BOOKS

I love my mom. In the past, we've seen her become somewhat obsessed with matching me with eligible bachelor-types, reader. And though I know it's still difficult for her to have a single 28-year-old daughter (and unmarried 34 and 36-year-old sons), while everyday, another one of her friends' kids (some barely out of their teens!!!) is getting engaged/married/or popping out a baby, she's backed off. I think she recognized that her sheer determination to get me hitched did nothing but put a strain on our relationship.

Still, she can't help giving me advice about getting a move on it. Just the other day, we were having coffee, talking about something totally unrelated to the pursuits of the heart when, very abruptly, she changed the subject and said:

"You know, you should try reading a book about how to meet boys. There must be books out there about such things, right? Look for them the next time you're at the bookstore because, surely, they must exist."

And then she dropped it.
Just like that.
She threw it out there.
And she dropped it.
And we kept on talking about this other thing.

I love amma.

AN ABUNDANCE OF AUSTEN

In anticipation of Becoming Jane--a flowery, romantic biopic about Jane Austen, which, I hear takes many liberties with historical accuracy (ask me if I care!)--and the film version of that delicious Karen Joy Fowler best-seller, The Jane Austen Book Club, I present to you, my readers, the Jane Austen font.

Now, even you can celebrate one of the greatest literary geniuses in the English language, that acute observer of human character and relationships, whose novels remain timeless, by writing like her.

Sigh.

A BURQINI? WELL, WHY NOT?

This week's issue of Time magazine features a story on the new swimsuit revolution. Move over bikinis, tankinis, even one-pieces: the burqini is expanding the options women have of what to wear to the beach. Created by two Muslim women, the burqini is a burqa-bikini hybrid, a modest, "halal" alternative to clingy and revealing outfits, which have, at one time or another, left many a female--Muslim or not--in a panic before heading to the beach. According to the article, Muslim conservatives aren't the only ones flocking to purchase these full-body, loose fitting wet suits that cover everything except the hands, feet and faces of bathing beauties. The burqini has also found fans in Christian conservatives, senior citizens, and burn victims.

The Time piece also mentions that the burqini creators are getting anti-Muslim flak. The fact that many in the Western world view the burqa (the loose garment, featuring a veil with an opening for the eyes) and the hijab (the head covering worn by some Muslim women) as signs of patriarchal oppression of women in Islam is nothing new. What they fail to recognize, however, is that for many of these women, choosing to dress modestly is a deeply personal choice that is steeped as much in feminism as it is in religious beliefs. The handful of women I know who wear burqas or hijabs, do so to demonstrate their freedom from conformity. For these women, it is the Western world's cultural obsession with unrealistic and unattainable standards of beauty that is exploitive and oppressive. For them, the veil is liberating, it is empowering.

What it all boils down to, folks, is choice. I'm a Muslim woman but I don't think my wearing a one-piece or a tankini to the beach damns me to hell or makes me a slave to fashion. It's a braver girl than I who chooses to wear a bikini or a burqini.

More power to her, whatever her choice might be.

MMA

While Little People, Big World remains my favorite show of the summer (sure, it's in hiatus at the moment, but I've been catching up on missed episodes on TLC, so it's still new for me...I'm seriously on the verge of writing Matt and Amy Roloff a letter, asking them to adopt me), The History Channel's Human Weapon is coming in a close second.

Human Weapon follows mixed martial artist and all-around hottie Justin Chambers and former pro-football player and wrestler Bill Duff as they travel around the world, learning both the history and techniques of various fighting styles--everything from Muay Thai kickboxing to Russian Sambo to Filipino stickfighting. Each epidsode culminates with one of the two hosts facing a master of that style in a bout. Believe it or not, your nerd used to be quite the fan of mixed martial arts back in the '90s--I worshipped at the altar of the Gracies (before I start getting hate comments from Taliban-style commentors, note that I don't mean this literally).

