BENAZIR BHUTTO

Some people agreed with her politics, while others didn't, but none can deny that Benazir Bhutto was one of the most charismatic leaders of our time. May Allah grant her family the peace that she was unable to bring to her nation. This is a sad day for Pakistan.

HOLIDAY

Dear All My Kittens:

Apologies for being negligent in my responsibilities as your blogger-nerd. Yes, I was ill of late with a stomach bug that socked me on Thursday night and lingered until Sunday. This one was a whopper, indeed. But, I'm cured now, praise be to Gatorade and saltines! The sushi dinner I had last night was a blissful reminder of how one should be thankful for proper gastrointestinal functionings .

A ho ho ho to all of my Christmas-ing readers out there. I Christmas-ed by running eight miles in the morning, doing the laundry, paying my bills, playing Resident Evil (I'm afraid the game was just a tad bit too frightening for moi!) and Rayman on my brother's Wii, and then having a merry and festive dinner of Chik'n Grill with a side of chopped bell peppers (YUMMY). I made a to-do list for tomorrow, am now blogging, will follow this up with reading some more of the fantastic first book in Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, THE GOLDEN COMPASS and will try to be asleep by 10PM.

Oh, the holidays!

By the way, kittens, some exciting news! I'm having dinner with MP's family on New Year's Eve! I'm all a flutter over it! Eek is the word!

Off to reading now and here's to a glorious tomorrow for the lot of you.

Clearly, I'm in a mood.

Love and cheer,
SABILA

HAPPY HOLIDAYS or I'M DOWN WITH THE STOMACH BA HUMBUG

Yes, kittens, it's that time of year again: Eid, Hannukah, Christmas, and Sabila's stomach bug are all upon us. I hope you are surrounded by love, family, and food (just thinking about food makes me dry heave, but I'm sure it's different for those people who don't get a stomac bug every freakin' December) during this season of celebration. Me, I'm going back to sleep and hoping that the diarrhea and vomiting that have been schoolin' me for the past twelve or so hours subsides so that I can drink some Gatorade and rehydrate.

Love you guys.

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: An Open Letter

Dear Madlibbin' Parasailer:

I can't believe that it's only been two months since that time that I--so absolutely racked with a case of the first-date-with-a-guy-I-picked-up-in-open-letters-on-my-blog jitters--showed up at Morimoto half an hour early in order to hop around the ladies' room and psyche myself up. In spite of all the hopping around and pep talks to myself in the dimly lit (and definitely not conducive to reapplying makeup) bathroom, I couldn't help but reply to your genial greeting with a frantic, "I'm so nervous right now, I think I'm going to vomit," as I waved my flushed face with my hand and took measured breaths in order to ward off an anxiety attack.

There were interjections of "OMG! I'm so nervous," throughout our meal, a "You're having a good time, aren't you?" as we finished course five or, maybe it was six, and, of course, the (polite) reach for the bill when it arrived was followed by "I'm so glad you're paying because it's really a turnoff when guys don't pay for dinner."

Clearly, I had a most terrible case of verbal diarrhea.

Yet, here we are, celebrating two monts together. Picking you up in open letters on my blog was the best thing I've ever done. I'm so thankful that you're my guy.

Yours,
The Nerddd

AMERICA'S FUNNIEST HOME VIDEOS

The Khan family has been watching and loving America's Funniest Home Videos from the show's earliest days on ABC with that loveable douche of funny Bob Saget (his comedy routines are way more edgy than any syndicated episode of Full House--or AFHV, for that matter--would lead you to believe!) through its bumpy years when Daisy Fuentes and that dude from VH1 hosted to this day with Tom What's-His-Face in the captain's helm (while I may not always remember the dude's name, he is, hands down, the funniest host the 2nd longest-running entertainment program on ABC has had).

So, the other day, amma and I are watching the latest $100,000 championship show, which I've DVR'd from the previous week (I don't need to be judged, yo. I'm way edgy. You don't know me). During a particularly funny (and touching!) musical montage of wedding proposals (from over the decades--you should see the mullets on some of the future brides and grooms! Hair-raising stuff, I tell you!), amma turns to me with a very thoughtful look on her face and says, "Someone needs to share these videos with MP."

Oh, AFHV! Full of inspiration and hope for ammas across the country!

PIMPLE PROTEST or THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN TO ME

I almost never break out.

As a matter of fact, I have pretty amazing skin, if I may say so myself.

I was the only teenager I knew who did not succumb to that pimple pandemic that seems to sweep the frenzy of hormones known as adolescence. I was only peripherally aware of the plight of girls volunteering to pop each other's pimples back in the '90s--a practice, which I later discovered, is more prevalent than I'd ever imagined (gasp!). Today, while other women cake their faces with concealer and foundation, I remain lucky enough to not need excessive amounts of makeup (I don't even own foundation).

Yet, even in spite of the overall wonderfulness of my (radiant...ahem...) skin, I, too, sometimes fall victim to the occasional zit (note, I said I almost never break out). And, trust you me, when that single zit alights on my face, it has its own freakin' spotlight, talent agent, and singing contract. The bitch is loud and angry and is telling me that it's not going anywhere. For instance, the one that is sitting its ass on my left cheek right now, is telling me that we're part of the same place, we're part of the same time, we both share the same blood, we both have the same mind, and that it's stayin', it's stayin', and I, and I, I'm gonna looooove it.

Just for the record, the crazy bitch has yet to convince me to love it. All it's really convinced me, during these handful of times it's found its way to my face is to ignore it, because popping it would be way too messy.

So, like an aerial shot of a penguin, lying flat on its face on an expanse of otherwise pristine Antarctic snow, my pimple's pretty goddamned conspicuous. I tried to conceal it from MP this weekend with with strategic hand-, hair-, scarf-, and giant purse-placements but the attention-whore wanted to get its fifteen minutes in with my boyfriend and it sure did.

He told me it was lovely.
I suspect he was lying.

Let's hope this loud-ass zit goes quiet before I meet MP's family, otherwise I may even stoop to asking him to pop it!
I jest! Of course I'd never ask my boyfriend, or anyone else for that matter to pop my pimple...not just yet, anyway...ahem ahem ahem.

SWEAT A COLD?

Didn't I read somewhere that one should sweat out a cold and that running 8-10 miles while in the semi-grips of a stuffy nose and sore throat is a good idea? I'm off for what I'll try to make a long run. It feels like a long run kind of day.

Update: Success is mine. I ran a nearly effortless 8 miles even in the throes of a cold and it felt damned wonderful.

MP's FAMILY

Dear Kittens,

Once again, I'm in desperate need of your guidance.

I'm meeting MP's lovely parents and older sister at the very end of this month and I want to buy them a "hello-I'm-the-Nerddd-and-how-are-you" gift, except I don't even know where to begin. I'm a very bad gift-giver. As a matter of fact, when it comes to giving gifts, I'm much like a man: clueless (I don't mean to generalize here. I'm sure that plenty of my male readers are awesome givers of gifts!).

The first time he met them, MP was kind enough to gift my parents with a lovely flower arrangement from Takashimaya. We cooed over it for days. I would, of course, like to present the MP family with something similarly coo-worthy; yet, it has to be something that they can easily take with them on their flight home. Should I gift each member of the family or only MP's mom? What, oh what, will be good enough for the family that raised a man as stunningly wonderful as my MP? Oh, I'm so confused!

Your assistance would be much appreciated, darlings. Thanks!

Yours,
The Nerddd

WORK-RELATED

If someone told me six years ago, when I--wide eyed with an English lit diploma clutched in my hand--first started working, that I'd someday find myself in my boss's office, flipping through a Playboy with him, I would've said, "You so crazy!"

Yesterday, I found myself in my boss's office, flipping through a Playboy with him.

I love my job.

OH SNAP!

"That's a really bad habit, Sabila," my brother comments each and every time I throw a piece of gum into my mouth and proceed to snap, crackle, and pop it with zero concern for the auditory peace of the folks in my vicinity.

Yes, I have mostly impeccable manners in public places.
Yes, these mostly impeccable manners are greatly compromised when someone offers an apres-dinner chew or when I fish out a stick of gum and a good book for entertainment during my commute.
Yes, some of my companions are shocked, dismayed, and galled upon experiencing the Nerddd snapping on a wad of gum.

No, I can't put my gum-snapping ways to rest. Gum played a significant role in my childhood and I have vivid memories of those days long ago, when a young Nerddd discovered the mysteries of chewing gum. I can pinpoint the moment: I was four or five years old and had spent the day running errands with my father in Manhattan--a day, which was, of itself, fantastic because it was just me and abu. We were heading back home on the PATH during rush hour, comfortably crammed into our seats, when a melodic symphony of pop-pop-pop caught my attention. It was coming from a large African American woman sitting across from us and I was held spellbound. What the woman was doing was the chewing gum equivalent of popping bubblewrap and, at that moment, I knew I wanted to learn how to snap gum.

The problem, however, was that I didn't even know how to blow bubbles with gum. So, that same week, I enlisted my mom's friend, B, to teach me. It must've been summer, though I'm not sure, but we were out on my balcony when she taught me. Pulling up a chair directly across from me, she demonstrated how to manipulate a wad of gum with my tongue until it was flat enough to push out and blow air into. And once I knew that, readers, snapping just as (some would argue) melodically became a habit that I just can't quit.

I'm a gum snapper. I will always be a gum snapper. People on the train will stare at me, annoyed, until my personal soundtrack fades into the background, right along with the sounds of the wheels on the track. My brother will always proclaim that I need to correct this horrible habit of mine. But, rest assured, I will always chew gum. I will always make sure that I catch pockets of air in my gum and I will always snap, snap, snap.

