ROMPER ROOM DISAPPOINTMENT: What about Sabila?

"Romper, bomper, stomper boo.
Tell me, tell me, tell me, do.
Magic mirror, tell me today.
Have all my friends been good at play?"

Miss Molly closed each episode of Romper Room & Friends by reciting the above rhyme as she stared out through the frame of a small mirror. She then proceeded to name the children who were supposedly watching her at home. Everyday, I sat tall on the floor in front of our television, my mouth falling into a gentle o of anticipation, my fingers clenched in my lap, as I waited to hear my name called. After all, I was a devoted fan of Do Bee and Granny Cat, Kimble and, of course, Miss Molly, herself; I was well-behaved and I always shared my toys and the cookies my mother gave me for recess with my classmates. How was it possible that she couldn't see me as I stared right back at her day after day? She was fond of the Michelles and Brians and even the Rhondas, calling out their names multiple times over the course of a season. Would it kill her to utter my name just one lousy time?

Needless to say, Miss Molly never mentioned my name on air and I grew into a despondent, morose and overall sulky child, who was never able to fully overcome her distrust of people or her resultant social ineptness.

Thanks a lot Miss Molly! Thanks for NOTHING!

LOVE: A Follow-up

The Brits, according to RR, are much classier when summing up such things: "Grief is the price we pay for love."
I promise things will get better.
And you'll probably ask "But WILL they?" to which I'll shrug and say "Why not?"
We all might as well stick our heads in ovens if we can't see life as one giant "Why not?"

LOVE

It blows.
I'm sorry.

BOOKS: An Obsession

I’ve had a lifelong passion for books. The sheer intensity of this passion was confirmed yesterday, when I decided to clean my room. Within an hour, six bookcases worth of hardcover and paperback titles of varying sizes and subjects were strewn all over the floor and across my bed in what looked like the aftermath of a particularly intellectual battle. There wasn’t much room to maneuver and I hadn’t even touched the boxes of books stowed away under my bed or the mountains of titles in my closet. I couldn’t help but feel ridiculously happy while standing amidst this abundance of literature. This diverse collection was all mine, the result of an enduring obsession with the written word.

I was an introspective and thoughtful child. My mom tells me I was so quiet that she’d feel compelled to check up on me several times during the day to reassure herself that I was still at home. She’d find me sitting in the corner playing teacher to a make believe classroom full of students or serving invisible tea and biscuits in my plastic tea set to imaginary guests. I can’t remember whether or not books meant something to me this early in my life; perhaps my rich imagination, the byproduct of a somewhat lonely childhood, predisposed me to more literary pursuits.

I was hooked on books by the time I started school. I saved my allowance money for weekly trips to the bookstore, emerging with dozens (I’m not kidding) of books, which I’d start reading during the car ride home. I finished books, hundreds and hundreds of pages, in a single sitting. I often read all night, hiding out in the bathtub. When amma rapped at the door, demanding that I go to sleep before I read myself sick or blind or, Allah forbid, both, I used to groan unconvincingly telling her that my stomach hurt and that I’d return to bed as soon as I felt better. Amma would have to carry along with her whatever I happened to be reading when she took me to the park; I’d make sure to sneak in lovely minutes with the book as I sat astride on my forgotten bicycle.

I didn’t believe in borrowing books because I fell in love with them too easily and would often end up wanting to keep them. In the third grade I failed to return biographies about Pope John Paul II, Gloria Steinem and Jane Goodall that I’d borrowed from the library for a book report. In my defense, the books were exceptionally written and superior to anything I’d read up until that point in my life and, I ended up donating them back to the library with several bags full of titles from my childhood.

I devoured books. I lived and breathed them. I read book after book after book, until putting one aside to engage in real life matters felt strange and took a period of adjustment. The handful of times I played hooky from school was to finish reading a book that I couldn’t dream of putting down. When I didn’t have a book to read, I’d pull a title from my dad or my brother’s collections. What it was didn’t matter much, as long as I got my fix. I read until I ended up bespectacled, without many friends who I couldn’t conjure up at a moment’s notice, and somewhat socially awkward.

