commute via subway train to the theater. There I was, straphanging and minding my own business along with my other straphangers (and silently cursing the person at work who's been pilfering my weekly issues of The New Yorker for damn well over a month now!) when we were lurched out of our collective reverie by a panhandler.

What's so bizarre about a panhandler panhandling on a city subway, you ask?

Nothing, really, right? This one announced that her name was Carlene, that she was a 36-year-old widowed mother of two boys who needed cash to feed, not a drug habit, but her children. And then I turned to look at her and, dear jeebus, I recognized the lady! We'd graduated from college together! The reason I remember her is because she was so odd. I'd see her wandering around between classes, mumbling to herself. During class, she'd sometimes, very dramatically, take out a syringe of what I assumed was insulin and stab herself in the thigh.

I don't remember her name but who's really named Carlene these days, anyway (I feel like most Carlenes died out in the '70s; no offense to any surviving Carlenes or younger Carlenes out there), so it must be an alias. She isn't 36. I doubt she has two children and that she's a widow (unless she got really busy after graduating from college five years ago, in which case apologies to you Carlene). Even though I don't want to belive it, perhaps the one denial Carlene uttered in her introduction of herself was the only truth and she, in fact, did want the money for drugs? Perhaps I'm overthinking it? But, wouldn't you be disturbed, reader, if you ran into a former classmate begging for money, regardless of how well you knew him or her?

I gave her a Sacagawea dollar, which Punty astutely noted can be a collectors' item in addition to feeding Carlene, her family, and whatever else she chooses to do with the money.

THE PESCO-OVO-LACTO VEGETARIAN NERD PONDERS KICKING THE PESCO HABIT

As many of you know, I'm a pesco-ovo-lacto vegetarian--while I don't eat meat and fowl, I do eat dairy products, eggs and fish. The thought of going vegan and omitting all animal products from my diet is, frankly, frightening at the moment. However, reading this on CNN recently and watching America's Funniest Home Videos last night (one of the clips up for $100,000 showed a group in a Japanese restaurant laughing and ewww'ing upon noticing that the (supposedly cooked?) whole fish on one of their plates was actually twitching and gasping desperately for air. I didn't think it was funny at all.) is making me reconsider the "pesco" in my diet. As much as I love to eat fish, I don't know how I can do it with a clear conscience now. Any words of wisdoms from vegetarians/vegans would be much appreciated...

THE NERD CONFESSES...

I've never had Nutella, alcohol, Taco Bell, illegal drugs or a Krispy Kreme donut. I hate picnics and barbecues (and any other form of eating out-of-doors, especially on or near grass). In spite of being a vegetarian and a Muslim, I LOVE (shudder) Jello.

MY MOM: A Follow-up

Thanks readers for your thoughts and prayers. My amma is fully recovered from what seemed to be a scary reaction to a drug prescribed to her by her inept, imbecile, asshole doctor (forget McDreamy, he's not even McCompetent…and I hate him). She was discharged from the hospital in the late afternoon on Wednesday but had to wear this heart monitor to track her heart rate during normal daily activities for 24-hours thereafter. That's come off as well now, so she's fine. Again, thanks so much for caring.

MY MOM

My mom had a health emergency last night. She's still in the hospital this morning undergoing tests. Amma is vigilant about her health and more active than women half her age (she puts me to shame in that department). Accompanying her to the hospital in an ambulance last night was distressing, to say the least; she looked so frail in her hopsital bed and, for the first time, she looked old to me. I hate that my parents are getting older. I hate thinking about their mortality. I would have done anything to protect my mother last night but knowing that I was as helpless as she was made me pace around her bed until she told me to sit down, that the sound of my heels on the floor were driving her crazy.

I'd rather have her torture me with her matchmaking ways than not have her around at all.

MAN SEEKS WIFE

Even when my mom swore off trying to play matchmaker for me, I knew that it was only a matter of time before she'd return to her old ways. As I've said before, it's biologically impossible for Pakistanis of a certain age--this includes 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 and great-uncles--to leave a single Pakistani man or woman of a certain age, well, single.

So, after weeks of essentially having left me alone, my mother reclaimed her matchmaking role when she, in that subdued and measured voice that she assumes when she's trying to be all serious-like told me about (not one, not two, not three, but...) FOUR (yep, count 'em and weep!) potential matches for me. I didn't let the conversation get very far beyond "Well, your cousin receives a Muslim newspaper at her mosque in [please insert name of any random middle-of-nowhere America city HERE]and families take out ads in the back of the paper looking for rishtas for their children and, well--, although she did manage to speak over my exclamations of "Ugh, AMMMMMAAAA!" and communicate to me that there were four ads taken out by physicians (woohoo! ugh) who happened to fall into my age range (yah, I'm sure that's 27-60) and all of whom were born and raised in the states. Email addresses were supposedly included in the ads. I I'm hoping that the parents have listed their own email addresses and not the addresses of their sons, who I'm pretty sure don't even know that they're being pimped in personal marriage ads.

...and so it goes...

ESTELLE?

Earlier today, I was waiting outside one of my favorite Manhattan eateries for a business lunch date. Shielding my eyes from a vicious sun glare that seemed to be following me and cursing myself for not being more of a sunglasses-gal--I feel pretentious and phony whenever I don shades--I squinted in search of the person with whom I was to be meeting, sampling his voice against the different people who circulated past me when, suddenly, a gnarled, old man who looked as much like the dark and musty corner of a library as I've seen anyone look like a place before, rushed up to me and asked, "Estelle?" His voice was crackling leaves.

"Um, no. Sorry," I said. He looked at me for a moment longer, confused before sighing and rejoining the steady swells of people, he disappeared.

I wonder what his story was.

FOLLOW-UP TO THE LONELY BLOG POST BELOW or THANK YOU

Dear Everyone:

Thanks for the thoughtful comments and advice in response to the post below. It's nice knowing that not only are people concerned with the (dire) state of my (nonexistent, ahem) lovelife but so many others are also going through much of what I'm experiencing (we're buttonholes on a sweater that's lost all of its buttons...or something...this calls for another ahem).

Still, I find it very interesting that most everyone read my confession to loneliness as being a desire to get married. Yes, I'd like to get hitched someday but not without first taking the time to build a solid relationship (something that my mother simply can't understand). I'm lonely for companionship. I want someone to be as interested in getting to know me as I am in getting to know him.

I'm not sure I'm making sense since I have a headache and am very sleepy at the moment. Perhaps I'll try to further elucidate later tonight or tomorrow.

In the meantime, thanks again for your interest. Seriously.

SABILA

THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER IS...

...I'm lonely.