I'm a gum snapper.

OPEN FORUM

The number of comments I usually receive on my blog have been steadily declining ever since I activated Blogger's comments moderation option. To counteract this, I, for this single post, open the floor--as well as my blog--to all reader-commenters (and honestly, I won't have the time to moderate every single comment that comes in today).
Just fyi, kittens.

Here's the topic,

Interracial/interfaith marriages: is love really enough?

Let's get it on (and I don't mean that in a sexy way at all. Ahem)!

CRACK HIPS

Today, my dear readers, I share with you the gift of cracking your misaligned-and-as-a-result-injury-prone-hips back into place. Back in physical therapy, when my physical therapist wasn't myofascially releasing my ass, he'd make me lie on my back with my knees bent and feet flat on the table, and stick his forearm between my knees. I was to squeeze my knees together until we heard a crack (that would be my hips cracking, not his forearms).

Now, I would try to repeat this exercise with one of those smaller stability balls, as my physical therapist instructed, but I just didn't feel like the resultant crack was an effective crack. So, recently, I decided to try something new. I put a 4 kg medicine ball--with which I myofacially release, among many other parts of my body, my ass--on the exercise mat at the gym. I kneeled on the mat, with my knees on either side of the medicine ball, and then proceeded to squeeze. Almost immediately, I heard a series of satisfying little cracks! Like music to my ears, my hip was realigned and all was well. All was well.

So, if you, my friends, are suffering from the blight of misaligned hips, crack them back into place with this little exercise and, trust me, you'll be well on your way to running miles and miles and miles like I do.

NERDDDY LOVE*

Staring into each other's eyes over candlelit vegetarian Korean food

MP: I'm so lucky to have found you.
Nerddd: Are you kidding me? I'm lucky to have found you!
MP: No, no. With you by my side, it is I who has emerged victorious.
Nerddd: Well, I would've probably hurled myself out of a window if I hadn't found you.
MP: I'm luckier. Trust me.
Nerddd: Seriously...out-of-the-window. I'm the lucky one.
MP: Okay, okay. Let's just say that we're both equally lucky to have found one another.
Nerddd: Agreed.
MP: (groaning) I can't believe we've become that couple.

Staring into each other's eyes over Middle Eastern food

MP: I missed you so much since the last time I saw you.
Nerddd: I missed you more!
MP: That's just unlikely, my dear!
Nerddd: I missed you so much more--
MP: No, I missed you more.
Nerddd: I thought about you all day yesterday MP.
MP: I think about you all day, everday. Welcome to my world.
Nerddd: I suspect that anyone who'd have the (mis)fortune of witnessing this exchange would need a barf bag and several insulin shots...that being said, I missed you more.

*Please note that while this isn't an exact transcription of the more sentimental conversations that MP and I have, it certainly captures their essence and makes me sigh excessively.

PHISHING and FLASHING: A Tale of MySpace Identity Theft

My MySpace friends received the following comment from me for approval this past weekend:

OMG YOU GOTTA SEE THE PICS FROM THIS CLUB I WENT TO.. SHE FLASHED HER TITTIESS TO EVERYONE AGAIN AND WE GOT PICS.

Hate to break it to you guys but this comment didn't come from me, a fact that should've been apparent to all of my MySpace friends. Firstly, a club isn't my weekend venue of choice, mainly because of my sensory integration disorder.

Secondly, I'm a chick. Some chick flashing her tittiess at a club isn't a very noteworthy event in my book, mainly because I'm straight but also because, goddamit, I have my own tittiess. I flash myself with my own tittiess every single day. I also see an abundance of tittiess at the gym on a daily basis. So, guess what? I don't care about tittiess. Tittiess interest me about as much as arms and chins do. Trust me. There isn't a titty in the world that would have me scrambling for my phone at a club and forwarding pics of it to my MySpace friends.

So, in closing, if you, my MySpace friend, ever receive a MySpace message from me about clubs and/or tittiess, rest assured that it's merely a phishing imposter pretending to be your Nerddd.

Bizarre and Awesome: Google Searches and Our Nerddd

I'm somewhat surprised--perhaps even a little shocked--that none of my readers who responded to the post below found my blog by doing a random Google search for, say, "dirty Madlibs," "spinsterhood," or "aunty toilet stalls."

Surely, this can't be true...surely?

Speaking of dirty Madlibs, and my place in the vaunted Google search result for dirty Madlibs, I'm happy to report that I've made it, kittens! Revenge of the Nerddd is search result numero uno when one searches for dirty madlibs in quotes! This is a monumental occasion, a couple of years in the making (I've just designated this blog post a no judgement zone, so please keep all opinions to yourself. Ahem). A couple of posers somehow beat me out when the dirty madlibs is without quotes but ask me if I care! Everyone I know knows how to make their searches more effective and that's by putting your search terms in quotes!!!!! BOOYAA, POSERS!

Ahem.

I also happen to be Google search result #310 for "parallel parking (poor souls who think they're actually going to learn anything about driving/parking on my blog, I apologize in advance), #21 on Yahoo for "spinsterhood," (why this makes me proud is a question to be pondered on a different day) and (drum roll please) #4 on Google for "aunty toilet stall" (yeah, I didn't make that one up. I wonder how many pervs have found the blog doing that particular search).

Bizarre but also kind of awesome.

WHO ARE YOU PEOPLE, ANYWAY?

Dear Kittens,

Now that I know the serendipities that eventually led MP to my blog, I turn my attention to you. Yes, you. I was having lunch with a friend yesterday, when she asked me how the hell people find my blog. I explained to her that I actively pimp Nerddd on the baba-jillion networking sites I'm on and that, surely, word of mouth plays a part in blog discoveries. But, who knows? Perhaps some of you found my blog in the same random manner that MP did. Or maybe it was through networking site number 1,000,001.

I don't care how you did it, just tell me so that I can satisfy my own curiousity.

And, seriously, who are you guys, anyway? Introductions would be much appreciated (if you feel comfortable doing that sort of thing).

To the haters out there, rest assured, comment moderation is alive and well.

Yours,
The Nerddd

WHY I LOVE MY FAMILY

I told amma about the recent online harassment I've been getting for dating someone who is neither South Asian nor Muslim and warned her that I'll probably receive criticism from a handful of more conservative relatives when they find out about MP. She squared her shoulders fiercely and declared, "Whoever has something to say can say it to me. Let's see who wants to talk to me about my daughter."

My brothers, on the verge of kicking some anonymous ass, made me swear that I will direct anyone who gives me any shit for being in an interracial relationship to them.

Abu is pleased that MP calls him abu (though it sounds like "a-booo" when he says it, which is adorable) and that I've finally found a genuinely nice guy. My father is old school and would destroy anyone who had anything negative to say about his family.

I am blessed.

I'M STILL ON THE MARKET...

...for effin' galoshes.

It's an effin' rainy morning in effin' New York City.
I nearly effin' fell on my effin' face stepping off the effin' train and onto the effin' platform. Can you even effin' imagine what would've happened to my perpetually effin' busted hip had I taken a spill on the effin' station platform during morning rush hour? It wouldn't have been pretty, my friends. I would've probably just gone home.

But at least I had the lovely umbrella that MP gave me on our first date (look closely at the comments section here to see of which umbrella I speak. He also gifted me with the water bottle. Sigh), and almost as soon as I opened it against the world, I felt better. I could take on any Monday morning the city had to hurl at me, rain drenched or not. So, with my soaking bags pressed against me, my steps a little more tentative than usual, I made my way towards coffee, that sweet nectar of Monday mornings everywhere.

I ordered a small, light with skim milk and two Equals*. And as I gripped onto my sweet savior coffee with one hand and tried to open my sweet savior umbrella with the other, all while carrying a backpack and a handbag, I spilled Monday morning nectar on my coat.

And, as much as I love both, I cursed the effin' umbrella and I cursed the effin' coffee (I also cursed the effin' rain, my effin' bags, my effin' no-traction-in-the-effin'-rain-walking-shoes, my effin' lack of effin' galoshes, and effin' Monday mornings) before managing to open the umbrella and walking to work.

Here's to days that aren't effin' Mondays.

*OMG, this woman next to me ordered a medium coffee with skim milk and 7 effin' Splendas!!! That's like 14 teaspoons of effin' sugar!!! I wanted to shake her a little but to each her own, I suppose.

FUCK!

MODERATE

Enough! I refuse to watch my blog become a soapbox for backward, bigoted, misogynistic louts! I’m going to continue blogging about my relationship with MP, so deal with it. Yes, MP isn’t South Asian (newsflash, he isn't ghora either!) or Muslim but he treats me with more respect than any one of you narrow-minded idiots will ever be able to muster in an entire lifetime, so GET THE HELL OVER IT. If you halfwit cowards can’t deal with my newfound romance but continue to read my blog anyway, that’s really not my problem! If reading about my happiness is causing you such great affliction, STOP READING MY BLOG. Blogs aren't meant to be distressing! Maybe you just weren't meant to read this blog. Sad, I know, but not everyone can be a kitten.

Like I said, I’m going to continue posting about my romance because it’s a damned good love story that unfolded on this blog. However, I AM going to start moderating comments again. Clearly, some of my readers aren’t mature enough to be left unsupervised.

Happy Thanksgiving to my kittens who aren’t bigoted, backward, and misogynistic! The rest of you, just close your eyes and try to hit the back button away from this page before you pop a vessel or get your panties in a twist.