But I didn’t (and, frankly, still don’t) care. Not fitting in with the other kids was a small price to pay for living a life rich in imagination. The characters from my books were a lot more interesting than my classmates, anyway.

I still read like a maniac, though mostly for work. I desperately try to make time to read for pleasure and would do anything for a book that can recreate that feeling of reading as a child, when falling into and losing myself in the spaces between letters and words, the lines between sentences and paragraphs was a daily occurrence. When I find these books, life gets put on hold: phone calls and emails are not returned, plans with friends are canceled, meals become an inconvenience. Everything else becomes peripheral to the book.

So, now, as I slowly restore order to my room, the task of returning the books to their shelves is a daunting one, but one that I undertake with delight. These books aren’t just objects that occupy my home for the sake of appearance (and occupy my home they do. I counted over 100 books that I’ve scattered throughout the living room alone). They are integral to the person I am.

TAKE THE HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW OUR NERD TEST!

Now that we've passed the 10000 visitor mark (woohoo and please note, once again, that the counter to our right is not right; you will find our actual counter if you scroll to the bottom of the page), let's figure out how much you've learned about me over the past several months that I've been blogging.

Take this quiz and post your results (please note that some of my answers were cut off. Sigh. Do the best you can with what you have).

http://www03.quizyourfriends.com/linkquiz02.php?quizname=060525232226-176595

"THIS WAS ONCE A LOVE POEM"

Dear Readers,

I am tired tonight and don't feel much like writing. Therefore, I'll leave you with a poem I love by Jane Hirshfield. It is entitled "This Was Once a Love Poem." Enjoy (and comment, if you so desire, about how it makes you feel, your fears of being alone etc. etc.) while I rest my eyes. Damn that love (because, clearly, this poor love poem's been jilted).

"This Was Once a Love Poem"

This was once a love poem,
before its haunches thickened, its breath grew short,
before it found itself sitting,
perplexed and a little embarrassed,
on the fender of a parked car,
while many people passed by without turning their heads.

It remembers itself dressing as if for a great engagement.
It remembers choosing these shoes,
this scarf or tie.

Once, it drank beer for breakfast,
drifted its feet
in a river side by side with the feet of another.

Once it pretended shyness, then grew truly shy,
dropping its head so the fair would fall forward,
so the eyes would not be seen.

It spoke with passion of history, of art.
It was lovely then, this poem.
Under its chin, no fold of skin softened.
Behind the knees, no pad of yellow fat.
What it knew in the morning it still believed at nightfall.
An unconjured confidence lifted its eyebrows, its cheeks.

The longing has not diminished.
Still it understands. It is time to consider a cat,
the cultivation of African violets or flowering cactus.

Yes, it decides:
Many miniature cacti, in blue and red painted pots.
When it finds itself disquieted
by the pure and unfamiliar silence of its new life,
it will touch them—one, then another—
with a single finger outstretched like a tiny flame.

An Open Letter to Persons Who Insist on Standing on the Left Side When Traveling on Escalators: I hate you

Dear persons who insist on standing on the left side when traveling on escalators:

I hate you. I truly do.

Do you have no shame? Do you have no concept of escalator etiquette? The rules are simple. For the love of sweet goodness, when you wish to remain stationary on an escalator, stand on the right side of the escalator. The left lane is for those folks who might happen to be in a hurry or simply enjoy climbing stairs rather than riding them. You should know better. You should really know better.

You are not unlike those individuals who walk during races. It’s called a race for a reason and, yet, you insist on walking in groups, chatting it up with your pals from work who’ve agreed to sweat it out with you. What a great workout you’re getting! Runners hate you because you’re lazy and because you seriously hurt their times. The more people in your group, the more impenetrable and frustrating the barrier that you form is. If you didn’t waste so much time gossiping with your friends and/or coworkers, perhaps you’d find the time to properly train for a race and you’d end up running it rather than walking it.

