ALL'S QUIET ON THE RISHTA AUNTY FRONT

They've given up on me, readers. My relatives have officially ceased and desisted trying to set me up with random men from the motherland or states at least 500 miles in distance from New York/New Jersey. This must be because I'm with MP, right?

Wrong.

The majority of my relatives don't even know MP exists. They weren't privy to the romance that unfolded on this very blog for all my readers to see. They have no idea that there might be streaming video coverage of a wedding in the near--and by near, I actually mean not so near--future (I just put MP on the spot. Ahem. Ahem. AHEM.).

So, as far as they know, I'm just as single, hopeless, with a one-way ticket on the Acela Express bound for Spinsterville as I was six months ago (and, just for the record and in spite of what Ristha Aunties have to say, Spinsterville, is a totally rockin' town). And, yet, they seem to have given up on me. Perhaps they're refocusing their attention on their high school-aged daugthers. Perhaps their threats that the older I'd get, the more and more rapidly my rishtas would dry up were more than empty scare tactics. Whatever the reason, I'm no longer the recepient of long-distance voicemail messages from foreign suitors proposing to me in broken English. All of those over-the-shoulder studio shots from would be Mr. Nerddds have disappeared. And what about those random family blind dates? Oh, how I miss those!

Of course, I jest, readers. Even if I was single today, I don't think I'd be anything short of relieved at the rishta drought I'm now facing in my gnarled old age of 29. So, to my fabulous singletons out there: keep on believing what those rishta aunties tell you about there no longer being any suitors for you post, say, 25. Freedom is within reach!

KARAOKE

Before Friday, March 21st, karaoke had never seen the likes of the nerd. A veritable virgin of the live singing circuit, she giggled through her opening song--Bonnie Tyler's '80s hit, "Total Eclipse of the Heart"--as well as most of the subsequent songs, which included "Leaving on a Jet Plane," "Zombie," and "You Oughta Know." Shockingly, our oftentimes puritanical nerd finally broke out of her shell with a loosely choreographed performance of--blush--one Ginuine's scandalous song, "Pony." Our nerd called her performances that followed--including Coldplay's "Yellow," Ace of Base's "Sign," and an especially stirring rendition of "Stay" by an equally bespectacled Lisa Loeb--pieces of cake. The formerly reluctant songstress had to be dragged out of the room that party had rented, the microphone pried from her hands.

She thinks she will karaoke often and eagerly now and wants to thank her friends for the belated good time.

VISIT ONTARIO

CLICK HERE TO SEE THE VIDEO!

So, I loved the above Ontario tourism commercial the first five times I saw it. It features a catchy tune sung by a Canadian songstress called Molly Johnson and an assortment of lovely, airbrushed, and presumably Canadian folk of every color under the rainbow.

I won't lie. The first five times I saw the ad, it made me desperately want to go to Canada and not because MP happens to hail from Ontario. I wanted to go to Ontario because, as Molly Johnson sang, "There's no place like [Ontario]," and who doesn't want to visit a place where everyone has clear pores, good laughs, and limitless happiness (so is the brilliance of tourism ads, no?). Sure, MP declared that the ad was full of cookie-cutter wankers and that he isn't the biggest fan of his home province but, dammit, I wanted to experience Ontario anyway. I was virtually packed and ready to go to the land of Molly Johnson and open spaces. I was ready for a vacation.

But then I saw the ad a sixth time...and then a seventh. I saw it again and again and again. During the span of a single weekend, not only did I see the commercial three times on television--and I don't watch that much television, folks--I heard it on the effin' radio, not once, but twice! And then it got worse. I saw it again. And again. And again. That commercial--as lovely and selling as it once was--became such an annoyance that, honestly, I don't know if I want to visit Ontario, after all. I'm sure that wasn't the response the Ontario tourism board was hoping for, but there you have it folks. There you have it!

KARAOKE

Apologies for not posting yesterday, dears. I was recovering from the wonderfulness that was my birthday weekend. The worst part about birthdays is that they end and then you're back to just being 29 (or 17 or 68) for another 364 days without anyone--you included--giving a shit.

Sigh.

So it goes.

So it goes.

