KARMA

So, as April approaches, things are starting to look better (I've upped the positive juju on my part). The hip's healing nicely, the weather's gorgeous, the job's wonderful, the friends are lovely, and the extended family has taken a break from harassing me about my perpetual state of singleness, my biological clock and my biological urges...ahem....WHICH won't last very long. I predict that May will see both sides of the extended family paying very strong interest in my biological urges. You see, there's a wedding in May.......

And I'll leave it at that! The Nerddd needs her beauty sleep for now but promises to blog more about the wedding to end all weddings tomorrow.

DIRTY MADLIBS, GOOGLE, AND THE NERDDD

Just a couple of weeks ago, our little blog was result #3 in a Google search for "dirty madlibs."

Today, Shirley's blog is #2 for the very same search...and all because I left a comment about dirty madlibs on one of her posts. Revenge of the Nerddd doesn't even appear on the first page of results. And to think that I invented dirty madlibs! Oh, the humanity!

UPDATE!!!
I am the top result in a Google blog search for dirty madlibs. I mean, it's no regular Google search but, PHEW, I can save throwing myself into full-length mirrors for a real catastrophe...like when I eat too many cupcakes or can't find the remote control.

MOTRIN AND OTHER MIRACLES

Motrin is magical. The hip wasn't feeling too hot so, per the doctor's orders, I popped three 200 mg pills on a mostly empty stomach and was almost instantly pain free! God bless pharmaceutics! And, don't fret: I won't graduate to Vicodin or OxyContin...well, at least not until the other hip gives out, anyway...ahem...

Instead of going directly to the gym after work, I found myself walking into a nail salon. Now, you know how much I hate getting my nails done. At that moment, however, I didn't care about being productive or meeting deadlines or expectations. I didn't care about the myriad of ways that the universe kicks folks around. I didn't want to feel guilty about allowing myself, for once, to just sit back and be still...and I wanted sparkly nails! So, I asked my manicurist for the sparkliest shade of fun she had and she whipped out something called "La Boheme."

Ironic, I know.

I watched the trannies reclaim the block as my nails were clipped and buffered and painted; a young South Asian woman, who sat with her hands in a nail dryer, a wireless earpiece attached to her ear and an older business manager-lawyer-handler type practically at her feet, announced that she wasn't even "considering offers less than $110/hour"; I realized that the manuscript I'd wanted to read tonight, was still sitting on my desk; and just as the obnoxious woman exited the salon, I heard birds sing above the commotion of the city. It was just for a moment but I smiled.

And then, after spending a wholly unreasonable amount of time with my hands in the dryer, I went to the gym, said to hell with it and ran 7 miles.

Surprise, surprise: the day wasn't so bad, after all.

MARCH 2007

Fuck you March 2007. You and I are done, you bloody heartless tyrant!

MY HIP

I finally managed to see an orthopedist on Thursday. I had high hopes for this guy. Not only did he come highly recommended by an exercise physiologist friend of mine--she has a bum knee--but he also had the second fanciest doctor's office I've seen in my life (no number of plasma televisions will ever beat out the lighted waterfall in my former allergist's office).

I gave him the schpeel on my hip. His people gave me a pair of too-big exam shorts (baggy cut circa-1995) and then had me sit outside the x-ray room, where I hoped to goodness that no one remotely male or remotely good looking would walk by (no one did end up walking by and the lovely, dim, atmospheric lighting was very calming so, to tell you the truth, I thoroughly enjoyed the less than five minute wait, even if I did look ridiculous from the waist down). Before I knew it, I was lying still on the cold, metal slab of an x-ray table, holding my breath as the x-ray tech, who was cut from the same mold as every single x-ray tech I've come across in my life--gravelly, smoker's voice, the straight, brunette haircut painstakingly shaped into a mullet, the pale, sandpapery skin, the heart of gold--took pictures of my hips.

The orthopedist's people then escorted me, still exam-shorted, to an exam room, where I changed back into my jeans only to have the doctor poke his head in and demand that I put the exam shorts back on, which I did. He returned a minute later, announced that my hips were pristine, that I was in excellent shape, and that, he'd tell me to go in for an MRI (apparently not available on the fancy premises) but since I'd already had an MRI when I initially tweaked the hip, that wouldn't be necessary and it was safe to validate the physical therapist's two-year old diagnosis of a hip strain. It would act up every now and then and some days would see worse pain than others but I should continue doing what I'm doing (stretching 45 minutes before every single workout) and I shouldn't be afraid of medicating myself (600 mg of ibuprofen, 3 times a day, when the hip acts up).

