WHAT HAPPENED IN MAINE: part I

This is what happened in Maine, Part I:

1) RR and I rented a white Chevy Malibu with Florida plates. We christened the Malibu, Barbie. Barbie was a good car.

2) Since I’m an expert reader of maps and a virtuoso turner of radio dials, I designated myself “navigator.” This left RR, an exceptional operator of automobiles-- especially on highways and freeways--in the role of “driver.”

3) I had a brief stint as “driver.” While behind the wheel, I nearly ran over a chipmunk, a close call that severely compromised my confidence in the role of "driver". My cautious driving also seemed to irritate drivers from several different states—NY, MA, NH, to name a few—and Canada (“I’m from FLORIDA, you jerks!” I often cried out to the procession of cars tailing me. "Cut me some slack!"). The cars overtaking me, one by one, gave me enough of a complex to abstain from driving again for the remainder of our holiday.

4) Number of times we parallel parked: 0 (phew—a minor miracle if you ask me, an active decision on our part if you ask RR)

5) RR and I discovered that a) the lighthouses in Rockland are optical illusions—you can walk for hours in their general direction only to discover that they’re just as far as they were two hours ago or, perhaps, b) the older gent at the lighthouse museum who told us that the bloody lighthouse was 1 mile away was a bloody liar and that c) pajamas in Rockland cost $50. RR and I hated Rockland.

6) Rockport confused us. We missed it entirely on our way up Route 1 and, although we found it on our way down, we couldn’t quite understand why a couple of folks as well as our Maine tourism guide called it one of the nicest, most quaint towns along the state’s craggy shores. Like, what? We drove in and drove right out.

7) We fell asleep before 9:45 each night and woke up no later than 6 each morning. It must’ve been the Florida plates rubbing off on us.

8) Number of times we got lost: 3 (twice in car, once on foot)

9) I wore a skirt or a dress and flipflops every single day. Hiking the trail around Jordan Pond, we came upon a family of three little girls. While the oldest and youngest were dressed hike-appropriate, the middle daughter, who was five or six years old, was wearing a denim skirt, a sparkly t-shirt, and flipflops. "I got WATER on my shoes! I DON'T want water on my shoes!" she cried out, trailing behind her family.
I loved that little girl.

10) RR and I spoke in old world Bah Habah accents for a good part of our vacation.

KINK MY PIRIFORMIS

I knew one thing for sure earlier today as my physical therapist attempted to Myofascially release my right piriformis with his fist: I wasn't in Maine anymore. Already in the throes of fierce vacation withdrawal symptoms, the absolute last thing I needed was someone's fist working out the kinks in my ass.

That, however, is exactly what I got.

I know I promised you darlings a full report on the state of Maine but I'm so sleepy that I'm practically typing with my eyes closed. I'm afraid the report will have to wait. And since I've been, once again, sidelined from the gym (effin' effed up piriformis and supertight hamstrings), I'll have plenty of time to blog all about the holiday tomorrow.

In the meantime, whatever happened to Madlibbin'?

MAINE: TRANSFORMATIVE!

I did it.
I hiked in a dress and flip flops, with a tote slung over my shoulder, a ribbon in my hair and a busted hip. The trail, I might add, was rather treacherous. We hiked for two hours.
It was fabulous.

Maine is breathtaking. I'm rather in love with the state and I'm sure Rich concurs.

Next time, I'm packing my hiking boots (and other hiking-appropriate apparel) and I'm roughing it properly (during the day and returning to the amenities of a four diamond hotel at night, of course).

More details about the trip to come tomorrow, sweethearts.

LIVE FROM MAINE

Dear All My Kittens:

I blog to you live from a quaint Bar Harbor internet cafe. After getting lost on the airport grounds for a good half hour yesterday, Rich and I found and stayed on the lovely and picturesque Route 1, which took us through many small towns, including Rockland (hated it, mostly because we got lost in the town's underbelly as we attempted to walk to a lighthouse and were stalked, along the way, by a trucker who thought we were stalking him. Creepy) and Camden (we enjoyed our first meal in Maine here--a lobster roll. Yes, a lobster roll. I'm not ashamed to admit that it was DELICIOUS and I have NO REGRETS).

It was 7PM by the time we arrived in Bar Harbor. We ate soft serve blueberry ice cream cones in the downtown before returning to our hotel and calling it a night at 9PM. Breakfast today was pancakes at a local breakfast restaurant--Rich had blueberry, I had the banana walnut. Now, we find ourselves sitting in this lovely internet cafe, next to an open window from which the Maine breeze wafts in. I'm loving it.

'Til next time.

The Nerddd

AU REVOIR

Au revoir kittens.

I'll be "roughing it" in Maine for the next several days. Now, I hope that this "roughing it" involves lots of air conditioning, eating, destressing, unwinding, and strolling on paved surfaces; I must say, however, that after Google-imaging the land of lobster ice cream, vast forests, and lighthouses, I might just end up "hiking" rather happily, bum leg-hip-bum and everything!

Talk to you guys soon!

Love,
The Nerddd

ps: Don't forget to leave comments that I can read upon my return (...or from the hotel...). Kisses.

pps: Madlibbin' Parasailer, hath thou become bored of this Nerddd?

ppps: You guys should really talk among yourselves in your comments. That would be awesome. Who's brave enough to get start off a conversation?

PERFECT PARALLEL PARKING

According to just about everyone, I can't hike in a skirt and I must take my ratty sneakers along with me to Maine. So, yes, I'm grudgingly packing my Asics up for the trip. But my great assistant, JD, who's spent many summers in Maine, tells me of lovely scenic driving on Mount Desert Island. Perhaps we won't have to hike at all? Unfortunately, the scenic driving is on mountains and, I don't know about Rich, but I've never driven on a highway, let alone a mountain. And to top things off, there's loads of parallel parking everywhere in Bar Harbor, apparently. I've transcribed JD's step-by-step instructions for perfect parallel parking on a Post-It that I hope to goodness I remember to take with me (it also lists the lighthouses, restaurants and towns that we must visit). Apparently, though Mainers are super friendly, they might still give us strange looks and silently judge us if we ask them to parallel park for us because, you know, they are human. But, they will feel sorry for us and do it anyway, which is reassuring.

Oh, and then there's this issue of my effed up right side. The tightness in my right glute has morphed into an electric pain that runs from glute to ankle, which can't be good. I need to visit an orthopedist who does more than tell me to suck it up. Any brilliant orthopedists out there?

Apologies for the foul mood kittens but I feel utterly spent. I'm in pain, I have yet to pack, and the summer hasn't been too kind on my hips (ie, I've been enjoying dessert a little too much), so, yah, foulness is in order.

I'm so ready for the fall.

ps: I suspect that MP, who, I gather from his comments, is something of an outdoorsman, is shocked, outraged, and saddened by my aversion to "roughing it."

Is this the end of MP and the Nerddd???
Will MP ever comment on this blog again???
Will the Nerddd hike and drive up a mountain???
How will our Nerddd parallel park???
And will the Nerddd ever get back to her healthy, not-too-much-dessert ways???

Stay tuned folks.

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: An Open Letter in Which I Finally Answer Your Questions

Dear Madlibbin' Parasailer:

Without further ado, following are your questins and my answers to them.

1. You obviously have an affinity for writing and work in the publishing business. Do you have any aspirations to publish your own work?

Eventually (I'll explain later).

2. Which of your favorite books would you like to see made into a movie and which actors would you cast in the role of the main characters?

I don't think I'd ever wish for a favorite book to be adapted to the big screen.

3. Books aside, what is your favorite work of art?

I couldn't possibly pick just one work of art as my favorite. I haven't been able to choose a single favorite thing of mine--books included--in, like, 18 years (alas, I designated favorites rather arbitrarily during the first ten years of life). So, what I'll do is, choose a few of my favorites artists, writers aside,
I love the Impressionists like Monet, Cassatt, and Renoir; Edward Hopper; though I've never really been taken with modern art, I do love me some Jasper Johns; Rodin; and, who isn't enamored of the Pre-Raphealites, etc, etc, etc.

4. What is your idea of a perfect vacation?

a) a car, a road atlas and the Pacific Coast Highway;
b) a cruise ship, tons of food that's bad for me, and the Caribbean;
c) a spa holiday

5. How do you feel about hockey?

I was all about hockey when I was a kid. Alas, I've outgrown it since.

Your turn to answer the same questions, which I'm sure you'll do much more eloquently than I have here. I plead exhaustion.

Yours,
The Nerddd

DEAR READERS and MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER (sigh): An Open Letter

Dear Readers and Madlibbin' Parasailer (sigh):

I'd like to take this one-day break from dedicating posts to the charmingly cerebral and downright dreamy MP (sigh) in order to ask my dear readers for prayers, reassurances, blessings, best wishes, and snap-out-of-its to combat my irrational fear of flying. As the day of our flight to ME approaches, my trepidations about take off, turbulence, and (gulp) crashing intensify.

And what about my effed up right side? My right glute has been tighter than Jocelyn Wilderstern's face in recent days and, oh my goodness, what if I'm on the verge of throwing out my hip again?! What if I throw out my hip en route to Maine, rendering enjoyment and relaxation impossible, and then the plane crashes on the way back to NY?!!!

Effin hell, that would blow a lot.

Help me out my people. I'm freaking out.

Thanks.

Yours,
The Nerddd

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: Another Open Letter

Dearest Madlibbin‘ Parasailer:

Thanks so much for putting up with this gentle interrogation and my haplessly romantic ways--I feel like I should finally be able to exorcise the romance out of my system now that I'm two years from 30 but I just can't help myself. So, here we are again. I just hope to goodness that you aren't becoming tired of our exchanges because I'm certainly not and neither are my friends. Most of them are loving getting to know you as much as I am. One just emailed me to say that this is the most excitement she's had in months.

In any case, I hope you’re willing to continue our blog exchanges for at least a little while longer.

Without further ado, let’s get to our next set of questions, which are pretty straightforward. Again, you can reveal as much or as little as you please.

1) How do you spend your weekends?
2) How long have you known your best friend?
3) When’s your birthday and what’s your sign?
4) When was the last time you cried?
5) How do you feel about baseball?

I await your response.

Yours,
The Nerddd

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: A Third Open Letter

Dear Madlibbin’ Parasailer:

Getting to know you over my blog is proving to be a most pleasant experience. Your thoughtful and eloquent answers to my first five questions have reaffirmed my fondness of you and I remain rather smitten with your charm, honesty, and intelligence (as do most of my friends).

Now, before I reveal my next set of questions for you, I’ll first answer the questions I asked you in the post below (though not nearly as thorougly and eloquently as you did...I hope you don't hold this against me. It is way past my bedtime, after all):

1)If you could spend one year of perfect, blissful happiness but afterward would remember nothing of the experience, would you do so? If not, why not?
No. I’d much rather continue to evolve and learn from my normal, day-to-day experiences, be they good or bad, than, essentially, lose a year of my life, as brilliant and perfect as it may be.

2)Would you call yourself “emotionally constipated”?
No. I'm afraid I have emotional diarrhea. I believe this scares most males, especially those who are emotionally constipated like you are MP, away. You're not afraid of ardent declarations of affection are you?

3)Ahem. Ahem. While I’d rather not reveal what sorts of lingerie I prefer to wear (Ahem), I will let you know that my friend ES wholeheartedly approves of the boxer-brief, as does one commenter, Nusrat and most American females (Ahem).

Onto our next set of questions:
1) Was it business or pleasure that took you to Bhutan?
2) How many siblings do you have, where do you fall in birth order, and are you close to your family?
3) What would you say is your greatest flaw and what is your biggest regret?
4) ES asks, do you carry a messenger bag to work or an attaché case?
5) From where do you hail and in what part of the nation do you now reside?

As always, I await your answers with bated breath.

Yours,
The Nerddd

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: An(other) Open Letter

Dear Madlibbin' Parasailer:

I must confess that I awaited your response with bated breath. Though I may have shocked my devoted readers into a rare silence (actually, a thank you goes out to Cyberfish for leaving a comment and not making me feel like a freak), I am much relieved that you didn't find my pickup line to be bold or presumptuous. That you find me charming is rather marvelous. I blush. Your comments remain delightful; you know how to please a lady's demure sensibilities and for this, I thank you.

I've decided, dear sir, that I shall ask you five questions at a time. Though I have dozens of questions for you, the last thing I'd want is for you to feel overwhelmed. The first five questions follow in no particular order. Remember, how much or how little you reveal about yourself is entirely your choice. I've been told that not everyone is an exhibitionist* like me.

Onto the questions!

1) If you could spend one year of perfect, blissful happiness but afterward would remember nothing of the experience, would you do so? If not, why not?
2) Would you call yourself "emotionally constipated"?
3) My friend ES asks, do you prefer boxers or briefs?
4) Do you LOVE your job? Why or why not?
5) Finally, gasp, I have inlaws?! Or do you mean you have inlaws?! Gasp!

*dear readers, I don't mean to say that I flash my bits in public. That's gross. I simply mean that I enjoy sharing details of my life with complete strangers on a public, online medium, as I'm doing right here, in this post. This, I understand, might not be true of everyone.
Interestingly enough, I've always seemed to attract exhibitionists. People love flashing me. It's extremely curious and disturbing.

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: An Open Letter

Dear Madlibbin' Parasailer*:

How you doin'?
Ahem.

Yours,
The Nerddd

*Madlibbin' Parasailer is a(n) (in)frequent blog commenter, veiled in a shroud of anonymity, to whom our Nerddd has taken a shine.

This post demonstrates, better than any of her previous posts, our Nerddd's weak game and total cluelessness when it comes to man.

Will the Madlibbin' Parasailer speak?
Will he be turned off by the absurd dramatization of this post?
Will he feel objectified and tell our Nerddd off?

Stay tuned folks!

MAINE APPROACHING

The Maine holiday is upon us and I hope to goodness that none of the excursions Rich and I partake in require 1) sneakers, 2) fanny packs, 3) long pants to ward off Lyme-disease causing ticks, 4) parallel parking, 5) us to take tours of hatcheries, where we will be sujected to seeing mother lobsters and their babies (I'm afraid it's all too emotional for me), 6) me eating lobster meat that is not imitation, 7) an excess of insect-infested nature, 8) sun screen (I'm currently allergic to it and that I'm exposing my skin to deadly UV rays is killing me on the inside--as well on the outside), 9) eating outdoors, or 10) too much exertion.

Oh, and I hope my driving skills kick in when I'm behind the wheel because, truthfully, it's been well over a month since I've practiced.

FANTASTIC BOOKS and EVEN MORE FANTASTIC READERS

I'm compiling a list of books to take with me to Maine at the end of the month. Rich and I plan on doing lots of reading en route to Bar Harbor and in between lobstering, bicycling, hiking, sightseeing and eating. Reading fantastic works of literature by the likes of Junot Diaz and Ron Currie, Jr. has destroyed me so that now, books that aren't close to that level of fantastic, disappoint me terribly.

I don't want to be a disappointed reader, dear reader. So, I, great recommender of books that I am (I'm pretty terrific at recommending books; it's one of the things for which I'm known..."Oh, you're flying to Australia and will have tons of time to read on the plane? Call that Sabila, she's GREAT at recommending just the right book for every occasion!"), now ask you to help me put together this vacation reading list. I'll read anything just as long as it's nothing short of FANTASTIC.

Bring on the recommendations!
Thanks!

STRANGER DANGER! The Nerddd Gets Recognized During Her Commute

Holy shit, it's happened again!