Oh, and to those ladies and gentlemen who fall on me during my morning and evening commutes on the train: stop it. There are many things to hold onto on trains. You are called a straphanger for a reason. If you can't reach the metal straps above the seats on trains, there are handrails on trains that a five-year-old can reach. Hold onto these handrails and I promise that you will not fall on me.

Yes, I did fall on a man once during my morning commute last year and, yes, I did inadvertently grab his crotch to keep my balance. Let it be known, however, that all of this transpired because a woman fell on me with so much force that I lost my grip on a handrail and fell on said man's crotch.

It wasn't my fault.

The domino effect would not have taken place had the imbecilic woman "straphanged" as she was, by definition, supposed to be doing in the first place.

I hope you can work on changing your ways.

Thank you and best wishes,

SabilaK

ps: if any of the people I hate happened to have Tivo'd Princes Charles, William and Harry's joint interview on Dateline NBC last night, please be in touch. I missed it and you providing me with the interview might significantly decrease the hate I have for you.

Thanks again.

WHAT ABOUT THE SHOWER CURTAINS: The Not-So-Hidden Danger in Pakistan's Bathrooms

Most of Pakistan's population DOES NOT believe in shower curtains, as is illustrated by the image above. No one can deny that my aunt's guest bathroom is attractive. I, however, hated it with my entire being. I hated it alot.

I used to take shower curtains for granted until I realized how the absence of a curtain made showering, especially with a removable showerhead, awkward and stressful (one doesn't have much control over where the water splashes. Thank goodness the greater population doesn't believe in bathroom mats either); exiting the tub and then maneuvering around the sizable bathroom was downright treacherous (this is when one starts to miss and appreciate the bathroom mats).

Back in the day, the population didn't believe in tubs at all. Instead of tubs, most of the bathrooms in the older homes have tiled floors and showerheads mounted strategically in corners.

The entire bathroom, essentially, becomes your bathtub. I'm not so keen on that.

I'm glad I managed to survive the Pakistani bathroom.

LUCY IN THE GODDAMN SKY WITH FREAKIN' DIAMONDS

Someone please freakin' exorcise me of this song. It's been on repeat in my head all day. Joy.

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

Picture yourself in a boat on a river
With tangerine trees and marmalade skies
Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly
A girl with kaleidoscope eyes

Cellophane flowers of yellow and green
Towering over your head
Look for the girl with the sun in her eyes
and she's gone

Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah

Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
that grow so incredibly high

Newspaper taxies appear on the shores
Waiting to take you away
Climb in the back with your head in the clouds
and you're gone

Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah

Picture yourself on a train in a station
With plasticine porters with looking glass ties
Suddenly someone is there at the turnstile
The girl with kaleidoscope eyes

Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds
Lucy in the sky with diamonds, ah

TAKE ME BACK, COFFEE MAN!

