THE TRUTH OF THE MATTER IS...

...I'm lonely.

Holy shit. Since when did this blog become so effin' confessional? Fuck.
To everyone out there who knows me in real life: pretend like you never read this and don't go all weird on me the next time I see you.
To everyone out there who knows me in real life: yeah, I'm a fool for not having an anonymous blog.

I had an enlightening lunch with half of the family (one brother, one parent) the other day, during which, I was informed, all in jest, of course, that:

1) I started dating way too late in life (VERY TRUE)
2) and so, I'm doing now what I should have been doing in college, ie, having mindless, directionless fun (VERY CLEARLY, THE FAMILY IS CONFUSING ME WITH SOMEONE ELSE...TO MY FRIENDS GIGGLING THEMSELVES SILLY BECAUSE THEY'RE ALL TOO AWARE OF THE SEDATE LIFE THAT I DO LEAD, SHUT UP)
3) I don't know what I'm looking for in a partner (FALSE)
4) My biological clock is ticking (WHATEVER. WOMEN ARE HAVING CHILDREN LATER AND LATER IN LIFE. AND WHO NEEDS A HUSBAND TO HAVE A BABY, ANYWAY?)
5) Guys figure out I'm a geek/loser after about five minutes of conversing with me (WHAT A LIE! I'M A WONDERFUL CONVERSATIONALIST!)
6) Publishing isn't the most lucrative industry, especially for a girl like me, who could've breezed right through med school (I'D RATHER BE HAPPY)
7) My poor future husband is going to waste away on my vegetarian diet (PEOPLE ARE FREE TO EAT WHATEVER THE HELL THEY WANT TO)
8) I have arch-nemeses getting hitched in fabulous fashion the world over (I DON'T HOLD GRUDGES, OTHER PEOPLE DO AND I'M HAPPY FOR ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY FINDS SOMEONE WITH WHOM TO EXCHANGE VOWS. THAT SHIT'S HARD, YO)
9) My arch-nemeses (plus hubbies, of course) have mapped out fabulous and financially secure lives (I DON'T HOLD GRUDGES, OTHER PEOPLE DO AND I'M HAPPY FOR ANYONE WHO IS LIVING A FABULOUS LIFE)

All of my retorts eventually dissolved into countless huffy variations of "AMMMMMA! TELL HIM TO QUIT IT!!" or "Seriously, can we talk about something else? Seriously?"

And I suppose I would be lying if I didn't tell you that, yes, in spite of being goddamn annoying, the lunch was pretty goddamn funny and I often had to bite my lip to keep a stern face.

But, let's get back to my loneliness and all. All I really want is someone who likes me as much as I like him; everything else just falls into place when two people just like each other, doesn't it?

Oh, sigh. Someone shake some sense into me, please.
...and I'm working on that anonymous blog...because being an open book is boring, mystery is hot (another nugget of wisdom bestowed on me during lunch).

WHY LOVE BLOWS

Have you even been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens your heart and it means someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all these defenses. You build up this whole armor, for years, so nothing can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...

You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day like kiss you, or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages. It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like "maybe we should just be friends" or "how very perceptive" turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the imagination. Not just in the mind. It's a soul-hurt, a body-hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain. I hate love.

Rose Walker in Sandman: The Kindly Ones by Neil Gaiman

True, isn't it?

ANNIVERSARY

Today is my parents' 36th wedding anniversary. Their union was arranged by folks who, in death just as in life, were nothing more than shadows in the periphery of our family's consciousness. Abu had agreed to marrying a photo of amma, dressed in black & white, her braid resting over her shoulder and her eyes outlined in kohl. Amma, perfectly demure and blushing, had refused to see a photo of abu but knew he was a respectable man who came from a respectable family.

My brothers and I still don't understand how they went through with signing off on life with a stranger. But they did. And we are grateful to those shadowy matchmakers and our parents' deference to custom and tradition because where would we be if they hadn't agreed to walk into a sensible and arranged marriage?

It's funny that while I don't believe in love, I do believe in the subtle, simple, and quiet love amma and abu have always shared. Happy anniversary to the best parents in the world.

I HATE

Have you ever had one of those days when you HATE everyone and everything, a teeth-clenching-nails-digging-into-the-palms-of-your-hands-and-don't-anyone-dare-cross-me-today kind of day, a day when your choler awakens even before you do and it takes every ounce of effort to keep yourself from purchasing a megaphone, going to a public place, and megaphoning a sonorous "FUCK YOU!".................?

.......yah, me neither.

CHOOSE ONE: Fat or Stupid

The community center where my parents hosted an iftaar party last week has a Boys & Girls' Club attached to it; I happened to wander into the building in my hunger-induced delirium and found the above-posted atrocity displayed on a bulletin board, among an assortment of other health-related projects (the most disturbing of which was an art project in which kids cut out bodies sans heads of celebrities and athletes from magazines and, in place of their heads, glued a frenzied assortment of foods that they thought the celebrities/athletes ate...oh, how I wish someone had done Nicole Richie's emaciated frame).

It's pretty obvious that this kid doesn't know how to spell. I understand that childhood obesity is a problem that we as a nation need to address and all, but would it kill us to throw a few spelling lessons in there? Hey, I might've been a fat kid growing up but at least I knew how to spell.

Feeling good about the American education system? Check this out.

AND WE MEET...AGAIN?

Remember this wonderfully horrific flight I took to Pakistan with my mom three years ago? I was so caught up in relaying the indignity of having my mother play matchmaker while I tried to keep from having a complete mental breakdown on a plane that was bouncing around in a manner that can only be described as dangerous and not right that I failed to mention a bizarre chain of events--and by chain of events, I actually mean two chance meetings--that began on that very plane ride.

I'd noticed a young man waiting in the boarding area with us because, and I'm being totally honest here (so don't hate), I was afraid he was a terrorist. He was traveling alone, which, in a boarding area teeming with families, struck me as suspicious. Moreover, I was already being assaulted by thoughts of every single thing that could go wrong en route to Pakistan (WHAT IF THE DUDE WHO REFUELS THE PLANE IS HOMICIDAL AND CUT A NETWORK OF VITAL WIRES!!!!! Oh fuck!). So, I kept on looking at this guy suspiciously and he kept on looking back (he's onto me being onto him! Oh fuck!). By the time we boarded, however, I was so terrified of, again, the plane crashing, that the cause of our demise didn't really matter and I promptly forgot about the guy.

Fast forward to (something like) day 12 of my 14 day trip. My friend and I are at this mall in Karachi. I'm oohing and aahing over beautifully handstiched diaries when who walks in but the very same guy who I clearly mistook for a dire flight risk. I saw his face light up with recognition; pretending not to notice, I refocused my attention on the diaries, hoping that he wouldn't walk up to me (because I'm like totally horrible in such situations).

He approached me (Oh fuck) and asked me if I'd been on PIA flight XYZ departing from JFK on so and so date. I nodded hoping that I was doing a good job in conveying confusion. Well, he was on that flight, he told me. Really? I asked and when he nodded, I snapped my fingers as if I'd finally placed him! OF COURSE! Yes, I remembered. What a small world. He told me that he'd wanted to talk to me on the flight but didn't think it would be appropriate since I was with my mom. He wondered what I was doing for New Years Eve; I was flying out. He asked me for my number; alas, I didn't know the telephone numbers of any of my relatives and I was hardly at any one place for long enough to take phone calls. He asked me where in town I was staying; I said hell if I knew. He asked me for my email address; I shrugged and gave it to him.

He emailed me a couple of times when we returned home but, for reasons I don't remember, I never replied.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I see that I've received a message on myspace.com (I don't receive many messages on myspace--probably because I never replied to the handful I did receive--so I get very excited when I do see mail in my inbox...is that lame? That's lame, isn't it?) and, lo and behold, it's the same guy. He happened to be cleaning out an old wallet and found the stationary store's card on the back of which I'd written down my name and email address and decided to look me up on myspace. And he found me.

Cue Twilight Zone music...fade out.

EID

Apologies for being a delinquent blogger for five days now. Between Eid and, well, Eid, there was no time for blogging or doing much of anything besides planning Eid festivities.

Eid al-Fitr is the religious holiday marking the end of Ramadan, the Muslim month of fasting. Muslims fast from food, drink, sex and smoking from sunset to sunrise over the course of the month. Abstinence from worldly pleasures is supposed to facilitate a closer, more personal experience of God as well as encourage sympathy for those who are less fortunate. Ramadan provides a great respite from the distracting insanity of the world and one can't help but miss it when it comes to a close.