Holy shit. Since when did this blog become so effin' confessional? Fuck.
To everyone out there who knows me in real life: pretend like you never read this and don't go all weird on me the next time I see you.
To everyone out there who knows me in real life: yeah, I'm a fool for not having an anonymous blog.

I had an enlightening lunch with half of the family (one brother, one parent) the other day, during which, I was informed, all in jest, of course, that:

1) I started dating way too late in life (VERY TRUE)
2) and so, I'm doing now what I should have been doing in college, ie, having mindless, directionless fun (VERY CLEARLY, THE FAMILY IS CONFUSING ME WITH SOMEONE ELSE...TO MY FRIENDS GIGGLING THEMSELVES SILLY BECAUSE THEY'RE ALL TOO AWARE OF THE SEDATE LIFE THAT I DO LEAD, SHUT UP)
3) I don't know what I'm looking for in a partner (FALSE)
4) My biological clock is ticking (WHATEVER. WOMEN ARE HAVING CHILDREN LATER AND LATER IN LIFE. AND WHO NEEDS A HUSBAND TO HAVE A BABY, ANYWAY?)
5) Guys figure out I'm a geek/loser after about five minutes of conversing with me (WHAT A LIE! I'M A WONDERFUL CONVERSATIONALIST!)
6) Publishing isn't the most lucrative industry, especially for a girl like me, who could've breezed right through med school (I'D RATHER BE HAPPY)
7) My poor future husband is going to waste away on my vegetarian diet (PEOPLE ARE FREE TO EAT WHATEVER THE HELL THEY WANT TO)
8) I have arch-nemeses getting hitched in fabulous fashion the world over (I DON'T HOLD GRUDGES, OTHER PEOPLE DO AND I'M HAPPY FOR ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY FINDS SOMEONE WITH WHOM TO EXCHANGE VOWS. THAT SHIT'S HARD, YO)
9) My arch-nemeses (plus hubbies, of course) have mapped out fabulous and financially secure lives (I DON'T HOLD GRUDGES, OTHER PEOPLE DO AND I'M HAPPY FOR ANYONE WHO IS LIVING A FABULOUS LIFE)

All of my retorts eventually dissolved into countless huffy variations of "AMMMMMA! TELL HIM TO QUIT IT!!" or "Seriously, can we talk about something else? Seriously?"

And I suppose I would be lying if I didn't tell you that, yes, in spite of being goddamn annoying, the lunch was pretty goddamn funny and I often had to bite my lip to keep a stern face.

But, let's get back to my loneliness and all. All I really want is someone who likes me as much as I like him; everything else just falls into place when two people just like each other, doesn't it?

Oh, sigh. Someone shake some sense into me, please.
...and I'm working on that anonymous blog...because being an open book is boring, mystery is hot (another nugget of wisdom bestowed on me during lunch).

WHY LOVE BLOWS

Have you even been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...

You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like "maybe we should just be friends" or "how very perceptive" turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.

Rose Walker in Sandman: The Kindly Ones by Neil Gaiman

True, isn't it?

ANNIVERSARY

Today is my parents' 36th wedding anniversary. Their union was arranged by folks who, in death just as in life, were nothing more than shadows in the periphery of our family's consciousness. Abu had agreed to marrying a photo of amma, dressed in black & white, her braid resting over her shoulder and her eyes outlined in kohl. Amma, perfectly demure and blushing, had refused to see a photo of abu but knew he was a respectable man who came from a respectable family.

My brothers and I still don't understand how they went through with signing off on life with a stranger. But they did. And we are grateful to those shadowy matchmakers and our parents' deference to custom and tradition because where would we be if they hadn't agreed to walk into a sensible and arranged marriage?

It's funny that while I don't believe in love, I do believe in the subtle, simple, and quiet love amma and abu have always shared. Happy anniversary to the best parents in the world.

I HATE

Have you ever had one of those days when you HATE everyone and everything, a teeth-clenching-nails-digging-into-the-palms-of-your-hands-and-don't-anyone-dare-cross-me-today kind of day, a day when your choler awakens even before you do and it takes every ounce of effort to keep yourself from purchasing a megaphone, going to a public place, and megaphoning a sonorous "FUCK YOU!".................?

.......yah, me neither.

CHOOSE ONE: Fat or Stupid

The community center where my parents hosted an iftaar party last week has a Boys & Girls' Club attached to it; I happened to wander into the building in my hunger-induced delirium and found the above-posted atrocity displayed on a bulletin board, among an assortment of other health-related projects (the most disturbing of which was an art project in which kids cut out bodies sans heads of celebrities and athletes from magazines and, in place of their heads, glued a frenzied assortment of foods that they thought the celebrities/athletes ate...oh, how I wish someone had done Nicole Richie's emaciated frame).

It's pretty obvious that this kid doesn't know how to spell. I understand that childhood obesity is a problem that we as a nation need to address and all, but would it kill us to throw a few spelling lessons in there? Hey, I might've been a fat kid growing up but at least I knew how to spell.

Feeling good about the American education system? Check this out.

AND WE MEET...AGAIN?

Remember this wonderfully horrific flight I took to Pakistan with my mom three years ago? I was so caught up in relaying the indignity of having my mother play matchmaker while I tried to keep from having a complete mental breakdown on a plane that was bouncing around in a manner that can only be described as dangerous and not right that I failed to mention a bizarre chain of events--and by chain of events, I actually mean two chance meetings--that began on that very plane ride.

I'd noticed a young man waiting in the boarding area with us because, and I'm being totally honest here (so don't hate), I was afraid he was a terrorist. He was traveling alone, which, in a boarding area teeming with families, struck me as suspicious. Moreover, I was already being assaulted by thoughts of every single thing that could go wrong en route to Pakistan (WHAT IF THE DUDE WHO REFUELS THE PLANE IS HOMICIDAL AND CUT A NETWORK OF VITAL WIRES!!!!! Oh fuck!). So, I kept on looking at this guy suspiciously and he kept on looking back (he's onto me being onto him! Oh fuck!). By the time we boarded, however, I was so terrified of, again, the plane crashing, that the cause of our demise didn't really matter and I promptly forgot about the guy.

Fast forward to (something like) day 12 of my 14 day trip. My friend and I are at this mall in Karachi. I'm oohing and aahing over beautifully handstiched diaries when who walks in but the very same guy who I clearly mistook for a dire flight risk. I saw his face light up with recognition; pretending not to notice, I refocused my attention on the diaries, hoping that he wouldn't walk up to me (because I'm like totally horrible in such situations).