AND THEY MEET

MP came to Jersey City last night. He carried a beautiful flower arrangement from Takashimaya and wore the green sweater I gave him on the occasion of our one month anniversary on Monday. I greeted him outside the restaurant with a nod. My father welcomed him with his classic I-don't-give-a-shit-whether-or-not-you-try-to-impress-me poker face; my mother said hello with her dazzling million-watt smile and her aggressive charm. Even before we sat down, amma presented MP with a handsomely packaged handsome tie, which, I should add, she picked out without any of my assistance.

We sat down. Abu asked MP about his job, his family, the country from which his family hails, as well as the country that he calls home. Amma encouraged him to eat from the breadbasket because "You just got in from work and must be starving." Slowly, my anxiety about the hammer falling--ie, my father asking MP super awkward questions--dissipated. I enjoyed my swordfish steak. I relished in the fact that my MP was slowly winning my father over with his stories and clinching my mother's love for him. He cooks! He's traveled the world! He's a brilliant biologist turned brilliant lawyer! He's making my father laugh! He's making me so happy!

But then my father asked me a question that I didn't expect would become awkward but, oh, it most certainly did.

How did you two meet?

I stumbled over the following words: blog, comments, random, ES, kismet. I might have thrown happenstance into the mix.

MP chalked it up to two words: book recommendation.

And then the awkwardness continued. My father asked the question about faith but MP's answer satisfied him. Abu then threw out the kicker:

What are your plans?

I covered my mouth with my hand and looked away, giggling a little in my anxiousness.

What are your plans? he asked again and said that he was an old fashioned guy, who didn't believe in excessive dating.

MP said if abu was asking whether or not we intend to get married, the answer is yes. Neither of us have a timetable, he explained, but our intentions are of the union-for-life kind.

And that was as far as the grilling went. To be honest with you, I expected more grilling but abu later told me that he didn't think any additional interrogation was necessary because MP won him over so completely from the get-go.

At one point, as MP leaned over the side of the table to reveal the lovely bouquet he'd bought for my lovely parents, my lovely mother nodded vigorously, her lovely eyes as wide as her lovely smile.

Approval was confirmed.

"He's a boy of outstanding character!" amma declared later. Abu seconded that with a less effusive nod and mumble.

"He'll keep you very happy!" amma added and my abu seconded.

"Oh, he seems so kind and just so genuinely nice!" my amma said. Abu nodded earnestly.

He's won them over, our miracle worker. And me, I'm relieved. I'm utterly relieved.

O M G

MP's meeting the parents (that's both amma and abu) for dinner tomorrow night.

How We First Met: Mongolia, Parasailing, Cruise Ships and Broken Showers

Here is my MP's post. Enjoy.

My discovery of the Nerddd's blog was a result of a seemingly random, yet interconnected set of happenstances that involved Mongolia, parasailing, cruise ships and broken showers.

Here is the sequence:

1. In the winter of 2004, after having to completed law school a semester early, I went on a five month around-the-world-pre-bar-trip, including a jaunt along the Trans-Siberian railroad through Mongolia.

2. A few months later, in the summer of 2004, after writing the New York bar, I decided that I would spend some quality time with my sister in Toronto in the interim before beginning my new job in Manhattan.

3. Whilst in Toronto, I attended the house party of my friends P. and L., whereupon, by chance, one of L.'s sister's friends, G, stopped by for about 15 minutes to take a shower (as her shower had broken down just days before). I spoke to her for all of 4-5 minutes, mentioning in passing my travels.

4. Fast forward to summer 2006 - I received a random email from L. (who was interning in New Delhi at the time) asking me whether or not I remembered the chance encounter with her sister's showering friend G, and if so, whether G. could pick my brain for advice on traveling through Mongolia. Apparently, she was in the midst of her own around the world trip, was at the time heading to Mongolia and had remembered our brief five minute conversation. I, of course, obliged.

5. I emailed G. to give her some thoughts, but also sheepishly admitted that as I had traveled to Mongolia in the winter when it was prohibitively cold, I didn't have too much to offer in the way of sightseeing tips. I then suggested that if she happened by any one of China, Tibet, Vietnam, Thailand etc. during her trip, that I could probably be of more use.

6. She wrote back a few weeks later asking for advice on Tibet. I give her a long dissertation, apologized again for not being terribly useful on Mongolia and then randomly asked her how she enjoyed her travels there.

7. During that time, my parents were thinking about going on a cruise and had tasked me with doing some initial research. Originally we were targeting the Caribbean and I was researching shore-excursions/activities and came across parasailing.

8. Almost at the very moment I did a Google search on parasailing, I got an email response back from G. thanking me for the Tibet advice, and letting me know that she had a great time in Mongolia and gave me the link to her blog. She then mentioned that she had found excellent travel advice by doing a search on Blogger for Mongolia. Reading about the direct experiences of others gave her great ideas about her own trips and she suggested that I use that as a resource the next time I was planning a trip. As I had never read a blog before, I followed the link and read through her stories of travels through India, Kashmir, Afghanistan, Russia and Turkey. After reading her blog, given that just minutes before, I had google-searched "parasailing," I spontaneously did a blogger search for "parasailing.”

9. Also by happenstance, the Nerddd had just recently completed the entry "The Nerd and her BFF Parasail" as it happened to be the fourth hit on that list (sorted by date). I had read through the first hit, and didn't think much of it. Before parting from the search page, I randomly clicked on the Nerddd's link, found it delightful, then read through her original set of entries and admired her love of Ken Burns, William Faulkner and ee cummings, among others, and then in an out of character move, spontaneously bookmarked it as a favorite, and the rest is history.

10. As an aside, I have not done a Blogger search since, I have not bookmarked another blog as a favorite since, my family never ended up cruising to the Caribbean and I've never dirty madlibbed either.

So, in brief, the road to my meeting the Nerddd was contingent upon a chance encounter four years ago, an email out of the blue based on my (supposed) knowledge of Mongolia, the temporal intersection of my discovering blogging at the same time my parents were asking for research on cruises and the Nerddd having blogged about parasailing, combined with easy access to a blogger search function which no longer appears to be available.

Kismet, it seems, is alive and well.

HEY MOM, DAD: MEET MP!

To all the naysayers out there who think that MP is a fictitious character on this blog, bugger off, please. Anyone who knows me in real life knows that he's the real deal. Five people who are very dear to me have already met him and most of them wholeheartedly approve (MP and I randomly ran into the fifth dear as he walked his dog on the streets of the West Village last night. It was so gloriously random. I recognized my friend's dog--who's looking super svelte these days, by the way--and blurted out my friend's name! Luckily, it was said friend, who looked a bit shell shocked to see us standing before him. In any case, I don't know whether he was in MP's company long enough to actually give me a thumbs up but we so must discuss later!).

The brothers loved him. My mother already loves him. Since most of the family is on board, we're going to break the news of MP being the real deal to my father (gulp) today. I gulp because MP isn't of South Asian and Muslim heritage. I should give my dad, who happens to be a very intelligent, openminded, and progressive person, the benefit of the doubt but I'm pretty worried. In any case, if all goes well, MP will be sitting down to dinner with the Khan clan next Sunday.

I promise I'll keep you posted, kittens.

HEY MP, MEET THE BROTHERS or T minus 1

That's right folks. MP is meeting my two big brother tomorrow. Gulp.

GUEST BLOGGER

My Dear Kittens,

Let's take a vote.
How would you like it if we had a guest blogger on Revengeofthenerddd.blogspot.com?
How would you like it if the guest blogger was the one and only MP?
How would you like to find out exactly how our (my) MP stumbled upon my blog for the very first time over a year ago (trust me dears, it's a lovely tale of serendipity)?

Let me know.

Yours,
The Nerddd

ps: MP, dear, I know we haven't had a prior discussion about this and I hope you don't mind yet another very public shout out but I think your side of the "how-we-got-together" story could make for a delightfully romantic blog post.

pps: Did I take it a little too far? Because, seriously, I sometimes don't have that internal filter when it comes to blogging. Ahem.

CREDIT CARD CONFUSION

I was recently notified in a letter from my credit card company that I had something like a million airline miles. Unfortunately, they weren't the three trillion I would need for actual airline tickets (lying, scummy bastards!) but seeing that I couldn't roll them over into next year (stingy, cruel bastards), I could "purchase" magazine subscriptions with my points. And so I chose about eight magazines from the selection I was given only to receive yet another note about a week later informing me that one of my magazine choices--Lucky-- was no longer available and that I'd have to choose from one of the following publications:

Black Enterprise
Golf For Women
Out
Teen Vogue
The Advocate

Clearly, my credit card company seems to be under the impression that I'm a black lesbian executive, who plays golf and has a teenage daughter.

Clearly, I need to divorce myself from my credit card company.

If anyone's interested in knowing, I chose to go with Teen Vogue. Ahem.