Eid is something like Christmas: families make that requisite annual trip to a house of worship, give gifts--although only to the little ones--and wear fetching, usually tradional and ALWAYS uncomfortable (well, uncomfortable to me, anyway) clothes (those gorgeous outfits I had tailored in Pakistan have now, officially, reverted to the villanous roles that traditional garb have occupied for most of the 27 years of my life. I was changing into a t-shirt and jeans every opportunity I found yesterday, even if only for fifteen minutes at a time). Last, but not least, as with most of the religious holidays of the world, faces are stuffed, all in the name of God (oh, gluttony, you great equalizer...).

It was good times. Now I'm tired and kicking myself for not having taken the day off to recover.

THE TURTLES, THEY HAVE BEEN NAMED

Oh, yellow-belly turtle of indeterminate gender: I name thee Steve if you are a boy turtle and Stevie if you are a girl, in rememberance of Stephen Robert Irwin, that great wildlife warrior.

Oh, read-ear slider turtle of still-to-be-determined gender: you will hereafter be called Jacques if you are a boy and Jacqueline if you are a girl, in honor of the great underwater explorer Jacques-Yves Costeau.

Go forth, dear turtles and bask in the light of your heating lamp.

CHEVY SILVERADOS MAKE THE NERD CRY

I don't know much about cars but I do know that Chevrolets suck, I don't care for John Mellencamp (although I do like that "Jack and Diane" song) and, frankly, I'm not liking my country these days. And yet, when this ad for the new Chevy Silverado aired five minutes ago on FOX, it made me all choked up and teary eyed. Go figure.

The Nerd Educates Young People About van Gogh, Native Americans and the Art of Conversation, Part II

Oh, and at one point, I asked the boys for their take on Pluto being demoted to a dwarf planet. While the studious boy explained to me why the astronomical community's decision was a wise one, the 7 year old kid (the same one who'd been confused about the Native Americans) simply said: "It makes me sad."

I thought that was beautiful.

The Nerd Educates Young People About van Gogh, Native Americans and the Art of Conversation

My parents threw a party this past weekend. What is a Pakistani party without crazy children being loud, disruptive and posing a threat to themselves and other partygoers? And why, oh why, do I--after 27 years and 7 months of being Pakistani--still become shocked and outraged at the lack of interest most Pakistani parents have in instilling their children with manners? "Oh, they're just kids," I've heard them say time and again. Yes, they're kids, BUT THEY'RE NOT MONKEYS. Teach them how to be human, dammit because they'll be ridiculous adults before you know it.

So, there were three little boys (the oldest was 7; his younger brother and their friend were 5) who were behaving most abhorrently and monkey-like at the party on Saturday. At one point they nearly mowed down this very pregnant woman and after no one else censured, them, I stepped in.

I demanded that they slow down, motioned for them to zip their lips and throw out the keys and sent them--mimicking me--to a smaller room off the community center's main room. Not three minutes had passed when I started hearing a ruckus of Johnny-Depp-trashing-his-hotel-room-back-in-the-day proportions. I walked into the room and the boys froze.

MUST you kids play ALL of the time? I asked them to which they cheekily replied that, yes, they must. I asked them if they'd ever just sat down and talked. No, they told me. Well, what did they do when they weren't running around? They played video games, of course.

And we wonder how George W. was reelected to office. Sigh.

Listen very carefully to me, I said, because the words I'm sharing with you are words of wisdom. YOU MUST LEARN HOW TO TALK TO OTHER PEOPLE, TO CARRY ON CONVERSATION. They looked up at me blankly. But we don't know what to talk about, the smallest of the three boys said. I sighed some more and asked them about what they were learning in school.

The other 5 year, who struck me as a studious type albeit--I won't lie--a bit of a show off, started telling me about a painter who'd, after eating his own paint, gone insane and chopped off his ear. Clearly, his art teacher had reduced Vincent van Gogh to a cautionary tale about the evils of eating finger paint, so I explained to the boys that the verdict was still out among experts about why van Gogh chopped off his ear and eventually committed suiced and that, while some folk do believe that consumption of paint might have been a contributing factor, there are way too many theories out there on the source of his mental illness to definitively conclude anything…unless you're an expert…and a kindergarten art teacher is no expert. I told the 5 year olds to confront the art teacher with this new, expanded information. She'd also, apparently, taught these boys that blue means sad and cold and red means hot. This reminded me of when, several years back, my cousin's children--a boy and a girl, who were 4 and 5 years old at the time--came running up to me and announced: I LIKE PINK, BECAUSE PINK IS FOR GIRLS (said by the girl); AND I LIKE BLUE BECAUSE BLUE IS FOR BOYS (said by the boy). Shudder. I instructed them to tell their teachers that red and blue could mean whatever the hell they wanted the colors to mean. They nodded with wide eyes. The studious boy then proceeded to summarize a book he'd read about King Tut. I told the boys it was very apparent to me that they needed to visit the Met. They promised to ask their parents to take them.

I was surprised when the two younger boys told me they hadn't learned anything about Native Americans while all the older boy knew about them was, "they're dying out, I think. They live someplace else, far away from us" and scratched his head in confusion.

I warned them that the Native American history they were likely going to learn in school would be a sanitized, watered down, bastardization of the truth; that from the moment Columbus first sighted American land, the Native Americans were murdered, marginalized and essentially raped of their humanity. It's a brutal history as most history is. Their task, I told them, is to question the perspectives that their very narrowly focused textbooks present. They said that the would. What's more, they actually appeared to be interested in what I told them and, dammit, they asked me questions! One of the boys (the studious one), my brother later told me, when leaving with his father, told him that a nice lady had been teaching him and his friends about the Native Americans and whether or not they could check out a book on the topic later that week.

This all goes to prove my belief that if you treat children like sub-intelligent alien lifeforms, you're going to raise idiots.They're way smarter than we think they are so, please, start giving them some credit.

SHOES

I had nine pairs of shoes under my desk last Friday. The discovery caught me by surprise. I still don't know exactly how so many shoes made it under there.

Today I have five pairs of shoes under my desk as well as a pair of shoes in my file cabinet.

Clearly, I'm making great strides in office-keeping...

...AND ANSWER SOME MORE...

Anonymous asks:
What's your favorite color?
*probably salmon...or forest green...and magenta...how about plum...gold? (Yah, I have a bunch of 'em)

What month were you born in?
*March

Why are you afraid of love or marriage?
*Forever seems like an awfully long time and I bore very easily.

What's your favorite food?
*sushi

Anonymous II asks:
i think so far noone has asked the questions ms. impatience is looking for. anyone else get that feeling?
*Effin' NO. Ew.

Passion:
Whats your kyptonite?
*My weakness: hot nerds. Geeky nerds. Nerds. They make me lose my senses.

Will sabilak meet passion when hes in NJ?
*SabilaK doesn't know Passion, so probably not. Sorry.

BigKahuna:
What is the issue of the Nerddd not being married? Is there a notion of a limit existing that once past the Nerddd would not be able to find a suitable partner?
*According to amma: Younger women and men make more attractive brides and grooms.

If a belt-loop breaks on your Levis 501s - would you take it as a sign to get new jeans, or repair?
*If they're my favorite jeans, I'd try my darndest to save them.

Anonymous:
I have the perfect guy for you. Will you communicate with him(email, phone call, in person) and then marry him, please? He's in Jersey, has been loking for a decent(LOL)girl. You've been looking for a decent (LOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL) guy. So why not? Okay ,that's 2 questions.
*Anonymous, REVEAL YOURSELF! You mysterious folks freak me out a little. I'll think about it only and ONLY if he has at least one over the shoulder studio portrait!

nWe:
1. Family Ties or Diff'rent Strokes?
*Family Ties. I sweated Alex P. Keaton when I was a kid.

2. MacGyver or Michael Knight? (I'm quite torn here, personally)
*Eff. MacGyver was so damned resourceful and MK was so damned hot. I'll go with MacGyver but only if he comes with Kit.

3. Muppet Babies or Duck Tales?
*OH DEFINITELY MUPPET BABIES

4. Def Leppard or Bon Jovi? (Again, I'm torn)
*Bon Jovi (as a kid, I thought Def Leppard was actually DEAD Leppard for the longest time. Then, on a long drive to North Carolina, I asked my brothers to play the Def Leppard cassette and they were like, "Seriously, you're a geek.")

5. Restaurant in the city you're dying to try but haven't yet
*Mesa Grill; plans always seem to fall through.

Cocaine (oh my, what an interesting moniker) asks:

1. I have an ongoing debate with my best buddies about the most famous athlete in the world - we are putting Tiger Woods vs David Beckham..whats your take on that?
DB because soccer is such a more popular sport than golf. And didn't a survey reveal that DB is more recognizable than the late Pope (not this current crazy we have)? Or was that Michael Jordan...

2. In a watercooler discussion at work today, one of my colleauges wondered out aloud if there was a word with 4 vowels, in a sequence. We havent found one yet, are you familiar with one?
*one of my favorite words of all time, as a matter of fact: onomatopoeia.

3.Why do you refer to yourself as the nerd?
*I knew the answer to the above question, didn't I?