He approached me (Oh fuck) and asked me if I'd been on PIA flight XYZ departing from JFK on so and so date. I nodded hoping that I was doing a good job in conveying confusion. Well, he was on that flight, he told me. Really? I asked and when he nodded, I snapped my fingers as if I'd finally placed him! OF COURSE! Yes, I remembered. What a small world. He told me that he'd wanted to talk to me on the flight but didn't think it would be appropriate since I was with my mom. He wondered what I was doing for New Years Eve; I was flying out. He asked me for my number; alas, I didn't know the telephone numbers of any of my relatives and I was hardly at any one place for long enough to take phone calls. He asked me where in town I was staying; I said hell if I knew. He asked me for my email address; I shrugged and gave it to him.

He emailed me a couple of times when we returned home but, for reasons I don't remember, I never replied.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I see that I've received a message on myspace.com (I don't receive many messages on myspace--probably because I never replied to the handful I did receive--so I get very excited when I do see mail in my inbox...is that lame? That's lame, isn't it?) and, lo and behold, it's the same guy. He happened to be cleaning out an old wallet and found the stationary store's card on the back of which I'd written down my name and email address and decided to look me up on myspace. And he found me.

Cue Twilight Zone music...fade out.

EID

Apologies for being a delinquent blogger for five days now. Between Eid and, well, Eid, there was no time for blogging or doing much of anything besides planning Eid festivities.

Eid al-Fitr is the religious holiday marking the end of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting. Muslims fast from food, drink, sex and smoking from sunset to sunrise over the course of the month. Abstinence from worldly pleasures is supposed to facilitate a closer, more personal experience of God as well as encourage sympathy for those who are less fortunate. Ramadan provides a great respite from the distracting insanity of the world and one can't help but miss it when it comes to a close.

Eid is something like Christmas: families make that requisite annual trip to a house of worship, give gifts--although only to the little ones--and wear fetching, usually tradional and ALWAYS uncomfortable (well, uncomfortable to me, anyway) clothes (those gorgeous outfits I had tailored in Pakistan have now, officially, reverted to the villanous roles that traditional garb have occupied for most of the 27 years of my life. I was changing into a t-shirt and jeans every opportunity I found yesterday, even if only for fifteen minutes at a time). Last, but not least, as with most of the religious holidays of the world, faces are stuffed, all in the name of God (oh, gluttony, you great equalizer...).

It was good times. Now I'm tired and kicking myself for not having taken the day off to recover.

THE TURTLES, THEY HAVE BEEN NAMED

Oh, yellow-belly turtle of indeterminate gender: I name thee Steve if you are a boy turtle and Stevie if you are a girl, in rememberance of Stephen Robert Irwin, that great wildlife warrior.

Oh, read-ear slider turtle of still-to-be-determined gender: you will hereafter be called Jacques if you are a boy and Jacqueline if you are a girl, in honor of the great underwater explorer Jacques-Yves Costeau.

Go forth, dear turtles and bask in the light of your heating lamp.

CHEVY SILVERADOS MAKE THE NERD CRY

I don't know much about cars but I do know that Chevrolets suck, I don't care for John Mellencamp (although I do like that "Jack and Diane" song) and, frankly, I'm not liking my country these days. And yet, when this ad for the new Chevy Silverado aired five minutes ago on FOX, it made me all choked up and teary eyed. Go figure.

The Nerd Educates Young People About van Gogh, Native Americans and the Art of Conversation, Part II

Oh, and at one point, I asked the boys for their take on Pluto being demoted to a dwarf planet. While the studious boy explained to me why the astronomical community's decision was a wise one, the 7 year old kid (the same one who'd been confused about the Native Americans) simply said: "It makes me sad."

I thought that was beautiful.

The Nerd Educates Young People About van Gogh, Native Americans and the Art of Conversation

My parents threw a party this past weekend. What is a Pakistani party without crazy children being loud, disruptive and posing a threat to themselves and other partygoers? And why, oh why, do I--after 27 years and 7 months of being Pakistani--still become shocked and outraged at the lack of interest most Pakistani parents have in instilling their children with manners? "Oh, they're just kids," I've heard them say time and again. Yes, they're kids, BUT THEY'RE NOT MONKEYS. Teach them how to be human, dammit because they'll be ridiculous adults before you know it.

So, there were three little boys (the oldest was 7; his younger brother and their friend were 5) who were behaving most abhorrently and monkey-like at the party on Saturday. At one point they nearly mowed down this very pregnant woman and after no one else censured, them, I stepped in.

I demanded that they slow down, motioned for them to zip their lips and throw out the keys and sent them--mimicking me--to a smaller room off the community center's main room. Not three minutes had passed when I started hearing a ruckus of Johnny-Depp-trashing-his-hotel-room-back-in-the-day proportions. I walked into the room and the boys froze.

MUST you kids play ALL of the time? I asked them to which they cheekily replied that, yes, they must. I asked them if they'd ever just sat down and talked. No, they told me. Well, what did they do when they weren't running around? They played video games, of course.

And we wonder how George W. was reelected to office. Sigh.

Listen very carefully to me, I said, because the words I'm sharing with you are words of wisdom. YOU MUST LEARN HOW TO TALK TO OTHER PEOPLE, TO CARRY ON CONVERSATION. They looked up at me blankly. But we don't know what to talk about, the smallest of the three boys said. I sighed some more and asked them about what they were learning in school.

The other 5 year, who struck me as a studious type albeit--I won't lie--a bit of a show off, started telling me about a painter who'd, after eating his own paint, gone insane and chopped off his ear. Clearly, his art teacher had reduced Vincent van Gogh to a cautionary tale about the evils of eating finger paint, so I explained to the boys that the verdict was still out among experts about why van Gogh chopped off his ear and eventually committed suiced and that, while some folk do believe that consumption of paint might have been a contributing factor, there are way too many theories out there on the source of his mental illness to definitively conclude anything…unless you're an expert…and a kindergarten art teacher is no expert. I told the 5 year olds to confront the art teacher with this new, expanded information. She'd also, apparently, taught these boys that blue means sad and cold and red means hot. This reminded me of when, several years back, my cousin's children--a boy and a girl, who were 4 and 5 years old at the time--came running up to me and announced: I LIKE PINK, BECAUSE PINK IS FOR GIRLS (said by the girl); AND I LIKE BLUE BECAUSE BLUE IS FOR BOYS (said by the boy). Shudder. I instructed them to tell their teachers that red and blue could mean whatever the hell they wanted the colors to mean. They nodded with wide eyes. The studious boy then proceeded to summarize a book he'd read about King Tut. I told the boys it was very apparent to me that they needed to visit the Met. They promised to ask their parents to take them.

I was surprised when the two younger boys told me they hadn't learned anything about Native Americans while all the older boy knew about them was, "they're dying out, I think. They live someplace else, far away from us" and scratched his head in confusion.

