Tuesday, October 31, 2006


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?

Monday, October 30, 2006


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.

Saturday, October 28, 2006


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.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

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.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006


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.


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.

Thursday, October 19, 2006


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.

Tuesday, October 17, 2006


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.

Monday, October 16, 2006

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.

Friday, October 13, 2006


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...

Wednesday, October 11, 2006


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?

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

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?

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?

Has the Nerd ever had her heart broken?

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.


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?

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

6. What turns you off?

7. What is your favorite curse word?

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.


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.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006


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...

Monday, October 09, 2006


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?


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?

Thursday, October 05, 2006


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.

Wednesday, October 04, 2006


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.


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."

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.

Monday, October 02, 2006

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.


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 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.