Yet another Anonymous asks:
Has the Nerd ever been in love?
*Nope.

Has the Nerd ever had her heart broken?
*Yup.

Has the Nerd ever been passionately kissed?
*The Nerd doesn't kiss and tell.

The darling Mist asks:

Creamy or crunchy peanut butter?
*Sometimes the Nerd feels like a nut; sometimes she doesn't (Just for the record, I mostly feel like the former)

Fiesty Nusrat asks:
Will you hurry up and get laid already?
*Ahem. Cough. Ahem. Oh, is that a book I see...I'm afraid I have to go read now...for work...ahem.

...AND THE NERD SHALL ANSWER...

Oh eff. I wasn't expecting quite this many questions; I'll try my best to answer them to my readers' satisfaction.

Big Kahuna asks:

1. Yankees or Mets?
*Yankees. I happen to be a HUGE baseball fan. Some of my fondest childhood memories are of watching baseball for what seemed like hours and hours on lazy Sunday afternoons with my brothers and my father. Not only did I grow up a Yankees fan but I fell in LOVE with the history. One of my favorite films of all time is Ken Burns' documentary, BASEBALL; it was also one of my favorite gifts of all time, given to me by my brother on the occassion of my high school graduation. I'm in annual homerun derbies with guys from work and have had to extricate myself from the all-consuming obsession that is fantasy baseball.
So, my answer is Yankees. Ahem.
Okay, that answer was way long. Sorry.

2. What is the best thing about your job?
*The people I work with, the books I read (Okay, that's two things, so tar and feather me!)

3. What is your favorite word?
*Dude, I have like a plethora of favorite words, I can't just pick one.

4. What is your least favorite word?
*Crab

5. What turns you on creatively, spiritually or emotionally?
*literature

6. What turns you off?
*posers

7. What is your favorite curse word?
*Asshole

8. What sound or noise do you love?
*the popping of microwaveable popcorn

9. What sound or noise do you hate?
*That sickening thud of a car hitting a person. Sucks.

10. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?
*I'd like to man a cash register at ShopRite. I've always been semi-obsessed with scanning product barcodes and punching in the numbers when the scanner thing doesn't work.

11. What profession would you not like to do?
*Being a surrogate mother must suck.

12. If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?
*Trust me, this place rocks.

ASK THE NERD

Go on. Ask me a question, any question.

...45 minutes later...
Okay, you, the reader, can ask any of the other readers questions as well...how about THAT!

...1 hour later...
How about this: you can ask my mom questions! I'll totally ask her for you.

...1.5 hours later...
Will someone bloody ask me an effin' question already?!

...2 hours later...
Thanks for asking me questions about myself--I promise I'll answer them tonight--but just want to let readers know that I can dish out advice (walking disaster and all, I WAS voted Peer Helper in high school) as well. So, go ahead, ask me for advice, if you'd like.

THE NERD DOES HER READERS PROUD: Part III

I know that my readers are wondering if, by dabbling in the world of cool, I'm on the verge of losing my nerdy ways. Without the Nerd, "Revenge of the Nerddd" is simply "Revenge of the" and not only do two wrongs (I'm referring to revenge, of course) fail miserably in making a right but "Revenge of the" is also a deplorably incomplete statement, begging for a noun--ANY noun--and, in turn, asking for trouble.

Rest assured, dear readers, that towards the close of last night's festivities, when asked by a few folks with whom I was speaking for my card, I replied (perhaps a bit too) enthusiastically, "YOU SHOULD READ MY BLOG!"
I then proceeded to scribble my blog's URL on the back of my cards.

Cough. Ahem. Cough.

...and the universe sighs with relief...

THE NERD DOES HER READERS PROUD: Part II

So, when offered an alcohol beverage during my weekend festivities, I declined, explaining to the offerer that I am a teetotaler. I didn't look like a teetotaler, she commented, which begs the question, what DOES a teetotaler look like?

THE NERD DOES HER READERS PROUD

My readers will be proud to know that their Nerd has partied three nights straight and awoken no earlier than noon for the third day in a row.

What IS the world coming to?

GIANT

I had just exited a subway station last night--was uptown for film festivities--when I decided to purchase Altoids (fasting all day isn't conducive to fresh breath). With wallet in hand and standing next to a pair of women, I scanned the varieties of Altoids on display, struggling to decide which flavor I wanted.

Suddenly, one of the women said, very casually, "You have something on your wallet."

I couldn't see anything on my wallet so I looked up at her quizzically.

"It's, ah, crawling," she added.

I looked down just in time to see a GIANT moth crawling up towards my hand. It was GIANT. GINORMOUS. The size of a rat or a pack of cards or an Altoids tin!

Naturally, I became all fluttery and "ah-ah-ah"d as I tried to shake the moth off of my wallet without injuring it. The women instructed me to shake my wallet harder and I "oh-my-God"d and shook my wallet harder. But that moth was there to stay. That moth wanted me to know that it was the boss. And I didn't have a problem with it's boss-dom or anything; I was just kindly asking it to take it's bossiness elsewhere. It took me squatting down and tapping the my wallet against a crate outside the newsstand to finally get rid of that moth.

But that's not the kicker, readers. What the woman told me next is the kicker:

"That moth was actually walking on your neck and it looked like it was about to go down your shirt before it flew to your wallet--"

--insert squeak of horror here--

"--and I asked her," pointing to her mostly quiet friend, "if I should tell you."

I squeaked and fluttered in horror for a while longer before paying for the bloody Altoids and hauling ass out of there BUT seriously, what kind of person doesn't tell someone else that A FREAKIN' MOSS IS TAKING A WALK DOWN HER NECK (AND POTENTIALLY DOWN HER SHIRT). Did she think the moth was an accessory? And exactly how long had I been wearing said moth?

I'd rather not think about it. Shudder.

FYI

Note to all past, present and future objects of my affection: it's very likely that you will never see this Nerd's funny, charming, witty, intelligent and eloquent side. Instead, I am reduced to a silly, blabbering, blushing, inarticulate idiot for whom English might as well be a ninth language. You can almost hear my suddenly kamikaze brain cells taking a suicide plunge when I'm in your company. It's silly and ridiculous and likely means that I'll be alone forever. Which is fine. Just thought you should know that I'm a whole lot cooler when I'm not around you and your type...just an fyi...that's for your information...because I like informing...and reading...and stuff...AHEM...I'll go now.

BONES AND BITCHINESS

So, walking home with the trainer last night, he told me that he and another client of his had been talking about me the other day. He'd said something like, "That girl doesn't have a mean bone in her body,"* to which this other client, a kindly gentleman with whom I'm also acquainted, replied, "Well, that's unfortunate then because all it means is that she'll get walked over in life."

Wow.
What he said implies that I'm going to be a sad, sorry, trodden-upon failure in my personal and, quite possibly, my professional life. Which isn't necessarily true but it sure does make me wonder if that's what people think of me.

*And, dammit, I do have mean bones. I hate on people I don't like ALL the time. As a matter of fact, I might've walked all over quite a few:

Like this one time, I glared down this dude who was talking smack about my big brother (and my big brother couldn't say or do anything because of circumstances)...then I started tearing up because it was so emotionally intense, but I still HATE that dude and talk to him all bitchy-like when I have to talk to him (because on top of everything else, he's a MISOGYNIST!)which, luckily, isn't very often at all.

Oh, and this one time, when I was a tween, my mom and I were at a department store on the day of a big post-Christmas clearance sale and this woman tried to cut in front of us and then said something very rude to my mom and I totally told her off, even though my mother was trying to stop me and I was all like, "No, who the HELL do you think you are, talking to my MOTHER like that. I WANT YOU TO APOLOGIZE RIGHT NOW!" She was a bloody asshole but her poor husband was crap-scared of me at the time and apologized profusely on her behalf. So, I did end up tearing up a little while I was telling the mega bitch off, so what.

I guess it's also time to face the fact that I, too, participated in group teasing a kid when I was in elementary school. In many ways, she was lower than even I was in the school food chain and what prey wouldn't relish the rare opportunity to be predator?

And, even though I try very hard not to judge, I'm icy with folks for whom I don't have very much respect; in all honesty, I actually enjoy being icy to such folks. And I DON'T even tear up (although I do occassionally become sad and regretful when people try to change my opinion about them, but let's not talk about that).

So, see, I do have mean bones.

Reasons Why One Shouldn't Make Appointments of Any Sort at 8:30 on a Saturday Morning...

...Especially During Ramadan OR Why Our Nerd Hearts Her Hairstylist

It was a great error in judgement that prompted you to ask for the earliest available appointment with B, your hairstylist, for this past Saturday. Sure, you're one of those sick people who are up at practically the crack of dawn on most weekends, managing to fit in a long run, a wholesome breakfast and 1.5 errands all before 10AM. (Un)Fortunately, that "seize the day" bullshit attitude becomes just as meaningless to you on the weekends as it is to most of the population during the month of Ramadan. You realize too late that your exhausted body wants nothing more than to sleep in until--gulp--noon.