I warned them that the Native American history they were likely going to learn in school would be a sanitized, watered down, bastardization of the truth; that from the moment Columbus first sighted American land, the Native Americans were murdered, marginalized and essentially raped of their humanity. It's a brutal history as most history is. Their task, I told them, is to question the perspectives that their very narrowly focused textbooks present. They said that the would. What's more, they actually appeared to be interested in what I told them and, dammit, they asked me questions! One of the boys (the studious one), my brother later told me, when leaving with his father, told him that a nice lady had been teaching him and his friends about the Native Americans and whether or not they could check out a book on the topic later that week.

This all goes to prove my belief that if you treat children like sub-intelligent alien lifeforms, you're going to raise idiots.They're way smarter than we think they are so, please, start giving them some credit.

SHOES

I had nine pairs of shoes under my desk last Friday. The discovery caught me by surprise. I still don't know exactly how so many shoes made it under there.

Today I have five pairs of shoes under my desk as well as a pair of shoes in my file cabinet.

Clearly, I'm making great strides in office-keeping...

...AND ANSWER SOME MORE...

Anonymous asks:
What's your favorite color?
*probably salmon...or forest green...and magenta...how about plum...gold? (Yah, I have a bunch of 'em)

What month were you born in?
*March

Why are you afraid of love or marriage?
*Forever seems like an awfully long time and I bore very easily.

What's your favorite food?
*sushi

Anonymous II asks:
i think so far noone has asked the questions ms. impatience is looking for. anyone else get that feeling?
*Effin' NO. Ew.

Passion:
Whats your kyptonite?
*My weakness: hot nerds. Geeky nerds. Nerds. They make me lose my senses.

Will sabilak meet passion when hes in NJ?
*SabilaK doesn't know Passion, so probably not. Sorry.

BigKahuna:
What is the issue of the Nerddd not being married? Is there a notion of a limit existing that once past the Nerddd would not be able to find a suitable partner?
*According to amma: Younger women and men make more attractive brides and grooms.

If a belt-loop breaks on your Levis 501s - would you take it as a sign to get new jeans, or repair?
*If they're my favorite jeans, I'd try my darndest to save them.

Anonymous:
I have the perfect guy for you. Will you communicate with him(email, phone call, in person) and then marry him, please? He's in Jersey, has been loking for a decent(LOL)girl. You've been looking for a decent (LOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL) guy. So why not? Okay ,that's 2 questions.
*Anonymous, REVEAL YOURSELF! You mysterious folks freak me out a little. I'll think about it only and ONLY if he has at least one over the shoulder studio portrait!

nWe:
1. Family Ties or Diff'rent Strokes?
*Family Ties. I sweated Alex P. Keaton when I was a kid.

2. MacGyver or Michael Knight? (I'm quite torn here, personally)
*Eff. MacGyver was so damned resourceful and MK was so damned hot. I'll go with MacGyver but only if he comes with Kit.

3. Muppet Babies or Duck Tales?
*OH DEFINITELY MUPPET BABIES

4. Def Leppard or Bon Jovi? (Again, I'm torn)
*Bon Jovi (as a kid, I thought Def Leppard was actually DEAD Leppard for the longest time. Then, on a long drive to North Carolina, I asked my brothers to play the Def Leppard cassette and they were like, "Seriously, you're a geek.")

5. Restaurant in the city you're dying to try but haven't yet
*Mesa Grill; plans always seem to fall through.

Cocaine (oh my, what an interesting moniker) asks:

1. I have an ongoing debate with my best buddies about the most famous athlete in the world - we are putting Tiger Woods vs David Beckham..whats your take on that?
DB because soccer is such a more popular sport than golf. And didn't a survey reveal that DB is more recognizable than the late Pope (not this current crazy we have)? Or was that Michael Jordan...

2. In a watercooler discussion at work today, one of my colleauges wondered out aloud if there was a word with 4 vowels, in a sequence. We havent found one yet, are you familiar with one?
*one of my favorite words of all time, as a matter of fact: onomatopoeia.

3.Why do you refer to yourself as the nerd?
*I knew the answer to the above question, didn't I?

Yet another Anonymous asks:
Has the Nerd ever been in love?
*Nope.

Has the Nerd ever had her heart broken?
*Yup.

Has the Nerd ever been passionately kissed?
*The Nerd doesn't kiss and tell.

The darling Mist asks:

Creamy or crunchy peanut butter?
*Sometimes the Nerd feels like a nut; sometimes she doesn't (Just for the record, I mostly feel like the former)

Fiesty Nusrat asks:
Will you hurry up and get laid already?
*Ahem. Cough. Ahem. Oh, is that a book I see...I'm afraid I have to go read now...for work...ahem.

...AND THE NERD SHALL ANSWER...

Oh eff. I wasn't expecting quite this many questions; I'll try my best to answer them to my readers' satisfaction.

Big Kahuna asks:

1. Yankees or Mets?
*Yankees. I happen to be a HUGE baseball fan. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of watching baseball for what seemed like hours and hours on lazy Sunday afternoons with my brothers and my father. Not only did I grow up a Yankees fan but I fell in LOVE with the history. One of my favorite films of all time is Ken Burns' documentary, BASEBALL; it was also one of my favorite gifts of all time, given to me by my brother on the occassion of my high school graduation. I'm in annual homerun derbies with guys from work and have had to extricate myself from the all-consuming obsession that is fantasy baseball.
So, my answer is Yankees. Ahem.
Okay, that answer was way long. Sorry.

2. What is the best thing about your job?
*The people I work with, the books I read (Okay, that's two things, so tar and feather me!)

3. What is your favorite word?
*Dude, I have like a plethora of favorite words, I can't just pick one.

4. What is your least favorite word?
*Crab

5. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
*literature

6. What turns you off?
*posers

7. What is your favorite curse word?
*Asshole

8. What sound or noise do you love?
*the popping of microwaveable popcorn

9. What sound or noise do you hate?
*That sickening thud of a car hitting a person. Sucks.

10. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
*I'd like to man a cash register at ShopRite. I've always been semi-obsessed with scanning product barcodes and punching in the numbers when the scanner thing doesn't work.

11. What profession would you not like to do?
*Being a surrogate mother must suck.

12. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
*Trust me, this place rocks.

ASK THE NERD

Go on. Ask me a question, any question.

...45 minutes later...
Okay, you, the reader, can ask any of the other readers questions as well...how about THAT!

...1 hour later...
How about this: you can ask my mom questions! I'll totally ask her for you.

...1.5 hours later...
Will someone bloody ask me an effin' question already?!