NIGHTMARES AND MY BF

My nightmare:

We have two hours until the cruise ship departs but my brothers are insisting that I give them more time to play videogames. I stress too much and, really, there's no way the ship's going to leave without us. I stomp my feet and protest a little but finally give in. While waiting for them, I do a mental inventory of everything I've packed away for our seven night cruise and realize with a heavy heart that I haven't packed enough clothes because I've seemingly ballooned to 500 lbs and many of my clothes no longer fit me. I have tons of tent- and table cloth-like parcels of ridiculously patterned fabrics that I'm hoping will cover my girth but I know that these aren't appropriate for the two formal nights on the cruise. Which only means one thing! I must run out to the mall and find something fancy to wear. Suddenly, I find myself lost and wandering in a London supermall (now I don’t know if London even has supermalls but I know instinctively in my dream that I am definitely in London and that I'm lost). In a panic over the very real prospect of a) not finding a dress and b) being late for the cruise, I suddenly have to pee. When I do finallyfind the ladies' room, I become stuck in a toilet stall and nearly break the door as I manage to somehow squeeze out. A plus size girl I know in real life is sitting on a chair by the sink. She says, "I don't know what to tell you. They're gonna have to start making bathrooms for girls our size."

I start to explain to her that I'm not really her size but, luckily, I wake up in my bed, relieved that I'm not going on a cruise and am, instead, spending the day with MP.

My bf:

Later in the day, when I tell MP about my dream, he laughs and says, "Sabila, if you ever find yourself 500 lbs and trapped in a bathroom stall, give me a call. I'll bring the butter and jack you out."

Sigh.

NO SHOW MONDAY

Apologies for not posting today kittens. I was experiencing major technical difficulties. More TK tomorrow but in the meantime, you all should read what my bff Rachel had to say in the below post's comments section about MP. It's rather nice and all true. Sigh.

so i met MP the other night and made the following observations:

1. his knowledge of properly taking a dump in the woods and surviving 17 days without showering is impressive.

2. he can survive 3 cackling women.

3. he can take my ball busting....and give in right back. (always a plus)

4. he kind enough not to be openly terrified of my driving skills. (niiiiice)

5. he's a patient man. (damn bastards at the restaurant kept on making mistakes with is order)

6. most importantly, he was good to our sabila. he continued to hold her hand even though his other hand would've made eating his nachos a bit easier....aaawww.

so, overall, i'd say so far so good. however, my final decision hinges on his karaoke skills.

MP - your NIN skills better rock! i'm expecting a kick ass performance and a faux-hawk. i'll be soooo disappointed otherwise...

rachel

BREAKING NEWS!

MP, the bf, might be able to join the bffs and me for dinner tonight in the JC, NJ! I'm atwitter with joy!

HIVES AND OUR NERDDD

Do you guys remember when I broke into hives during the same weekend that Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released? Even after making an appointment with an allergist, I joked to my friends that the hives must have been a psychosomatic reaction to my being in a state of panic over the whereabouts of my Amazon.com-ordered copy of the book. Of course, after months of allergy testing, which revealed that I was allergic to many things, yes, but nothing that should have caused the breakout that I experienced, I started to suspect that, perhaps, they were caused by stress.

Anyway, fast forward to this week. A friend recently gave me some troubling news--no worries, it's nothing that directly effects me. Afterwards, my heart was aflutter, my head hurt, and, surprise, a couple of hives daintly alighted on my cheek! It would appear, dear readers, that your Nerddd, in addition to having allergies that would make any nerd proud, has a psychosomatic disorder!

Awesome.

AMMA ON DATING

Saturday, 10/20/07, 1 day after my first date with MP:

Nerddd: ...oh, amma, it was all SO lovely...sigh...
Amma: So, when will he propose to you?
Nerddd: AMMA! We've been out once!
Amma: Well, how many more times does he need to go out with you before he proposes?
Nerddd: I'm walking away now.

Sunday, 10/28/07, 1 hour after my second date with MP:

Amma: How did it go?
Nerddd: Oh, amma, he's so LOVELY.
Amma: Did he say anything?
Nerddd: ...um, about what?
Amma: About marriage!
Nerddd: We're not having this conversation.

Tuesday, 10/30/07, 2 days after my second date with MP:

Amma: Wow, look at these beautiful engagement rings in this DeBeers catalog I received in the mail!
Nerddd (reading)
Amma: Sabila...I think you'd like something like this...
Nerddd (still reading)
Amma: Don't you want to think about what kind of ring you want.
Nerddd: AMMA! Two dates! Two dates!
Amma: ...I'm just saying...oooh. Look at that one.

Tuesday, 11/06/07, 3 days after my third date with MP:

Amma: Wouldn't you say meeting him three times is quite enough?
Nerddd: Err, no.
Amma: Fine.
Amma (after a brief pause): Sabila.
Nerddd: Hmm?
Amma: Don't go to his apartment, okay?!
Nerddd: Amma! Can we not talk about this.
Amma: And if it's raining the next time you see him, don't take the umbrella that he bought you.
Nerddd: Well, why not?
Amma: You don't want him to think that you don't own any umbrellas of your own.
Nerddd (A SEETHING SILENCE)

THE CREST GLIDE: OH BABY

Thanks again for the array of comments to my newfound relationship. All of the comments are very heartfelt, albeit--at times--prejudice, ugly, and wholly wrong. But thanks anyway for your genuine interest.

Moving right along, let's discuss something a bit less incendiary: my new dental floss! The Crest Glide website asks its visitors to "Experience the Difference," and, trust you me, I've experienced that difference! The Crest Glide is soft on the gums (the floss I'd been using can probably slice fruits and vegetables), is soft on my fingers (like I said, my old floss slices things; it's practically a weapon), sliding it down to the roots of my teeth isn't an exercise in patience and bravery, and it leaves me with that "just-left-the-dentist's-office" feeling that even a good cleaning at my dentist's office doesn't give me anymore (what can I say? I'm jaded).

Talk abour life-changing meetings! Watch out MP, the Crest Glide and I are definitely forever.

SIGHS

Thanks to the well-wishers and naysayers alike, for the comments made in response to the post below about this Nerddd's unexpected and new romance. I'm still sighing. Frankly, the emotional significance of this most wondrous event is distracting (I can hardly focus on anything) and while I promise a more nerdddy post tomorrow, tonight I leave the floor open to you. So, hi. And, go ahead: questions, concerns, rants, raves, words of wisdom, fyi's, whatever.

DEAR K WHO STUMBLED UPON MY BLOG AND BECAME A LITTLE SMITTEN WITH ME: An Open Letter

Dear K, who stumbled upon my blog and became a little smitten with me:

I appreciate your comment on my post entitled "Sleeplessness, Static, and Sushi: London, Day 2." For those who haven't read the comment, the single-letter-monikered K reveals his like for me and proposes that we meet. The comment is detailed, heartfelt, and flattering and, I appreciate your boldness, K. That being said, MP feels like a keeper and, honestly, I'm not one to date around (hell, I'm not one to date at all!), while dating someone who feels like a keeper in order to make sure that the keeper is actually just that: a keeper. Follow me? As far as I know, MP and I are exclusive (MP? Ahem). Still, my dear K, I think you're pretty darned wonderful and props to you for laying it all out there.

Would you consider being screened for one of my gorgeous, brilliant, and witty female friends?

Let me know.

Yours,
The Nerddd

Dear Halloween

Dear Halloween,

Happy belated you. Ahem. I'm sorry I failed to acknowledge you in my post yesterday. If it makes you feel any better, you aren't the only holiday I forgot to give a shout out to on my blog: I also forgot all about my parents' 37th wedding anniversary on the 30th (the anniversary had a post all to itself last year as well!). It's not you Halloween. Trust me, just like my parents' wedding anniversary remains one of the most significant dates in my history, you remain one of my favorite holidays. It seems, however, that most holidays have now taken a back seat to Manada (well, really, they've taken a backseat to the Manadian B, known previously to my readers as MP), and if I'm in a burning building with you and the Manadian B and I can only save one of you, I'm sorry but I'm going with the Manadian. I mean, you're sweet and all but a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do, right?

I'm hoping you understand and that we remain friends.

Yours,
The Nerddd

OH CANADA

Oh Canada, you great exporter of sweet, thoughtful, bright, kindhearted, and all-around amazing men, I now call you Manada because you, much like that great city of Menver, give all of us single-in-Manhattan-working-women hope. Thank you, Manada. Thank you.

LONDON

Dear all my kittens,

Apologies for being such a neglectful blogger of late. I was fully under London's spell during the past several days. While my first four days in Naked Chef land were spent at the mothership--the CBCs (for those of you who don't know, that's short for Care Bear Cousins) were as gregarious, intelligent, and fun as my colleagues here and I thoroughly enjoyed my time with them--I spent the final two days in London sightseeing with one of my favorite baby cousins. Fine, Amir's 23, towers over me, and laughs at me whenever I declare that I'm his baji (that's Urdu for older sister) but he'll always be a kid in my eyes. Westminster Abbey, London Bridge, the Swiss Re Building, Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, the Tower Bridge, the Tate Modern (and its crack!), we saw as much as the short amount of time I had permitted. Though I was unable to take a ride on the London Eye, I did end up taking about a dozen pics of it, plus the views from the mothership were more impressive than those offered by many other vantage points in the city.

My favorite moment(s) of the trip: it's a tie between riding the carousel with Amir in Covent Garden on Friday night and then spending most of the remaining night talking with him in my hotel room, both of us laughing until our stomachs hurt. I miss you kid!

My favorite English dish: I don't know why English food has a bad reputation throughout the world because I thoroughly enjoyed eating the traditional victuals offered in London. While everything--from the ubiquitous mash to the equally ubiquitous fish and chips, to the many varieties of savory pies--was splendid, my most favorite dish I ate was the previously blogged about treacle tart with clotted cream. My stomach's doing somersaults (these aren't necessarily somersaults of joy, mind you) just thinking about it. My cousin and I had high hopes of enjoying high tea at the swanky Savoy on Saturday, which were shattered by the fact that he was wearing jeans and sneakers. But no worries; our favorite Canadian, upon hearing that I couldn't partake of high tea in London, has asked me to join him for the late afternoon meal at the Ritz Carlton. Yes, he's dreamy.