Instead, less than two hours after waking up for Suhoor--the light meal eaten before dawn by Muslims who then fast from dawn to dusk during Ramadan--you stumble out of your apartment towards the train station in more than a bit of a delirious stupor. And it's all a bad idea.

1) Interstate travel in a delirious stupor makes about as much sense as operating a unicycle while drunk: it's not a good idea. Luckily, there isn't much traffic on the streets (clearly, your town is populated by normal folks who sleep normal weekend hours) so, you manage to arrive at the train station in one piece;

2) You can't rely on caffeine while fasting, genius. Well, you can't rely on any solid or liquid sustenance but we all know that you, just like most of your fellow metropolitan dwellers, rely on that brown brewed nectar of the java gods for that morning jolt, which you simply can't have on this particular Saturday. Which is, once again, bad news. Once on the platform, there are many hazards present for one in a delirious-like stupor, ie, falling onto the tracks (a la Sleepless in Seattle; sigh, what a heartwarming romantic comedy), following a candy-offering (or, in this case, caffeine-offering) stranger and, last, but not least...

3) ...getting on the wrong train and not realizing that you're on the wrong train until you--after wondering for the briefest of moments why the train isn't going into Manhattan by way of Hoboken as it usually does on weekends--arrive at the wrong station. You're not supposed to swear out loud while fasting, so you read down a long and colorful list of obscenities in your mind. And it's rather satisfying.

4) So, because of your not so wonderful delirious stupor, you are now at the wrong station. You will have to return to the station whence you came in order to catch the right train into the city and everything should be fine, right? Wrong. Why? Because it's the weekend and the train runs on a retarded, one train every freakin' leap year schedule on the weekends. Effin' hell.

5) But you gotta do what you gotta do. So, you walk to other platform, from where trains run in the opposite direction. Strangely, you find yourself alone on the platform. You shrug and you wait. Every now and then a garbled message is played over the PA but you ignore it because you're not really all there. You're sort of nodding off, actually. Five minutes pass, then ten minutes and when the PA goes off a fifth time, you force your eyes and ears open; it is only then that you are able to make out what the hell the stupid Port Authority is trying to tell you: the platform on which you've been waiting patiently for over ten minutes, is, in fact, effin' closed for the weekend.

6) Wide awake now, you haul ass back to the platform whence you came and wait as patiently as you can for the train to arrive. But now it's 8:05 and the trains are running on the slow ass dumbass schedule and you know you're going to be late. And this is effed because you don't want to miss your appointment. And you're cold. And sleepy. And still very out of it. And you want to cry but instead, you just tap your foot, look at your watch and mutter to yourself.

7) The train arrives at 8:15. You return to your home station at 8:18. You curse the weekend schedule.

8) The train you must take arrives at 8:30. You're effed.

9) WHY THE EFF MUST THE PUSSY-WHIPPED TRAIN GO THROUGH EFFIN' POSER HOBOKEN ON THE WEEKENDS? WHY DOESN'T THE HOBOKEN LINE RUN? AND WHY THE HELL DOES THE TRAIN HAVE TO SIT IN THAT STANK UGLY BLUE ASS STATION FOR LIKE AN HOUR BEFORE IT MOVES AGAIN? MUST WE MAKE SURE EVERY SINGLE YUPPIE WASHED OUT FRAT BOY VAMPIRE IS ON BOARD BEFORE PULLING OUT? IS THAT REALLY NECESSARY.

10) The train pulls out of Hoboken at 8:38. Your heart sinks when you realize that the train will enter your destination station in reverse; meaning that your genius strategy of getting in the last car, thereby ensuring that once the train stops, yours will be the car closest to the exit, has backfired. You're dead last. You suck.

11) You arrive at your destination station at 8:43. You still need to walk a good 10 minutes to make it to the salon, so you decide to flail down a cab as you frantically call the salon to tell them you're on your way.

12) The goddamn cabbie finds every freakin' red light on the way to the salon and you hate him a little. You also hate being an ungratefully rude biatch, but you can't help but throw dollar bills at him as you scramble out of the cab. You forget to say thanks.

13) You finally arrive, nearly 20 minutes late and there, standing by the door is your hairstylist, B. Upon seeing him, you begin to blather about the horrible morning you're having, stuttering and stammering and near tears. He calmly pats your hand and says reassuringly: "The trains are a NIGHTMARE on the weekends, AREN'T they? NIGHTMARE! But you're here. Breathe in and out darling. There we go. In and out. Feeling better now are we? Wow, you do look lovely first thing in the morning. And how HORRIBLE are men? Don't you HATE them sometimes..."

...and somehow, it all almost seems worth it...

YOU KNOW IT'S A BAD START TO THE WEEK WHEN.....

...you respond to your assistant's morning greeting by bursting into tears.....................and then blog about it for everyone---family, friends, strangers, colleagues, frienemies---to read.

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!

REGINA SPEKTOR AT THE TOWN HALL

After waiting for what felt like forever (okay, a month), I finally saw Regina Spektor perform at Town Hall last night. She is a virtuoso at the piano, her voice is lovely and versatile, her song lyrics odd but charming, and she was a totally engaging performer on stage. It was an AMAZING show. You guys really need to check her out. There really isn't anyone else out there like her.

DEAR LADY (OR LADIES, REALLY) AT WORK: I DON'T HATE YOU, SO DON'T BE AFRAID OF ME

Dear lady (or ladies, really) at work:

Quit staring at me like I'm a freak with two heads, who might steal your husband and/or suicide bomb you at any moment. Just for the record, I have one head like everyone else, I don't know your husband but am sure that I wouldn't be that into him even if I did know him, so no worries there, and I don't believe in explosive devices, death or mayhem; I believe in books. So, the next time I smile at you, try not to give me that panicky oh-my-Jeebus-why-is-that-slutty-ethnic-girl-who-I-bet-wants-to-boink-my-poor-sweet-(insert name of poor sweet hubby here)-and-then-suicide-bomb-all-of-us-staring-at-me look and just smile back. It won't kill you. You might find that it even allays your anxieties. Or you may want to think about medicating yourself.

Thanks for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
The Nerd

OH SIGH: ABSURDITIES ABOUND or WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO? Part III

Back when I decided to dive right back into the matchmaking pool for nothing more than the amusement of my readers, a few friends told me that a) I was playing with people’s feelings and that b) I was a bad, heartless, soulless, shell of a woman for playing with people’s feelings.

This was all confirmed on Wednesday. Earlier that morning, I’d told my mother (via my brother…ahem), that, after lukewarmly entertaining one rishta, I was ready to bow out of the matchmaking game. I thought I could go through with it, that it wouldn’t be such a big deal; whereas last time I was perpetually angry about being put in the most absurd situations, I was asking for it this time, wasn’t I? I was in control.

Yah, not so much. Just the thought of having my photo shopped around, regardless of whether or not I’m a complying participant in the game, simply does not sit well with me (I’d be a terrible investigative reporter…or an undercover secret agent…or a wildlife filmmaker/cameraman/photographer). Furthermore, as much as I was all gung ho about meeting guys (who were probably serious about getting hitched) for shits and giggles, I just can’t do it. Who was I kidding?

So, back to my mom: she was upset on Wednesday night. She wasn’t angry because she’s rarely ever angry (and anger is, in many ways, so much easier to deal with, right?). She was heartbreakingly, gut-wrenchingly, “I’m-giving-up-on-you-and-wonder-if-I’ll-live-to-see-the-day-you’re-married” upset.

I love my mother fiercely. She’s more than my mom; she’s one of my closest friends. Our love for one another is truly unmatched in its unconditionality. So, yes, I felt lower than low when I saw how much my actions had hurt her. Looking at the situation from her perspective, all she wants is to see me happy. I was wrong in taking advantage of her good intentions.

Clearly, I’m a bad, heartless, soulless shell of a woman.

After a few days of being curt and despondent, she’s pretty much back to her happy, lovely, cheerful self. I’m still trying super hard to make it up to her though. I thought that surprising her with a Regina Spektor show would be grand until I realized that she could probably give two rats’ asses about Regina Spektor. I’m still mulling over the idea, however. She might end up loving RS and the night out on town would probably be a nice break for her (or not so much; for the record, I SUCK when it comes to knowing what people want and I’m the worst gift-giver on the planet; I ALWAYS, ALWAYS go over the top...or I forget about birthdays and other gift-giving occasions altogether, which isn't any better).

Any ideas from my readers will be much appreciated.

HAPPY RAMADAN or HOW I SPENT MY SUNDAY

There's nothing quite like cleaning out the refrigerator, mopping the floors, rearranging the contents of the kitchen cabinets, ordering an absurd amount of kitchen storage products from the Container Store and then running 6 miles all while fasting.

