Friday, September 29, 2006


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!

Thursday, September 28, 2006


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.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006


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.

The Nerd

Sunday, September 24, 2006


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.


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.

Friday, September 22, 2006


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.

Thursday, September 21, 2006


...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


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.

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

Wednesday, September 20, 2006


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.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006


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.


Sunday, September 17, 2006


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, hi...ahem.........don't take this personally or anything.........oy.

Saturday, September 16, 2006


Imagine my joy and excitement when I spotted TungToos standing alongside the boring gums and mints on the candy and magazine rack of the checkout lane next to where I was getting ready to pay for the assortment of veggie meats, bagged spinach, grapes, and a toy for Zanadune at my local grocery store a couple of weekends ago. A spider tattoo adorned an exaggeratedly long cartoon tongue on the package and I was intrigued. I had to have it but, clearly, it was too late for me to step out of line to grab a couple of the packaged-in-pink-foil-candy-tattoos-for-the-tongue-gloriousness. So, I called out to the cashier working that checkout line and asked her for them. She asked her next customer on line, an older, librarian type, to pass a couple of the TungToos my way and she did, a bit suspiciously, but what did I care? I was already busy imagining what my TungToos would look like!

As soon as I got home, I dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter and ran to the bathroom to try my first TungToo: a banana-flavored smiley face. As per the instructions, I held the sugared stamp flat against my tongue for 3 seconds and carefully lifted it off to reveal a bright smiley face on my tongue. My mom didn't bother hiding her disgust when I exited the bathroom, with my tongue sticking out a la Gene Simmons. She was on the verge of disowning me when I whipped out my telephone to snap a few shots of my smiley-faced tongue.

The pics are, admittedly, obscene and I'm a bit hesitant to post them up here (I never realized how bizarre my tongue looks, especially when sporting a smiley face) However, so as not to disappoint my readers, I am posting a pic of a temporary tatt that I applied with a colleague in the ladies room (to the surprise and confusion of ladies who happened upon us dabbing on images from Atomic Betty just below our clavicle regions) at work today. I was a bit disappointed that I went with, not Atomic Betty, but her rocket ship. It looked rather like a welt.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

WAVES, SMILES AND WITCHES: How the Nerd Got the Cold Shoulder as She Myofacially Released at a Strange and Unfamiliar Gym

So, I finally put my NYSC passport membership to good use last night and ventured to a different club (I'm a creature of habit and a reassuring fixture at my NYSC of choice). Naturally, once inside the gym, I was nonplussed my new surroundings. I wandered around asking a million questions of a million strangers (I'm not ashamed to ask questions. Strangely enough, I HATED asking questions, talking to strangers, etc, as a child. My parents and brothers used to force me to do the talking when we were calling for takeout, booking reservations or whatever. They thought it would break me out of my shy shell. I HATED it at the time but I guess it worked).

In this mass of confusion and newness, imagine my relief when I saw a familiar face stretching beside me. This little wisp of a dude who works out at my gym, was doing an ineffectual stretch on his belly. He's totally misinformed and needs a lesson or two in working out but who am I to judge, right? Anyway, I flashed him a brilliant smile of recognition and waved his way.

And what did he do???

Seriously, like how rude was he. It's not like I was going to talk to him or anything. I was concentrating on myofacially releasing for sweet Jeebus' sake! And it IS nice to see a familiar face in an unfamiliar location, isn't it?! And it's not like he doesn't recognize me because him and his boyfriend are ALWAYS gawking at me when I train with my trainer (Clearly impressed by my superior skills. Clearly). I hate bitching about people and almost always let things slide but, honestly, I was a bit offended by this guy's eye roll and head turn. I think he's just jealous of how freakin' popular I am.

I'm still annoyed. And he's a witch. I'd like to roll my eyes at HIM when I see him again but, being as aggressively (and unintentionally, really) amiable as I am, I'll probably just smile at him again, saving the wave for when he's over his bitter jealousy.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006


I want to preface this post by reiterating that my mother truly doesn't mean any malicious intent when she says these things. It's almost as if she's thinking aloud.
So, without any further ado, I present to you some interrogatives, advice and observations spoken by my mother over the years.
She's truly one of a kind:

X (identity shall remain anonymous) has been engaged three times and you can't manage to get engaged once.