...2 hours later...
Thanks for asking me questions about myself--I promise I'll answer them tonight--but just want to let readers know that I can dish out advice (walking disaster and all, I WAS voted Peer Helper in high school) as well. So, go ahead, ask me for advice, if you'd like.

THE NERD DOES HER READERS PROUD: Part III

I know that my readers are wondering if, by dabbling in the world of cool, I'm on the verge of losing my nerdy ways. Without the Nerd, "Revenge of the Nerddd" is simply "Revenge of the" and not only do two wrongs (I'm referring to revenge, of course) fail miserably in making a right but "Revenge of the" is also a deplorably incomplete statement, begging for a noun--ANY noun--and, in turn, asking for trouble.

Rest assured, dear readers, that towards the close of last night's festivities, when asked by a few folks with whom I was speaking for my card, I replied (perhaps a bit too) enthusiastically, "YOU SHOULD READ MY BLOG!"
I then proceeded to scribble my blog's URL on the back of my cards.

Cough. Ahem. Cough.

...and the universe sighs with relief...

THE NERD DOES HER READERS PROUD: Part II

So, when offered an alcohol beverage during my weekend festivities, I declined, explaining to the offerer that I am a teetotaler. I didn't look like a teetotaler, she commented, which begs the question, what DOES a teetotaler look like?

THE NERD DOES HER READERS PROUD

My readers will be proud to know that their Nerd has partied three nights straight and awoken no earlier than noon for the third day in a row.

What IS the world coming to?

GIANT

I had just exited a subway station last night--was uptown for film festivities--when I decided to purchase Altoids (fasting all day isn't conducive to fresh breath). With wallet in hand and standing next to a pair of women, I scanned the varieties of Altoids on display, struggling to decide which flavor I wanted.

Suddenly, one of the women said, very casually, "You have something on your wallet."

I couldn't see anything on my wallet so I looked up at her quizzically.

"It's, ah, crawling," she added.

I looked down just in time to see a GIANT moth crawling up towards my hand. It was GIANT. GINORMOUS. The size of a rat or a pack of cards or an Altoids tin!

Naturally, I became all fluttery and "ah-ah-ah"d as I tried to shake the moth off of my wallet without injuring it. The women instructed me to shake my wallet harder and I "oh-my-God"d and shook my wallet harder. But that moth was there to stay. That moth wanted me to know that it was the boss. And I didn't have a problem with it's boss-dom or anything; I was just kindly asking it to take it's bossiness elsewhere. It took me squatting down and tapping the my wallet against a crate outside the newsstand to finally get rid of that moth.

But that's not the kicker, readers. What the woman told me next is the kicker:

"That moth was actually walking on your neck and it looked like it was about to go down your shirt before it flew to your wallet--"

--insert squeak of horror here--

"--and I asked her," pointing to her mostly quiet friend, "if I should tell you."

I squeaked and fluttered in horror for a while longer before paying for the bloody Altoids and hauling ass out of there BUT seriously, what kind of person doesn't tell someone else that A FREAKIN' MOSS IS TAKING A WALK DOWN HER NECK (AND POTENTIALLY DOWN HER SHIRT). Did she think the moth was an accessory? And exactly how long had I been wearing said moth?

I'd rather not think about it. Shudder.

FYI

Note to all past, present and future objects of my affection: it's very likely that you will never see this Nerd's funny, charming, witty, intelligent and eloquent side. Instead, I am reduced to a silly, blabbering, blushing, inarticulate idiot for whom English might as well be a ninth language. You can almost hear my suddenly kamikaze brain cells taking a suicide plunge when I'm in your company. It's silly and ridiculous and likely means that I'll be alone forever. Which is fine. Just thought you should know that I'm a whole lot cooler when I'm not around you and your type...just an fyi...that's for your information...because I like informing...and reading...and stuff...AHEM...I'll go now.

BONES AND BITCHINESS

So, walking home with the trainer last night, he told me that he and another client of his had been talking about me the other day. He'd said something like, "That girl doesn't have a mean bone in her body,"* to which this other client, a kindly gentleman with whom I'm also acquainted, replied, "Well, that's unfortunate then because all it means is that she'll get walked over in life."

Wow.
What he said implies that I'm going to be a sad, sorry, trodden-upon failure in my personal and, quite possibly, my professional life. Which isn't necessarily true but it sure does make me wonder if that's what people think of me.

*And, dammit, I do have mean bones. I hate on people I don't like ALL the time. As a matter of fact, I might've walked all over quite a few:

Like this one time, I glared down this dude who was talking smack about my big brother (and my big brother couldn't say or do anything because of circumstances)...then I started tearing up because it was so emotionally intense, but I still HATE that dude and talk to him all bitchy-like when I have to talk to him (because on top of everything else, he's a MISOGYNIST!)which, luckily, isn't very often at all.

Oh, and this one time, when I was a tween, my mom and I were at a department store on the day of a big post-Christmas clearance sale and this woman tried to cut in front of us and then said something very rude to my mom and I totally told her off, even though my mother was trying to stop me and I was all like, "No, who the HELL do you think you are, talking to my MOTHER like that. I WANT YOU TO APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!" She was a bloody asshole but her poor husband was crap-scared of me at the time and apologized profusely on her behalf. So, I did end up tearing up a little while I was telling the mega bitch off, so what.

I guess it's also time to face the fact that I, too, participated in group teasing a kid when I was in elementary school. In many ways, she was lower than even I was in the school food chain and what prey wouldn't relish the rare opportunity to be predator?

And, even though I try very hard not to judge, I'm icy with folks for whom I don't have very much respect; in all honesty, I actually enjoy being icy to such folks. And I DON'T even tear up (although I do occassionally become sad and regretful when people try to change my opinion about them, but let's not talk about that).

So, see, I do have mean bones.

Reasons Why One Shouldn't Make Appointments of Any Sort at 8:30 on a Saturday Morning...

...Especially During Ramadan OR Why Our Nerd Hearts Her Hairstylist

It was a great error in judgement that prompted you to ask for the earliest available appointment with B, your hairstylist, for this past Saturday. Sure, you're one of those sick people who are up at practically the crack of dawn on most weekends, managing to fit in a long run, a wholesome breakfast and 1.5 errands all before 10AM. (Un)Fortunately, that "seize the day" bullshit attitude becomes just as meaningless to you on the weekends as it is to most of the population during the month of Ramadan. You realize too late that your exhausted body wants nothing more than to sleep in until--gulp--noon.

Instead, less than two hours after waking up for Suhoor--the light meal eaten before dawn by Muslims who then fast from dawn to dusk during Ramadan--you stumble out of your apartment towards the train station in more than a bit of a delirious stupor. And it's all a bad idea.