OH SIGH: ABSURDITIES ABOUND or WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO? Part II

I'm not going to say very much about RANDOM DUDE because there isn't very much to say. I spoke to him on Tuesday night. He didn't come across as the socially inept fool that my cousin painted him to be, although he did sound like he was on a job interview. He didn't laugh or crack jokes. Still he was perfectly fine: articulate, into where he lives (which is quite a few state lines away from the greater NY/NJ area) and what he does for a living (he's in the number-crunching, mostly soulless world of finance), into grass and trees (shudder), hiking and kayaking (fun); he also seemed to be pretty open-minded (for shock value, I told him I'm a vegetarian and I don't enjoy cooking almost as soon as we started talking--he didn't comment about it at all, actually but he didn't gasp in horror either, which is always a good thing).

Who knows, had we met somewhere outside of the confines of arranged marriage, perhaps we'd hit it off. Alas, there are too many directors hovering over us in this particular production and I'm a firm believer that nothing truly genuine can come of something that is, essentially, staged.

And I've upset my mother in a most major way. I'll explain in part III.

THE MATRIMONIAL BANQUET AT ISNA...

...I alternated between shuddering and laughing when I first read this Times article a couple of days ago. I'd love to hear what non-Muslims think about all of this silly matchmaking craziness. And, just for the record, even my mom feels that some of the mothers and (ALL) clergylike folks interviewed in the article are kooky and wholly ridiculous.

Winner of the best mom ever from the article: the education professor who suggests a group called Mothers Against Dating--modeled on Mothers Against Drunk Driving.

It's Muslim Boy Meets Girl, But Don't Call it Dating

OH SIGH: ABSURDITIES ABOUND or OH MAN, WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO NOW? PART I

For consistency's sake, I will continue to refer to this person my family wants me to get hitched to as RANDOM DUDE and a reminder to readers that this is only the first part of a three-post tale, which will end with me, in an attempt to make it up to my mother, trying to figure out a way to trick her into going to the Regina Spektor concert with me.

Part I (Tuesday, September 19th, 4:30PM)

My cousin, the same one who found RANDOM DUDE for me, called me at work. Before I knew it (and as I racked my brain for an excuse NOT to speak to her), I was suckered into a dreaded rishta conversation.

A few winners from our conversation:

1) RD is totally into the idea of meeting me and us getting hitched based on seeing a handful of my pics—which, clearly, show what a great and decent person I am.
2) I should be able to determine whether or not RD is a great, decent person and perfect husband material based on a single fuzzy photograph in which his face is the size of a pencil eraser.
3) RD was shown another chick’s pic hours before he saw mine. This chick is a PHYSICIAN (yah, who the eff isn’t is my point) but he just wasn’t that into her and was quick to communicate that to my cousin. So he’s totally serious about me…and my pics.
4) My cousin decided to pimp me off to him because I’m so great…and 27…and STILL single…….I should be grateful or something.
5) It took me close to 40 minutes to explain to my cousin that I’d get a better sense of whether or not I was into RD at all by being allowed to talk to him on the phone at least one time.
6) My cousin thinks that I won’t know a person any better or worse after any number of conversations. If she was in my shoes, she’d want to meet RD face to face. That way, my parents could talk to his mom in one room while the two of us could hang out in a different room and I could ask him questions to try to ascertain what he’s like. You know, like his favorite color…and his astrological sign…and what he really thinks about Justin Timberlake...
7) I finally had to tell my cousin that what I'm actually trying to ascertain is whether or not it’s worth my time and his time to travel past several state lines in order to meet.
8) My cousin thinks that the best anyone can do in such a situation is try to determine whether or not a person is decent (again, this can be determined after one face to face conversation) and then, leave the ultimate decision to her parents.
9) Um, NO to number 8.
10) My cousin wanted to know what kinds of questions I’d ask to determine whether RD is, in fact, my type of random dude. I explained to her that I’m quite skilled at conversing on the phone and have never previously felt the need to draw up a list of questions or talking points and that chances are that I won’t be doing so for this conversation.
11) An especially kind and thoughtful nugget of wisdom: Even if two people really, REALLY like each other, talking too often has a way of spoiling any potential romance.
12) My own nugget of information: Trust me, I have no plans of talking to RD for hours or days.
13) There really aren’t any differences between people raised in America and those raised overseas.
14) Cousin: Marriage is about compromise.
15) Me: DUH.
16) RD is shy on the phone…
17) …but then again, my cousin has only spoken to him once…
18) …and she’s never actually met RD…
19) …but she does get the impression that he’s never spoken to a woman on the phone…
20) …sure, she suspects that he must talk to women at work…
21) …but, still, it doesn’t seem like he’s spoken to women in a more romantic or intimate capacity…
22) if I REALLY want to talk to him, she’ll arrange it but she’ll make sure to rephrase the suggestion so that it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from me.

Sigh.
I’ll tell you about the actual telephone conversation between me and RD tomorrow in Part II of this absurd story.

OMG

OMG
Effin' hell.
I'm getting myself into all kinds of rishta-related crap here.

And, I swear, someone from the extended family is going to stumble across my blog resulting in all kinds of delightful and I will officially be blacklisted from matchmaking circles for life.

Will post about rishta-related crapiness tonight.

DEAR LADY WHO FOLLOWED ME INTO THE LADY'S ROOM YESTERDAY: AN OPEN LETTER

Dear lady who followed me into the lady's room at work yesterday:

I don't hate you but I don't like you either.

I mean, seriously, did you HAVE to use the stall next to the stall I walked into? Weren't there 8 other stalls from which to choose? Your right foot-in-a-sandal was in plain sight and I was painfully aware of the fact that you could see my left-foot-in-a-heel, which led me to feel very self-conscious about peeing in a stall next to a stranger, which, in turn, made me muse for a moment about the public toilet phenomenon and how bizarre it is, really, to, essentially, take a piss in a room-full of people.

You made the experience a wholly distressing one and I'm very unhappy about it.

Next time, if you are trailing me into a mostly empty lady's room, please consider settling for a stall that is not next to my stall and preferablly on the opposite end of the bathroom.

Thanks for your consideration in this most delicate matter.

Best,
Nerddd

INTERVENTION

Dinner with my parents this weekend somehow morphed into a convince-Sabila-to-talk-to-some-random-dude-on-the-phone intervention. I still don't know vital information about the dude because my mother couldn't remember and everyone was too busy intervening to care, really. In all fairness, my cousins did email this guy's CV and his pic to my parents last week and I was told to take a look at both on Friday but then my mother mentioned something about him having moved to the States four years ago and I, stubbornly, refused to open the email attachments

So, the following pieces of vital information are still shrouded in mystery:

1) random dude's name (thus the "random dude" moniker is aptly appointed)
2) random dude's location (I have a feeling that he's NOT from the tri-state area)
3) random dude's age
4) random dude's occupation (although doctor or computer engineer are both safe bets)
5) random dude's culinary skills

I do have the following guidelines once I'm ready to make the call:

1) I can carry on the conversation for as long as I deem appropriate (the general consensus at the table was that I'd have this person figured out in 3 minutes...I don't think my family realizes what a lousy judge of character I can be sometimes)
2) yes, I CAN mention that I'm a vegetarian and that I don't cook
3) no, I CANNOT refer him to my blog
4) referring a rishta referred to us by our relatives to my blog would be grounds for a family feud. It would be bad new.
5) I like talking. I talk a lot. I can talk for hours. I am not to make this conversation last for longer than an hour (my response: trust me, that ain't happening)
6) it can certainly make for an entertaining story

Oh, and if random dude has googled me, found my blog and is now reading this post...er, hi...ahem.........don't take this personally or anything.........oy.

THE JOY OF TATTS

Imagine my joy and excitement when I spotted TungToos standing alongside the boring gums and mints on the candy and magazine rack of the checkout lane next to where I was getting ready to pay for the assortment of veggie meats, bagged spinach, grapes, and a toy for Zanadune at my local grocery store a couple of weekends ago. A spider tattoo adorned an exaggeratedly long cartoon tongue on the package and I was intrigued. I had to have it but, clearly, it was too late for me to step out of line to grab a couple of the packaged-in-pink-foil-candy-tattoos-for-the-tongue-gloriousness. So, I called out to the cashier working that checkout line and asked her for them. She asked her next customer on line, an older, librarian type, to pass a couple of the TungToos my way and she did, a bit suspiciously, but what did I care? I was already busy imagining what my TungToos would look like!

As soon as I got home, I dropped the groceries on the kitchen counter and ran to the bathroom to try my first TungToo: a banana-flavored smiley face. As per the instructions, I held the sugared stamp flat against my tongue for 3 seconds and carefully lifted it off to reveal a bright smiley face on my tongue. My mom didn't bother hiding her disgust when I exited the bathroom, with my tongue sticking out a la Gene Simmons. She was on the verge of disowning me when I whipped out my telephone to snap a few shots of my smiley-faced tongue.

The pics are, admittedly, obscene and I'm a bit hesitant to post them up here (I never realized how bizarre my tongue looks, especially when sporting a smiley face) However, so as not to disappoint my readers, I am posting a pic of a temporary tatt that I applied with a colleague in the ladies room (to the surprise and confusion of ladies who happened upon us dabbing on images from Atomic Betty just below our clavicle regions) at work today. I was a bit disappointed that I went with, not Atomic Betty, but her rocket ship. It looked rather like a welt.

WAVES, SMILES AND WITCHES: How the Nerd Got the Cold Shoulder as She Myofacially Released at a Strange and Unfamiliar Gym

So, I finally put my NYSC passport membership to good use last night and ventured to a different club (I'm a creature of habit and a reassuring fixture at my NYSC of choice). Naturally, once inside the gym, I was nonplussed my new surroundings. I wandered around asking a million questions of a million strangers (I'm not ashamed to ask questions. Strangely enough, I HATED asking questions, talking to strangers, etc, as a child. My parents and brothers used to force me to do the talking when we were calling for takeout, booking reservations or whatever. They thought it would break me out of my shy shell. I HATED it at the time but I guess it worked).

In this mass of confusion and newness, imagine my relief when I saw a familiar face stretching beside me. This little wisp of a dude who works out at my gym, was doing an ineffectual stretch on his belly. He's totally misinformed and needs a lesson or two in working out but who am I to judge, right? Anyway, I flashed him a brilliant smile of recognition and waved his way.

And what did he do???
HE ROLLED HIS EYES AT ME AND LOOKED AWAY!

Seriously, like how rude was he. It's not like I was going to talk to him or anything. I was concentrating on myofacially releasing for sweet Jeebus' sake! And it IS nice to see a familiar face in an unfamiliar location, isn't it?! And it's not like he doesn't recognize me because him and his boyfriend are ALWAYS gawking at me when I train with my trainer (Clearly impressed by my superior skills. Clearly). I hate bitching about people and almost always let things slide but, honestly, I was a bit offended by this guy's eye roll and head turn. I think he's just jealous of how freakin' popular I am.

I'm still annoyed. And he's a witch. I'd like to roll my eyes at HIM when I see him again but, being as aggressively (and unintentionally, really) amiable as I am, I'll probably just smile at him again, saving the wave for when he's over his bitter jealousy.

WINNING WORDS FROM THE NERD'S MOTHER

I want to preface this post by reiterating that my mother truly doesn't mean any malicious intent when she says these things. It's almost as if she's thinking aloud.
So, without any further ado, I present to you some interrogatives, advice and observations spoken by my mother over the years.
She's truly one of a kind:

X (identity shall remain anonymous) has been engaged three times and you can't manage to get engaged once.

AND

Just try not to talk so much the next time you're out with a boy.

OR (this one she threw at me years ago as I was getting ready for to meet a boy, who is a FRIEND)

Have you talked to him about marriage yet?

LOVE AND THE CONJOINED TWIN

Last week's 20/20 featured conjoined twins and the growing interest in the psychological aftermath of separation. The oldest living female conjoined twins, Reba and Lori Schappell, who are joined at the head and have chosen not to be separated, were also interviewed for the show. These women have distinct and dynamic personalities: they've recorded a country music album, appeared in film and television and one of the twins has always had a very healthy romantic life (she currently has a boyfriend). For bioethicists, they are living proof that separation isn't the only option for conjoined twins. One expert even noted that when studying conjoined twins throughout history, she was surprised to discover that most of them were not only okay being conjoined but also saw theirs as a superior state of being.

My mother's very thoughtful reaction to Reba and Lori Schappell's story:

"Sabila, even women joined at the heads have boyfriends."

At least she left it at that and didn't harp on it.

PEACE

SUNDAY MORNING BRUNCH W/ A SIDE OF AN ULTIMATUM

Abu wanted us to have a family meeting over Sunday brunch. Amma delivered the message to my brother and me over the course of the previous week (my oldest brother wasn't invited--lucky him. I guess being the eldest has some perks. Blah), in order to make sure that we'd all be around. I imagine that my brother's initial reaction echoed my own “Oh no,” but my mother was quick to reassure me that it wasn’t a big deal, that abu just wanted to talk. The two of us confabbed about the reasons why abu would want to convene a family meeting and came pretty damn close to the truth.

So, we shouldn’t have been as shocked as we were when, earlier today, abu smacked us with an ultimatum as we happily brunched on omelets, bujiya, halwa and parhatas. He told us that if we didn’t prove to him that we’re serious about getting married by December, he and my mother would move to Pakistan.

Now, this ultimatum—so, so wrong at its very core—is also flawed. First of all, my father hasn’t lived in Pakistan since 1973. Even when we vacation there today, he starts becoming agitated after a week’s time, sighing about how he’s ready to return home. So, we can totally see that he’s bluffing. Secondly, everyone who knows my father knows that he would be in constant distress if there was an ocean between him and his children. It’s just the way he is. When we were growing up, our mother would tend to our childhood cuts, scrapes and illnesses because the sight of his children in pain was the only thing that could make this tall, intimidating giant of a man dissolve into tears. Third, a couple of my parents best friends are moving to India for good at the end of the year so, it’s very apparent to us that, instead of thinking logically and recognizing how ridiculous this ultimatum is, he’s becoming nostalgic and wistful about the motherland. Fourth, although he’s more or less healthy right now, my father does suffer from a couple of chronic conditions and the usual aches and pain that come with age and is very aware of his mortality. For this obvious reason, he wants to see us live as much as we can in his lifetime. Which is fair…and probably not a reason why his ultimatum is flawed…but I wanted to throw that out there as well.

Finally, my mother, would never allow for such a ridiculous ultimatum to stand. I am saddened that my readers don’t know my mother in real life, that they aren’t familiar with the strong, dependable, intelligent, dynamic, devoted, loving, funny and charming person she really is; that, instead, they are acquainted only with the slivers of personality about which I, in my moments of exasperation, annoyance and anger, blog. She recognizes this as a nonsensical situation and ultimately cares only about the happiness of her children (not without a few harmless attempts at manufacturing that happiness on her own) more than anyone else.

My brother spoke for us when he said we would entertain rishtas our parents found for us but it would be impossible for us to determine our compatibility with these people without a proper amount of time devoted to getting to know (ie dating) said individuals. And my readers will never guess what my mother’s response to this was (I say “never,” because you guys simply don’t know her). She said that she prefers we meet people on our own (without their meddling) because we know what we’re looking for in a mate, better than anyone else!

By the end of the meeting, my father reiterated the “I-need-to-see-something-positive-by-December-or-else-your-mother-and-I-are-moving-to-Paksitan” deadline, my mother said something about doing it on our own but not taking our sweet time, while my brother tried to explain to them that there it is virtually impossible to attach a timetable to the natural progressions of life.

I was uncharacteristically quiet(er than usual) during this family meeting because it raised questions for me that only I can answer. Am I ready for marriage? No, probably not. Am I ready for a committed relationship that will eventually lead to marriage? Yes, probably. Am I doing anything to meet a guy with whom I can have a committed relationship that will lead to marriage? Nope. Do I expect the perfect dude (for me) to randomly fall into my lap when I’m not in the least bit expecting him? Absolutely. Will it ever be that effortless? Never. Why am I not (seriously) putting myself out there? I don’t know. Do I feel totally exposed and vulnerable by blogging about this? Yes, definitely.

So, the two of us are going to revisit (um, ignore) the deadline as my brother continues meeting girls and I decide on exactly how I’m going to proceed (because I'm not a fan of dating...).

A MORNING SURPRISE (W/ A SIDE OF ANTIBIOTICS) or WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE A GINORMOUS BLISTER?

I got back from my 8AM run this morning to find a blister the size of Texas on my foot. No, seriously, folks, it's a gargantuan (close to 2 inches) villain squatting on the arch of my right foot, and surrounded by an obscene ring of red. Naturally, I did what all Desis in medical distress do: I phoned one of my dozens of physician relatives.

My cousin explained that the obscene ring of red around the blister meant that it was probably infected. Thankfully, the blister had popped during my run, so all I have to do now is keep it clean, daubed with Neosporin and wrapped when I'm walking around. But I also have to take antibiotics, which my cousin called in for me, twice a day for ten days.

I run a lot and it's not like I haven't had blisters before or anything (my mother started bemoaning the sorry state of my feet from the moment I started running). This particular blister, however, is amazing. Naturally, I took a photo of it with my cell phone (to my mother's utter shock, disgust, and disappointment). Having taken a look at it just now, I don't think the photo is for the faint of heart, so, unless there's a public outcry for the pic, I won't be posting it. Take my word for it: it's gross.