Back on November 24th of last year, I posted "Caf-fidelity," in which I blogged about cheating on and eventually leaving my Afghan coffee vendor. I'd been with him for a couple of years and although he knew exactly how I liked my coffee--often throwing in free donut and muffins, which I always pimped off to one of my colleagues--I left him for the Egyptian coffee guy a few blocks up as soon as my morning brew starting to taste not so delicious anymore.
What can I say? Taste sometimes trumps loyalty.
Anyway, my relationship with ECG lacked the profundity of what I had with ACG. I missed ACG's easy charm and his agreeable nature. ECG never appeared to be totally at ease in his cart. I soon realized that he spent so much time preparing each cup of coffee, not because he was paying extraordinary care and attention to the process, as I had once believed. Instead, he was as lethargic as he was because he always seemed to want to be somewhere else.
I needed something more. I needed someone who saw me and appreciated me for the unique coffee drinker that I was.
And, so, I moved on to the worldly and sophisticated Jacqes Torres and it was magnificent. Sure, I didn't get to see him very often and he always had his minion serve me, but that was good enough for the short, intense time we were together. The coffee was so worth it.
Anyway, this past Monday night, while watching another nail-bitingly-edge-of-your-seat episode of 24, I found myself longing for ACG again. Honestly, I could've done without the coffee--JT clearly beats him in the overall superiority of coffee category. But I missed our intimacy, our friendship. He knew exactly how I liked my coffee and, what's more, he truly cared about me.
I would try to make it work, I told myself that night. And the following morning, I almost walked right past his cart when he caught my eye and I couldn't help but stop.
"Large coffee with lots of skim milk and two Equals, please," I ordered meekly, looking up at him with wide eyed anticipation.
His weathered face folded into the lines and creases of a familiar smile. "Equal inside or outside the cup?" he asked.
That's when I realized that he didn't remember me. Had he remembered me, he'd known that I wanted the Equal in my coffee and not on the side. I mean I wasn't expecting him to jump out of his cart and dance for joy upon seeing that I'd returned. But, sheesh, he could've remembered me; we had been together for two years, after all.
I snapped out of my reverie to see that he was still waiting for my answer with the cup in one hand and the blue packets in his other hand. "Inside, please," I told him, deciding there and then that I would make this work again.
When I ordered a small coffee from him this morning, ACG gave me a medium and insisted that I only pay him $.50. We went back and forth for a while before I gave him my four quarters and walked away very quickly, smiling.
I'm glad we're back together.

...a funny thing happened in the office today...no, SERIOUSLY..

I was minding my own business at work today, busily responding to emails and brainstorming the best strategies for maximizing my department’s annual sales figures (or something like that, anyway) when the phone rang. This is when the randomness started.

“This is Sabila,” I said, by way of greeting. I was met by a brief silence. “Hello—“ I started to say when a woman spoke up.

“Is this Sabila K?” she asked.

“Why, yes, it is.”

“Hello. This is --- ----.” She paused as if her name meant something to me.

“How can I help you?” I finally asked.

“I realize your time in the office is valuable and I don’t want to take up anymore of it, so I’m wondering if I can email you.”

Ah, what?

“What is this concerning?” I asked her, wondering if this was another one of the dozens of daily film rights requests that are for reasons beyond my comprehension, transferred directly to me.

“Well, I want to break into publishing—“ she started.

A wide-eyed, aspiring writer, I thought to myself and my usually iron-clad corporate heart softened a bit for this stranger. I started my speech about the importance of finding an agent and the fact that unsolicited manuscripts would not be accepted, blah, blah, blah when she interrupted me.

“Thanks for the advice, Ms. K. I eventually do want to be a published author but, for the time being, I’d like to work in publishing and would appreciate your insight as to how I can break into the industry.”

This was all sounding a bit single-white-female-ish to me.

“How did you get my contact information?” I demanded (politely, of course).

She chuckled the most monotonous and rehearsed chuckle I’ve ever heard. “It’s a funny story, actually,” she said, not sounding tickled in the least. “I was flipping through a book at the Strand yesterday and I found your card smack in the middle of it.”

Ah, what?

“Like, what?” I asked.

“It was right there, in the middle of the book, tucked between the pages,” she confirmed.

It was my turn to grow quiet.

“Which book was it?” I asked, wondering where else in Manhattan my business cards were cavorting.

“You know, I can’t remember the title but it was a self-help book. Something about
being stuck in a rut and beating a dead horse and looking for new avenues in life,” she explained vaguely.

“Oooo-kay,” I managed to say.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “So, can I email you?”

Could I have said no to a person who already had my email address? I don’t know but I mumbled a “sure” and hung up on the woman as she was thanking me profusely.

How did my business card end up in a book that didn’t sound, from the stranger’s shoddy summary of it, like one of ours? Who was using my business card as a bookmark? Should I be offended if someone was, in fact, using my lovely vertically-aligned business card as a book mark? And, again, where else in Manhattan are my business cards slooting around, giving out my digits to strangers?