Okay, so this is long, drawn-out way of communicating to you, my readers, that the orthopedist told me what I already knew. The fact that he didn't once lay a finger on my hip is another story altogether. I'll save my thoughts on that matter for a post about older male doctors, who have issues touching younger female patients and the resultant increase of misdiagnoses in said younger female patients. I fully trust this doc's diagnosis but a more hands on examination would have,certainly, been more reassuring...also, don't orthopedists specialize in muscles as well as bones, so wasn't this doctor wrong in sending me off to stretch out my problems? Shouldn't he be treating my bum muscle? The reason I went to him was because I wanted answers to why the bum muscle keeps bumming out on me. Am I asking too many questions? Should I go back to physical therapy? But the warmup I'm doing prior to every single workout incorporates all sorts of corrective exercises so is that really necessary? Am I asking too many questions?

Any orthopedists out there care to take a stab at this one?

ONE FUNERAL AND SEVERAL PROPOSALS

So, my mom calls me the other night and goes on and on about the abundance of rishtas (for those of you who don't know, that's Urdu for proposals) she's been receiving for me and my brother from folks who saw us at the funeral. Yes, at the funeral.

Leave it to Pakistanis to see the matchmaking potential of all occasions.

ON BIRTHDAYS AND BIOLOGICAL URGES

After 28 years of engaging in excessive birthday narcissism, I suppose it was time for cosmic retribution. Yes, the universe smacked some sense into me this time around and, if the way one rings in her 28th year sets the tone for the next 12 months, then I'm in for a long and miserable year.

The final minutes of March 13th found me surrounded by six cousins in a house in Florida. I was lying atop a few blankets that doubled as my bed for the night--there were no less than thirty relatives staying over at my cousin's house and, even though the house is palatial, numbers like that always force folks to take whatever bit of real estate the floors offer. I was going on more than 42 hours without sleep. While most of everyone around me wore dark circles under their eyes, no one had any intention of sleeping. Instead, we were clinging to each other in random conversation, attempting desperately to keep ourselves distracted from the shared grief of having buried my aunt earlier in the day.

The sadness and grief of March 13th quickly took a turn for the bizarre as soon as the clock struck midnight and March 14th ushered in my 28th year, first with a frenzy of text messages from friends and then with my cousins deciding that it was high time someone talked some sense into me about the importance of being married. The lecture took various forms and came in from all different directions but it can be boiled down to the following bulleted points (please note that if you're in a rush and can't read this entire post, go down to the bulleted points that follow the bolded note; you're in for a treat):

*** My problem is that I'm not taking the marriage prospects that my cousins are sending me--perfectly fine, good boys who've NEVER dated or engaged in frivolous conversations with women--seriously enough;
* if I don't become serious about these prospects, my cousins will eventually stop sending them to me. Not only will this leave me shit out of luck but it will confirm my spinster status;
* I rejected my cousin's husband's nephew for NO good reason. I mean, c'mon. He was SO good looking. Who knows what he did but, dude, he was HOT. He wore high-waisted stone-washed jeans for heaven's sake! Plus he lived in Michigan and who doesn't want to live in the MI? Spinsters, probably;
* chemistry is a myth and the common character trait amongst all spinsters is that they spend their lives futilely searching for this chemistry ;
* so what if most of my friends are still single; someday soon they will all be married with kids and they'll no longer have time for me. I will be lonely...and a spinster;
* yah, my job and industry are limited to the tri-state area but there are doctors and lawyers, sick successful career women, who've picked up everything and moved to opposite coasts for their husbands. This goes to prove that not only will I be a spinster, but a spinster without a real career. I'll be a spinster with what may as well amount to an internship;
* I'm overthinking this marriage business. As that wise pundit that is Nike instructs, "Just do it!";
* If I'm scared to take the plunge, I should let my mom pick out a worthy husband for me (to which I shudder and say, I'd rather be a spinster);
* I'm pretty much useless single and serve no greater purpose;
* I should set a goal for myself to be married before my cousin's 16-year-old daughter gets married.