BACK ON THE MARKET: Oh Crap (part III) or A Further Discussion About Appropriate Photos

Apparently, my photos aren't good enough to be circulated to random families of random eligible bachelors in a certain southern city and I'm pretty ticked off.

Remember back when my mom was on my back for rishta photos that she and my dad could send out across the country (http://revengeofthenerddd.blogspot.com/2006/08/back-on-market-oh-crap-part-ii.html)? I finally succumbed to the nagging and ended up emailing six of my Friendster (ahem) photos to my dad, who then passed them out to cousins everywhere. Well, a pair of my cousins informed my mother today that the photos might be a bit inappropriate. So, my mother gave me the when-embarking-on-the-wonderous-journey-of-pimping-a-daughter-one-should-only-share-"appropriate"-and-by-"appropriate"-I-mean-you-dressed-in-native-garb-photos-with-interested-families talk.

I am pissed because:

1) there's absolutely nothing wrong with the pics that my cousins have at the moment.
2) I've worn native garb like twice in the past nine months, which equates to like three pics on my computer, one of which was bloody well included in the six I emailed to my father.
3) I hardly ever wear native garb, so why the hell should I misrepresent myself to these effin' strangers I already dislike?
4) to hell with people who think they'll have me all figured out by looking at a photo of me.
5) what the hell has happend to my progressive and open-minded parents?
6) is it just me or are my cousins implying that I'm slutty? Because I'm not slutty at all. Paranoid, maybe, but I am a Pisces, after all......

My parents asked me to pull up the pics they shared with my cousins and I did. While they saw nothing wrong with the pics a couple of weeks ago, they were suddenly agreeing that we needed to send out pics of me in shalwaar kameez, that these pics were too "casual". So, I told them very calmly, "This really sucks. I don't think I want to do this anymore," and walked out of the room.

This comedy relief comes at too great a price (my peace of mind).

TEST

Someone recently informed me that the length of a blog post is inversely proportional to the number of comments I receive on said blog post.
Let's put that to the test:
HI!
(I suspect this post is already too long...oy...)

THE MARKET

I am on the market for the following things and thought I'd ask my fiercely loyal, ridiculously brilliant, sickeningly talented and blazingly attractive readers to point me in the direction of uniquely terrific products available in the world today:

1) a water bottle for the office with a minimum liquid capacity of 20 oz., ergonomic yet snazzy design. I need a water bottle that screams: "I am the nerd's water bottle and I will make water look refreshing and sexy so that she'll drink the 64 oz of it prescribed (by the government? the surgeon general? God? aliens? Katie Couric? where the monkey did this recommendation come from anyway??) for eternal youth, vigor, and beauty (maybe even intelligence...I'm still working on that)." I'm open to most colors for my water bottles. The water bottle I currently use is old and is becoming increasingly skanky with time so you're immediate attention is much appreciated for what I trust you recognize as an urgent matter.

2) I've been searching for that perfect umbrella for quite some time now. I'm afraid I may be asking for too much, hence my fruitless, exhaustive online searches. I need more than an umbrella. I need a collapsable canopy on a rod that not only protects me from the elements but also announces: "I am the nerd's umbrella, a most perfect reflection of her personlity, wit and joie di vivre that shines through the mundaneness of this bleak day." I'd prefer something that is small enough to fit in my handbag (given the size of my handbag, I suppose that the umbrella can be pretty damned big).

3) Surely I've broken records in my search for galoshes--it's going on a dozen years now, folks. I bemoan the fact that I don't own a pair only when it's raining, promptly forgetting about the galoshes as soon as the rain stops. Most rainy days are met with solemn oaths that I will invest time and effort into shopping for the perfect galoshes (a pair that shouts "I'm cute yet edgy and I keep our nerd from falling down and breaking her limbs during rain storms" will suffice) as I try to decide which pair of shoes I own is least weather inapproriate and most conducive to delivering me to my destination in one piece.

I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks for your interest.

THE CAT NIPS

So, we have a cat. Her name's Zanadune. She rules the house like a diva and it would seem that she has a pretty healthy cat ego; the diva act, however, is merely an attempt to cover up a host of psychological issues (separation anxiety, fear of loud sounds, fear of birds, etc. etc. etc.). It doesn't matter; we love her all the same and shower her with toys every opportunity we get. The thing is, Zanadune's only really been interested in one toy and that's a plush little ducky that we call Ducky (ahem). She's fiercely attached to it during those briefest of intervals when it hasn't been kicked under a sofa or into a corner (by Zanadune) and isn't merely languising, collecting dust, and waiting to be found (again, by Zanadune). We keep buying her neon-colored mice and catnip-filled goodies anyway. As expected, she loses interest in them about as soon as I rip them from their packages. She tries to feign enthusiasm for a couple of minutes before giving me that "Yah-this-effin'-blows" look.

This is illustrated in the pics below:


What is this? A sock with a bell attached to it? Dear God, is that weak-ass, over-processed, substandard catnip I smell? I think I'm going to be ill.



You want me to play with this thing? Seriously? Okay, I'll do what you want me to do but I'll have you know this is an insult to my felinity.



Oh, look at me! Joy! Nothing beats a bloody bell on a bloody sock full of bloody lame catnip. I'm so happy! Thank you for spending a lousy couple of bucks on me to keep me happy and distracted! Aren't I precious.



Happy now, lady? Now get that camera out of my face and take that cheap ass sock with you. Christ.

THE NERD SEES HER FIRST MALE GLAMOUR SHOT

Amma takes a seat next to me on the sofa as I watch television. I can see that she's trying to be very solemn; she has an unmarked envelope in her hand. I quietly sigh in anticipation of what is tucked away in the envelope.

"Doesn't he seem like a very nice boy, Sabila?" she askes, as she pulls out a glossy, 5" X 7" photo from the envelope.

The PLP (prospective life partner) sits on what appears to be a bar stool, set against a purple muslin backdrop; while his body is perpendicular to the camera, his face is turned towards it. He isn't smiling. I'm certain he's attempting to appear serious, well-educated and responsible enough to care for a family all in one shot. He's almost got it...except it seems that the photographer at the studio has snapped the camera a few seconds too soon. The result is a ghost of a grimace, which makes him look a bit constipated.

"Amma. No," I tell her.

"Aww, but doesn't he look like a nice boy?" Amma asks again. I know her well enough to know that she knows that this guy is all wrong for me but I also know her well enough to know that it's virtually impossible for her to say anything negative about anyone or anything. She gives everyone a fair shot. She's awesome.

And so I tell her that I don't think it'll work out with this PLP and she starts naming parental units of eligible bachelorettes to whom she can pass along whoever gave us this dude's pic.

Good luck to him.

Eek: I just now realized that I should've probably met with him for the comedy. Wasn't that the point of all of this? But who am I kidding? My mother would've never believed that I was willing to meet him anyway. Eff.

THE NERD HEARTS HALLOWEEN

I'm a fan of Halloween.

While I'm sure that there were plenty of adults who were getting drunk and/or stoned in costumes back in the day, Halloween felt like the only holiday that was strictly for children when I was growing up. All of the adults I knew had to either accompany children on their trick-or-treating routes or stay behind at home and shell out carefully divided portions of candies to trick-or-treaters. But isn't Christmas the ultimate kid holiday, you ask. Well, remember, I've never celebrated Christmas; before I entered the first grade and realized that skipping Christmas was perfectly acceptable, I came up with the following lame lie when Mrs. Bromerski asked me and my kindergarten classmates, one by one, what we got from Santa: a rose.

Clearly, I set myself up to be picked on very early in my schooling.

Growing up in a city made for the best trick-or-treating. A child hasn't experienced true Halloween gluttony until she's had not one but two apartment buildings with 440 units in each building offering tricks (I've never had a person trick me instead of treat me on Halloween, but adults offering tricks to kids on any day is very shady) and/or treats. So, the BFF and I managed to keep trick-or-treating until we were like 16, at which point most of the people of whom we kindly asked tricks, preferably treats, looked at us suspiciously and asked snarkily, "Aren't you girls too old for this?" while handing us the damned treats anyway. We were so wounded that last year that we decided to never go trick-or-treating again!

In any case, I've been dying to recapture my youth, as well as some free candy, by celebrating Halloween properly.
NO, I DON'T MEAN GETTING DRUNK AND/OR STONED WHILE IN COSTUME!
I mean borrowing someone's kids for the evening. One of the kids must be an infant--young enough so that he/she can neither carry a pumpkin bucket nor eat the candy I collect.
While I'm afraid that, with more and more adults taking Halloween as their holiday, we just won't find too many of them at home to shell out the candy, it' s a chance I'm willing to take.