It’s all rather troubling.

PLEASE COMMENT

I post and I post and I post and what do I get for it? Nothing, really. Is anyone even out there?

Where's the love yo?

Please comment to let me know that my counter--which happens to be 433 visitors away from my 10000th visitor--is not defective and that you folks are there on your side of cyberworld.

Don't be shy.

Hi.

INSOMNIA: a haiku

You bastard sore throat,
You're keeping me awake and
bored. Thanks for nothing.

STANLEY KUNITZ

Pulitzer-prize winner and former US poet laureate Stanley Kunitz died yesterday at the age of 100.
His way with words was nothing short of a gift for the rest of us.
Damn, I'm sad.

Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation
by Stanley Kunitz

Since that first morning when I crawled
into the world, a naked grubby thing,
and found the world unkind,
my dearest faith has been that this
is but a trial: I shall be changed.
In my imaginings I have already spent
my brooding winter underground,
unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbed
into the air, free as a puff of cloud
to sail over the steaming fields,
alighting anywhere I pleased,
thrusting into deep tubular flowers.

It is not so: there may be nectar
in those cups, but not for me.
All day, all night, I carry on my back
embedded in my flesh, two rows
of little white cocoons,
so neatly stacked
they look like eggs in a crate.
And I am eaten half away.

If I can gather strength enough
I'll try to burrow under a stone
and spin myself a purse
in which to sleep away the cold;
though when the sun kisses the earth
again, I know I won't be there.
Instead, out of my chrysalis
will break, like robbers from a tomb,
a swarm of parasitic flies,
leaving my wasted husk behind.

Sir, you with the red snippers
in your hand, hovering over me,
casting your shadow, I greet you,
whether you come as an angel of death
or of mercy. But tell me,
before you choose to slice me in two:
Who can understand the ways
of the Great Worm in the Sky?

I DON'T CARE FOR...

...explaining to my mother why marrying my cousin is NOT an option.
Ahem.
I'll say it again: welcome.

LIBYA

For those of you who don't already know, I was a Mediterranean baby, born in the North African coastal city of Tripoli in Libya. Although we moved to New Jersey (an underwhelming move, indeed) when I was a toddler, I can't help but feel that people carry place memories with them wherever they go. When I think really hard, I can almost smell the salt in the Tripoli air and hear golf-sized hail falling in our courtyard. I imagine sitting under a pristine blue sky and sucking on an orange slice until the rind sticks to my teeth and picking ripe olives right off their branches.

All of this talk about the US reestablishing diplomatic ties with its one-time foe Libya has me trying to dig through my memory for the vast deserts and stretches of azure beaches that I saw decades ago as a toddler. My parents still talk about the Berber and Greek architecture that adorned the landscape, the mountains and the farms, the fierce rains that enticed children to run through their billows until they were drenched with joy. Neighbors became family and helped raise my two brothers. At Libyan parties, guests often shared potfuls of rice and meat, couscous and vegetables. Utensils were never necessary; everyone ate with their hands. After my family moved to New Jersey, my mother often baked magrood and ghreyba, two of her favorite cookies, the way her Libyan friends had taught her, only to sadly shake her head over the finished products, sighing about the absence of richness and flavor. I'd nibble on the cookies, wrinkling my nose in blind agreement.

I imagine that the joie de vivre of Libya came from its very terrain. How could one not live life ardently in a land that is, at once, so lush and parched? The wilderness of the Libyan dessert offers as colorful a palette as the monuments that rise from history, against the backdrop of the Green Mountains. Life exists beyond four-walled offices (a typical work day ended at 1PM); it is out there, in the outdoors.

I wonder if the land still remembers me, a lusty baby born kicking and screaming to Pakistani expatriate parents. I'd like to think that it's as haunted by me as I am by it.