Just try not to talk so much the next time you're out with a boy.

OR (this one she threw at me years ago as I was getting ready for to meet a boy, who is a FRIEND)

Have you talked to him about marriage yet?

Tuesday, September 12, 2006


Last week's 20/20 featured conjoined twins and the growing interest in the psychological aftermath of separation. The oldest living female conjoined twins, Reba and Lori Schappell, who are joined at the head and have chosen not to be separated, were also interviewed for the show. These women have distinct and dynamic personalities: they've recorded a country music album, appeared in film and television and one of the twins has always had a very healthy romantic life (she currently has a boyfriend). For bioethicists, they are living proof that separation isn't the only option for conjoined twins. One expert even noted that when studying conjoined twins throughout history, she was surprised to discover that most of them were not only okay being conjoined but also saw theirs as a superior state of being.

My mother's very thoughtful reaction to Reba and Lori Schappell's story:

"Sabila, even women joined at the heads have boyfriends."

At least she left it at that and didn't harp on it.

Monday, September 11, 2006

Sunday, September 10, 2006


Abu wanted us to have a family meeting over Sunday brunch. Amma delivered the message to my brother and me over the course of the previous week (my oldest brother wasn't invited--lucky him. I guess being the eldest has some perks. Blah), in order to make sure that we'd all be around. I imagine that my brother's initial reaction echoed my own “Oh no,” but my mother was quick to reassure me that it wasn’t a big deal, that abu just wanted to talk. The two of us confabbed about the reasons why abu would want to convene a family meeting and came pretty damn close to the truth.

So, we shouldn’t have been as shocked as we were when, earlier today, abu smacked us with an ultimatum as we happily brunched on omelets, bujiya, halwa and parhatas. He told us that if we didn’t prove to him that we’re serious about getting married by December, he and my mother would move to Pakistan.

Now, this ultimatum—so, so wrong at its very core—is also flawed. First of all, my father hasn’t lived in Pakistan since 1973. Even when we vacation there today, he starts becoming agitated after a week’s time, sighing about how he’s ready to return home. So, we can totally see that he’s bluffing. Secondly, everyone who knows my father knows that he would be in constant distress if there was an ocean between him and his children. It’s just the way he is. When we were growing up, our mother would tend to our childhood cuts, scrapes and illnesses because the sight of his children in pain was the only thing that could make this tall, intimidating giant of a man dissolve into tears. Third, a couple of my parents best friends are moving to India for good at the end of the year so, it’s very apparent to us that, instead of thinking logically and recognizing how ridiculous this ultimatum is, he’s becoming nostalgic and wistful about the motherland. Fourth, although he’s more or less healthy right now, my father does suffer from a couple of chronic conditions and the usual aches and pain that come with age and is very aware of his mortality. For this obvious reason, he wants to see us live as much as we can in his lifetime. Which is fair…and probably not a reason why his ultimatum is flawed…but I wanted to throw that out there as well.

Finally, my mother, would never allow for such a ridiculous ultimatum to stand. I am saddened that my readers don’t know my mother in real life, that they aren’t familiar with the strong, dependable, intelligent, dynamic, devoted, loving, funny and charming person she really is; that, instead, they are acquainted only with the slivers of personality about which I, in my moments of exasperation, annoyance and anger, blog. She recognizes this as a nonsensical situation and ultimately cares only about the happiness of her children (not without a few harmless attempts at manufacturing that happiness on her own) more than anyone else.

My brother spoke for us when he said we would entertain rishtas our parents found for us but it would be impossible for us to determine our compatibility with these people without a proper amount of time devoted to getting to know (ie dating) said individuals. And my readers will never guess what my mother’s response to this was (I say “never,” because you guys simply don’t know her). She said that she prefers we meet people on our own (without their meddling) because we know what we’re looking for in a mate, better than anyone else!

By the end of the meeting, my father reiterated the “I-need-to-see-something-positive-by-December-or-else-your-mother-and-I-are-moving-to-Paksitan” deadline, my mother said something about doing it on our own but not taking our sweet time, while my brother tried to explain to them that there it is virtually impossible to attach a timetable to the natural progressions of life.