My favorite London chain: Marks & Spencer. I could spend all day in any one of the shops. When, OH WHEN, will these United States be blessed with their own Marks & Spencer??!

My favorite London store: Fortnum & Mason was a feast for all of the senses. Talk about luxe!

My favorite London market: Burough Market, a food market through which Amir and I wandered on Saturday morning, sampling foods from around London.

My least favorite London moment: announcing that "I'm EVERYWHERE online!" during an intimate corporate dinner on Wednesday night. Yes, this might've also been one of the reasons why I felt unable to blog for the remainder of my stay. The thought of execs Googling me and finding this blog remains shudderingly disconcerting.

Needless to say, the tri-state area felt very uninspiring this morning.

SLEEPLESSNESS, STATIC, AND SUSHI: London, Day 2

It's a little past 8 in the evening and I'm sitting in my hotel room in my pajamas, feeling like a prat for not being out on the town but being too knackered to do much more than eat, blog, make a few phone calls, read, and sleep. I woke up this morning, thinking that it was surely 6AM and being disappointed when I realized that it was actually only 1AM. I ended up lying in bed for another two hours, fretting about being wide awake in the middle of the night, with not a bit of drowsiness to my name, before I finally and rather miraculously fell asleep again, only to wake up what felt like a split second later to my 6:30AM wake up call (I was both relieved and disappointed that the concierge hadn't forgotten about my wake up call like he'd done yesterday. I know, right??!).

It's been bloody parky out here in London these past couple of days--although I rather enjoy parky weather, I unfortunately failed to pack parky weather-appropriate outerwear for this trip--so I decided to wear a pair of black stockings with my mini dress and boots, only to be revisited by the maddeningly irritating spirit of static cling. Naturally, I'd failed to pack the dryer sheets that MP so thoughtfully gave me on Friday, so there I was, my skirt scaling my legs again with a staticky zeal that drove me insane.

I dialled the concierge and asked him if the hotel carried anti-static spray.
Excuse me? he asked.
Anti-static spray, I repeated.
Express checkout? he asked.
No, no, I said, tugging the hem of my skirt away from electrically charged stockings, AN-TI STA-TIC SPRAY. For static cling, you know? STA-TIC CLING.
EX-PRESS CHECK-OUT? he asked again, his voice carrying cautious optimism.
No, not express checkout! Static cling! Static cling! Like what happens when your clothes stick together? Static cling!
I was getting worked up and ready to go downstairs and volunteer myself as living evidence of static cling but he quickly muttered that he didn't understand (he must not wear stockings) and transfered me to a female attendant at the front desk.
Would you happen to have anti-static spray? I asked, sighing.
Express checkout? We do-- she started and I wondered why the bloody prats who bloody worked at this bloody hotel kept on bloody hearing "express check out" each time I bloody said "anti-static spray."
Anti-static spray. Like what you use when your clothes stick together because of static electricity--
Electricity problems?! Now I understand! You should call--
NO, NO! Static! STA-TIC!
Well, sorry, I don't think we have any of that.

I ended up walking to the drugstore next door, where a kindly female employee, who seemed to know a thing or two about static electricity told me that--get this--it had been years since she'd last seen a can of anti-static spray (what are the Brits doing right, is my question) in London but that I should spray the afflicted areas of my clothing with hairspray.

I sprayed my skirt and tights into a firm hold that even a determined gust of wind shouldn't have been able to move. But, alas, the skirt continued to climb the stockings until I, utterly defeated to nylon, stole to the ladies room and did away with them. Though freezing for the remainder of the day, I was relieved. I was relieved.

Finally, don't eat sushi in London. I bought what looked to be lovely rolls at a Japanese takeout place, was asked to pay extra for wasabi, soy sauce, and ginger and discovered while eating my dinner that the Brits seem to enjoy their sushi with the least possible amount of fish and a whole lot of rice.

This city, however, remains charming and I can't wait to explore it this weekend! Woohoo!

I'm exhausted.

COMMUTING, CAMARADERIE, AND CLOTTED CREAM: London Day 1 or a Part 2 to the Post Below

It's been an awfully long day here in London. Two of my American colleagues and I had to fight through the shockingly uncivilized commuting masses in the tube after work today--a journey that was made more difficult by the fact that the District Line was down. We stood on the platform, our eyes filled with the desperation only lost tourists can muster but, like the intrepid New Yorkers that we are, we figured out an alternate route home. After a long, exhausting, frustrating, circuitous journey that's likely bonded us for life, we found ourselves back at our less-than-stellar hotel. It should be noted that my heart, heavy with homesickness, longed for the familiarity (and relative spaciousness) of Manhattan's subway system (the tubes are NARROW. One male commuter became very familiar with my right boob and another with my colleague's butt. One can't help but press into random body parts in the cramped confines of the trains. Plus, no one by the doors likes to move. We almost suffocated a small child because her mother ordered her not to move away from the door as we tried to exit the blasted train and make our way to fresh air) during this journey.

Dinner tonight was a three course meal of buffola mozzarella and tomatoes, grilled swordfish with rocket mashed potatoes and string beans, and a delicious treacle pie with clotted cream. The treacle pie may very well have been one of the most delicious foods I've had in recent memory.

I am so so so grateful for my four other colleagues who have joined me in London. While we didn't know each other very well prior to this program, we've formed a camaraderie in the weeks leading up to our trip. It's comforting to experience a foreign city, which is just different enough to be a bit disorienting and overwhelming, with friends. And, in spite of the horrendous commute home today, our London colleagues are a delightful bunch and I can rather get used to the corporate mothership. London also remains a charming and whimsical city. I believe I should return here on my own to take in some of the lovely sights that surround us.

Well, that's it for now, my darlings. I'm off to sleep as I've got a busy day at work tomorrow! More TK.

Cheerio!
SABILA

LONDON, LONDON, LONDON!

Blogging live from London, kittens. The flight was, thankfully, uneventful, save for a few pockets of heart-stopping turbulence and the fact that as soon as we took off from JFK, a South Asian aunty moved from her middle row seat to sit next to men in the exit row (I was sure that she did so to talk up some single son, nephew, or next door neighbor of hers. This wasn't the case. Phew.). London is absolutely lovely, a great combination of history and modernity. Today is appropriately overcast and I've just returned from a delicious authentic British lunch of butternut squash soup and cabbage cheese (at least that's what I think it's called).

Anyway, must get back to work now. Will talk more later.

THE DATE

I have one word for you: TRANSFORMATIVE!

Actually, I've got some more words for you (ie, a most excellent story about sweet Canadians, nine course meals, umbrellas, bidets, and my nerves going haywire) but I'm way too tired to share at the moment. I promise I'll try to blog about it tomorrow night though.

Love you kittens.

The Nerddd

SHORT ON THE Ts: A Follow-Up

Remember when I mentioned feeling very zen about this date tonight.......?

Yah, well, I'm taking that back. I'm feeling rather sick to my stomach at the moment and these delicious chewable Rolaids aren't helping, people. I imagine this is how I will feel on the plane.

Deep breaths, positive thoughts, right? RIGHT???!!!
I'm freakin' out.
Where the HELL are my BFFs?! EFF!

SHORT ON THE T'S

Greetings from a super busy Nerddd, kittens!

Tonight's the night. Eeeeek, yes, but I'm also starting to feel very zen about this date! Let's hope that my sensory integration disorder decides that it doesn't like sushi and goes out for Italian, instead.

Plus, in less than 45 hours, I'll be boarding a jet plane headed for London. Eeeeek indeed and, in this case, I'm not feeling very zen, kittens. Let's hope (for the sake of the traveler sitting next to me on said flight) that I don't have a total meltdown during take-off. The slightly neurotic-about-flying tendencies love airplane food, apparently. Alas.

"Dating"

Not everyone in Pakistan approves of dating. In this searing expose of how "dates are happened, and one can guess further," hordes of lascivious boys and girls "go in the cabins of net cafes and do the love making" (that internet cafes can be so goddamn sexy is news to me!). And, even more shockingly, boys can purchase "fresh" mobile numbers of girls to indecently assault from "Easy Load Centers" (gasp, though the Easy Load Center might provide some great business opportunities for American entrepreneurs...I'm just saying...).

Obviously, this is my favorite article of all time and the following is my favorite comment in response to this eye-opening report:

Ishtiaq Ali said...
Let me tell you a true experience of mine. I was coming back from work from DHA, and was going back to home in Malir Cantt. As it was dark, and I was getting really hungry I opted to follow a short cut which passed through some lonely plots where there were bushes and shrubs.

As I was passing through it, I heart some weird "sounds", and then a female laughter. First I thought I am about to be taken away by some fairy, and then I thought it might be a demon. As I followed the voices, I found that 3 girls and a boy were lying on the ground and were busy in ****.

I stood there shocked, and suddenly, there was a mayhem, as lots of people from nowhere stormed the area, and they started beating the hell of out four of them. It was quite a scene. Almost nakes girls screaming with terror, boy was uttering abuses, everyone in the crowd was so excited and earger to beat the girls then the boys.

This carried on for 10 minutes, and then people took four of them unconsious to police station.

And it just happeneed three days ago.

Shudder is all I have to say. SHUDDER.

STATIC CLING, YOU BASTARD!