This year, however, my birthday weekend is trickling into this upcoming weekend (lucky, lucky, lucky me...the fun doesn't end!) with an event so high-intensity that I have to break it down into four syllables for you: KA-RA-O-KE. Yes, kittens, there is a Santa Claus and my spectacular friends are coming together to sing their hearts out for yours truly.

I've already put in a request with MP: he must serenade me with a moving (and appropriate) song of his choosing. While I prefer that he choose from the vast offerings of Canadian superstars like Bryan Adams, Shania Twain, and Celine Dion, he, of course, being the punk at heart that he is, politely refuses. He is open to suggestions from readers--at least I think he is.

Well, that's the word, boys and girls. More TK soon.

Kisses.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MOI

And now I'm twenty-nine.

Twenty-eight was a good year. Sure, I experienced my fair share of hip pain and gastrointestinal distress but there was more good than there was bad.

The single best thing that twenty-eight brought me: MP, who reminds me everyday that love is way simpler than I thought it was and my pheremones are not broken.

T MINUS TWO DAYS

It's official, folks. This is the effin' longest week of my life, which, yes, I admit is largely my fault (see the annual countdowns to my birthday; yes, I'm a birthday ham and, on most days, proud of it). The thought of going through all of today and all of tomorrow is excruciating. In a perfect world, I could take a 2-day holiday and hibernate until the trills of happy birthday messages on my phone rouse me awake at 12:00AM on March 14th. In an even more perfect world, the laws of time and space would also take a rest, allowing my birthday to last for more than one day. My birthday would be three, four, maybe five days long! All of that cake would get a little ridiculous, but who cares, right? It's my birthday!

Alas, the world is far from perfect. Time marches right on and the 24-hour window during which I will celebrate the day of my birth remains two days away. Clearly, being a self-centered birthday ham is a curse.

T MINUS THREE DAYS

It's no secret that when I was a little girl, I'd announce to every single person I encountered on my birthday, the fact that it was my birthday. I'm talking about everyone, folks: teachers (they didn't have to be my teachers, just teaching in a school), school janitors, street crossing guards, doormen, busdrivers, tax accountants, bakers, plumbers, jewelers.

It was a tiring task, to say the least.

So, eventually, I started asking my mother to bring balloon(s) with her when she came to pick me up from school on my birthday. The louder the birthday message on the balloon, the better (I've always preferred the "IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!" to the boring "Happy Birthday." Of course, either one would do the job)! No longer did I have to speak to strangers. Now, I could simply tie the balloon string around my wrist and waltz down the street with my head held high and a smile on my lips, as "happy birthday"s rained all around me. "I know. Thank you," I communicated without words. "I know. Thank you."

Not much has changed in these almost 29 years.

T MINUS FOUR DAYS

The worst birthday gift I've received to date: full-coverage grandma briefs, gifted to me on my twelfth birthday. These briefs weren't a gag gift, readers. Oh no, no, no. They came in a festive gift bag, nestled in a sea of colored tissue paper. There was also a card in the bag, which earnestly wishing me a happy birthday.

Another worst birthday gift I've received to date: remember that lecture on biological urges to which I was subjected last year? I don't know about you but I'd say that was a pretty bad gift.

The best birthday gift I've ever received to date: everything that isn't grandma briefs or talks about biological urges.

I wonder what MP's getting me for my birthday.

T MINUS SEVEN DAYS: Rolaids Softchews

I'm known to grab or point at my general abdominal region and exclaim to anyone within hearing distance, "Oh, the (insert one of the following here: heartburn, acid indigestion, sour stomach, upset stomach)!" each time I buy Rolaids vanilla creme flavored softchews. The truth of the matter, however, is that I'm almost never in the vise of gastrointestinal misery when I'm purchasing the Rolaids.

I just like snacking on them...

...because they're delicious...

Ahem.

T MINUS EIGHT DAYS: Oh, the Allergies!

Do you remember, dear reader, that brief moment in time during which I thought I'd be able to best my allergies? I was so young, so hopeful last month. After going through allergy shot therapy for three months, I was almost halfway to a cure. I was so close to fulfilling my dream of someday adopting two dogs and three cats.

I was there.

I almost had it all.

That is until the close call. Last week, my allergist sat me down for a heart-to-heart. She explained to me that I'm in that minority of the population that doesn't react very well to allergy shots and that complications arising from this fact are:

1) this first stage of allergy shot therapy, which lasts 6-8 months for normal people would have to be prolonged to probably close to a year since my hyper-sensitivity would require our backing off and slowing down the dosage of allergens I'm receiving weekly;

2) I would have to take two different anti-histamines before the shots;

3) I would have to stay in her office under observation for anywhere between 45 minutes to an hour after receiving a shot/s;

4) staying under the doctor's observation for 45-60 minutes after she administers the allergy shot doesn't guarantee that I won't get hit with a major asthma attack after I've left her office, in which case...

5) ...I would have to carry an epi pen around with me at all times;

Plus, we don't have any guarantee that I will be cured of my allergies after I've risked my life getting allergy shots.

I told her I needed time to think about it.

Sigh.

T MINUS NINE DAYS

I finally confessed to my best friend this past year that, yes, I was responsible for that loud, earth-shattering fart during gym class in the seventh grade. I panicked and blamed it on an obese and socially-shunned boy in our class who happened to be doing crunches right next to me and, for the most part, people believed me.

Geez. This is still semi-mortifying.

T MINUS TEN DAYS or Aging May Not Be a Wonderful Thing

MP and I had our first pics taken together this past weekend. Upon seeing the pics, I've realized that I need to do the following:

1) stop smiling as brightly as I tend to smile;
2) start wearing more makeup;
3) sleep more (what is it with guys who look wide awake and devastatingly handsome even on less than six hours of sleep? MP's downright glowing next to me in the pics and that's on a corporate lawyer's schedule, folks. How is that fair?);
4) get my hands on some of that anti-wrinkle cream Rach makes (um, Rach, hope you're reading this);
5) retake pics with MP

Oh, time, you are a villain and I want my money back.

T MINUS ELEVEN DAYS

On the day of my birth, back in 1979, my parents eschewed traditional Pakistani and Muslim names and decided to call me Sabila*. The story goes that I was named after their Turkish friend, who also lived in the large expat community of Tripoli, Libya. The name is derived from a Koranic word--sabeel--which means "the righteous path," but also refers to holy water or a vessel that holds holy water. Sabeel is also said to be the name of a body of water in Heaven.

Needless to say, I love my name. Apart from the mysterious Turkish woman for whom I was named, I don't know a single person who's called Sabila and, between you and me, I'm a name snob and would like very much to keep it that way. As a child, I worked hard to ensure that none of my mother's friends named their newborns after me; I showered them with name recommendations, with the hope that if they were to have girls, my name wouldn't be on their already long list of lovely names from which to choose. I made sure that I was the only Sabila in a forest abundant with Fatimas, Sarahs, Aishas, Mariams, and Aminas and it remained that way for a very long time.

A couple of years ago, however, I received news that threatened to cut down the unique-but-unusual Sabila tree forever (or give her a sapling sidekick)! I heard from someone I knew that I mutual acquaintance of ours was pregnant with her third child and had declared that, if this third child was a girl, she wanted to name her Sabila. I veiled my panic with a smile, a "Really?! That's wonderful!" when all I really want to do was hyperventilate and plant cabbage seeds around my landscape. How could there possibly be another Sabila in my world? How? Oh, the humanity!

The very next day, I ran into the pregnant girl! Rushing past the formalities, I congratulated her on her pregnancy and asked, "So, do you know the baby's gender yet?"

"Oh, I'm having another boy!" she told me, a hand to her belly.

I put a hand to my own belly as my butterflies settled down!

"You know something, I was determined to call the baby Sabila if it was a girl!" she told me. "Now I have to start all over again and think of boy names! So difficult!!!"

"I know! Boys names are hard," I said, with measured relief. I approached the next question with the caution of a person, tiptoeing across a graveyard of landmines. "Sooooo......any plans for baby number 4??"

The girl laughed. "Oh, noooo! I'm done after this kid, sister," she said, pointing to her belly. "The baby factory's closed!"

"Three's a good number," I said, downright glowing with relief. "Zain's a nice boy's name..."

*a note to the people who still mispronounce my name: I hate to break it to you but, while I may be only a few days away from 29, my name isn't any closer to being Sa-bee-lee-ah, Sa-bee-ah, or Sa-bla. It's Sa-bee-la. SA-BEE-LA. I'm hoping that 29 will usher in a new era of me actually liking you and your efforts to correctly pronounce my beautiful name. Thanks!