I was uncharacteristically quiet(er than usual) during this family meeting because it raised questions for me that only I can answer. Am I ready for marriage? No, probably not. Am I ready for a committed relationship that will eventually lead to marriage? Yes, probably. Am I doing anything to meet a guy with whom I can have a committed relationship that will lead to marriage? Nope. Do I expect the perfect dude (for me) to randomly fall into my lap when I’m not in the least bit expecting him? Absolutely. Will it ever be that effortless? Never. Why am I not (seriously) putting myself out there? I don’t know. Do I feel totally exposed and vulnerable by blogging about this? Yes, definitely.

So, the two of us are going to revisit (um, ignore) the deadline as my brother continues meeting girls and I decide on exactly how I’m going to proceed (because I'm not a fan of dating...).

Saturday, September 09, 2006


I got back from my 8AM run this morning to find a blister the size of Texas on my foot. No, seriously, folks, it's a gargantuan (close to 2 inches) villain squatting on the arch of my right foot, and surrounded by an obscene ring of red. Naturally, I did what all Desis in medical distress do: I phoned one of my dozens of physician relatives.

My cousin explained that the obscene ring of red around the blister meant that it was probably infected. Thankfully, the blister had popped during my run, so all I have to do now is keep it clean, daubed with Neosporin and wrapped when I'm walking around. But I also have to take antibiotics, which my cousin called in for me, twice a day for ten days.

I run a lot and it's not like I haven't had blisters before or anything (my mother started bemoaning the sorry state of my feet from the moment I started running). This particular blister, however, is amazing. Naturally, I took a photo of it with my cell phone (to my mother's utter shock, disgust, and disappointment). Having taken a look at it just now, I don't think the photo is for the faint of heart, so, unless there's a public outcry for the pic, I won't be posting it. Take my word for it: it's gross.

Thursday, September 07, 2006

BACK ON THE MARKET: Oh Crap (part III) or A Further Discussion About Appropriate Photos

Apparently, my photos aren't good enough to be circulated to random families of random eligible bachelors in a certain southern city and I'm pretty ticked off.

Remember back when my mom was on my back for rishta photos that she and my dad could send out across the country ( I finally succumbed to the nagging and ended up emailing six of my Friendster (ahem) photos to my dad, who then passed them out to cousins everywhere. Well, a pair of my cousins informed my mother today that the photos might be a bit inappropriate. So, my mother gave me the when-embarking-on-the-wonderous-journey-of-pimping-a-daughter-one-should-only-share-"appropriate"-and-by-"appropriate"-I-mean-you-dressed-in-native-garb-photos-with-interested-families talk.

I am pissed because:

1) there's absolutely nothing wrong with the pics that my cousins have at the moment.
2) I've worn native garb like twice in the past nine months, which equates to like three pics on my computer, one of which was bloody well included in the six I emailed to my father.
3) I hardly ever wear native garb, so why the hell should I misrepresent myself to these effin' strangers I already dislike?
4) to hell with people who think they'll have me all figured out by looking at a photo of me.
5) what the hell has happend to my progressive and open-minded parents?
6) is it just me or are my cousins implying that I'm slutty? Because I'm not slutty at all. Paranoid, maybe, but I am a Pisces, after all......

My parents asked me to pull up the pics they shared with my cousins and I did. While they saw nothing wrong with the pics a couple of weeks ago, they were suddenly agreeing that we needed to send out pics of me in shalwaar kameez, that these pics were too "casual". So, I told them very calmly, "This really sucks. I don't think I want to do this anymore," and walked out of the room.

This comedy relief comes at too great a price (my peace of mind).


Someone recently informed me that the length of a blog post is inversely proportional to the number of comments I receive on said blog post.
Let's put that to the test:
(I suspect this post is already too long...oy...)

Wednesday, September 06, 2006


I am on the market for the following things and thought I'd ask my fiercely loyal, ridiculously brilliant, sickeningly talented and blazingly attractive readers to point me in the direction of uniquely terrific products available in the world today:

1) a water bottle for the office with a minimum liquid capacity of 20 oz., ergonomic yet snazzy design. I need a water bottle that screams: "I am the nerd's water bottle and I will make water look refreshing and sexy so that she'll drink the 64 oz of it prescribed (by the government? the surgeon general? God? aliens? Katie Couric? where the monkey did this recommendation come from anyway??) for eternal youth, vigor, and beauty (maybe even intelligence...I'm still working on that)." I'm open to most colors for my water bottles. The water bottle I currently use is old and is becoming increasingly skanky with time so you're immediate attention is much appreciated for what I trust you recognize as an urgent matter.