1) Interstate travel in a delirious stupor makes about as much sense as operating a unicycle while drunk: it's not a good idea. Luckily, there isn't much traffic on the streets (clearly, your town is populated by normal folks who sleep normal weekend hours) so, you manage to arrive at the train station in one piece;

2) You can't rely on caffeine while fasting, genius. Well, you can't rely on any solid or liquid sustenance but we all know that you, just like most of your fellow metropolitan dwellers, rely on that brown brewed nectar of the java gods for that morning jolt, which you simply can't have on this particular Saturday. Which is, once again, bad news. Once on the platform, there are many hazards present for one in a delirious-like stupor, ie, falling onto the tracks (a la Sleepless in Seattle; sigh, what a heartwarming romantic comedy), following a candy-offering (or, in this case, caffeine-offering) stranger and, last, but not least...

3) ...getting on the wrong train and not realizing that you're on the wrong train until you--after wondering for the briefest of moments why the train isn't going into Manhattan by way of Hoboken as it usually does on weekends--arrive at the wrong station. You're not supposed to swear out loud while fasting, so you read down a long and colorful list of obscenities in your mind. And it's rather satisfying.

4) So, because of your not so wonderful delirious stupor, you are now at the wrong station. You will have to return to the station whence you came in order to catch the right train into the city and everything should be fine, right? Wrong. Why? Because it's the weekend and the train runs on a retarded, one train every freakin' leap year schedule on the weekends. Effin' hell.

5) But you gotta do what you gotta do. So, you walk to other platform, from where trains run in the opposite direction. Strangely, you find yourself alone on the platform. You shrug and you wait. Every now and then a garbled message is played over the PA but you ignore it because you're not really all there. You're sort of nodding off, actually. Five minutes pass, then ten minutes and when the PA goes off a fifth time, you force your eyes and ears open; it is only then that you are able to make out what the hell the stupid Port Authority is trying to tell you: the platform on which you've been waiting patiently for over ten minutes, is, in fact, effin' closed for the weekend.

6) Wide awake now, you haul ass back to the platform whence you came and wait as patiently as you can for the train to arrive. But now it's 8:05 and the trains are running on the slow ass dumbass schedule and you know you're going to be late. And this is effed because you don't want to miss your appointment. And you're cold. And sleepy. And still very out of it. And you want to cry but instead, you just tap your foot, look at your watch and mutter to yourself.

7) The train arrives at 8:15. You return to your home station at 8:18. You curse the weekend schedule.

8) The train you must take arrives at 8:30. You're effed.

9) WHY THE EFF MUST THE PUSSY-WHIPPED TRAIN GO THROUGH EFFIN' POSER HOBOKEN ON THE WEEKENDS? WHY DOESN'T THE HOBOKEN LINE RUN? AND WHY THE HELL DOES THE TRAIN HAVE TO SIT IN THAT STANK UGLY BLUE ASS STATION FOR LIKE AN HOUR BEFORE IT MOVES AGAIN? MUST WE MAKE SURE EVERY SINGLE YUPPIE WASHED OUT FRAT BOY VAMPIRE IS ON BOARD BEFORE PULLING OUT? IS THAT REALLY NECESSARY.

10) The train pulls out of Hoboken at 8:38. Your heart sinks when you realize that the train will enter your destination station in reverse; meaning that your genius strategy of getting in the last car, thereby ensuring that once the train stops, yours will be the car closest to the exit, has backfired. You're dead last. You suck.

11) You arrive at your destination station at 8:43. You still need to walk a good 10 minutes to make it to the salon, so you decide to flail down a cab as you frantically call the salon to tell them you're on your way.

12) The goddamn cabbie finds every freakin' red light on the way to the salon and you hate him a little. You also hate being an ungratefully rude biatch, but you can't help but throw dollar bills at him as you scramble out of the cab. You forget to say thanks.

13) You finally arrive, nearly 20 minutes late and there, standing by the door is your hairstylist, B. Upon seeing him, you begin to blather about the horrible morning you're having, stuttering and stammering and near tears. He calmly pats your hand and says reassuringly: "The trains are a NIGHTMARE on the weekends, AREN'T they? NIGHTMARE! But you're here. Breathe in and out darling. There we go. In and out. Feeling better now are we? Wow, you do look lovely first thing in the morning. And how HORRIBLE are men? Don't you HATE them sometimes..."

...and somehow, it all almost seems worth it...

YOU KNOW IT'S A BAD START TO THE WEEK WHEN.....

...you respond to your assistant's morning greeting by bursting into tears.....................and then blog about it for everyone---family, friends, strangers, colleagues, frienemies---to read.

TURTLES!

I'm something of an animal expert in my family. While all five of us have bleeding hearts when it comes to animals, my parents and brothers know that I'm unmatched in the lengths to which I will go to for all varieties of critters. Therefore, whenever they have an animal emergency, which is more often than you'd think, I'm the person to call.

So, I wasn't very surprised when my brother called me at 12:30 AM on Thursday.
He had turtles.
Say what?
He'd picked up a package from the concierge at midnight. There were turtles in the package, a baby red ear slider and a baby yellow belly. They came in little plastic containers, which prompted me to launch into a conversation with him about the cruelties of the animal commodity market, in which animals are transported like inanimate objects. How the hell would these animal retailers like it if I tied them up, threw them in a box and mailed them out, I asked angrily. Asshole bastards.

But he had turtles. And he wasn't expecting turtles. And although he was relieved that the poor little guys ended up with someone who gave a crap about animal welfare, he was now semi-freaking out and wanted my advice. I asked him to explain to me how he came to receive a delivery of turtles in the first place. This is how it happened: He'd been turtle-sitting for someone over the weekend. While turtle-sitting, he'd mentioned to a friend that he might, someday, want turtles of his own. Believing that pet turtles would be the perfect birthday present (my brother's birthday is tomorrow), his friend decided to order him a surprise pair online.* He explained to me that the turtles appeared traumatized.