Anyway, the point of this blog is that you folks should surely tune into Human Weapon...well, if you're into that sort of thing, anyway.

ERR, WHAT?

Last night, I dreamt that Matt Roloff, the dad from my new favorite show, Little People, Big World, was teaching me how to drive an RV on the beach. I'm driving pretty damned well, given all the sand and surf, but I keep telling him "Uh, but I have to drive on the highway! There are so many highways in Maine!" and he's ignoring me, telling me to keep driving. Meanwhile, my semi-hottie neighbor is sitting behind us, flirting with me. When he starts tickling me on my neck, I turn around and shout, "CUT IT OUT! I still need to learn how to parallel park!"

But he keeps right at it and suddenly, the three of us are on a highway, with cars zooming by but we're pulled over to the shoulder and Matt's all like, "Okay, parallel park." And semi-cute neighbor has now stopped tickling my neck long enough to enjoy a giant slice of what looks like coconut cake, so he's no help. And I gulp when I see that the orange cones on the side of the highway are set way closer (like Mini Cooper close) than they should be for an RV but I start trying to parallel park anyway and I'm totally in the zone when Matt Roloff tells me, "You're taking too long!" and the cars are still zooming by us on the highway and neighbor is useless, eating his cake in the back, but suddenly leans forward to kiss me on the cheek and then I wake up.

I've been known to have some random-odd dreams in my time, but seriously...

*Update: Rachel and I both agree that if I should be dreaming about any Roloff, it should be Jeremy, the hotty, taller twin.

HIVES!

I broke out into hives on my arms and legs this weekend. I've never had hives before, so it was at once a fascinating and disconcerting experience. Now, while I've been blaming the breakout on the excitement surrounding Harry Potter, which seems to me the most romantic of psychosomatic causes for hives, the likeliest culprit is my new collection of glittery moisturizers purchased from Bath & Body Works, an establishment that I hadn't visited since, geeze, probably high school. However, a flurry of banners announcing a sick, ridiculous sale a couple of weeks ago at the Bath & Body Works at my local mall inspired me to walk out of the store with $150 worth of products at a third of the price, which was very satisfying. I was so thrilled with my deliciously-scented purchases that I ignored the burning sensation the glittery moisturizers caused each and every time I used them.

I supposed I deserve these hives, then. While they're a lot less fierce than they were over the weekend, translucent bumps are still sprinkled over my limbs, a lovely detail which I'm sure my readers appreciate.

I did learn a lesson from this experience though: never again will I stray from Bliss products.

HARRY POTTER

When my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which I’d pre-ordered on Amazon back in February, didn’t arrive first thing Saturday morning, I waited as patiently as the situation allowed.
I chewed an entire pack of gum.
I finally cleaned out my gym bag.
I avoided turning on the television or surfing the web for fear of discovering leaked spoilers.
I made myself a fancy portabella mushroom omelet with finely sliced onions and grated cheese.
I ate the omelet rather robotically and couldn’t tell you what it tasted like.
I flipped through last week’s The New Yorker.
I tried to take a nap.

I got up ten minutes later, finding that I could no longer bear the wait. So, off I went to my local ShopRite, where the books were being sold at the courtesy counter. When I made it back home, I sprinted (yes: sprinted) down the hallway to my apartment. Running in, I stripped out of my dress, threw on my pajamas and, turning my back on the remarkably beautiful Saturday outside, I climbed into bed with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

And I read.

I read this book just as I’d read the six that came before it: voraciously, compulsively, losing complete sense of time and space as the words, the pages, the book, everything, seemed to evaporate and I immediately fell headlong into the magical world of wizards and witches. I had learned a long time ago that any attempts to extract myself from this world for chores and conversations were fuitle. This weekend was all about the book.

So I read.

I read and read and read, taking only short breaks to hydrate or shove a handful of nuts into my mouth.