So, I'm reading this week's New Yorker on the train this morning, minding my own business, when, suddenly, out of nowhere, this man, dressed very business causal-like asks,"Excuse me, you're the Nerd, aren't you?" and then laughing,"I mean, Sabila K?" And I say,"Err....." and panicking on the inside, I can't find anything more to say, until, finally, I croak out a "Yes," and a "Do I know you?" because maybe I know him from some real life thing or through a real life person (although I'm positive that I don't).

He laughs again and says,"No, no! I've seen your profile on--" and he names one of the gazillion social networking sites I'm on. "I read your blog. I can't believe I finally ran into you on the train!"

"The city's smaller than you think," I say, and I return to reading my magazine. I turn a little so that I'm not facing him anymore (because this is all a bit odd) and pretend to be totally into the article I'm reading. Then, to prove to him (and my mom) that I'm not stuck up at all (because I'm not), I wave to him before exiting the train.

I think I handled the situation like a pro.

EFFIN' MASS TRANSIT

EFFIN' MASS TRANSIT.

The PATH train line to and from 33rd street is down, man. It's 9AM and I'm still at home, trying to figure out how to get to work.

Plus my tooth hurts.

And my right glute is tight. Like, one-wrong-move-and-you're-fucked tight.

I also feel fat. And ugly. I feel fugly.

To top things off, I have major PMS.

Effin' mass transit.

CATHARTIC EXPLETIVES

I'm having a bad day.

I've been having a bad day for the past eight days, as a matter of fact. These days, every other word out of my mouth is a flowery expletive (oh, the cathartic experience of swearing is rather exquisite!), and I've lumped most everyone into a single incompetent-uncaring-soulless-bastard category. Other peoples' feelings, needless to say, are the least of my concerns at the present time, so it should come as no surprise that the number of folks I snapped at this past weekend alone easily surpassed the number of confirmed allergies I have. For instance, I got into a heated debate with my new neighbor and ended up calling him a foolish and self-centered blowhard. It's all right because he is a foolish, self-centered blowhard. It's also all right because I caved into the guilt that nagged me for the remainder of the day and ended up buying him and his wife a box of welcome-to-the-neighborhood and it-was-probably-not-right-of-me-to-call-you-a-foolish-and-self-centered-blowhard-even-though-you-are-one cookies and cupcakes from Out of the Kitchen.

Yes, reader, this behavior is clearly out of character for me. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I was my usual even-tempered and pleasant self. Now, I've suddenly transformed into this scary person, who enjoys peppering everything she says with fucks, shits, and stupid-fuckin-bitches and sulking and/or crying when she's not eviscerating anyone who gets in her way. What's up with that?

Maybe I'm just tired but that doesn't seem to be a good enough excuse.

But I ramble. I meant to say that I'm exhausted. All of this bitterness is really doing a number on my system and, as a result, I don't feel much like blogging today. Perhaps you can entertain me with your comments, instead? So, I open the floor to you, readers. Go ahead. Say anything.

DILATED PUPILS or PHOTOPHOBIC IN CHINATOWN

I had my first comprehensive eye exam with an opthamologist on Friday. The office was located in the heart of Chinatown. Part of the comprehensive exam involved the doctor dilating my pupils with tropicamide. He assured me that this drug-induced mydriasis wouldn't last longer than four hours. I'd have trouble reading and some sensitivity to light but it wouldn't be terrible. After the examination, I was so relieved that my eyes were healthy and I wouldn't need prosthetics, after all (welcome to the abnormally anxious world of the hypochondriac) that I didn't give the dilated pupils much thought as I joined our favorite commenter, Rachel, for lunch in the area. Rach and I had a good laugh when I had to squint down from under my glasses, senescent-style, in order to read the menu. Over the course of the meal, however, my vision deteriorated even in the relative dimness of the restaurant. I kept on taking off my glasses only to put them back on. Rach asked if I was okay. I said no and I tried to eat, which is hard to do when you're distracted by the thought of making your way back home with less than optimal vision. After pushing my charred salmon steak around in my plate, I rushed off to the cramped bathroom and nearly fell backwards into a stall when I took one look at my freakishly wide pupils and the tiniest slivers of brown iris that struggled against the expansion.

When we finally emerged into the hot, bustling streets of downtown Manhattan, my light-hungry pupils had their fill and I, reduced to a bright blindness was incapacitated. I dodged tourists and merchandise, pungent smells that I could almost touch and taste, while hanging off Rach's arm. I must've looked blind to the throngs that made their way around us as we attempted to find cheap knockoff sunglasses that might ease my pain. Anyone who knows me knows that I don't do sunglasses--I feel like a phony in them--but these desperate times called for $8 aviators, which, even I must admit, looked pretty hot (well, at least from what I could see...which, we've determined, wasn't very much at all).

While the the aviators had reduced the photosensitivity, vision was now greatly compromised by the fact that I had to remove my glasses in order to wear my sunglasses. Suddenly, I found myself shoved into one of my worst nightmares: being dropped off in a teeming metropolis sans contact lenses or glasses. The early afternoon was overwhelming and frightening.

To make a long story short, Rach did see me to the PATH station in a cab and I, even in my myopic and photophobic condition, did manage to stumble and feel my way home, looking hot in the aviators the entire way. It was intense.

The morale of this story: don't ever have your pupils dilated in Chinatown. Also, having someone wait for you in a car with aviators and enough Benadryls to knock you out for several hours might be a good idea. Plus, please keep in mind that if your eyes are as crazy, hypersensitive as are mine, they're likely to remain dilated for well over thirty-six hours, which is fucked up. Finally, you don't look nearly as phony as you think you do in sunglasses, so keep them on. Your eyes will thank you.

HIVES!: A Followup

So, my recent battle with hives prompted me to see an allergist. My last visit with an allergist (which also happened to be my first visit with an allergist) definitely wasn't fun, as my wicked allergiesto cats, dogs and horses (and dust mites) were confirmed. This time around, I just wanted to get rid of the unpleasant hives. What the visit ended up doing, readers, is forever ensconce me in nerd-dom...because, seriously, a nerd who doesn't have over five allergies is not a nerd.

My allergies to cats, dogs, and horses (and dust mites), have now been joined by a severe allergy to mold, a host of spring allergies, and allergies to rats, cockroaches. If one should be allergic to anything, I suppose vermin is it. So is mold. But spring? I'm allergic to spring? This explains all of those lingering colds.

To make matters worse, my allergist suspects that I might have food allergies and chemical allergies (of course I have food and chemical allergies). I was sitting on the examining table, my legs dangling over the edge, my arms an alarming red from the combination of the hives and the skin test that the allergist had administered when she told me about the procedure for chemical allergy testing: she would have to apply two patches to my back, where the patches would remain for two days, during which time I can't get my back wet. It took a second for that information to register and all I could manage in response was: "Oh. Ew." This reaction made the allergist laugh for a good three minutes.

The moral of the story: I'm fucked, yo.

Robbed: The Surreal Follow-up

Sure, some might call me a tad bit dramatic but, dammit, the conditions in the office yesterday demanded that I dive under the desk of a stranger's cube, while on the phone with office services, begging that a certain, suspicious person be removed from the premises.

Just another day at the bird.

DEAR PERSON WHO STOLE $50 FROM MY WALLET: An Open Letter

Dear person who stole $50 from my wallet:

I hate you. You've totally invaded my space and violated me. I don't know if I'm ever going to feel safe in my office again, you ass (yes, readers, this brazen act of thievery was committed in the safety of my office. The said money was in a wallet, in my handbag, which I keep behind my desk, in my office). You have some nerve to waltz into someone's office and rifle through her wallet. What were you going to say had someone interrupted your robbery? What would your excuse be? "Oh, like, I dropped something in Sabila's bag?"

As the Pardoner in "The Pardoner's Tale"--from Geoffery Chaucer's 14th century classic of English literature, The Canterbury Tales --said, Radix malorum est cupiditas. I'll translate from the Latin for you, you ignorant punk: "Greed for wealth (Avarice) is the root of all evil."

Hope things look up for you in the future so that you don't have to resort to thievery.

Thanks for your time!

Yours,
The Nerddd