What are you going to do? I asked him.
I don't know! he responded.
Oh my GOD! You have turtles! Where are the turtles now? I asked him.
I put them in a plastic bowl of water, he told me.
Oh my GOD! I exclaimed.
What?! he asked, panicked.
I'm just wondering what the HELL you're going to do?
I DON'T know! That's why I'm calling YOU!
Okay, let's calm down, I said, trying to calm down. You're going to buy an aquarium tomorrow. You're also going to buy a filter, a water heater, a heating lamp with a UVA/UVB light bulb, a ramp that they can sit on, a cave that they can hide in, large pebbles for the aquarium. (Note to the reader: I did my research to see if the turtles my brother was watching over the weekend were being properly taken care of by their owners, so I knew a thing or two about caring for turtles at this point). For now, google both species to determine if they can even live together.
Okay. He googled.
If one of the turtles is a girl, you should call her Regina, for Regina Spektor, I advised.
I'm not naming my turtle Regina Spektor. They're my turtles. I'm going to name them, he said. OH MY GOD!
Oh my God! What?
The red ear slider grows to 7-12 inches and the yellow belly can grow to 10-12 inches. These sure aren't the illegal miniature Chinatown turtles I was watching**
OH...MY...GOD. I said. You have giant turtles. They'll surely outgrow their aquariums! WHAT are we going to do? Do you want me to start researching turtle rescue groups?
I'm not calling my turtles Regina Spektor and I'm not going to give them away, especially not after all they've been through, he said. Even if they are ginormous.
You have to think about this very carefully. OH MY GOD! Do you realize what a huge responsibility this is? They live like 50 years. I paused. They're gonna be FAMILY.
I know! But I'm not naming any one of them Regina!
Fine. Just don’t call them Pokey or Sparkles or anything. Give them proper names like Robert and Sandra. I’ve always liked Olivia.
Fine, he said. I have to buy an aquarium first though!
Oh my God! You have ginormous turtles! I hope you know what you're getting yourself into, I said.
Well, that's why I have you, St. Francis.

So now we have turtles.

*Animals are not sweaters or tickets to the Regina Spektor show. They should NEVER be given away as gifts! Animal adoption is a huge responsibility that the adopter needs to consider carefully before undertaking.

**Chinatown is teeming with folks selling miniature baby turtles in conditions that are deadly for the turtles and hazardous to the health of the ill-informed people who end up buying them. Don’t support turtle sellers who are trying to make a quick buck at the expense of helpless creatures!

REGINA SPEKTOR AT THE TOWN HALL

After waiting for what felt like forever (okay, a month), I finally saw Regina Spektor perform at Town Hall last night. She is a virtuoso at the piano, her voice is lovely and versatile, her song lyrics odd but charming, and she was a totally engaging performer on stage. It was an AMAZING show. You guys really need to check her out. There really isn't anyone else out there like her.

DEAR LADY (OR LADIES, REALLY) AT WORK: I DON'T HATE YOU, SO DON'T BE AFRAID OF ME

Dear lady (or ladies, really) at work:

Quit staring at me like I'm a freak with two heads, who might steal your husband and/or suicide bomb you at any moment. Just for the record, I have one head like everyone else, I don't know your husband but am sure that I wouldn't be that into him even if I did know him, so no worries there, and I don't believe in explosive devices, death or mayhem; I believe in books. So, the next time I smile at you, try not to give me that panicky oh-my-Jeebus-why-is-that-slutty-ethnic-girl-who-I-bet-wants-to-boink-my-poor-sweet-(insert name of poor sweet hubby here)-and-then-suicide-bomb-all-of-us-staring-at-me look and just smile back. It won't kill you. You might find that it even allays your anxieties. Or you may want to think about medicating yourself.

Thanks for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
The Nerd

OH SIGH: ABSURDITIES ABOUND or WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO? Part III

Back when I decided to dive right back into the matchmaking pool for nothing more than the amusement of my readers, a few friends told me that a) I was playing with people’s feelings and that b) I was a bad, heartless, soulless, shell of a woman for playing with people’s feelings.

This was all confirmed on Wednesday. Earlier that morning, I’d told my mother (via my brother…ahem), that, after lukewarmly entertaining one rishta, I was ready to bow out of the matchmaking game. I thought I could go through with it, that it wouldn’t be such a big deal; whereas last time I was perpetually angry about being put in the most absurd situations, I was asking for it this time, wasn’t I? I was in control.

Yah, not so much. Just the thought of having my photo shopped around, regardless of whether or not I’m a complying participant in the game, simply does not sit well with me (I’d be a terrible investigative reporter…or an undercover secret agent…or a wildlife filmmaker/cameraman/photographer). Furthermore, as much as I was all gung ho about meeting guys (who were probably serious about getting hitched) for shits and giggles, I just can’t do it. Who was I kidding?

So, back to my mom: she was upset on Wednesday night. She wasn’t angry because she’s rarely ever angry (and anger is, in many ways, so much easier to deal with, right?). She was heartbreakingly, gut-wrenchingly, “I’m-giving-up-on-you-and-wonder-if-I’ll-live-to-see-the-day-you’re-married” upset.

I love my mother fiercely. She’s more than my mom; she’s one of my closest friends. Our love for one another is truly unmatched in its unconditionality. So, yes, I felt lower than low when I saw how much my actions had hurt her. Looking at the situation from her perspective, all she wants is to see me happy. I was wrong in taking advantage of her good intentions.

Clearly, I’m a bad, heartless, soulless shell of a woman.

After a few days of being curt and despondent, she’s pretty much back to her happy, lovely, cheerful self. I’m still trying super hard to make it up to her though. I thought that surprising her with a Regina Spektor show would be grand until I realized that she could probably give two rats’ asses about Regina Spektor. I’m still mulling over the idea, however. She might end up loving RS and the night out on town would probably be a nice break for her (or not so much; for the record, I SUCK when it comes to knowing what people want and I’m the worst gift-giver on the planet; I ALWAYS, ALWAYS go over the top...or I forget about birthdays and other gift-giving occasions altogether, which isn't any better).

Any ideas from my readers will be much appreciated.

HAPPY RAMADAN or HOW I SPENT MY SUNDAY

There's nothing quite like cleaning out the refrigerator, mopping the floors, rearranging the contents of the kitchen cabinets, ordering an absurd amount of kitchen storage products from the Container Store and then running 6 miles all while fasting.

OH SIGH: ABSURDITIES ABOUND or WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO? Part II

I'm not going to say very much about RANDOM DUDE because there isn't very much to say. I spoke to him on Tuesday night. He didn't come across as the socially inept fool that my cousin painted him to be, although he did sound like he was on a job interview. He didn't laugh or crack jokes. Still he was perfectly fine: articulate, into where he lives (which is quite a few state lines away from the greater NY/NJ area) and what he does for a living (he's in the number-crunching, mostly soulless world of finance), into grass and trees (shudder), hiking and kayaking (fun); he also seemed to be pretty open-minded (for shock value, I told him I'm a vegetarian and I don't enjoy cooking almost as soon as we started talking--he didn't comment about it at all, actually but he didn't gasp in horror either, which is always a good thing).

Who knows, had we met somewhere outside of the confines of arranged marriage, perhaps we'd hit it off. Alas, there are too many directors hovering over us in this particular production and I'm a firm believer that nothing truly genuine can come of something that is, essentially, staged.

And I've upset my mother in a most major way. I'll explain in part III.