Oh no, your cousin didn't just go there you might be exclaiming, and my reply to you is oh, but she did . Keep on reading;
you're in for a treat from this strange, alternate universe that my otherwise intelligent, educated, and successful relatives occupy:

* No, they're not kidding about telling me to try to get married before a 16-year-old because they have every intention of a) looking for marriage prospects for their kids by the time they're 18 and b) marrying them off by the time they're 21 (at this point, I was shocked and awed into silence);
* They want to ensure that they, the parents, are giving their kids a proper, religious outlet, ie marriage, for satisifying their (ahem) biological urges (ahem) (please don't let them be talking about what I think they're talking about);
* The biological urge is stronger in males than it is in females (they're talking about precisely what I think they're talking about);
* They don't want to have to ever be in a situation where their kids ask them why they can't kiss and date members of the opposite sex the way their friends do;
* Yes, they're talking about marrying their kids off so that said kids can have sex and whether or not these marriages work out in the long run is, ultimately, out of the their hands;
* They shouldn't even be talking to me about bioligical urges, seeing that I'm unmarried (and bound to be unmarried for the rest of my life);
* No, they're not being preposterous…I'm a bloody sad, clearly crazy spinster for insinuating that they are being preposterous.

So, this is how I started 28. This was followed by my tweaking my hip so badly, thanks to sleeping on the floor, that I hobbled around in terrible degrees of pain from airport to bloody airport. Flying in planes so small that they inspired my life to flash before my eyes didn't help much either. Neither did going straight into work, consuming massive amounts of birthday-sanctioned sugar in the unfortunate and misguided hope of calming my nerves, and, finally, crashing after a record almost-68 hours without sleep.

Yah, I'm bitching but, you know what, it's my effin' party and I'll effin' bitch if I bloody damn want to bitch.

Happy birthday to me. Yay (or what-the-hell-ever).

You will be missed.


Gone to the Unseen
by Rumi

At last you have departed and gone to the Unseen.
What marvelous route did you take from this world?

Beating your wings and feathers,
you broke free from this cage.
Rising up to the sky
you attained the world of the soul.
You were a prized falcon trapped by an Old Woman.
Then you heard the drummer's call
and flew beyond space and time.

As a lovesick nightingale, you flew among the owls.
Then came the scent of the rosegarden
and you flew off to meet the Rose.

The wine of this fleeting world
caused your head to ache.
Finally you joined the tavern of Eternity.
Like an arrow, you sped from the bow
and went straight for the bull's eye of bliss.

This phantom world gave you false signs
But you turned from the illusion
and journeyed to the land of truth.

You are now the Sun -
what need have you for a crown?
You have vanished from this world -
what need have you to tie your robe?

I've heard that you can barely see your soul.
But why look at all? -
yours is now the Soul of Souls!

O heart, what a wonderful bird you are.
Seeking divine heights,
Flapping your wings,
you smashed the pointed spears of your enemy.

The flowers flee from Autumn, but not you -
You are the fearless rose
that grows amidst the freezing wind.

Pouring down like the rain of heaven
you fell upon the rooftop of this world.
Then you ran in every direction
and escaped through the drain spout . . .

Now the words are over
and the pain they bring is gone.
Now you have gone to rest
in the arms of the Beloved.

3

I don't have a pic for you at the moment.

Instead, I have this public service announcement for all of my cousins and friends, especially the young, impressionable ones: don't smoke. Smoking kills and is really bad for you. If I ever see you smoking, smell smoke on you, hear rumors of your smoking habit, etc., I swear to all goodness that I'll kung fu your ass in the most terrible of ways. Your ass, among other body parts, will hurt like you've never imagined parts of your body could possibly hurt.

I threaten you with bodily harm because I care about you...and because I figure you'd rather I beat you down than tell your mom. So, there it is. Stop it before I make you stop it.

Well, maybe I'll leave you with a photo anyway.
I just found this photo and I think it's pretty goddamn awesome. I'm at once fashionable and badass here. I mean just look at the killer combination of style (the fabulous color coordination, those adorable tights, the lovely flats!) in that sassy getup and the stern expression I'm wearing on my face. Not only is it an I-will-break-you look but it may very well be taken from that legendary book of badass and specifically from the chapter called I-can-look-this-serious-and-unrelenting-because-I-practice-Brazilian-jijitsu-and-can-grapple-your-ass-into-submission-so-you-better-not-smoke-in-front-of-me-kid-because-I-promise-I'll-go-all-Gracie-on-you-and-you-know-that's-not-good-news.