At times I wanted to slow down and savor this last adventure but this, too, was an exercise in futility—a lesson I’d learned from the book’s predecessors—and so I continued to read like a woman possessed.

I finally finished the book early on Sunday afternoon. My reading, my consumption of this final installment in the Harry Potter series was bittersweet--both utterly satisfying and utterly heartbreaking. Hats off to JK Rowling: not only has she firmly ensconced herself in the library of classic children and fantasy literature, but she allowed me to relive, that moment when I, as a little girl, first discovered the sheer, unadulterated magic of books. And that, my friends, is truly magical.

HARRY POTTER

*8:43AM: Okay, now where the fuck's my book.
*8:46AM: I bloody hate Amazon.
*8:53AM:...fuckin' incapacitated UPS man...I bloody hate UPS.
*8:54AM: (shaking fist to the heavens) It was the biological urge, surely! The urges, they're stronger in men!
*8:56AM: for the love of MERLIN'S BEARD, where the FUCK is my book?
*9:00AM: FUCK!
*9:01AM: Maybe I should go for a run to kill the time!
*9:02AM: But what if the delivery man stops by while I'm on my run?
*9:03AM: Surely, he'll leave the book with the doorman?
*9:04AM: But what if he bloody doesn't?
*9:05AM: What if doorman is a rabid fan and STEALS the book?
*9:06AM: Eff running. I'm waiting for the book.
*9:13AM: I just called downstairs again and, guess the fuck what? NOTHING! EFFFFFFFFFF! I was better off just going to a store bright and early in the morning. I never attend those midnight bookstore parties because I have this fear that some douche at the party will skip to the last few pages and blab the ending to everyone...and get destroyed shortly thereafter but only after spoiling the book for EVERYONE!
*9:14: That's it. If my book isn't delivered within the hour, I'm going to my local B&N! Eff you Amazon. Eff you UPS.
*9:29: Preordering from Amazon? WHAT WAS I THINKING??!!!!!
*9:55: Just called downstairs and my package from Amazon wasn't part of the UPS delivery for the morning. But I shouldn't fret because there will be another delivery today. When? Well any time from now to FUCKIN' 5:00! AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
*9:56: THIS IS RI-FUCKIN-DICULOUS. WHERE'S MY BOOK?
*10:21: I still don't have it. I hate standard shipping. It's an asshole bitch.
*10:27: I've finished an entire pack of Orbit bubblegum. The fingernails are next on the menu (and I don't even bite my nails!)!
*10:28: fuck
*10:40: surely, this is what a drug addict in need of a fix must feel like.
*10:44: I'm taking a nap...
*10:45: ...after I call downstairs again...
*10:46: ...blood HELL! Now I'm fuckin' takin' a fuckin' nap.
*11:17: fuck this shit. I'm going to buy a copy at my local supermarket.
*11:40: I have the book! I'm in my pj's! Talk to you later!

THE WEEKEND!

So, this week has seriously been the longest week of my life. I've been trying to cope but can't help coming up with all sorts of horribly scary scenarios in which Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows does not end up at my door bright and early Saturday morning. I really hope that the UPS man in charge of making the delivery won't be incapacitated by any variety of factors including, but certainly not limited to, 1) the canned heat, 2) the bottled heat, 3) the dope, 4) the sex(y)/the biological urge, 5) nuclear war, 6) sloth, 7) illness, 8) hunger, 9) apathy, 10) a total disregard for my needs, 11) an alien invasion, 12) the apocalypse, etc.

Oh, and I'm watching Spring Awakening tonight with the girls. Shockingly (or not shockingly at all), I just want to get it--the musical, this Friday night--the hell over with. Let it be Saturday morning!

WORDS OF WISDOM FROM MY OTHER BFF

Following is Rachel's response to my recent post about busted pheromones:

Allow me to offer some words of wisdom to you, friend. Instead of pulling up your neckline and covering up when you see some dude ogling at your chest, just sit back and let him look. He might like the boobs enough to want to talk to you.