THE MATRIMONIAL BANQUET AT ISNA...

...I alternated between shuddering and laughing when I first read this Times article a couple of days ago. I'd love to hear what non-Muslims think about all of this silly matchmaking craziness. And, just for the record, even my mom feels that some of the mothers and (ALL) clergylike folks interviewed in the article are kooky and wholly ridiculous.

Winner of the best mom ever from the article: the education professor who suggests a group called Mothers Against Dating--modeled on Mothers Against Drunk Driving.

It's Muslim Boy Meets Girl, But Don't Call it Dating

OH SIGH: ABSURDITIES ABOUND or OH MAN, WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO NOW? PART I

For consistency's sake, I will continue to refer to this person my family wants me to get hitched to as RANDOM DUDE and a reminder to readers that this is only the first part of a three-post tale, which will end with me, in an attempt to make it up to my mother, trying to figure out a way to trick her into going to the Regina Spektor concert with me.

Part I (Tuesday, September 19th, 4:30PM)

My cousin, the same one who found RANDOM DUDE for me, called me at work. Before I knew it (and as I racked my brain for an excuse NOT to speak to her), I was suckered into a dreaded rishta conversation.

A few winners from our conversation:

1) RD is totally into the idea of meeting me and us getting hitched based on seeing a handful of my pics—which, clearly, show what a great and decent person I am.
2) I should be able to determine whether or not RD is a great, decent person and perfect husband material based on a single fuzzy photograph in which his face is the size of a pencil eraser.
3) RD was shown another chick’s pic hours before he saw mine. This chick is a PHYSICIAN (yah, who the eff isn’t is my point) but he just wasn’t that into her and was quick to communicate that to my cousin. So he’s totally serious about me…and my pics.
4) My cousin decided to pimp me off to him because I’m so great…and 27…and STILL single…….I should be grateful or something.
5) It took me close to 40 minutes to explain to my cousin that I’d get a better sense of whether or not I was into RD at all by being allowed to talk to him on the phone at least one time.
6) My cousin thinks that I won’t know a person any better or worse after any number of conversations. If she was in my shoes, she’d want to meet RD face to face. That way, my parents could talk to his mom in one room while the two of us could hang out in a different room and I could ask him questions to try to ascertain what he’s like. You know, like his favorite color…and his astrological sign…and what he really thinks about Justin Timberlake...
7) I finally had to tell my cousin that what I'm actually trying to ascertain is whether or not it’s worth my time and his time to travel past several state lines in order to meet.
8) My cousin thinks that the best anyone can do in such a situation is try to determine whether or not a person is decent (again, this can be determined after one face to face conversation) and then, leave the ultimate decision to her parents.
9) Um, NO to number 8.
10) My cousin wanted to know what kinds of questions I’d ask to determine whether RD is, in fact, my type of random dude. I explained to her that I’m quite skilled at conversing on the phone and have never previously felt the need to draw up a list of questions or talking points and that chances are that I won’t be doing so for this conversation.
11) An especially kind and thoughtful nugget of wisdom: Even if two people really, REALLY like each other, talking too often has a way of spoiling any potential romance.
12) My own nugget of information: Trust me, I have no plans of talking to RD for hours or days.
13) There really aren’t any differences between people raised in America and those raised overseas.
14) Cousin: Marriage is about compromise.
15) Me: DUH.
16) RD is shy on the phone…
17) …but then again, my cousin has only spoken to him once…
18) …and she’s never actually met RD…
19) …but she does get the impression that he’s never spoken to a woman on the phone…
20) …sure, she suspects that he must talk to women at work…
21) …but, still, it doesn’t seem like he’s spoken to women in a more romantic or intimate capacity…
22) if I REALLY want to talk to him, she’ll arrange it but she’ll make sure to rephrase the suggestion so that it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from me.

Sigh.
I’ll tell you about the actual telephone conversation between me and RD tomorrow in Part II of this absurd story.

OMG

OMG
Effin' hell.
I'm getting myself into all kinds of rishta-related crap here.

And, I swear, someone from the extended family is going to stumble across my blog resulting in all kinds of delightful and I will officially be blacklisted from matchmaking circles for life.

Will post about rishta-related crapiness tonight.

DEAR LADY WHO FOLLOWED ME INTO THE LADY'S ROOM YESTERDAY: AN OPEN LETTER

Dear lady who followed me into the lady's room at work yesterday:

I don't hate you but I don't like you either.

I mean, seriously, did you HAVE to use the stall next to the stall I walked into? Weren't there 8 other stalls from which to choose? Your right foot-in-a-sandal was in plain sight and I was painfully aware of the fact that you could see my left-foot-in-a-heel, which led me to feel very self-conscious about peeing in a stall next to a stranger, which, in turn, made me muse for a moment about the public toilet phenomenon and how bizarre it is, really, to, essentially, take a piss in a room-full of people.

You made the experience a wholly distressing one and I'm very unhappy about it.

Next time, if you are trailing me into a mostly empty lady's room, please consider settling for a stall that is not next to my stall and preferablly on the opposite end of the bathroom.

Thanks for your consideration in this most delicate matter.

Best,
Nerddd

INTERVENTION

Dinner with my parents this weekend somehow morphed into a convince-Sabila-to-talk-to-some-random-dude-on-the-phone intervention. I still don't know vital information about the dude because my mother couldn't remember and everyone was too busy intervening to care, really. In all fairness, my cousins did email this guy's CV and his pic to my parents last week and I was told to take a look at both on Friday but then my mother mentioned something about him having moved to the States four years ago and I, stubbornly, refused to open the email attachments

So, the following pieces of vital information are still shrouded in mystery:

1) random dude's name (thus the "random dude" moniker is aptly appointed)
2) random dude's location (I have a feeling that he's NOT from the tri-state area)
3) random dude's age
4) random dude's occupation (although doctor or computer engineer are both safe bets)
5) random dude's culinary skills

I do have the following guidelines once I'm ready to make the call:

1) I can carry on the conversation for as long as I deem appropriate (the general consensus at the table was that I'd have this person figured out in 3 minutes...I don't think my family realizes what a lousy judge of character I can be sometimes)
2) yes, I CAN mention that I'm a vegetarian and that I don't cook
3) no, I CANNOT refer him to my blog
4) referring a rishta referred to us by our relatives to my blog would be grounds for a family feud. It would be bad new.
5) I like talking. I talk a lot. I can talk for hours. I am not to make this conversation last for longer than an hour (my response: trust me, that ain't happening)
6) it can certainly make for an entertaining story

Oh, and if random dude has googled me, found my blog and is now reading this post...er, hi...ahem.........don't take this personally or anything.........oy.