RESCUE ME?

*"Screw all of you. I'm outta here." ---The Duck

*Note: after doing some research, I was able to determine the duck discussed below was, in fact, a male. I will refer to him in the third person singular pronoun “he.”

Amma was pulling the car into our parking space when I saw the duck. He was sitting in the space next to ours, minding his own business. His little webbed feet were tucked under him and he appeared to be staring at the traffic beyond the tall iron fence that surrounded our lot. In spite of the early spring season, the sky was a bleak shade of winter and the duck was looking downright glum. I started fretting about the poor thing as soon as I laid eyes on him. I craned my neck, trying to get a good look past Amma.

I’d never before seen a duck in our parking lot. This was all very troubling to me.

“He’s not moving? Is he moving? Oh crap, I think he’s dead! Maybe he’s injured? Why isn’t he moving??”

“Why don’t you wait until we’re out of the car!” Amma sighed, pushing me off of her.

And, of course, she was right. Climbing out of the car, I went in for a closer look and, while the duck remained as still as if it was made out of porcelain or stuffed with cotton, one beady black eye betrayed its concentration by flicking to track my movement.

It was alive, dammit, and I needed to rescue it.

I helped my mom with the groceries once I’d assessed the situation.

“It’s not moving,” I told her (this being the extent of my assessment) as we walked inside.

“What are you going to do about it? What CAN you do about it?” she asked me.

“I’m not sure.”

My brother’s third floor balcony was perfectly situated above the east side of the parking lot, where the duck still sat. When he answered the door, I rushed past him without a word and made a beeline for the Yellow Pages. With directory in hand, I stepped out to the balcony and pulled out my cell phone. Who would help me rescue a clearly disabled duck on a Saturday afternoon?

“What’s going on?” a stunned Shafaat asked, following me out to the balcony.

“Duck. Injured. Help.” I said, pointing towards the parked duck.

“Oh. Of course.” As I rifled through the directory, he stared at the duck. “It isn’t moving.”

“Yes,” I confirmed.

“Who are you going to call?” he asked.

“Dunno,” I replied, peeking at the duck to make sure he was still parked. He was, indeed. “Vet maybe.”

I started dialing the vet.

“All right then. Tell me how it goes.” I could almost hear Shafaat rolling his eyes as he went back inside.

“Animal Infirmary. How can I help you?”

“Hi, my cat Zanadune Khan is a patient of yours. I’m in a bit of a situation and am wondering if you can help me.”

“What’s going on?”

“Well, there’s a duck in our parking lot. It’s just sitting there, not moving. I’m afraid it’s injured. Can you guys do something about this?”

“A duck?”

“Yup.”

“In Jersey City?”

“Downtown.”

“Sorry miss, we don’t deal with exotic animals. Can’t help you.”

“But…but, there must be something…do you know anyone who can help me?”

“A vet who deals with exotic animals,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Is a duck REALLY an exotic animal?” I asked her.

“If it isn’t a cat or a dog, it’s exotic,” she said authoritatively. “Try calling another vet, okay?”

Click. And, with that, she hung up on me.

I muttered an expletive and embarked on a search for a vet who specialized in exotic animals, finally finding one in Bayonne.

Explaining the parked duck to the receptionist who answered the phone, I asked if the vet could help me.

“No,” she responded. She sounded like she’d been shooting herself up with dog tranquilizers all day.

“Why not?” I demanded. “You guys treat exotic animals.”

“We don’t treat ducks,” was her slow and drawn out response.

“I’ll have you know, a duck is a pretty exotic animal. Why can’t you treat it? I promise I’ll make it dance for you if you treat it.” Lame joke, I know, but I was desperate.

“Honey,” she started, drawing out the term of endearment only like someone half asleep can. “The vet here treats pets. That duck isn’t a pet. It’s a wild duck. We can’t help you.”

“Can you think of someone who can help me?” I asked, making myself comfortable in my brother’s deck chair. I had a feeling I’d be on his balcony for a very long time.

“I dunno.”

This time, I hung up first.

The parked duck remained parked, still staring in the great beyond as if he was trying to decide whether or not to cross to the other side. Stay away from the light, I felt like telling him. Stay away from the light, duck!

I called everyone who had anything at all to do with animals that day. Following the two, totally useless veterinary offices, I called: the local animal shelter (they only deal with cats and dogs, which I deemed discriminatory, at the moment. However, a year or so after this incident, when I DID manage to rescue a duck and a chicken, the same shelter took them in and arranged to send them to a no-kill farm that I had found online…the weekend staffers must all be big, fat liars); an animal shelter in Morristown (I figured they probably had more ducks in the ‘burbs and might be better equipped to deal with them. Turns out they aren’t); the Office of Fish & Wildlife (which is closed on the weekends…since fish and wildlife go on mini-holidays on Saturdays and Sundays…UGH); the police (a very rude officer laughed and hung up on me); the fire department (a very concerned fire fighter brainstormed with me over the phone for a good 15 minutes, trying to come up with how we could help the [clearly] incapacitated duck…his best idea, Fish & Wildlife. Been there, done that, I explained. He WAS kind enough to call and check up on how I was faring in my rescue efforts 30 minutes later); and my mom (“If you put half the effort you devote to rescuing animals into finding a husband, you’d be married by now, Sabila”).