SID or I NEED PROFESSIONAL HELP

I'm convinced I have some sort of sensory integration disorder.
At least three of my five senses become severely compromised in group settings in unfamiliar* locales. I become taciturn and reserved and my eyes take on this glassy, somewhat drugged hue.
It's spectacularly odd.
I might need professional help.
Oh dear.

*On second thought, the sensory integration disorder kicks in all group settings regardless of the locale.

BREAKING NEWS! The Nerddd Rescues a Pigeon!

I've had so many failed animal rescue attempts in the past that these few and far between successes are blog-worthy, in my opinion.

I found an injured/sick/old pigeon across the street from the PATH station on the way to work this morning and, as per usual, couldn't walk away. I was soon joined by a young woman with as bloody a bleeding heart as mine and together we wrung our hands, watching the pigeon breathe laboriously.

She called her mother while I called information for animal control. We both hung up at around the same time, with her mother suggesting we call animal control and animal control pulling a "We're-currently-closed" on me. We both agreed that one of us should run to the veterinarian's office across the street and ask them for advice.

The girl ran. I stayed by the pigeon and told it to hang in there. Pedestrians walking past us gave me suspicious, sidelong glances. I tried other animal control offices in the city and continued talking to the pigeon while on hold.

The girl came back with a box and a towel.

"If you can get the little guy in the box, we'll take him in," the vet had promised her.

We both cooed to the pigeon as we worked together to put him in the box. The pigeon is now at the vet's office. I'll check in on him (or her) this afternoon.

Another animal saved. Phew.

MY PHEROMONES ARE BROKEN: Love Potion No. 0 or Those Dogs Smile at EVERYONE

The bffs (that’s the wisdom-shelling RR and the fiercely outspoken Rachel) and I met up for dinner on Friday night. After dinner, we made our usual trek to the local Starbucks for our usual caffeinated conversations. During the last quarter or so of dinner and on the way to coffee, we tried to figure out my utter haplessness when it comes to that strange creature, the SEMI- or NON-PLATONIC MALE. The girls weren’t buying my argument, which boiled down to me swearing to all goodness that my pheromones were busted. This segued into a discussion of that giant of cinematic art, Love Potion No. 9, during which I realized that I must be at the mercy of a Love Potion No. 0, by which the SEMI- or NON-PLATONIC MALE, while engaged in that age-old process of wooing, very suddenly loses interest and vanishes. Again, the girls simply weren’t buying it.

As we continued along our way to the café, we happened upon a little dog. Dear reader, what followed was most strange because, rather serendipitously, this little dog was able to demonstrate exactly the basics of Love Potion No.0! It happened as follows.

I was engaged in conversation when, my attention was captured by the small, powder puff white dog—a bichon frise, I suspect. He lay at it’s human father’s feet and, quite literally, smiled at me. He appeared to be a most jovial and friendly little dog.

“Why, the little guy’s smiling at us,” I told the ladies.

As we approached closer, the little dog actually stood up and, with his dark, wet eyes trained on me, he moved towards us. “He MUST want to say hello!” I determined.

The ladies, uninspired by the dog as well as my cooing, kept right on walking—they’re not very fond of animals. I, on the other hand, had already stopped and was in the process of crouching down towards the dog with my right hand out in greeting when it, suddenly startled by me, jumped back and, almost falling over itself, ran and took cover under the bench.

"Oh shit...sorry!" I exclaimed in the direction of the amused dad and scuttled away, perplexed, confused and more than a little hurt.

RR and I clutched on to each other, barely able to stand up straight because we were laughing so hard.

Anyway, though, reader, that's Love Potion No. 0 for you: the inviting smile, that "come hither" behavior and what appears to be genuine interest is followed, inexplicably, by the MALE hightailing it right out of there. It's mucho mysterioso.