2) I've been searching for that perfect umbrella for quite some time now. I'm afraid I may be asking for too much, hence my fruitless, exhaustive online searches. I need more than an umbrella. I need a collapsable canopy on a rod that not only protects me from the elements but also announces: "I am the nerd's umbrella, a most perfect reflection of her personlity, wit and joie di vivre that shines through the mundaneness of this bleak day." I'd prefer something that is small enough to fit in my handbag (given the size of my handbag, I suppose that the umbrella can be pretty damned big).

3) Surely I've broken records in my search for galoshes--it's going on a dozen years now, folks. I bemoan the fact that I don't own a pair only when it's raining, promptly forgetting about the galoshes as soon as the rain stops. Most rainy days are met with solemn oaths that I will invest time and effort into shopping for the perfect galoshes (a pair that shouts "I'm cute yet edgy and I keep our nerd from falling down and breaking her limbs during rain storms" will suffice) as I try to decide which pair of shoes I own is least weather inapproriate and most conducive to delivering me to my destination in one piece.

I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks for your interest.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006


So, we have a cat. Her name's Zanadune. She rules the house like a diva and it would seem that she has a pretty healthy cat ego; the diva act, however, is merely an attempt to cover up a host of psychological issues (separation anxiety, fear of loud sounds, fear of birds, etc. etc. etc.). It doesn't matter; we love her all the same and shower her with toys every opportunity we get. The thing is, Zanadune's only really been interested in one toy and that's a plush little ducky that we call Ducky (ahem). She's fiercely attached to it during those briefest of intervals when it hasn't been kicked under a sofa or into a corner (by Zanadune) and isn't merely languising, collecting dust, and waiting to be found (again, by Zanadune). We keep buying her neon-colored mice and catnip-filled goodies anyway. As expected, she loses interest in them about as soon as I rip them from their packages. She tries to feign enthusiasm for a couple of minutes before giving me that "Yah-this-effin'-blows" look.

This is illustrated in the pics below:

What is this? A sock with a bell attached to it? Dear God, is that weak-ass, over-processed, substandard catnip I smell? I think I'm going to be ill.

You want me to play with this thing? Seriously? Okay, I'll do what you want me to do but I'll have you know this is an insult to my felinity.

Oh, look at me! Joy! Nothing beats a bloody bell on a bloody sock full of bloody lame catnip. I'm so happy! Thank you for spending a lousy couple of bucks on me to keep me happy and distracted! Aren't I precious.

Happy now, lady? Now get that camera out of my face and take that cheap ass sock with you. Christ.

Sunday, September 03, 2006


Amma takes a seat next to me on the sofa as I watch television. I can see that she's trying to be very solemn; she has an unmarked envelope in her hand. I quietly sigh in anticipation of what is tucked away in the envelope.

"Doesn't he seem like a very nice boy, Sabila?" she askes, as she pulls out a glossy, 5" X 7" photo from the envelope.

The PLP (prospective life partner) sits on what appears to be a bar stool, set against a purple muslin backdrop; while his body is perpendicular to the camera, his face is turned towards it. He isn't smiling. I'm certain he's attempting to appear serious, well-educated and responsible enough to care for a family all in one shot. He's almost got it...except it seems that the photographer at the studio has snapped the camera a few seconds too soon. The result is a ghost of a grimace, which makes him look a bit constipated.

"Amma. No," I tell her.

"Aww, but doesn't he look like a nice boy?" Amma asks again. I know her well enough to know that she knows that this guy is all wrong for me but I also know her well enough to know that it's virtually impossible for her to say anything negative about anyone or anything. She gives everyone a fair shot. She's awesome.

And so I tell her that I don't think it'll work out with this PLP and she starts naming parental units of eligible bachelorettes to whom she can pass along whoever gave us this dude's pic.

Good luck to him.

Eek: I just now realized that I should've probably met with him for the comedy. Wasn't that the point of all of this? But who am I kidding? My mother would've never believed that I was willing to meet him anyway. Eff.