Shafaat was watching television when I stormed inside, at my wits ends.

“That duck needs rescuing! It needs to be saved!” I exclaimed, throwing down the phone directory like a preacher throws down nudie magazines. “This book does me no good!”

“Why don’t you try PETA?” Shafaat suggested, his eyes locked on the television screen.

The clouds parted and a chorus of angels sang an epiphanic song:

If you’ve exhausted all of your efforts to rescue a clearly injured and helpless animal, PAGE PETA!

PETA employees in DC are on call around the clock to help people in animal-related emergencies. So, I paged a very nice young woman (naturally, I’ve forgotten her name) who called me within five minutes. I can’t say I was shocked by her promptness.
I explained the situation to her:

“There’s a duck parked in our lot. He’s parked in a space. Like he’s a car or something. And he’s not moving. No one’s helping me. I’ve tried to call everyone in the Yellow Pages who seems even remotely associated with animals. They can’t help. And did you know that Fish & Wildlife takes the weekends off? What’s up with that?” I think I sounded a lot like that receptionist on dog tranquilizers. Perhaps, like me, she was jaded by the system.

The nice young woman told me that she didn’t expect much more from the “so-called authorities”. She proceeded to unleash a volley of questions at me to evaluate the graveness of the situation: Where did I live? Was the duck responsive to passing cars (to which I repeated that the duck wasn’t moving)? Was he limping when he walked (once again, he doesn’t walk)? Was the duck bleeding? Were there other ducks in the area?

And the questions went on and on until the nice young woman told me in a very stern voice that no one was going to help me and that I would have to take matters into my own hands.

“Find a very big box…a computer box or a television box,” she instructed. “You will drop the box on top of the duck. You will capture the duck in the box. Do you think you can do that?”

“Of course I can!” I responded, even as I had the most ridiculous image of myself chasing down a duck in my parking lot while dragging a giant computer box behind me. But I knew that I wouldn’t be able to rest if I didn’t save that duck, so I was unwavering in my determination to capture the him.

“Are there any parks near by where you can release the duck?”

I told her that there were ducks at Liberty State Park.

“Great. While you try to trap the duck, I’m going to call a duck expert who lives in central Jersey to see if he has any specific advice to give us. I suspect that he’s going to tell us the same thing: that you should try to capture and release the little guy at the park.”

And so I went to the store on the first floor of my building. Tony, the storeowner was able to pull out a giant, empty box from his storeroom, no questions asked, no weird looks passed.

With giant box in tow, I walked out to the parking lot, on my tiptoes so as not to startle the poor duck. I was determined to make a difference. I was going to see this duck to safety, dammit, even if it took all day. If that meant releasing it into the (barely wild) wilds of Liberty Park, so be it. If it involved driving to central Jersey where this duck expert could tend to the duck’s ailments and injuries, so be it. I was going to help because I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. The picture of that helpless duck, still and parked in the space next to our car, would haunt me for months. And I simply wouldn’t be able to deal.

I stood by our van, which was obstructing my view of the parked duck, trying to prepare myself mentally for the trap. As quietly as possible, I even stretched my quads, making sure that I was ready to pounce on it with the box without any hesitation.

When I felt I was ready to get the show on the road, I walked past our van towards the duck’s spot to find that---

He wasn’t there.

Confused, I spun around in circles, my hands shading my eyes against my own confusion.

The duck was nowhere to be found.

It had disappeared.

I spent another 20 minutes looking under cars. Perhaps he’d caught sight of me marching towards him and, in his fear, had decided to hide?

Alas, this wasn’t the case. The duck was nowhere to be found. And there I stood, staring at the box and thinking about the past two hours.

I returned to my brother’s apartment where, in an undeniably stupid move, I’d left my cell phone. On the phone there was a message from the very nice woman at PETA:

She’d managed to get a hold of the duck expert.

It was something called “grounding” season and the duck was probably just taking a break from its journey.

Ducks can fly, you see. I’d totally forgotten about that minor detail.

Ahem.

RESCUE ME?: The True Story of Yet Another (Failed) Animal Rescue Attempt

Back in March, I posted a blog entry entitled “Rescue Me?” in which I described my exhaustive, day long efforts to rescue a duck that appeared to be injured as it sat, stone still, in my building’s parking lot. After having called my cat’s veterinarian, a couple of animal shelters, the Office of Fish & Wildlife, the police department and the fire department, I finally paged a PETA volunteer in DC, who encouraged me to trap the duck in a large box and transplant it to the nearest park. Emboldened, I emerged from my building with a giant, empty computer box in hand, determined to take care of the situation once and for all…only to find that the duck had flown away. At the same time, the PETA volunteer was calling a duck expert in South Jersey—who, unlike Fish & Wildlife, didn’t close shop for the weekend (I’m still bitter about that)—to figure out what was wrong with our duck…the short answer to the question: nothing, apparently. Ahem.

Well, dear reader, that wasn’t the only time I went to absurd measures to rescue an animal. I do it all the time. I find it impossible to walk away from an animal that I think is in trouble. What's more, my eyes are always on the ground, peeled for animals in distress. Seeing that these animals are rescued becomes something of an obsession. Whatever I happened to be doing is pushed aside and I, putting on my blinders to everything else, shift into rescue mode. This single-minded approach to animal rescue has been a source of great vexation for my family and friends. They often have to suffer through the hours of rescue with me and usually end up pretending they don't know me.

To illustrate what I mean, I want to share with you the story of the night I spotted a dog that was lost and/or abandoned and distressed, sitting outside the Newport Mall Path Station. My friends—who aren’t very fond of animals—and I had just finished eating dinner and together, we were walking to Starbucks.

Me (squinting): Is that a dog?
Friend #1: Yep, that's a dog.
Me (still squinting): What's it doing out here alone? It doesn't look like a stray.
Friend #2: Looks like it's waiting for someone
Me: I think it's lost. Oh no!
#1: I'm thirsty. I want coffee.
Me: I can't just leave the poor dog here. Gosh, look at its doggy-brows. They're knitted together with concern. And those eyes are so heavy with sadness.
#1: ...here we go again...
Me: You guys want to go to Starbucks now? Seriously?
#2: Yah (walking away).
Me (still looking at the dog): Hey doggie, doggie, doggie. Come here boy, come here, come to SabilaK (yes, at this point, I'm naive enough to think that the dog, sensing that I'm a vegetarian animal activist looking out for its best interest, will trot right over to me. This, I quickly learn, is a pipe dream. The dog ends up looking at me suspiciously out of the corner of its eye. I've, very quickly, become the enemy. Crap.)!

I talk to the vendors who've been in the area all day; I ask them questions to help me determine from where the dog came. They can't tell me much beyond the fact that the dog has been in the same spot, its sight frozen in the direction of the PATH station as long as they've been there. Figuring that this is all I'm going to get from these vendors who don't seem to give a rat's ass about the dog, I try approaching the animal slowly and manage to go in close enough to see that its wearing a collar with a tag. However, I'm forced to retreat when it starts to growl at me.

Next, I decide to call my friend, colleague, fellow vegetarian and dog lover, ES. I'm happy to hear someone just as concerned as I am. She suggests that I try to lure the dog with dog food, whild she Googles the numbers of local animal shelters that might be able to assist me. I run to a nearby deli--after first asking the few remaining vendors to keep an eye on the sweet dog--and buy a small bag of Purina Dog Chow as well as a package of styrofoam bowls. Back by the station, pedestrian traffic is heavy on this lovely evening and I wonder about the peculiar picture I must paint for them: all done up in a Friday night getup, I kneel on the sidewalk, filling a bowl with dog food, all the while cooing to a dog that is very clearly frightened of me. Thankfully, ES calls me back right then and I'm relieved to talk on the phone and appear preoccupied, even normal. As we've suspected, all of the animal shelters are closed for the evening so, once again, I am on my own. I make a few desperate phone calls to my family, begging them for advice. Each person I speak to wonders out loud how it is that I ALWAYS find myself in these situations. Each person I speak to recommends that I give up, bloody leave the poor dog alone and join my friends at Starbucks. I hang up on each person.

The stupid dog still isnt' coming anywhere near me. The vendors are laughing at me. The pedestrians are giving me funny looks. Frustrated and near tears, I ask for divine inspiriation. I even channel St. Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals, for guidance, dog treats, the ability to talk to the dog, ANYTHING!

What do I get? Friends #1 and #2 step out from Starbucks, wearing matching sheepish grins and swearing that they are ready to help me in anyway possible. I'm still a bit pissed at them for abandoning me but I take their help, which doesn't involve much more than #1 shaking the bowl of Dog Chow a bit and #2 stading next to me with her arms crossed and nodding as I tell her what they've missed so far. For what it's worth, I appreciate their show of support. They also genuinely awww over the poor dog, who's still the image of sadness and anxiety. It's also still growling at me as I approach him.

Friend #2: Is it growling at you? Doesn't it know that you want to help it?
Me: No, I'm the enemy apparently.
Friend #1 (as I get closer to the dog, dog food in hand): Be careful. It might be rabid.
Me (pausing): Great, thanks. The thought of this dog going all Cujo on me is...inspiring.

Suddenly, the dog leaps up as if it's decided that it does want to go all Cujo on me. I shriek. However, instead of taking a bite out of my neck, the dog runs past me and down the long stretches of sidewalk in the Newport area of the city.

Friends #1 and #2 (in unison): Oh no! It's getting away!

I don't have time to comment. I've already started running down the sidewalk and into the darkness after the dog. Yes, I'm trying to run in my heels. Yes, my hair at this point is a frizzy mess. Yes, my makeup is melting and streaked. And, yes, the dog is running as if its life depends on it.

I can't catch the dog, especially not in my heels. I walk back to Friends #1 and #2, a little out of breath but not entirely dejected. We run to Friend #2's car in the lot and proceed to crawl through the streets, looking for the sweet dog.

But it's too late. The dog has run off into the darkness and I've failed, yet again, to rescue an animal.

Sigh.

TURTLES!

I'm something of an animal expert in my family. While all five of us have bleeding hearts when it comes to animals, my parents and brothers know that I'm unmatched in the lengths to which I will go to for all varieties of critters. Therefore, whenever they have an animal emergency, which is more often than you'd think, I'm the person to call.

So, I wasn't very surprised when my brother called me at 12:30 AM on Thursday.
He had turtles.
Say what?
He'd picked up a package from the concierge at midnight. There were turtles in the package, a baby red ear slider and a baby yellow belly. They came in little plastic containers, which prompted me to launch into a conversation with him about the cruelties of the animal commodity market, in which animals are transported like inanimate objects. How the hell would these animal retailers like it if I tied them up, threw them in a box and mailed them out, I asked angrily. Asshole bastards.

But he had turtles. And he wasn't expecting turtles. And although he was relieved that the poor little guys ended up with someone who gave a crap about animal welfare, he was now semi-freaking out and wanted my advice. I asked him to explain to me how he came to receive a delivery of turtles in the first place. This is how it happened: He'd been turtle-sitting for someone over the weekend. While turtle-sitting, he'd mentioned to a friend that he might, someday, want turtles of his own. Believing that pet turtles would be the perfect birthday present (my brother's birthday is tomorrow), his friend decided to order him a surprise pair online.* He explained to me that the turtles appeared traumatized.

What are you going to do? I asked him.
I don't know! he responded.
Oh my GOD! You have turtles! Where are the turtles now? I asked him.
I put them in a plastic bowl of water, he told me.
Oh my GOD! I exclaimed.
What?! he asked, panicked.
I'm just wondering what the HELL you're going to do?
I DON'T know! That's why I'm calling YOU!
Okay, let's calm down, I said, trying to calm down. You're going to buy an aquarium tomorrow. You're also going to buy a filter, a water heater, a heating lamp with a UVA/UVB light bulb, a ramp that they can sit on, a cave that they can hide in, large pebbles for the aquarium. (Note to the reader: I did my research to see if the turtles my brother was watching over the weekend were being properly taken care of by their owners, so I knew a thing or two about caring for turtles at this point). For now, google both species to determine if they can even live together.
Okay. He googled.
If one of the turtles is a girl, you should call her Regina, for Regina Spektor, I advised.
I'm not naming my turtle Regina Spektor. They're my turtles. I'm going to name them, he said. OH MY GOD!
Oh my God! What?
The red ear slider grows to 7-12 inches and the yellow belly can grow to 10-12 inches. These sure aren't the illegal miniature Chinatown turtles I was watching**
OH...MY...GOD. I said. You have giant turtles. They'll surely outgrow their aquariums! WHAT are we going to do? Do you want me to start researching turtle rescue groups?
I'm not calling my turtles Regina Spektor and I'm not going to give them away, especially not after all they've been through, he said. Even if they are ginormous.
You have to think about this very carefully. OH MY GOD! Do you realize what a huge responsibility this is? They live like 50 years. I paused. They're gonna be FAMILY.
I know! But I'm not naming any one of them Regina!
Fine. Just don’t call them Pokey or Sparkles or anything. Give them proper names like Robert and Sandra. I’ve always liked Olivia.
Fine, he said. I have to buy an aquarium first though!
Oh my God! You have ginormous turtles! I hope you know what you're getting yourself into, I said.
Well, that's why I have you, St. Francis.

So now we have turtles.

*Animals are not sweaters or tickets to the Regina Spektor show. They should NEVER be given away as gifts! Animal adoption is a huge responsibility that the adopter needs to consider carefully before undertaking.

**Chinatown is teeming with folks selling miniature baby turtles in conditions that are deadly for the turtles and hazardous to the health of the ill-informed people who end up buying them. Don’t support turtle sellers who are trying to make a quick buck at the expense of helpless creatures!

SO, NOW WHAT?

I spend most of my days distracted by my engagement ring. It's nice to have these few stress-free weeks before MP and I begin to plan the shindigs--yes, that's a plural for all of my non-Desi readers; there is nothing like a South Asian wedding--in the new year.

Speaking of MP, he's currently trekking among mountains in South Asia, and I won't see him for another sixteen days. He won't have email access for twelve days. This separation by continents and oceans and weeks and days and countless hours and minutes is way harder than I thought it would be. Whenever I whine to amma about missing him, she tells me I should be ashamed of myself, that no polite girl expresses such feelings for her fiance out loud. I just frown and whine some more, at which point she starts to wonder out loud, "Why would anyone want to hike for twenty-one days, anyway?" to which I respond, "Canadians love the outdoors," and she says, "Ah, and why didn't you go? He asked you to go," and I respond, "Don't you know me at all?"

As much as I love MP, I would never ever be able to hike for more than one day. Hiking/trekking/roughing it in Mother Nature, my dear non-Canadian readers, involves much more than just walking up and down rugged terrain--your Nerddd can easily do that part (ahem. Descending down a mountain might be the one exception I make, however, in this "walking up and down rugged terrain" scenario: there's nothing quite as frightening as sitting on your ass and sliding down a FUCKING MOUNTAIN FACE).

It involves:

1) eating in the wild---mildly problematic for someone who dislikes eating in sidewalk cafes, picnics, and barbecues);

2) relieving oneself in the wild---yes, foregoing that absolutely vomitous outhouse in the Pine Barrens during the Summer of '96 and choosing to pee in the forest was liberating and empowering and made me feel like I was in touch with nature all weekend. I, however, draw the line when it comes to digging a hole for number 2;

3) sleeping in the wild---a sleeping bag is uncomfortable and please refer to number 1)

4) not showering---I prefer showering every day, in the woods or out;

5) the constant danger of wild animals---while I love, love, love animals, it is one of my life's goals to never face down any of the following amazing, awesome, and beautiful creatures of God in the wild: bears, bobcats, black rhinos, venomous snakes, wolves, buffalo, mountain goats, foxes, wild boars, cougars, elephants mosquitos, crocodiles, lions, and many, many more. Nature: that's where they all reside, my friends;

*

6) I have no desire to face down the throngs of cannibals, serial murderers, terrorists, and bandits that I imagine populate dark jungles everywhere (shudder);

*

7) I enjoy hiking towards destinations such as comfortable (luxury or not) hotels where I can have a shower, warm meal, and good night's sleep in a bed. Hiking to just hike some more? What's the point in that?;

*

8) am I really expected to travel without my makeup and hairdryer? Seriously?;

*

9) and what about this lovely engagement ring? What do engaged gentleladies like myself do with their engagement rings before immersing themselves into "nature" for weeks and weeks? I didn't get this ring to leave it at home. But I suppose I don't want it to snag on a branch and fall off into an endless pile of leaves--or wild boar crap--either.

*

You see kittens? A sane American like myself can't be expected to hike for multiple days, right?

*

Right?

*

But it's been six days since MP's left on vacation and as the seconds and the minutes and the hours tick by impossibly slowly and I don't find myself appreciably closer to the 18th, I think about how I might just suck it up next time, after all. Pooping in the woods, while facing down any variety of wild animal and insect, and sliding down the steepest of mountain faces doesn't seem all that bad as long as I'm with MP.

*

Sigh.

*

For fuck's sake, this dude's made me such a fuckin' softie.

*

Ay. Love. Sigh.

BEAR MOUNTAIN: TRANSFORMATIVE!

I won't lie: I was nervous about a hike that I couldn't do in a dress and flip-flops. Visions of being stranded on a mountain haunted me for days. The possibility of being assaulted by the elements was not appealing. And what about wild animals? I love all animals, wild or domestic, but the thought of getting up close and personal with a bear*? Sorry, that's not my cup of green tea. But, I love MP who's Canadian and, therefore, loves hiking and communing with nature and needs to reacquaint himself with both before he heads off for three weeks in Nepal.

And, so, this past weekend, the two of us went hiking. It was a crisp, bright fall day and the world was awash in a breathtaking palette of reds, golds, browns, oranges, and yellows. In spite of my nerves, I managed to show up in a downright cute, sporty number. MP wore the beginnings of a beard, explaining that there was no better place for facial hair than in the mountains. He looked adorable, which may not have been the look he was going for. With map in hand, compass in MP's pocket, and cap on my head (I know! I never wear caps! It was a rather fetching look, if I say so myself), we headed towards our trail.

And I fell in love.

Oh, kittens, it was lovely. Being immersed in nature was surreal: I was the center of the universe as well as a mere speck on an immense topographical map. My feet were planted firmly on rugged terrain but my heart felt enormous and afloat in the world around me. Sweating, struggling to get over especially steep rock faces, trying to keep my footing in running shoes, I felt numinous; I am human but a part of myself was reflected divine that day as I walked upward, towards the peak, towards the sky.

I won't lie, though: the downhill was fuckin' treacherous. I thought I was going to injure myself horribly during the entire descent, which lasted about three years. I was trying hard to maintain a good and positive attitude as I sat on my ass and slid down the numerous and steep rockfaces on the mountain, attempting not to, you know, die, but those bastard rocks just didn't want to end. Can we get some more uphills here, I asked no one in particular, as MP led the way, showing me exactly where to put my feet in order to avoid spills. Finally, after years and years of going downhill, we arrived at a clearing and my heart leapt with joy. MP assured me that we weren't very far from the bottom of the mountain. I wanted nothing more to do away with this joint, jump on the bus, and go home. I led the way, nearly running towards safer ground.

Oh, but wouldn't you know it. The terrain had briefly fooled us, readers, and, there, stretched before us were even more rocks.

This is getting old, I declared at this point. I'm so sick and tired of these fuckin' rocks. I hate this. I HATE THIS!

I sat on rocks, in tears and defeat.

MP took a picture of me. Look how far we've come, he said pointing up at the trail behind me. I'm a seasoned hiker, he told me, and this has to be one of the more difficult trails I've experienced. I'm so proud of you. You're a natural.

Finding firm ground on MP's words, I stood up and continued down the trail silently; he continued to encourage me. Before I knew it, we were at the foot of the mountain albeit on the opposite side of where we were supposed to catch our bus. I ran in a fruitless attempt to make it to the bus before it departed without us but it was too late. MP and I were trapped in the loveliness of Bear Mountain Park's Octoberfest for another two hours, with nothing to do but eat farm fresh pears, straight from the kettle kettle corn and sample delicious fudge.

Dears, you'll be surprised to know that I've decided I love hiking. MP's 1-year anniversary (it was on Sunday!) gift for me: a lovely dinner at Bouley and hiking boots!

*a friend tells me that Bear Mountain is a misnomer, that there actually aren't any bears on the mountain.

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: Oh Yah, It's Another One of Those Open Letters

Dear Madlibbin Parasailer:

Hi! How've you been?

It's been quite some time since my readers have heard from you and, honestly, I still have quite a few questions I'd like to ask you before determining if you are, in fact, THE ONE. I hope you don't mind.

So, following are my questions:

1) As you well know, I love animals. I'll stop, drop, and roll in a dress during a work meeting if doing so meant I could save a critter, however large or small (I've been known to save quite a few insects in my time). You are also aware of my awful animal allergies, the medications I live on in order to keep my cat Zanadune, my undying dream of someday adopting two dogs and three cats (I developed a soft spot for cats with special needs during my stint as a volunteer at KittyKind, so I'd be happy to take in the ones that no one else wants), and my vegetarianism.

How do you feel about animals? Did you have pets growing up? Do you have pets now? Do you hope to someday have pets? How do you feel about groups like PETA, the ASPCA, and the WWF?

Please, don't let my position on the issues of animal rights influence your answer.

I look forward to hearing from you dear sir!

Yours,
The Nerddd

DEAR PEOPLE WHO ROLL THEIR EYES AT ME UPON FINDING OUT I'M A VEGETARIAN: An Open Letter

Dear People Who Roll Their Eyes at Me Upon Finding Out I'm a Vegetarian:

I hate you.

You don't see me rolling my eyes upon discovering that you're insensitive, small-minded prigs who can't keep your opinions to yourselves. And, please, refrain from trying to convince me that my reasons for going veggie--mainly, a concern for animals and the environment--are not important or significant. Now, go gorge on a steak while I enjoy my wheat gluten. No, I don't want to argue about your mother's right to cloak herself in dead animals or your dad's penchant for hunting deer while we dine because that's just rude. I may think your folks are crazy but I'm polite enough to keep my opinion to myself.

You are obnoxious. Please try to work on that.

Best of luck.

Yours,
The Nerddd

BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! THE NERD FINALLY RESCUES AN ANIMAL...er, I mean an insect.....

So, I had no luck finding the (phantom) kitten on my third trip to the parking lot. I hope it's all right, wherever it is. I often wish I had the ability to communicate with animals like St. Francis of Assisi or Dr. Doolittle so that I could reassure them that I always come in peace. Wasn't there a superhero that could communicate with animals, as well, or am I making that up??? Anyone? Anyone?

Naturally, I was feeling very sad and dejected as I stepped into the elevator to return home. I went to hit my floor, when lo and behold, what do I see next to the button for floor 19 but a tiny black ladybug, looking grossly out of place. The ladybug was lovely with one red dot on either side of it but it looked distressed as it attempted to navigate the rough terrain of floor buttons 1-22. Being empty handed, I had nothing to pick the ladybug up with until, scanning the floor, my eyes fell on the corner of a candybar wrapper that some inconsiderate litterbug had dropped carelessly. I'd never been happier to find litter in my life. Picking up the little piece of wrapper (it was no more than a couple of inches), I put it in the ladybug's path and she stepped onto it without a hitch. Holding the wrapper in my right hand, I cupped my left hand under it and watched as the bug sped back and forth, from edge to edge, wondering what it'd gotten itself into.

I rode the elevator back downstairs and released the ladybug onto the leaf of a tree in the parking lot.

Finally, sweet success!

BIODATA: A Follow-Up

My folks guilt-tripped the following biodata out of me.

I'm 28 years old, was born in Tripoli, Libya and moved to Jersey City, New Jersey with the family when I was a wee toddler. I work in the book publishing industry, for ________, and while I spend way too much time reading and selling and fretting, I LOVE my job.
My saving graces are my two older brothers (ages 36 and 34), both of whom I adore. Without them I wouldn't possess the following: a wicked sense of humor, a love of sports--be warned, I am a baseball FANATIC and a long recovering lover of basketball (the Knicks drained me emotionally one time too many)---a passion for working out, and an obsession with movies.
I graduated from NYU with a BA in English Lit (blame the diversion from my plans to be pre-Med on Faulkner and Hemingway, Neruda and Whitman) and have worked for _______ for six years now.
I LOVE animals. I have a cat named Zanadune. I used to volunteer with a cat rescue group in Union Square until I had to face the ugly truth: I'm allergic to cats, dogs and horses. Cruel fate, eh? Each time I pop a Zyrtec or snort Nasonex (for the love of Zanadune), I chip away just a little more at my dream to someday adopt three cats and two dogs.
What I want people to know about me is that I'm a genuine person. What you see is what you get and this is precisely what I expect from the people in my life. My pet peeves include people who put on airs, lack passion and have poor grammar. I have yet to meet the person who possesses this trifecta of peeves but am certain that this individual is the spawn of Satan.

Yes, dear, observant reader, this biodata is indeed (a very slightly updated version of the) "about me" blurb that I've recycled over and over again on countless networking sites. It will have to do.

Rest assured, though: this time, I'm putting my foot down and saying no to family blind dates!

RESCUE ME: The Plant Edition

My mom rescues plants the same way I rescue animals (read my animal rescue posts here, here, and here...
and here, here, here, and here...ahem):
compulsively. The woman cannot turn her back on a plant in need. She'll often poke her head into the garbage room on our floor to make sure someone hasn't abandoned a potted plant. She'll keep her eyes peeled on the street for discarded planters outside homes. So often, she comes home clutching houseplants thrown out by folks she's deemed negligent in their role as caretakers. A few times, the plants appeared so, well, dead, that I wasn't surprised they'd been chucked in the first place. She clucks her tongue at the carelessness that's caused such a wretched situation and always, always nurses the plants back to life.

Recently, my mother's been obsessed with what appears to be a variety of money plant that's growing at the edge of someone's front yard. She finds herself walking by it almost daily. Having had countless opportunities to examine the haphazardly located and desperate-looking tuft of vegetation, she's determined that the money plant must be rescued! She declared to me that those homeowners have no desire to cultivate the plant and that it will surely perish in the fast-approaching winter. We cased the property on our way back from the local fruit and vegetable market around a month ago and, I must agree, that she's right. Frankly, I don't know why anyone would want such an ugly plant anywhere near their property (or, for that matter, in her living room, as my mom does). A week after we cased the joint, Amma made away with half of the money plant ("I would've taken all of it but I became worried that someone would see me," she explained when I asked her later why she'd left the other half to languish). I'm happy to report that the rescued half has been lovingly restored to an alert and glossy green; it now resides in a lovely terra cotta pot.

My mother, however, is very concerned about the uncared for portion of the plant that remains, wilted, unhappy, and destined to meet a chilly and bitter end. Just today, she approached me, her eyes moist with concern: "I need to grab what's left of the plant, Sabila--," and before she could even finish, I tapped into every bit of rescue reserve I have in me, and said, "Amma, I promise I'll accompany you whenever you're ready to rescue the plant."

We nodded at each other without another word.

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.

GIANT COLLARS IN THE COLD or I NEED A COAT: A Follow-Up

I've ordered the coat above. It doesn't have big collars (I told you I'm over those). It has a faux fur lined hood (because only animals can pull off real fur); it's puffy, sporty, comes with five pockets (if you don't already know how I feel about pockets, know this: I like 'em) and a lifetime guarantee, plus I got 3-day shipping for free.

It also happens to be a pretty damned cute coat.

I think this should do the trick in Ottawa at the end of the month!

Dear Persons Whose Ears I've Held Hostage in the Past: An Open Letter

Dear Persons Whose Ears I've Held Hostage by going on and on about topics of conversation that you might not necessarily be interested in: I'm sorry. I'd like to think that I'm a superior conversationalist (possibly among the top 100 conversationalist in the world even); if this isn't the case, and you've previously found yourself cornered in a room as I've gone on and on and on about my love for American literature, my concerns about animal welfare, my anger at this adminstration and war, my love for baseball, etc., I blush.

Really. I do.

I bring this up because recently, a dear friend mentioned that I love talking about myself and my brother commented that I talk a lot: "Sabila, you don't even pause to take a breath sometimes. It's amazing, really." And, of course, there was that one time over brunch that my mother said, "I REALLY hope you don't talk this much in front of boys" (trust me, I didn't take that one too seriously). Oh, and that time when my family left me, one by one, to watch Two Brothers on my own because I couldn't stop my tearfully bitter diatribe about the cruelty humans inflict on animals.

It should be noted, however, that while I apologize for the pain, boredom, frustration, etc. I may have caused, I'm not going to change anytime soon. So love it or leave it…in which case, I suppose, I’m not apologetic at all!

…okay, I’m officially retracting my apology and changing the title of this post to "Dear Persons Whose Ears I've Held Hostage in the Past: Whatever; it's painfully obvious to me that you have no soul if my conversations leave you uninspired, bored and/or frustrated. And it's not that I'm full of myself or enjoy talking about myself or anything. I simply enjoy making you laugh at my own expense. That's bloody selfless if you ask me. And I'm pretty goddamn entertaining! I offer everyone plenty of opportunity to jump in and tell me a thing or two and I listen (hello! I was nominated a Peer Helper in high school because other students felt like they could talk to me about their teen-angsty problems) but if you don't have anything intersting going on in your life, that's your problem. Clearly, I rock (ahem)."

JADE: Chapter 3

During a rather lackluster week, my zombie thriller has provided great entertainment. While it inspires laughter now, I remember how serious I was about this story all those years ago, spending hours writing in bed at night, a pen gripped solemnly in my hand and the words written so fiercely that they almost bleed through the page. I loved this story then and, the truth of the matter is, that I still love it now (as much as I’ve slammed it in my previous posts). If nothing else, it shows that I had imagination.

So, here’s chapter 3 of “Jade” and because I'm feeling nostalgic and emotional, I'm not going to include any parenthetical comments. You can do that on your own.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

The bell finally rang. Psychology class was finally over. Zach got up from his desk and walked to the door.

Mr. Ross was talking about family problems and all that crap. It was just plain and simple boring boring boring. Zach wanted to just doze off when he got back to his room. Who knows, if he was tired enough he would sleep from 5:00PM to 6:00AM. He’d done that before.

Someone called Zach’s name from behind him. He turned around and saw Michael waving for him to come over.

“Zach, I have some news to tell you,” Mike said in an excited voice. “You want to come to the third floor with some of the guys?”

“Mike, the third floor is closed. No one’s allowed to go up there, not even the teachers,” Zach said.

“But this is going to be great,” Mike said nervously, afraid that Zach wouldn’t join them. “Sean is going to bring some chicks from Lakewood, you know what I mean? Sneak them in or something.”

“No way am I going to be a part of this. If we get caught, Dean Norwood is going to kick our asses. Anyway, I’m too bushed. I’m going to my room to get some sleep,” Zach said.

“Listen, I know you’re not a party animals but there’s always a first time,” Mike said. “You think sleeping is better than going to the third floor with chicks and reading a spooky book. You know what else? There are no lights on the third floor. We’re only going to have a flashlight. So, please Zach, come with us. Please, please, please,” Mike nagged like a child.

“No,” Zach said with a firm shake of his head.

“I bet if Nick was still alive, he would have come along,” Mike said sadly.
Zach knew that Mike had won again. Whenever he mentioned Nick, Zack would do whatever Mike begged for. After a long moment of silence, Zach nodded and said, “Okay,” so softly that he could hardly be heard.

But Mike’s ears were wide open, wide enough to hear Zach’s answer. “Yeeeeees!” Mike shouted. “Thanks bro,” he said with a smile. “Meet me on the third floor at 12 o’clock sharp.”

With a quick nod, Zach turned around and walked to his dorm room in the other building.

When he got to his room, he lay down on his bed and closed his eyes but opened them again in shock. Someone had turned on banging music on the stereo. His eyes fell on Todd, who was listening and singing along. Zach’s roommate was the wild type. Always going out on dates and driving fast cars, Todd was almost impossible to stand.

“Todd, turn the music down. I’m really tired,” Zach shouted over the pounding.

“Okay man, I’m turning it off,” Todd said flatly.

The son of the owner of the Chicago Art Museum, Todd Matthews wasn’t at all sophisticated. He just listened to music and didn’t pay attention to school at all!

“Hey Zach, are you going to the third floor tonight?” Todd asked.

“Yes, Todd. I am going to the third floor tonight,” Zach answered in a tired voice.

“Well, so am I!” Todd said eagerly. “It’s going to be awesome.”

Zach got up. He wouldn’t be able to get any sleep with Todd talking so much. “Todd,” Zach said, “I’m going to take a shower. You can play your music as loud as you wish. But when I get out, that stereo should be turned off. All right?”

“Sure man,” Todd answered as he turned his music on.

BREAKING NEWS, BREAKING NEWS! THE NERD UNDERTAKES YET ANOTHER (POTENTIALLY FAILED?) ANIMAL RESCUE ATTEMPT! LIVE COVERAGE! Part II

Concluding that the kitten was likely napping somewhere, we decided to reconvene in an hour. I couldn't help but feel annoyed with my brother. Not only had he been willing to leave the kitten alone last night but his decision to feed it before K's arrival was a bad one as well; the kitten had no reason to show itself until it was hungry now. Of course, I should've been available for my expertise in the field last night, but I'm not available 24/7. What do they think I am? PETA?

My brother, K, her kids and I did, in fact, reconvene at 4:00. The security chief met me at the entrance as I was heading out, shaking his head and appearing downhearted. "I checked for the kitten three times. No sign of him, sweetheart." The five of us walked around the perimeter of the lot for another 45 minutes, following sounds that we swore were the cries of a kitten. The little guy, however, didn't materialize.

"You should've tried grabbing it while it was eating earlier," I told my brother, sighing as we, once again, sat on the curb, our eyes peeled for the furball.

"Sabila, you're the cat lady of the family. You know I'm not so skilled in this whole rescue thing," he said, sadly.

"I'm the animal lady, S," I told him. "I'm an equal opportunity rescuer...and, you know what, with the amount of animals in distress that cross our path, we should keep a giant net handy."

He thought about this for a while and then nodded. "Hmm. That would be a wise investment."

Getting up from the curb, I decided to crawl around the parking lot for a little while longer while my brother exited the lot and walked across the street to check for the kitten there. K and her kids continued calling out for it. But no luck. K had to eventually get back home but she left us with the kitty carrier, just in case the kitten returned later on during the day.

I'll keep you guys posted.

WALT--he'll always be the nerd of my heart...

I CAN'T believe that I haven't yet posted anything by Walt Whitman. He just happens to be one of my favorite poets of all time! Jeez. What was I thinking?
Whitman is, in my opinion, the most influential and well known American poet. A decade after Emerson wrote "The Poet," calling for an original, American poet--someone who spoke for and of this country--Whitman answered his call with his first publication of Leaves of Grass. The first edition consisted of 12 poems; the collection was Whitman's life's work and, by it's 8th edition, it had grown to a little less than 400 poems. At the time of its publication, Leaves of Grass was criticized (when it wasn't being overlooked) for its use of free verse as well as for it's obscenity (Whitman is very frank about sexuality and celebrates the pleasures of the body).
If you want to learn more about Walt, first pick up a copy of Leaves of Grass (soooo do it! It will change your life!) and then read Walt Whitman: A Life, Justin Kaplan's National Book Award-winning biography of the poet.
Now, here's a taste of what WW has to say. The following is an excerpt from his preface to Leaves of Grass. Enjoy!

This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the rich fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body...