BRUCE

Is anyone called Bruce anymore?
I don't think I know a single Bruce (other than Willis and Springsteen, but who REALLY knows them, right?).
Why isn't Bruce a more popular name for boys anymore? I'm not saying that I have a thing for the name, because I really don't. It's just another name. But I suspect that it might be on the endangered list of names and that concerns me.
We can save this name, dear reader.
So, go out there and name a baby Bruce!

THAT WILL DO JUST FINE

I hate losing contact with friends. My friends are very important to me but I'll be the first to admit that I get caught up in the rigamarole of life and push even those I love the most into the background. Don't get me wrong: if you're my friend, I'm your biggest champion and supporter and I love you. I can't tell you the number of times I've gladly stayed up until the wee hours of the morning talking friends I haven't spoken to in months through difficult times. It's just a matter of them reaching out to me; I'm too oblivious to reach out on my own.

The reason I bring this up is because I just found out that one of my closest childhood friends had a baby boy 10 days ago. I didn't even know she was pregnant! The first decade of my life was spent with her as my constant companion. We bathed together, ate together, slept in the same crib together; my fondest memories from my childhood all seem to include her and my squeals of joy upon discovering that she is now a mother were genuine.

I attended her wedding a couple of years ago and couldn't help but feel sorry about how we were now strangers. She introduced me to all of her new friends as her first and oldest friend. But I felt sad as I watched these other girls twitter around her and make last minute adjustments to her gharrara and makeup. Perhaps it was because our friendship had always been so intense--we were more like sisters conjoined at the heart from the moment we met as infants--that we could never engage in the formalities of reconnecting.

It's as if we're content living with the memories we have and the knowledge that no one can take that away from us.

Rest assured that I will call her and I will congratulate her. We will express our disbelief about how the years seem to have gotten away from us and will make promises to keep in touch and meet up for dinner. We'll exchange email addresses again. We'll exchange cell phone numbers again. But we'll forget about the now as soon as we hang up our phones and for a moment as we sit by ourselves we'll both think back to something (gosh, there are so many inside jokes we can have: Scientists on the Run, Frederick and Kathleen, Highlights, Fida) from our childhood together, which will make us smile.

And that will do.

I CARE (VERY MUCH) FOR...

...long runs. Nothing beats starting off a Sunday with a 7 mile run. I felt like I could've gone forever.

DAVID GRAY

Dear Readers:
Apologies for slacking on the blogging front.
I promise to post tomorrow. Tonight, I leave you with "This Year's Love" by David Gray. Until recently, I'd forgotten how fantastic this Brit singer-songwriter is and now, I just can't stop listening to him.
Might he be what the Arctic Monkeys were for me over the past couple of months?
Maybe.
Maybe.

"This Year's Love"

This years love had better last
Heaven knows it's high time
And I've been waiting on my own too long
But when you hold me like you do
It feels so right
I start to forget
How my heart gets torn
When that hurt gets thrown
Feeling like you can't go on

Turning circles when time again
It cuts like a knife oh yeah
If you love me got to know for sure
Cos it takes something more this time
Than sweet sweet lies
Before I open up my arms and fall
Losing all control
Every dream inside my soul
And when you kiss me
On that midnight street
Sweep me off my feet
Singing ain't this life so sweet

This years love had better last
This years love had better last

So whose to worry
If our hearts get torn
When that hurt gets thrown
Don't you know this life goes on
And won't you kiss me
On that midnight street
Sweep me off my feet
Singing ain't this life so sweet

This years love had better last
This years love had better last
This years love had better last
This years love had better last

I CARE FOR...

...not having to speak a single word from the time I wake up at 6AM to the moment I get into the office at 8AM.
It's meditative.

THE HAPPY RECLUSE?

With each passing day, life is bound to push me further along the road of disillusionment with humanity.

I just hope I'm not bitter when I finally decide to lock myself away from the rest of the world, a la Howard Hughes, JD Salinger and that crazy woman who lived next door to us when I was a kid (she did occasionally stick her head out long enough to tell me and the other kids running up and down the hallway to shut the hell up; I wish she'd been truer to the code of the recluse, because that momentary appearance couldn't possibly be acceptable...not in my rule book anyway!). Is it possible to be a gay (I mean the other definition of the word, ie, happy, merry, lively) recluse? Gosh, I hope so.

READING THE CLASSICS

Sadly, in recent years, I've lost touch with classic literature, mostly because I have to read popular, contemporary works for work.
I need to make right this colossal wrong.
I'm going to (try to) read one major work of classic literature literature a week (reader, please note I might be forced to change this to two books a month, that one book a week is quite the undertaking) and, I'll blog about it.
I'm currently reading Proust's Swann's Way, which I only read parts of in school (unacceptable, I know!).

LONESTAR

I love Norah Jones.
Her sultry voice and the evocative sounds of her playing piano stir my soul more so than anyone else's songs have managed to do so in a very long time.
Anyway, I can't get her "Lonestar" out of my head today. It's playing on a loop in my head, which isn't as bad as, say, Ginuwine's "Pony (Jump On It)" assaulting me.
I think I've shared the song's lyrics with you before, but here they are again.
Listen to the song when you have a moment and you'll know what I mean when I say that it practically holds hands with one's soul:

"Lonestar"

Lonestar where are you out tonight?
This feeling I'm trying to fight
It's dark and I think that I would give anything
For you to shine down on me

How far you are I just don't know
The distance I'm willing to go
I pick up a stone that I cast to the sky
Hoping for some kind of sign

I CARE FOR...

...orange rinds. I especially like eating the spongy white underside of the rind, called the pericarp or pith.
Before you judge me, please keep in mind that I'm not a freak who peels an orange, throws it out and eats only the rind.
I do, in fact, love oranges, which help me effectively absorb the iron I get from my vegetarian diet. I just keep some of the peel and nibble on it after I'm done with the orange. Sometimes I'll just eat the underside and other times I'll eat the whole peel. It's really not that bad folks. Try some before you point fingers!
You can do that after you gag on the rind.

RUN, MUSIC, RUN

The Arctic Monkeys have been my constant running companions for the past couple of months now. I love them and all and they make the 6.5-6.8 miles I run breeze by but, frankly, I'm getting kind of bored. Sometimes I can only put up with them for the first 4 miles or so before I have to put my iPod on shuffle mode, which sucks too because Ella Fitzgerald and Dido don't exactly sing songs that inspire one to run. Those inpsiring songs become few and far between.

So, I challenge you, dear readers, to create the perfect playlist for my runs. You can either suggest individual songs/ bands or, if you're feeling especially motivated, hit me with an entire playlist.

Anyone? Anyone?????

....she's baaaack.....

Just when I thought my mom had finally gotten over her obsession with my love life (or lack thereof, frankly. We’re amongst friends, so let’s be honest here), the following conversation took place between us. For those of you who aren’t familiar with Naseeb.com, it’s a networking site, like Friendster, but for Muslims. People join for different reasons. While some are looking for soul mates (blech), others, like myself, are on the market for friends and activity partners. I was initially strong armed into joining by one of my friends who thought I had negative preconceived notions about my Pakistani- and Indian-American peers. So, I joined and I met some great people. My mother found out about the site from my brothers, who I strong armed into joining and, needless to say, she now thinks my husband awaits me somewhere in the cyberworld of Naseeb. Crap.

Mom: So, how are your Naseeb* friends?
Sabila: They’re fine, I guess. I haven’t been online much. It’s been a hectic spring.
Mom: How long have you been on the site now?
Sabila: I joined a little over a year ago. Why?
Mom: I just thought you would’ve found someone by now, Sabila.
Sabila: I made a few friends, if that’s what you mean.
Mom: I was hoping that someone would give you an engagement ring.
Sabila: Jesus, Amma.
Mom: I gave you six months to find a boy on that site—
Sabila: You did what?
Mom:--and when you didn’t find anyone I gave you a little more time, thinking that you were still working on it.
Sabila: I didn’t join that site to—
Mom: And now, more than a year later, we’re back to where you started. Have you thought about what you’re doing wrong?
Sabila (feeling a headache coming on): Amma, I didn’t join that site to find a husband.
Mom: Then why did you join?
Sabila: I wanted Muslim friends. You know that.
Mom: You have enough friends.
Sabila (rubbing temples)
Mom: All of your gay boys. They’re your friends. Why do you need more men as friends? You need someone who will be more than just a friend.
Sabila: Amma! Please. What are we even talking about?
Mom: What you’re doing wrong on Naseeb. You know, you can tell everyone on the site that you’re looking for a husband. It's one of the options. Did you do that?
Sabila: WHY would I do that when I’m NOT looking for a husband?! I’m not that big a loser, amma.
Mom: What did you say you’re looking for?
Sabila: Nothing, I’m not looking for anything! Can we change the subject? This is a pointless conversation.
Mom: You must have said you’re looking for something.
Sabila (suspiciously): Amma, why does it sound like you’ve been on Naseeb?
Mom (giggling not too convincingly): Now, why would I be on that young people site? I have a husband!
Sabila: Amma…
Mom: What do you say you’re looking for?
Sabila (shoulders slumping forward, giving up): Friends and activity partners.
Mom (perplexed): Activity partner? What’s an activity partner? You’re looking for a partner for the activity of life!
Sabila (groaning at the sheer ridiculousness of the conversation and the words that have just left amma’s mouth. If there are any words that should be outlawed, those are it): Amma…I’m not looking for a husband on Naseeb.com. Just accept that fact please.
Mom: But, Sabila, if you make it clear on your profile that you are on the market for a husband, he’ll find you!
Sabila (walks out of room).

Nobody tell my mom, but I’m secretly tickled that she’s back to her old ways.

I CARE (VERY MUCH) FOR...

...dinners that almost never end with ES, LC and CM.

My Lucky Rocketship Underpants Didn't Help Today

Mark Twain said in The Tragedy of Pudd'nhead Wilson: "When angry, count four; when very angry, swear."

I swore ALL DAY today.

It takes a lot for me to get angry. It doesn't take much for me to cry. But reader, I'm not ashamed to admit that I was both angry and teary today. Why should one be ashamed of or embarrassed by emotions? I sure as hell am not.

Does that make you uncomfortable?

Anyway, I'm not feeling particularly funny at the moment. I'm still rather vexed.

Like Calvin said, "You know, Hobbes, some days even my lucky rocketship underpants don't help."

Some days you just have to admit defeat.

NOTHING TO WEAR!

I'm accompanying a friend to a formal on Tuesday and have honestly slacked on the whole shopping for a dress front. Unsurprisingly, I am now freaking.
Hell!
What the eff am I going to wear?
It's a black tie formal.
Crappers.
The nightmare time I had shopping for a prom dress a decade ago is all coming back to me in cold sweats and flashbacks, impairing my daily life.
Clearly, I need help.
Help? Anyone?

BE STILL MY HEART!

Dear readers, the rumors are true. Hollywood is, indeed, remaking the comedy classic Revenge of the Nerds:

Newman Directing the Nerds Redo
Source: The Hollywood Reporter May 1, 2006

Kyle Newman has signed on to direct Fox Atomic's Revenge of the Nerds, says The Hollywood Reporter.

The film reteams Newman with screenwriter Adam F. Goldberg, who is rewriting the latest "Nerds" incarnation. The pair worked together on Newman's upcoming Fanboys, which will be distributed by The Weinstein Company.

McG and David Manpearl are producing the remake of the seminal teen comedy from 1984.

I had SUCH a crush on Gilbert, played by Anthony Edwards. I wonder who will be cast in that role?