I'm rambling. It's late. I'm sleepy. I don't know if any of this post made any sense but it made all sorts of sense to me so enjoy and thank you, come again. I love all of you. Yea me!



This is precisely what happens when I consume excessive amounts of sugar.

6

There's nothing quite like a sore hip to remind a girl that she's 6 days away from being 2 years shy of the big 3-0. I really hope I haven't sprained it again.

Plus, I'm tired...very, very, very tired. I think it's time for a vacation.

Or maybe it's just time for this blissful treat.

So, right, since we're still counting down to bday, here's another pic of a younger me. The hand on the hip seems to foreshadow the pains to come (just for the record, it's the right hip that's bum).

7

My fashion star took a suicidal plunge at about the same time my mother began to fancy herself a designer. And while the hours I spent nearly catatonic in front of the television or with a book, exerting only enough energy to twitch a handful of chips into my mouth or to turn a page, might also have contributed to the death of that star, imagine the unmitigated damage done to my reputation when I waltzed into the birthday parties of other children, wearing the following outfit.



No, your eyes aren't playing a cruel trick on you. I'm wearing exactly what you think I'm wearing: a thick, maroon-colored velvet nightmare of a turtleneck jumpsuit with golden piping writhing on my top half and a wide gold sequined elastic belt thrown in for good measure (my mother loved this outfit so much that she designed another jumpsuit made of black velvet and silver sequins). And, yes, you've guessed correctly! Wrap it around your forehead twice and the belt transforms into a fetching headband.

Fashion is, indeed, without limits.

Plus, I'm not going to lie: when I wasn't moritified at the thought of being the most overdressed kid at someone else's party, I didn't half mind wearing way-too-fancy outfits, which also explains why, as an adult, I'm almost always overdressed.

8

Here I am at my sixth birthday party, putting on my best, "You went to all of this trouble for moi?!" look (the hand on the heart drives that sentiment home, doesn't it?) and--at the same time--trying to ignore the two little girls standing to my left (the second girl has been cropped out of the photograph), who
A) aren't really my friends since they always try to pick fights with me and B) can't seem to keep their grubby hands off of my birthday cake, casually licking the frosting from their fingers until one corner of the cake is ugly and bare.

Damn poopyheads.

T MINUS 10 DAYS

A pic in which little girl Sabila isn't posing for the photogs is a rare find, so here I present you with just such a pic. I love the Rainbow Brite nightie I'm wearing and the fact that I, unlike most six-year-olds, am coloring inside the lines is rather remarkable. That's a young Arthur from Disney's animated retelling of The Sword in the Stone I'm giving a blue shirt and red vest, by the way. I bought the coloring book during a trip to North Calorina. Ahh, the good ol' days.

Who would've thought that more than two decades later, this little girl would author a blog that would be the number three result in a Google search for "dirty madlibs," a search that brings at least three visitors to Revengeofthenerddd.blogspot.com every day? Why I'm not number one in this Google search is a different question that we shall save for another day, dear reader. For now, let us think of the Nerd's birthday.

T MINUS 11 DAYS

It's that time of year when we begin the countdown to my birthday. Poised here on the brink of my 28th year, I find myself rather nostalgic. Nostalgia, however, dear reader, is not to be confused with panic, fear, or horror, otherwise known as the trifecta of emotions that have possessed my parents in these days leading up to my birthday. Another partnerless year for me, in their opinions, means that I become that much more entrenched in spinsterhood.

So, while the 'rents are freakin' FREAKING OUT, I'm poring over old albums to remind myself of the kid I used to be. A dear friend has said I'm obsessed with my childhood and has attempted to psychoanalyze the whys of this apparent obsession from me. Yes, I'm fascinated by how I--or anyone else--am shaped by my earliest experiences and, luckily, I'm able to conjure decades-old memories with ease. That being said, I don't think I'm obsessed with the past.

In any case, I thought that for this year's birthday countdown, I could share with you photos of a young Nerd. They won't be posted in any particular order. I'm going to start with the following photo because it epitomizes the hamminess of my earliest years. Plus, I LOVE the dress I'm wearing.

So check it: