MEAT

The misery that is proving to be this morning was exacerbated by the following heartbreaking video. Meet your meat.

THIS MORNING...

...I made it official: I hate winter. Yes, it's true. I've held winter in the highest regards for as long as I can remember; you may even say it was my favorite season. This past winter, however, has seen a significant decline in my resistance to the cold--which, may or may not have something to do with my inability to dress in weather-appropriate layers--and, so, I reiterate loud and clear enough for everyone to hear: Enough winter. Enough.

...while buying coffee, I saw a man diligently scraping off layers of buttercream frosting from his cupcake. I bit my lip and fought the urge to tell him that taking the frosting off of his morning cupcake wouldn't change the fact that he was having a cupcake for breakfast.

...even though I was standing within reasonable distance of the door open button, I only made the lamest show of reaching for it as a poor woman, weighed down by bags, ran frantically for the elevator. I had no intentions of opening the door for her, probably because I'm mostly impatient and always in a mad rush. I absolutely don't feel the guilt gnawing away at my innards.

VALENTINE

Now that February is almost upon us and even though I'm firmly ensconced in a relationship, I thought I'd state for the record that I remain steadfastly opposed to that farce of a holiday known as Valentine's Day. The multi-billion dollar card companies will continue to rake in their billions, a majority of the world's population will be left desperately sad and disappointed, and love will, for yet another year, be reduced to red and pink hearts, chocolates, and Hallmark.

Thanks but no thanks.

AHEM and LINKSYS, YOU BASTARD

Okay, I admit that rereading the post below made me vomit in my mouth just a little--which was ill--but, mostly, it made me smile, so I was able to ignore the gross vomiting bit.

In other news, Linksys has finally breathed its last miserable breath. It was a useless, waste of a wireless router while it lived and will certainly be remembered as a two-bit, worthless, and miserable excuse for technology during those rare instances when it is remembered. I highly, highly, highly discourage anyone from wasting their $49.95 on this piece of crap.

I now have to look into buying an Airport, which is what I should've done in the first place seeing that I'm all about Apple.

MP: The Reasons He's Swell

1) He carries my ginormous bag for me whenever we're together;
2) he tells me arrêt (stop in French) whenever I, like the girl that I am, bitch about having put on weight;
3) he serenades me with songs from his punk-Canadian youth;
4) he calls my parents amma and abu;
5) he tells me that mine are the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen;
6) he confessed to having a list of restaurants that he wanted to take me to within our first month together;
7) he thinks I'm beautiful just the way I am;
8) he read my blog for a year before we met;
9) he finds my neuroses charming;
10) he will carry my bag and my coat without complaining while I shop;
11) he will tell me when something I try on in a store looks like ass;
12) he's such an unwaveringly loyal friend to his friends;
13) he finds NYC winters balmy and while I'm shivering in my multiple layers of clothing, he walks alongside me sans gloves, hat, or scarf with his coat unbuttoned;
14) he was a good sport and answered all of my open letter queries when we first met on my blog;
15) when I commented "I think you like me" on our first date, he replied, "Like you? I adore you";
16) he loves literature;
17) he is the best listener I've ever met;
18) he's happy to spend the day with my family;
19) while I'm braindead on anything less than seven hours of sleep or anytime after 11PM, MP's work schedule often demands that he function on three hours of sleep...plus, he's always ready to go out and mingle afterwards...AMAZING!;
20) he's one of the most intelligent people I know yet he's so unassuming about it;
21) I don't think I've ever met anyone as laid back and zen.



more tk

A BLAST FROM THE PAST: 6.5 years ago

It's July 9th, 2001, our Nerddd's first day in the post-college, real world. She's feeling great: psyched and confident. She wants to get this show going but has to get through orientation first and has to force herself to remain seated as the HR person prates on about sexual harassment, vacation days, benefits...you know, the ushe.

When one of her orientation classmates turns to her during a break and asks, "So, hey, what department are you going to be in?" and our Nerddd, her eyes wide and perplexed, replies "I have NO idea."

Dear Women Who Insist on Commuting in Their Heels: An Open Letter

Dear Women Who Insist on Commuting in Their Heels:

I'm sorry but I hate you. I realize it's your prerogative to wear high-ass heels wherever the hell you want to but New Yorkers are walking 10% faster than a decade ago and, honestly, if you can't keep up in your Jimmy Choo knockoffs, then don't bother wearing them on the streets of Manhattan. I don't care how tall or well put together you look as you teeter painfully in front of me. No one gives a crap. What New Yorkers do care about is being stuck on a staircase behind your dumb, vain ass, as the trains we were hoping to catch slowly slip away.

You are self-centered and, clearly, you're also a fool for compromising your entire musculoskeletal health. You've messed with my schedule way too many times, you Imelda-freakin'-Marcos of Gotham. A couple of years ago, I watched one of your spike-heeled sisters tumble on a I-stow-my-lovely-heels-in-my-handbag-and-walk-in-sensible-flats-because-I'm-not-a-wanker lady. Bastards. All of you. Forget terrorists. We should be reporting sightings of you on the subway.

Yes, I also happen to be a I-stow-my-lovely-heels-in-my-handbag-and-walk-in-sensible-flats-because-I'm-not-a-wanker lady. However, I confess that several years ago, I also terrorized Manhattanites with my naivete: I wore all varieties of heels during my commutes. Stilettos, three-inch pumps, those crazy platforms that were all the rage in the early 2000s...you name it, I wore it. I'm telling you this because if I could change, so can you. There is hope, you Carrie Bradshaws. There is hope.

Yours,

The Nerddd

ps: The carrot post below was in no way intended to be pornographic. Now that it has entered that realm of smut, um, well, apologies for offending those of you with delicate sensibilities and you're welcome to my readers who are all viva la pornografia.

GIANT CARROTS!

Forgive me readers for I have sinned. It's been four days since my last blog post.

I'm tired and a bit uninspired so, for the moment, I leave you with GIANT CARROTS. You read right! GIANT CARROTS! Look at the size of these root vegetables.



No, your eyes aren't fooling you! The upside down pic above (upside down because my computer refuses to save changes once I rotate the damned image) is of the GIANT CARROTS I found in China Town. I've propped them next to a can of diet Mountain Dw to give you an idea of how big they are. It's astounding! The carrot to the right (to the left once the damned image is rightside up) stands twelve inches tall, while the carrot to the left (the right, the RIGHT!) towers above the five inch tall can of soda with a height of thirteen inches. THAT'S THIRTEEN INCHES, READERS!

SHOCKING!

Here are the GIANT CARROTS at a different angle:



Look at those circumferences, ladies and gentlemen! Staggering! At 8.5 inches wide, the carrot to the right measures slightly less than the nine inch circumference of the soda bottle. But, get ready for this boys and girls: the carrot to the right matches our soda can inch for inch! AMAZING!

Chinatown: it's where the genetically freakish carrots live.

Awesome!

CRAZY CABBIES

MP and I are standing on a street cornern last night, on the lookout for a cab that will take me to the train that will then take me home. I'm shivering in the cold and a little annoyed that this usually cab-busy corner is desolate. Finally, we spot a cab stopping abruptly across the intersection. A patron steps out. The cab is now available except it's not moving. MP and I both raise our arms in the universal I-need-a-cab sign but this guy is still just parked in the middle of the street as cars honk angrily and go around him.

We wait an entire minute before he moves, only to have him drive right past us, stop, and reverse, his tires screeching. I say goodbye to MP and jump into the cab, which reeks of cigarettes. It smells like the cabbie has rubbed himself down with cigarette ash. I tell him where I want to go and he starts driving, not any more or less erratically than your regular cabbie and I settle in for the eight minute ride.

First sign that my cabbie's crazy: he hits the car door lock button every few seconds. Second sign that my cabbie's crazy: he's mumbling to himself. But, hey, I'm a city girl. I've had my share of encounters with the strung out, the clinically insane, and those Meat Packing District wankers (shudder). Sure, I've never been chauffered around but who hasn't met a strange cabbie in his or her travels in the city, right? So, I stay in the cab and, pretty soon, am introduced to the third sign that my cabbie is crazy: we're driving down the street when, out of nowhere, he swerves and pulls up to the curb. Trying to remain calm, cool, collected, I ask him what he's doing and he says he's letting the other cabs drive past him. I don't see other cabs.

We drive on.

Fourth sign that my cabbie's crazy: he tells me that he doesn't know where I want to go, so I tell him where I want to go again. Half talking to me but mostly mumbling, he says that the location is off the map. I give him a landmark that's across the street from my destination. He starts mumbling about how he visited the landmark two years ago but who knows what the city could've done to said landmark in two years' time. They could have razed it and put up condos in its place, million dollar condos, MILLION DOLLAR CONDOS. But the landmark is the biggest of his kind, he tells me and the voices in his head. New Jersey surely doesn't have such landmarks.

Afraid for my life now and paralyzed by fear as my crazy cabbie starts telling me that he doesn't want to drive into the median--I don't see any medians and take this as the fifth sign that my cabbie's crazy--I call MP and tell him that he should stay on the phone with me. He asks if my cabbie's annoying me and I tell him not exactly. He asks if he's driving erratically and I say, um, a little. He asks if he's crazy and I say yes. MP says that I should get out of the cab and I tell him---frankly, I don't remember what I tell him. In the meantime, my crazy cabbie is still driving erratically, still hitting the door lock buttons obsessively, and still mumbling semi-incoherently, now about the Brooklyn Bridge and the street that I want to go to not being on the map. He throws back a book and a pen to me and tells me to circle the landmark in a book that seems to list these particular landmarks. This is clearly sign six that my cabbie's crazy. I circle the landmark and return the book to him. He starts mumbling again about the street not being on the map anymore. Then, as he's driving, he hits the car door lock button again, half turns around in the driver's seat to hold a map up to me and explain to me that we're no longer on the map. I tell him that we are. He tells me that no, he has to take me to the Brooklyn Bridge.

And that's the seventh and possibly most frightening sign that my cabbie's crazy. I tell him to pull over, that I'd like to get out of the cab. He argues that no, walking to my destination from where we are will take me longer than an hour. I know, for a fact, that it won't take me that long--this is sign eight of his craziness--so I tell him again to pull over. He tells me that he has to take me to the Brooklyn Bridge, that the walk is too long, I shouldn't get off here. I tell him that it's okay, that I'll just take the subway. But there are no trains around here, he says (there are two subway entrances in sight). I demand that he stop the cab. He stops the cab. I throw money at him and he shakes his head like I'm making such a big mistake. I get out of the cab, shaking.

I walk to the train with MP on the phone with me the entire time. I walk down the street, crying, because, dude, my cabbie was crazy.

Of course, in my terror, I totally failed to note down his medallion number so this crazy cabbie is still out there somewhere on the streets of Manhattan. Shudder.

FIBER ONE: A Follow-Up or I Wish I Knew How to Quit You

Dear Fiber One cereal:

I craved you all day yesterday and then all night and, despite what I said in my previous post, I will have you for breakfast this morning. Rest assured, I will never combine you with other cereals in the hopes of shaking things up or making breakfast more exciting. Who needs change? You make healthy delicious and you keep me regular. That's good enough for me. Yes, somedays I wish I knew how to quit you but I'm now beginning to realize that this is a lifelong affair and I'd be lost without you.

Yours,
The Nerddd

ps: Do you think you can convince your people to make me your offical spokesperson or, at least, give me a lifetime supply of you. It only makes sense, seeing that I'm your biggest fan and all. And a lifetime supply would really help this lifelong affair. I'm just saying.

pps: Can I borrow a $10?

FIBER ONE

Okay, so I won't lie. I'm getting kind of sick of Fiber One cereal. I have been eating it almost every morning for close to two years (have I mentioned that I'm a creature of routine?). The thought of eating Fiber One again this morning bothered me so much that I combined one serving of the cereal with half a serving of Cheerios. The result: not earth shattering delicious but just okay.

Now, as much as I'd love to experiment with new breakfast cereals and, perhaps even eventually adopt a brand new breakfast menu, I don't think any other brand out there matches the fiber content in one serving of Fiber One (14 grams in one serving and 28grams in my daily double serving! That's a minor miracle in the food sciences, as far as I'm concerned, folks!). MP happens to be a fan of the Kashi cereals, all varieties of which have way too much sugar and way not enough fiber, as far as I'm concerned. And, have you seen the image on the box of Good Friends? It features two random, old people: a lady who looks like she's just stepped off the set of an 80s sitcom and a Mexican/Native American dude who doesn't inspire me much to eat the cereal.

I get constipated by just looking at the box.

Anyway, any super high fiber (and delicious!) cereal alternatives to Fiber One would be much appreciated.

Taste, I realize should never be a parenthetical.

BAD KIDS

I spent the day at my cousin's house yesterday. He and his wife have four children: two daughters, aged 6 and 4-years-old and twin boys, who will hit the terrible twos next month. As migrainie-inducing as their task sounds, my cousins have been blessed with the loveliest, most sweetest little children in the world. They rarely bother their parents--the boys' most serious transgression is somehow pulling apart the cupboard child safety locks, lugging out pots and pans, while chanting "patheela" (which I've just discovered is Urdu for "cooking pot").

So, there I am. The kids are angelic and I'm having a great time coloring with them (I satisfy all of my pent-up coloring cravings at my cousin's place...I'm attaching a pic of my extaordinary effort of staying within the lines (all I really need to know I learned in kindergarten, after all)).

Enter guests to our little party. Guests have two children: a 6-year-old daughter and a not-yet-5-year old son, who we'll call Satan-spawn. Holy crap, that kid was BAD. And, holy shit, his parents DID NOT discipline him at all. He relished in not only beating up the twins, but then detailing to his mother exactly how he'd hit each of them. He yanked their toys out of their hands and attempted to pull cakes and open bottles of soft drinks off the dining table. During one of these attempts, I held up a stern finger to him and said, "NO. Don't you dare stick your finger in the cake! That's gross," and he started hurling obscenities at me at the top of his lungs ("STUPID, DON'T DARE TALK TO ME!!!! YOU STUPID STUUUUUPID!" hurled out of the mouth of a not-yet-5-year-old sounds like the worst of swear words.

Satan spawn proceeded to kick and punch me.

Yes, I was kicked and then punched in the general thigh region by a not-yet-5-year-old.

Oh, I was pissed off. Squatting down to eye level I asked Satan spawn through gritted teeth if he kicked and punched his mother, told him that he was a bad, bad boy and that he should be ashamed of himself. He just folded his arms across his chest, mustered up a sinister I'm-a-future-delinquent-and-bully-and-will-possibly-be-arrested-for-battery look and skulked away.

It took all of my willpower to restrain myself from giving the mother a lecture on the difference between naughty kids and downright disturbing behavior in kids.

Ugh.

HAIKU: THE RETURN OF INSOMNIA

How I'd love to be
in the arms of Morpheus;
too bad he's a tease.

*see more insomnia-inspired haikus here.

UGH

UGH is the word for today, kittens. Since I haven't had a second to post until just now--and, literally, all I have are a few scattered seconds--I leave you to first ponder and then advise me about which is a better gift (of love, really) for your Nerddd to accept:

1) tickets to the MLB All-Star game at Yankees Stadium this July or
2) super pricey combo of shoes and/or handbags (of my choice, of course)

I've pretty much made up my mind but am curious to hear back from you about which of the two alternatives you think would be better suited for moi.

Gracias.

Yours,
The Nerddd

COMMUTING or DUDE NEEDS TO BRUSH UP ON HIS PICK-UP SKILLS

Random guy: Hey...what are you reading?
Nerddd: The New Yorker.
Random guy: Can I have your number?
Nerddd: Um, no (returns to reading The New Yorker).
Random guy: I have a subscription.
Nerddd: (eyes opposite end of car)
Random guy: We can read it together.
Nerddd: Sorry, that isn't necessary. My boyfriend and I read it aloud to each other every weekend.

(silence)

Random guy: You have beautiful eyes. Are you sure I can't just have your number?
Nerddd: (bolts to the opposite end of the car)

There are three lessons to be learned from this true-life event:

1) the potentially insane man looks pretty damned average;
2) luckily, the potentially insane man makes for a hapless Don Juan;
3) reading favorite selections to your signficant other is probably lovely and I'm sure that MP and I will do so as soon as we start that book club we've been talking about for ages.

AN OPEN LETTER TO MY READERS (assholes and non-assholes alike)

My dear readers:

I started my blog on a whim two and a half years ago. The intended audience was family members and friends, who had always taken a shine to my writing. I had no idea that someday the large majority of my readership would be comprised of strangers but that is what has happened.