I woke up this morning with a burning desire to wear fishnet stockings with my black dress. Fearing the static cling that's destroyed my life of late, I followed commenter extraordinaire Big Kahuna's advice and, after moisturizing as per usual, I rubbed my legs, the skirt of the dress, and the stockings down with dryer sheets. I spent a good ten minutes attempting to neutralize the static cling and, by the end of the ten minutes, the operation seemed to be a success. So, I packed my black boots in a bag, threw on a jacket, and headed out to work, under the impression that my problems were a thing of the past.

It was once I was out on the street that the problems started. Walking to the station, the skirt of my dress fell prey, once again, to that bastard static cling. The more I walked, the more the skirt stuck to my stockings and climbed up my legs. Carrying two ginormous bags while attempting to pull my skirt from my stockings was challenging to say the least and it became downright impossible to do once I picked up my coffee.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to dive into a secluded corner where I could peel off the goddamn effin' static-charged mofo stockings but, alas (I suspect that some would argue, thankfully), such a corner never showed up. And so I tried to walk and, somehow, I managed to make it to my office, where I, in the heat of my anger and frustration and on the verge of tears, took off my stockings as I bitched to my assistant outside her cube (a moment that was very reminiscent of Halloween 1992, when Roselle and I dressed like rock stars and I was wearing problematic pantyhose. After marching in what felt like the longest Halloween parade of my life, with the crotch of the pantyhose hovering mid-thigh, I put myself out of my misery by pulling the hose off on a street corner on my way home from school. My shocked and outraged mother and best friend, along with a city bus that happened to be pulling into that corner, were witness to my desperate action).

I hate stockings.
I hate static cling.
The end.

WORDS OF WISDOM FROM MY COUSIN

"You'll be surrounded by hot, eligible South Asian British guys on those London tubes, Sabila! I suggest you keep several copies of your biodata in your handbag... stranger things have happened."

No. I beg to differ.
Nothing quite takes that strangeness crown like a chick handing out her biodata during her commute.
Ahem.

THE NERD DATES AND GOES TO LONDON: A Countdown

T minus four days until my amma-sanctioned "hot date," to which I alluded several posts ago. Between you, my vast multitudes of readers (I'm rounding up, naysayers...ahem...), and me, I'm effin' nervous. Let's be honest here, folks: I'm not very skilled at that fine art of courting or at being courted, for that matter. Perhaps there's a book out there that can teach me how not to come across as a complete moron on a first date...? Any pointers would help.

T minus six days until I leave on a jet plane bound for London. Just between my immense audience (ahem) and me, I'm effin' nervous. Let's be honest here, people: I'm not very skilled at that fine art of taking-off without having a nervous breakdown. Perhaps there are drugs out there that can zonk me out for the duration of the six hour flight without making me feel groggy afterwards...? And, by the way, the thought of packing for eight days and then lugging my ginormous suitcase, handbag, and laptop bag from the airport to the hotel is making me wish I had an entourage. Sigh.

EID

HAPPY EID TO ALL MY KITTENS!
If you're not Muslim, I suggest you visit one of your Muslim friends. They're guaranteed to have loads of delicious food and an open door policy for guests on this day!

Me, I'm as uncomfortable as ever in the fancy schmancy native garb! I can't wait to change!

DEAR LINKSYS WIRELESS ROUTER: I Hate You

Dear Linsys Wireless Router:

You're an effin' slacker and I hate you. I should've just coughed up the cash and bought the Apple Airport when I initially bought my G4 two and a half years ago but I was concerned about keeping the purse trings tight after I'd just spent over three grand on the laptop. For the love of Steve Jobs, I work in publishing; I can't go around spending close to $200 on wireless routers! So, yes, I was stuck with you and thought, well, maybe this reasonably priced router will do what it claims to do (that is, wirelessly route me, or whatever--I told you, I work in publishing!).

Alas, you can't even do that, you prig! Do you have any idea how sick and tired I am of disconnecting the ethernet cable-- first from my modem and then from you--and then waiting for a minute before I restart the modem, wait until it's booted, restart your sorry router ass, and then restart the computer. I'm exhausted! You were supposed to have helped me with my connectivity issues but, guess what genius, you've only succeeded in slowing me down. I don't need an effin' tortoise, you effin' tortoise! I demand a hare!

If you act up one more time, God help me, I'm gonna fire your ass and I don't give a rat's ass if it does happen right before the holidays. Give me an excuse to replace you with the Airport...just give me an excuse...

I thought so.

Yours,

The Nerddd

AND HERE I THOUGHT YOU JUST WEREN'T THAT INTO ME!

I was on the verge of developing a complex about my come-hither-ly skills, but, thank Immanuel Kant, it turns out that German men might just be into me, after all! According to this article, the German male expresses his attraction towards a female by staring at her blankly and occasionally discussing geopolitical matters with her but mostly by ignoring her. Read about it here.

Success! We've rescued an entire nation of prospective suitors for me! I like intellectual discussions as much as the next fraulein. I can appreciate subtle, long drawn out courting processes and having the pants bored off me. Bring it on!

I'd love to hear from my German readers about this matter.

This, of course, begs the question: do I have any German readers?

ANTI STATIC MY ASS!

I am at my bloody wit's end, trying to figure out a way to rid my stupid-asshole-idiot tights of goddamn static cling! I've recently purchased three (yes, THREE) different static guard sprays, hoping that one of them will be able to deliver on the bloody promises that all three of them boisterously make.

So, do the sprays work? NO! They're liars, all of them liars or else why would my dress still be fuckin' clinging to every single pair of tights I own! And it's too bloody cold outside to go without tights but that's precisely what I have to do because of outrageously false advertising!

What would Heloise do? Or is she an effin' liar, as well, playing with the fashion dreams of girls everywhere?

THIS MORNING or SMALL MIRACLES

From the minute I wake up, I know this morning’s going to be impossible. I’ve awoken a little after my usual 6:30AM and now, I lay still in bed, listening to the discourteously energetic jingle of my cell phone’s alarm clock as it does what feels like permanent damage to my cabeza. By the time I turn off the alarm, it is already 7; I manage to climb out of bed ten minutes later. I pad out of my bedroom barefoot and wearing my nightie, which—pictured above—was purchased in Rockland, Maine for an exorbitant amount of money.

I shower. I brush my teeth and cleanse and moisturize my face. I change into the first dress I fish out of the closet, blow-dry my hair, and apply blush, lipstick. With that I’m set to face the day, which I first do by closing my eyes during my commute and willing it to be Friday. Alas, I know it’s still Monday morning when I open my eyes so I settle for facing the day by reading Brian Hall’s I SHOULD BE EXTREMELY HAPPY IN YOUR COMPANY.

It’s exactly 9AM when I step out of the elevator at work. The receptionist hasn’t arrived yet. She must be having a rough morning too, I think and smile to myself. Letting myself in, I walk to my office, noticing how quiet the corner that my department occupies is. Most of the foreign rights managers are at the Frankfurt Book Fair, after all. At least it’ll be a quiet week. Pushing the door to my office, I’m surprised to see that my assistant isn’t in yet. Her dog wasn’t well last week and I hope she hasn’t had to take him in to the vet again.

I sit down at my desk and start to plug away. Thirty minutes go by. Then an hour.

It’s a little after an hour when I realize that the floor’s still dead quiet. It’s almost as if everyone’s decided to take a personal day on the same d---

HOLY SHIT, IT’S A HOLIDAY AND I’M IN THE OFFICE!

And so I sit there, quite possibly the lone person in the office this morning, laughing. I consider sticking around and being super productive on what will doubtlessly be a quiet morning. Quickly coming to my senses, I grab my bags and scramble out of there, praising the Lord for everyday miracles.

KNOCK ON WOOD

Though it feels like I've been fasting for several years now (in actuality, it's only been twenty some odd days), things are, for the most part, on the up and up. I'm currently crushing on a charming, brainy (read: nerdddy. sigh), and handsome young lad, who finds me adorable--neuroses, bum hip, recent chubbiness resulting from the bum hip and all. While the thought of putting my notoriously bad dating skills back to use is a bit terrifying (I've recently discovered that there are rules to dating. Men, apparent slaves to their hunter-gatherer days, find the chase more thrilling than the catch. Women must, therefore, play hard to get. Showing any eagerness or interest in an object of affection is a no-no. Yes, readers, I'm SCREWED), I think that this guy might just be worth the risk of potentially making a jackass of myself.

Speaking of the bum hip, it took a turn for the worse last week but has been on the mend ever since, thanks to my vigilant icing, heating, stretching, myofacial releasing, and praying. I do believe that I'll be back to normal in no time.

Finally, my super fabulous London trip is almost upon us. Yes, I remain terrified of the flight and, in all honesty, a bit apprehensive about traditional British cuisine, but visions of the British Museum, the National Gallery, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, the London Eye, and the Tate Modern are getting me through the fear!

This promises to be an eventful month, kittens.

I CARE FOR...

.....crushes.

Yeah, yeah, I know I'm a grown woman and should be able to maintain my poise in the company of a boy I fancy but I can't help it, really. I mean, even The Secret Language of Birthdays book claims that all Pisces born on March 14th idolize their objects of affection. I'm sure this is ultimately detrimental to my love life, but what can I do? I'm a slave to the date of my birth. It's out of my hands.

Plus, I've been told that dating / dealing-with-crushes poise is mastered during ages 15-22. Clearly, I've missed that window of opportunity (I wasn't dating very much back then...hell I'm not dating very much now...ahem). So, this is what you're left with people. Love it or snicker at me behind my virtual back. I can deal with it...well, for the most part, anyway.