A CORRECTION TO MY PREVIOUS POST

So, turns out that instead of celebrating my 500th post below, I was, in fact, celebrating my 502nd post. Ahem.
Well, I'm not one to discriminate. Woohoo 502!

DEAR READERS OF MY BLOG: An Open Letter On the Occasion of My 500th Post or Woohoo!

Dear Readers of My Blog:

I love (the majority of) you. Really, I do.

When I started Revengeofthenerddd in late 2005, I didn’t think that the handful of friends and relatives who knew about my blog would read it, let alone total strangers. 500 posts later, I think it’s safe to say that the majority of my readers are folks who I don’t know in real life. And though my readership is small—anything less than 500 hits per day is the blogosphere equivalent of shaking the contents of one tiny salt packet into the Atlantic—it is dedicated and I’m grateful for that.

I’ve never had lofty goals for this blog. It’s meant to be lighthearted and entertaining, funny and sweet. I hope that it elicits more chuckles than eye rolls, nervous twitches, and/or inexplicable fits of rage. With an ever-growing readership, however, I see it as my duty to tell you that in the event that you start to experience the latter adverse side effects, please immediately desist from reading Revengeofthenerddd. Apparently, this so called life of mine is too extreme for you (between the driving lessons and overbearing relatives and, oh, the rampant vacationing with—shudder—males, it’s enough to make one cyber blush!) and you are entirely too caught up in how and with whom I spend my time. You might want to minimize my suddenly serious—it’s pink, after all—blog on your computer screen and gather yourself before you start to either a) cut yourself or b) leave nasty comments directed at me. Massaging my temples has always done the trick for me. Other techniques that might help you calm down are listed below:

1) lighting candles, 2) sniffing scented oils, 3) listening to Yanni, 4) stuffing your face with ice cream or something with an equal amount of calories, 5) breaking stuff (your computer would be the obvious choice here), 6) kicking stuff (again, your computer), 7) going to your special place

Please remember that if you find yourself under such an extraordinary amount of stress that the only way you can relieve the pressure is by either a) cutting yourself or b) leaving nasty comments directed at me, always, always go with a. I daresay that would be the more effective of the two choices.

Perhaps, you will someday arrive at a place where you will no longer have the need to make disparaging remarks about the character of someone you don’t know. If this doesn’t happen, I thank you in advance for no longer reading my blog. Later!

To the rest of you guys, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading!

Yours truly,

The Nerddd

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

Why is everyone in an uproar about me going on holiday with a boy, anyway? I am 28, after all, as the entire South Asian community keeps reminding me. I've vacationed with friends plenty of times in the past, people. It's not like I'm 12 and running away on a Greyhound bus with my allowance money.

Please, chill the hell out.

And thanks Rach, for that kick ass comment in my "PUSHING ALL THE WRONG BUTTONS" post!

DEAR STRAPPING YOUNG FELLA ON THE TRAIN LAST NIGHT: An Open Letter

Dear Strapping Young Fella on the Train Last Night:

The next time you see a girl struggling for balance while weighed down by three extremely large bags and a medicine ball in a train car that has a busted ac and is filled to what feels like maximum capacity, perhaps--and this is just a suggestion--you might want to offer her your seat instead of spending the duration of the fifteen minute ride staring at her chest, especially if you have plans to mack it to her once you've both arrived at your destination.

Thanks,

The Nerddd

PUSHING ALL THE WRONG BUTTONS: The Nerddd Hangs Up

According to a relative who shall remain unnamed (she asked to remain anonymous; she's weary of my blog, apparently), I'm doing a great disservice to my family, myself, and the WORLD, by not getting hitched and tapping into those fast-curdling eggs. Time is unkind, she tells me and, pretty soon, my looks will fade (I AM 28, after all!), all my friends will be married and I'll be alone. Aging is always accompanied by a rapid evaporation of that pool of eligible bachelors--which, in my case, is already rather shallow (I AM 28, after all!)--and, well, I'm screwed if I waste another minute so I should let my relatives set me up.

Plus, I really shouldn't be blogging about taking holidays with--shudder--boys!

This is where I hang up.

The end. :)

LESSONS LEARNED FROM MY BFF

Nerddd: Hey, so we've decided against taking Amtrak up to Maine. It's a 10 plus hour trip! JetBlue flies up to Portland for dirt cheap prices.

BFF: Maybe I should call Rich and apprise him of the flying-with-Sabila experience.

Nerddd: Oh, but I've totally gotten over crying during take-off and turbulence! That being said, I know I'm going to regret not taking the train the second I step into that plane.

BFF: Well, it's not like your track record with trains is any better.

Period of silence during which Nerddd considers her experience on trains.

BFF: Will you guys rent a car from Portland?

Nerddd: Yeah.

BFF: Will you drive?!

Nerddd: The reason I'm practicing as feverishly as I am is because I want to make sure I can drive on the highways of Maine...there is one problem though.

BFF: What's that?

Nerddd: Rich can't parallel park and, though I learned how to K-turn and parallel park this past Sunday, I've already forgotten how to do both. I can't be trusted to parallel park or K-turn anywhere, let alone in a strange new state.

BFF: First, there's no parallel parking in Maine. I imagine Maine to be a state of parking lots, many, many parking lots. Secondly, if by some stroke of improbable bad luck you do find yourselves and your rental car in dire need of parallel parking, the locals will be more than delighted to help out. I imagine them to be impossibly friendly. Just don't tell them you're Yankees fans. As for K-turning, let's hope Rich knows how. Otherwise, you're both fucked.

DEAR READERS, PLEASE VOTE FOR MY FRIEND BRENDAN: An Open Letter

Dear Readers of Revenge of the Nerddd:

Please vote for my friend Brendan Duffy, who's one of five contestants vying for the hottest-straight- man-in-book-publishing title. Take it from a single girl in the industry: the straight-man-in-publishing is among the rarest species of man. The hot-straight-man-in-publishing, however, verges on the miraculous. Throw non-douchebag into the hot-straight-man-in-publishing mix and you got yourself Brendan Duffy.

Vote for Brendan here!

Thanks and love,

The Nerd

ps: It's too late now. Polls have closed. Thanks anyway.

DRIVING LESSONS: Part Deux

In my quest to become reacquainted with the road, I climbed into a car with Flatulent Mike (hereafter, "FM") for the second time this month.Though FM refrained from farting (he burped, but one time) and I--anticipating my emotional meltdown upon hitting highways, turnpikes, thruways or freeways--brought along my mother for emotional support, the experience was, on the whole, a bad one for several reasons. The first and foremost of these reasons is that I've been rather heavy-harted of late, so everyday things have become trying and annoying. But that's a whole other blog entry.

I'm still feeling wretchedly and would much rather sleep than blog about the never-ending (and eventually dizzying) Kturn-parallel park-Kturn-Kturn-parallel park-Kturn-Kturn circuit I had to endure for what felt like HOURS; or FM's distracting habit of making future appointments on his cell phone while he's "instructing"--he was on the phone for probably 45 minutes of my 1 hour lesson; or how the student who picked us up not only drove like she had a busted inner ear but also, upon discovering that my mother had come along for emotional support, felt compelled to share the following profound words with us:

"If you have skill you have a dollar but no emotional support."

The silence hadn't quite settled in the car before FM decided to impart his own wisdom about emotional support to us:

"If you throw a party, everyone comes. If you have work, no one comes."

He should've just farted and kept his mouth shut.

I didn't end up on any highways, turnpikes, thruways or freeways but I did drop off Ms. driver-savant (I was shocked, SHOCKED to discover that this was her 6th lesson! She's so gonna fail her road test!) at the movies.

Driving fuckin' blows.

ON DRIVING

Thanks, but I'd rather walk.