Now, I'm grateful for the readers I have (read any one of the comments to my posts and you'll see how impassioned they are) but there's been an increasing amount of truly offensive, hurtful, and insulting comments left by anonymous parties (talk about taking impassioned to a whole other level. Losers), who have taken it upon themselves to criticize the life that I'm leading (the single most active offender(s), by the way, is a reader from Montreal). I'm not sure I want to subject myself to this kind of nonsensical abuse any longer and am contemplating creating a private blog that only my friends and family can access.

I don't know what I'll end up deciding to do but I'm sorry that grown-ass, literate adults choose to spend their time abusing strangers, who intended to do nothing more than entertain. It's a sad shame. Goddamn punks.

Yours,
The Nerddd

THE NERDDD-EBRITY or WAIT, WHA??!

So, on Friday night, as MP and I approach the music club/restaurant/bar where his friend's band is performing, I notice a family--mom, dad, two little girls--sitting at a window table, staring at me. They look so happy to see me (we're talking joyous here, folks) that I look behind myself several times in order to confirm that their joy is, in fact, directed towards me. As we approach closer to the restaurant, the little girls actually start waving at me. Clearly, they're not turned off at all by the quizzical expression on my face. They're beaming. The entire family's beaming!

Of course, MP totally misses this display of unadulterated adoration and I suspect the source of their love for me will have to remain a mystery.

NIGHTMARE!

*Returning from work...

Amma: How was work?
Nerddd (whining): I HAAATE work.
Amma: Why? What happened?
Nerddd (on the verge of tears): It's just so...boring. I was ready to start gnawing on my desk.
Amma: What are you going to do?
Nerddd (covering her face): I don't knooow!
Amma: You shouldn't have quit your job? Why did you quit your job?
Nerddd: I don't know what I was thinking!
Amma: Have they replaced your position yet? Maybe you can interview for it??

Nerddd runs to a calendar, looks at it to find that she quit just before the holiday and muffles a sob of relief.

Nerddd (turning to amma hopefully): I quit right before the holidays amma! They probably aren't going to start interviewing people until the new year, right? I'll have to give my bosses a call!
Amma: I still say you shouldn't have quit in the first place.
Nerddd (wrining her hands): Oh, amma, what if they've replaced me already? What if they've replaced me already?! I have no idea WHAT I was thinking.
Amma: Clearly, you weren't thinking at all.
Nerddd begins to sob: I made a mistake!

Luckily, I wake with a start.
It was only a dream.
And, yes, I'm a dork.

MEETING THE MPs...

The MPs are lovely and, with our first meeting going so well, my frayed nerves have finally settled down by the time we get to the end of our meal. I'm so relieved that I can feel myself beaming. I throw my head back and laugh easily. I hold MP's hand. This is wonderful, I think to myself. THIS IS WONDERFUL!

And then we have dessert.

Dessert is a rice pancake drenched in a sticky sweet red bean sauce.
It's chewy. Chewy being one of my favorite consistencies, I chew and chew happily... that is until I'm chewing on my temporary crown.

My heart drops into my lap. The recently-calmed nerves threaten to sputter again. My palm becomes damp in MP's hand and the rice cake is a lump in my throat.

With a tight-lipped smile frozen on my face, I, ever so gracefully (and pretty damned miraculously), spit the temporary crown out of the corner of my mouth and drop it into my coat pocket.

No one notices.
Disaster averted.
Phew.

THE NEW YEAR

Amma has always said that the way one spends new year's eve is how he or she will spend the upcoming year. For this reason, I always make it a point to ring in the new year at home with my folks.

CNN's New Year's Eve show was hosted by Anderson Cooper and Kathy Griffin and the news ticker on the bottom of the screen featured special messages from people to their loved ones. As is the case with such things, several of the messages were marriage proposals. A little while after the third such proposal danced by, amma turned to me:

"[MP] could've proposed to you on this CNN ticker! Oh, if only he'd known! He should've known!"

I love you amma! You're the funniest, most charming, generous, loving, selfless, smart, and adorable person I know. Sabahat, Shafaat, and I are the luckiest people in the world to have a mother like you. Happy, happy, happy birthday amma! May this year bring you nothing but joy, health, and happiness!

And, of course, a happy new year to my kittens.
Regular blog postings will resume tomorrow, lovelies.