SOOOOOO.........

......it seems that I might have busted my hamstring again today (additionally, I don't seem to have complete feeling in two toes...I wonder if that has anything to do with the busted hamstring and the always busted hip).

Thank goodness I don't have a hot date on the 19th because if I did have a hot date on the 19th not only would I be bespectacled (and still a bit red in the allergy eyes) but I'd also be horribly bloated (remember, I haven't worked out in eons), gimpy (seems like it's going to be quite some time before I'll be able to work out again) and a bit crazy (owing to the allergies, the busted leg, and the bloat).

Phew. I am so glad that I haven't met anyone who wants to take me out on the 19th!

DILATED PUPILS AGAIN

So, I visited opthamologist no. 2 today, who ended up not being the hotty optho that my mother was hoping I'd end up seeing but some little pregnant lady, instead. She confirmed what my allergist and I knew all along: my eyes are experiencing major allergic reactions. The underside of my eyelids have broken out into tiny little bumps, which are irritating and scratching up my corneas every time I blink. I'm to stay away from contact lenses for at least a month, during which time I'll be on two different prescription eye drops plus fake tears to help lubricate the balls.

Hypothetically speaking, let's say I have a hot date in another couple of weeks, right? This raises the very real possibility that I might be bespectacled during this potentially hot, hypothetical date. Glasses are WAY more attractive than red, watery, photo-sensitive eyes, yes but, still, I'd prefer not to wear glasses on a date. If I happened to have a date, of course. Which I don't...because I'm perpetually single and not very dating adept.

Ahem.

DEAR SABILA: An Open Letter to Myself

Dear Sabila:

The surest way to scare off an obviously learned and self-possessed man, who is vaguely interested in you, is by

1) dissolving into slightly hysterical and extremely screechy giggles that are more befitting a teenage chimpanzee than a grown ass woman;
2) blushing so furiously as you giggle that that you feel lightheaded and flush and are reduced to futilely fanning your tomato-colored face with your hand and, ultimately, left with a pounding headache; and, finally,
3) admitting to the man that you’re blushing, hysterical and lightheaded because you’re nervous as hell that you’ve revealed all of your neuroses to him in the first shot.

You might want to start by practicing restraint and speaking at a pitch that is below the threshold of pain and discomfort.

Super! Good luck in the future!

Yours,
The Nerddd

ps: You're a dork. Thanks!

HOW NERDDDY ARE YOU? and other thoughts

Per regular commenter and friend Big Kahuna's urging, I recently took the How Nerdy Are You Test. My result:




I'm so curious to find out how my favorite commenters will score on the quiz!

In other news, while cleaning out a closet, I found myself with one of those Magic 8 balls that were all the rage in the '90s in hand. Of course, I decided to give it a shake. The results were, to say the very least, disenchanting. If the bloody stupid ball has its way, my future holds the following pitiful layers of pitifulness (there are a couple of stars here but, alas, the more pitiable perdictions totally eclipse them):

Outlook's not so good on my being independently wealthy and owning luxurious real estate around the world;

the ball's sources say no, I will not be a spinster;

but it also says that I'm most likely to be single for another decade;

and that I may rely on my being incredibly lonely for a very long time;

I shouldn't count on ever having kids;

but it is certain that I will win the MegaMillions lottery (this prediction made my mother, the only person I know who regularly plays the lotto, very happy and now she's trying to convince me to play this week's draw);

it is very doubtful that I will have a good time on the 19th (dear you-know-who...obviously, this magic 8 ball business is a crock of shite);

as far as having a tremendously great time in London, according to the blasted ball, it is decidedly so.

I trashed the stupidly idiotic magic 8 ball.
I need sleep.

Ciao kittens.

4:36 AM

'Tis a very strange and lovely time to eat, pray, and reflect and although the 15th day of Ramadan always ends up feeling more like day 1,356,889 of Ramadan, the thought that the month is close to wrapping up makes me sad.

MUST SEE TELEVISION

So, I’m super excited about Thursday night television, right? ABC might be my answer to shutting that portal of suckage, albeit temporarily, swung wide open by Aunty Ass-face last night. Is there any better therapy than a night spent watching the season premieres of Ugly Betty, Grey’s Anatomy, and ER*. Yah, so ER is on NBC, but who cares. I was ready for (mostly--read asterisked note below) excellent television, dammit.

As usual, Ugly Betty delivered campy comedic perfection wrapped around a gooey, heartfelt, and genuine center. I started watching it a half an hour after the show started, so that I could fast forward through the commercials. It was wonderful. I was at peace (long live DVR).

At 9:30, after finishing up with Ugly Betty, I started to watch Grey’s Anatomy. The first hour was fantastic, wrought with trauma—emotional as well as physical—and that great big helping of neuroses that we’ve all come to know and love.

But then, my mother** sat down between Zanadune and me to watch the second half of Grey’s Anatomy. And, boy, did the running commentary start it’s 30-minute dash:

Amma (sighing): That could’ve been you.
Me (distracted, confused): Meredith Grey? I could’ve been Meredith Grey?
Amma (sighing): You could’ve been a surgeon. And you would’ve looked way more beautiful than that woman in scrubs.

Ignoring her, I return to the show and a period of silence between us ensues...

Amma (sighing again, pointing at the screen): Sabila, you would’ve been around surgeons like that all day! All day!
Me (looking from her to the screen and back at her again): Patrick Dempsey and Eric Dane? Hate to break it to you, amma, but not all surgeons are quite as hot as Hollywood actors.
Amma: Trust me, a lot of them are.
Me (under my breath): Yeah, like on the set of a television drama.

I get caught up in the show again until,

Amma: That could’ve been you…you would’ve enjoyed delivering babies, reattaching severed arms…and meeting such nice, eligible surgeons for marriage!
Me: Amma, T.R. Knight is gay.
Amma: REALLY? Huh.

And after another while…

Amma: Are you just saying that?
Me: No Amma, he came out of the closet last year. Can we watch the show now? Please?

This went on, back and forth, from scene to scene. And then we get to Shepard and Meredith, finally "talking" about their relationship status in that sex closet, or whatever the hell it is, of theirs (doesn’t everyone at Seattle Grace have sex in that closet?).
So, they’re not having sex as of yet, and my mom is going on and on.

Amma: Just imagine it Sabila. Imagine yourself there, where that woman doctor is. That’s where you would’ve been, having these important discussions with this very handsome male doctor.
Me (sighing, whining): Amaaaaa. I’m not a surgeon. Life isn’t Grey’s Anatomy. If it was, I would’ve ended up sleeping with every other surgeon on the show and I don’t think you would’ve liked that very much.
Amma (totally ignoring me now): Just imagine though. That would’ve been you—
(except now, Derek and Meredith are going at it, just like they always end up going at it in that sex closet)
Amma:…you would’ve met a handsome doctor like that, married him, and then this (pointing to the television) would’ve been fine. We would’ve let this happen.

I have to give it to my mother. She didn’t miss a beat when the sex scene interrupted her nice, halal reveries of what it would’ve been like had I been a surgeon on ABC’s Grey’s Anatomy. And, in spite of not being able to give the wondrous second half of the third season’s premiere my undivided attention, I was practically falling off the sofa, laughing.

Then, as Ellen Pompeo’s voice over tied the episode together, and Izzy, eating ice cream went to answer the door to find George on the other side, my stupid DVR recording ended! THAT’S when the portal of suckage reopened, reader. And it sucked! Anyone care to tell me what happened next?

*Yes, I’m still on that sinking ER ship but I swear to goodness I have one big toe in the ocean, meaning I realize the NBC melodrama jumped the shark, like six seasons ago but rest assured that my level of commitment is limited to DVR’ing the show and then fast forwarding with an always fast-diminishing hope that they’ll come up with something that I want to watch.

**For the record, I realize the tone of this post has been super melodramatic an annoyed but just know that my mother is a comedian at heart; truly she is. She isn't serious about half of the things she says. I couldn’t keep a straight face even as Izzy was working to save that poor nearly road-killed deer.
.

DEAR FAMILY FRIEND: I Hate You...

Dear Friend of the Family, who said hello by way of lamenting for long and torturous minutes about how much weight I've gained since the last time we met (all in the spirit of Ramadan, I'm sure):

I hate you.
A lot.
I happen to hate you so much that I hope you're reading this blog right now so that you know exactly how much I hate you.

Thanks for opening the portal to suckage on a day that was turning out to be unexceptional but swell.

I'd love to wish a pox on you, lady, but seeing that it's Ramadan and I'm trying very hard to refrain from cuss words and ill will, I'll just pray that someone introduces you to these interesting concepts called "minding your own business" and "minding your manners." They're all the rage. You might want to look into them, maybe take a couple of classes.

In the meantime, I'll focus on healing my body before I can whip it back into shape.

I'm glad we understand each other.

Yours,
The Nerddd

ALLERGY EYES: The New Sexy

So, my allergy eyes are so bad these days that I might need to start using steroid allergy drops!
"But, but, my eyes are my best feature!" I pleaded with my allergist over the phone yesterday. "I can't subject them to 'roids."
"You're shit out of luck, Nerddd," she replied.

Okay, I didn't say anything about the loveliness of my currently photo sensitive and watery eyes.
And she is anything but flippant.
But I am seeing my father's opthamologist on Monday, kittens. Yes, the very same opthamologist who my mother was trying to convince me to see several weeks ago (only some of you know about this story) and the following conversation with my mother did take place:

"But I've already had a comprehensive eye exam! Like last weekend, amma!" I told her.
"And, so you'll have another. Just say no to the pupil dilation drops!"
"Ugh!"
"Sabila, I think he's single! And he's half Pakistani and very cute!"
"UGH!"

And now I must see him.
I hate my sexy eyes.

SPINSTERHOOD

Both of my brothers have settled into significant other-hood with their lovely significant others.

The frequency of my parents noting "Wouldn't-it-have-been-nice-if-Sabila-also-had-someone-to-invite-to-dinner/brunch/whatever" has, as a result, increased tremendously.

I often wonder why the hell I'm still single. The answer is, of course, pretty obvious: I have none of the fortitude necessary to survive the emotional rigors of the dating world and so I choose being a non-contender over having my heart broken.

Surely, this is a curse that's doomed me to a life of spinsterhood, to be spent in the company of cats and dogs and, of course, the cats and dogs will make my allergy eyes rain down a constant deluge of tears.

What a depressing and wussy choice, indeed.

Contrary to the overwhelmingly despondent tone of this post, my readers should know that I had a most lovely day today! Just wanted to throw that out there!

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: Oh Yah, It's Another One of Those Open Letters

Dear Madlibbin Parasailer:

Hi! How've you been?

It's been quite some time since my readers have heard from you and, honestly, I still have quite a few questions I'd like to ask you before determining if you are, in fact, THE ONE. I hope you don't mind.

So, following are my questions:

1) As you well know, I love animals. I'll stop, drop, and roll in a dress during a work meeting if doing so meant I could save a critter, however large or small (I've been known to save quite a few insects in my time). You are also aware of my awful animal allergies, the medications I live on in order to keep my cat Zanadune, my undying dream of someday adopting two dogs and three cats (I developed a soft spot for cats with special needs during my stint as a volunteer at KittyKind, so I'd be happy to take in the ones that no one else wants), and my vegetarianism.

How do you feel about animals? Did you have pets growing up? Do you have pets now? Do you hope to someday have pets? How do you feel about groups like PETA, the ASPCA, and the WWF?

Please, don't let my position on the issues of animal rights influence your answer.

I look forward to hearing from you dear sir!

Yours,
The Nerddd

DOES THIS MEAN YOU LIKE ME?

Holy moly. 192 readers have subjected themselves to the third How Well Do You Know Our Nerd quiz. Someone calling himself/herself "Nerdy N" scored a perfect 100 (I doubt my immediate family would score higher than a 50 on this test, yo. It's the most difficult in the series of How Well Do You Know Our Nerd quizzes. So good for you Nerdy N, good for you).

I don't say this enough but I really appreciate having a devoted readership---it may be small-ish but it is mighty.

I'm in a good mood. Sigh.

OH CRAP

I'LL BLOODY BE IN THE BLOODY UK DURING THE WEEK OF THE BLOODY WORLD SERIES!!!!!!
What the EFF*?!!!!!
WHY, OH WHY MUST LONDON BE FREAKIN' 5 HOURS AHEAD OF US! THERE'S NO WAY I CAN STAY UP ALL NIGHT AND EXPECT TO BE A FUNCTIONAL HUMAN BEING THE FOLLOWING MORNING!
I'm too old to learn how to pull all nighters now.
Sigh.
I knew this was too good to be true.

*I'm one week into Ramadan. In addition to abstaining from food and drink during the day all Muslims are to refrain from, really, anything negative, which includes swearing. I try not to swear but every so often, those pesky little bad words slip past my God-fearing lips. Let's take for instance what happened this morning. I was shocked, outraged, and angered at the fact that someone who's as devoted a baseball fan as I am wouldn't realize sooner that I'D BLOODY BE IN THE BLOODY UK DURING THE WEEK OF THE BLOODY WORLD SERIES:

"I'M GOING TO BLOODY BE IN THE BLOODY UK DURING THE BLOODY WORLD SERIES?! FUUUUCK!...wait-shit-I'm-not-supposed-to-curse!"

RESCUE ME: The Plant Edition

My mom rescues plants the same way I rescue animals (read my animal rescue posts here, here, and here...
and here, here, here, and here...ahem):
compulsively. The woman cannot turn her back on a plant in need. She'll often poke her head into the garbage room on our floor to make sure someone hasn't abandoned a potted plant. She'll keep her eyes peeled on the street for discarded planters outside homes. So often, she comes home clutching houseplants thrown out by folks she's deemed negligent in their role as caretakers. A few times, the plants appeared so, well, dead, that I wasn't surprised they'd been chucked in the first place. She clucks her tongue at the carelessness that's caused such a wretched situation and always, always nurses the plants back to life.

Recently, my mother's been obsessed with what appears to be a variety of money plant that's growing at the edge of someone's front yard. She finds herself walking by it almost daily. Having had countless opportunities to examine the haphazardly located and desperate-looking tuft of vegetation, she's determined that the money plant must be rescued! She declared to me that those homeowners have no desire to cultivate the plant and that it will surely perish in the fast-approaching winter. We cased the property on our way back from the local fruit and vegetable market around a month ago and, I must agree, that she's right. Frankly, I don't know why anyone would want such an ugly plant anywhere near their property (or, for that matter, in her living room, as my mom does). A week after we cased the joint, Amma made away with half of the money plant ("I would've taken all of it but I became worried that someone would see me," she explained when I asked her later why she'd left the other half to languish). I'm happy to report that the rescued half has been lovingly restored to an alert and glossy green; it now resides in a lovely terra cotta pot.

My mother, however, is very concerned about the uncared for portion of the plant that remains, wilted, unhappy, and destined to meet a chilly and bitter end. Just today, she approached me, her eyes moist with concern: "I need to grab what's left of the plant, Sabila--," and before she could even finish, I tapped into every bit of rescue reserve I have in me, and said, "Amma, I promise I'll accompany you whenever you're ready to rescue the plant."

We nodded at each other without another word.

LONDON CALLING

Breaking news Kittens!***

I've been selected to spend a week at the corporate mothership next month! Yes, Wills-and-Harry-Land is welcoming your Nerddd with open arms (now, Wills or Harry welcoming her with open arms would be cause for an entirely different sort of celebration...ahem). I've never been to England before. I can't wait to have high tea (or any other sort of tea...plus maybe scones...or a crumpet or two?) on an arty patio overlooking the Thames at the Tate Modern (our very own Madlibbin' Parasailer highly recommends this). I'd also love to be a groundling at the reconstructed Globe theater, visit Jane Austen's house in the English countryside, shop at Harrods, ride a double decker and the tube, watch the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, run around Emily Bronte's romantic moors of northern England, etc, all while I learn stuff at the corporate mothership! Phew.

Crap, it's going to be a very long week.
And, oh crap, the realization that I will be making this trans-Atlantic flight all alone is just starting to sink in. Crap (yep, I said it again).

***well, news actually broke last week but I forgot to tell you then...it's breaking news to you, anyway)!

GLOBAL SWARMING AND THE SINGLE GIRL

My wonderful 27-year-old cousin and his 24-year-old fiance will get hitched in Karachi, Pakistan in June 2008. Yours truly will be a whopping 29 years and 3 months in June 2008. I'm well on my way to developing a complex about being the oldest single chick in the wedding party. These things would have never, ever bothered me before, so why now? I guess because I've never been 28.5-years-old and without a romantic prospect in sight.

According to Rich, we could always fall back on the "I'm-a-childless-spinster-because-I-care-about-the-toll-that-global-
swarming-is-taking-on-the-environment" argument, if we do ever find ourselves single and childless in older age. But if, at 40-something, I continue feeling like I need to be included in this "global swarm," then perhaps adopting from around the globe, a la Angie Jolie, would be the most mutually beneficial way to do it:

"It'll be just like adopting a kitten or puppy, only no allergies (we hope---what if you're allergic to babies? Man, then you really would be eff'ed)!"

I'm totally using the global swarming argument at the June 2008 wedding.

BIODATA: A Follow-Up

My folks guilt-tripped the following biodata out of me.

I'm 28 years old, was born in Tripoli, Libya and moved to Jersey City, New Jersey with the family when I was a wee toddler. I work in the book publishing industry, for ________, and while I spend way too much time reading and selling and fretting, I LOVE my job.
My saving graces are my two older brothers (ages 36 and 34), both of whom I adore. Without them I wouldn't possess the following: a wicked sense of humor, a love of sports--be warned, I am a baseball FANATIC and a long recovering lover of basketball (the Knicks drained me emotionally one time too many)---a passion for working out, and an obsession with movies.
I graduated from NYU with a BA in English Lit (blame the diversion from my plans to be pre-Med on Faulkner and Hemingway, Neruda and Whitman) and have worked for _______ for six years now.
I LOVE animals. I have a cat named Zanadune. I used to volunteer with a cat rescue group in Union Square until I had to face the ugly truth: I'm allergic to cats, dogs and horses. Cruel fate, eh? Each time I pop a Zyrtec or snort Nasonex (for the love of Zanadune), I chip away just a little more at my dream to someday adopt three cats and two dogs.
What I want people to know about me is that I'm a genuine person. What you see is what you get and this is precisely what I expect from the people in my life. My pet peeves include people who put on airs, lack passion and have poor grammar. I have yet to meet the person who possesses this trifecta of peeves but am certain that this individual is the spawn of Satan.

Yes, dear, observant reader, this biodata is indeed (a very slightly updated version of the) "about me" blurb that I've recycled over and over again on countless networking sites. It will have to do.

Rest assured, though: this time, I'm putting my foot down and saying no to family blind dates!