HI, I'M NERD. I LIKE BUTTERFLIES AND COOKING AND SPARKLY THINGS AND DETEST PARENTAL MATCHMAKING. IS THAT A MEDICAL/ENGINEERING DEGREE IN YOUR...

...POCKET OR IS MY BIODATA SENDING YOU INTO TRANSPORTS OF DELIGHT???

I still haven't put together that biodata the 'rents want, probably because I don't want to find a mate the same way I find a job:

1)parents of potential life partners scan resumes (w/
pics, of course!);

2)parents of potential life partner and--only in those instances when PLP is informed about what the hell parental units are up to--set up a meet and greet. I prefer calling it an interview. Sometimes the real interviews are preceded by a phone interview and, more likely than not, followed by a family blind date/ family-to-family interview (while phone interviews mostly take place when both sets of PLPs know what the hell the units are up to, this isn't always the case). Sometimes the preliminary "interview" is more covert. For example, you'll find yourself at a random wedding and your mother will casually point out a random (oh, but NOT so random, you'll later discover) guy in the corner, saying, "He's good looking, isn't he?" God forbid if you concur because a family date is sure to follow.

3)"references will be furnished upon request." Well, actually, the community of desi parental units is a tightly connected one. There are no more than three degrees of seperation between any two sets of parents. So, they'll furnish their own references, thank you very much;

4)in some of the more traditional families, PLPs aren't allowed to date until after they're engaged. Can you say probationary period?

So, for obvious reasons (see four points listed above), I haven't worked on my biodata. The indignity of it wounds me.
Part of me wants to be cheeky and hand the following to the 'rents:

BIODATA (UGH!)

See: Revengeofthenerddd.blogspot.com

CANADIAN iTunes AND THE AMERICAN GIRL

A Canadian gifted me with a $50 iTunes music card earlier this year. When I finally got around to using the card this past weekend, I was informed that the cards are territory specific. What bs, right? So, I called Apple customer service and the customer service rep (I imagined the slacker-hipster-Williamsburg cute Justin Long on the other end of the phone) informed me that the cards are territory specific. Perhaps I could email iTunes customer service and ask whether or not I could trade in my Canadian iTunes music card for an American one, Justin suggested. And, so I emailed the following query to iTunes customer service:

I have a $50 Canadian iTunes music card, which I can't seem to redeem online here. Are the music cards territory-specific? If so, is there any way that I can have the US equivalent of this Canadian card? Your help is much appreciated.

I was told to expect a reply email within 48 hours. I received a reply in 17 hours; it follows:

Dear Sabila,

Thank you for contacting the iTunes Store and I apologize for the confusion with your gift card.

The iTunes Music Card gift you received was intended for use in a country other than your own. Unfortunately, this means you won't be able to redeem this card on your account. Currently, iTunes Music Cards can only be redeemed in the country where they are purchased.

iTunes Music Cards are not refundable. You may want to give your Music Card as a gift to an individual who will be able to redeem it. You might also return to the point of purchase to inquire about a refund. Apple cannot provide refunds or replacements for cards purchased from third party retailers.

Sincerely,

Erin
iTunes Store Escalations

Now, I couldn't imagine Justin Long as Erin because, obviously, Erin's a female. Also, I can't be expected to cast other actors without anything but an automaton-like email response. And, seriously, I don't need automaton-Erin telling me what gifts I should be giving my friends. IT WAS A GIFT TO ME, AE! MY GIFT!

The morals of this story:
1)Justin Long is cute and reassuring over the phone;
2)iTunes customer service is prompt but has yet to learn the "tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies" philosophy of life to which I adhere;
3)Automaton-Erin is not the boss of me;
4)don't ever buy or gift anyone with foreign iTunes music cards;
5)clearly it's late; clearly I'm tired; clearly I'm disappointed; clearly I'm open to cheating-the-system suggestions.

REGINA SPEKTOR

I don't know where the hell I was when Regina Spektor's first big-label album, Soviet Kitsch, released in 2001 (er, graduating from NYU and, later, selling my soul to the bird on the Hudson) but it's taken me way too long to sit down and listen to it and her new album, Begin to Hope. I was blown away. Her songs are folksy and fun, the lyrics quirky and tender; her voice is amazing. She's like Tori Amos, Fiona Apple, and sometimes even Norah Jones, all rolled into a refreshingly new artist.

Now, with her two albums (legally) downloaded into my iPod and a pair of tickets to her show at The Town Hall next month (hmmm, I wonder who I'll be taking with me......), I'm happy.

Amazing stuff here, folks.
Regina Spektor gets the Nerd's seal of approval. I can't do the whole hyperlink thing on my G4 here, so I've opted to paste up the lyrics of one of my fave songs by her, "The Ghost of Corporate Past," which comes from the first album. (Listen and) Enjoy!

Ghost of Corporate Future

A man walks out of his apartment
It is raining
He's got no umbrella
He starts running beneath the awnings trying to save his suit
Tryin to dryin to tryin to dry but no good

When he gets to the crowded subway platform he takes off both of his shoes
He steps right into somebody's fat loogie
And everyone who sees him says "ewwww"
Everyone who sees him says "ewwww"

But he doesn't care cause last night he got a visit from the Ghost of Corporate Future
The Ghost said take off both your shoes whatever chances you get
Especially when they're wet
He also said

Imagine you go away on a business trip one day
And when you come back home
Your children have grown
And you never made your wife moan

And people make you nervous
You'd think the world was ending
And everybody's features
Have somehow started blending
And everything is plastic
And everyone's sarcastic
And all your food is frozen
It needs to be defrosted
You'd think the world was ending
You'd think the world was ending
You'd think the world was ending right now

Well maybe you should just drink a lot less coffee
And never ever watch the 10 o'clock news
Maybe you should kiss someone nice or lick a rock or both
Maybe you should cut your own hair cause that can be so funny
It doesn't cost any money and it always grows back
Hair grows even after you're dead

People are just people
They shouldn't make you nervous
The world is everlasting
It's coming and it's going
If you don't toss your plastic
The streets won't be so plastic
And if you kiss somebody
Then both of you'll get practice

The world is everlasting
Put dirtballs in your pockets
Put dirtball's in your pockets
And take off both your shoes
Cause people are just people
People are just people
People are just people like you

People are just people
People are just people
People are just people like you

The world is everlasting
It's coming and it's going
The world is everlasting
It's coming and it's going
It's coming and it's going

THE NERD NEEDS TO TAKE A CLASS...

...a class called "The Game: How to Decode Man."

I have great male buddies, I have two older brothers and I've always prided myself for being a "one-of-the-guys" kind of girl. But, ultimately, I don't understand you guys, at all.

Your assistance is much appreciated. I don't want questions, just answers. Thanks.

LAST NIGHT...

...the manuscript won. I skipped the party so that I could finish reading it.
Sorry M & C.

I READ

I'm a big reader. Books have played a huge part in my life; I was under their spell as soon as I learned to decode the puzzle of the alphabets and discovered the hidden majesty of words. It was back then, when I was still new to this feeling of hurtling headlong into another dimension, one that existed between simple typewritten characters and unremarkable, bound pages, that reading was most magical. Regardless of author, genre, plot, I picked up each book I read, giddy with the anticipation of losing myself, of being immersed in a world that felt as real as it was unreal.

I've plotted my life around my love of books: I majored in English Lit in college and I now work in book publishing. I've found that there's always a degree of jadedness that will afflict a devoted reader, especially one who is in the industry. Over the years, a sort of sensory adaptation has taken a hold of me, rendering the words I read just words; three-dimensional experiences have flattened into a single dimension of printer ink on stock paper. Sometimes I fear that, like summers that stretched into eternities, books that possessed me risk becoming a privilege of childhood.

But, rest assured, dear reader: I continue to read because I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I stopped; mostly, I keep digging through books and manuscripts, hoping that I may find that one, which is more than just good or even great, one that is downright spellbinding and intoxicating. And, happily, I'm now in the clutches of a manuscript that I simply can't put down. It's a debut crime thriller and I was blown away by how masterfully and beautifully written the novel is. It's as heartbreaking as it is terrifying. I started reading it innocently enough last night and by 3:30AM, I was reading compulsively, swearing that I'd go to sleep after these five, ten, or fifteen pages. During my morning run, I could only think of going back home and plunging right back into the manuscript. It's so good that I can't imagine how I'm going to extricate myself from it to go to this party tonight. The ms might just win out in the end.

Okay, the ms calls me. Talk to you guys later!

TRES LECHES AND THE NEUROTIC NERD

As many of you know, I don't like cooking/baking/spending any more time in the kitchen than I have to. The microwave is my bff...as are ready-to-eat delights such as popsicles, fruits, raw veggies, ginger candy and take-out or delivery faves such as Japanese, pan-American and Indian cuisines. I've been told, however, that when I do decide to cook/bake/spend time in the kitchen, I do it exceptionally well. Alas, these things don't really interest me (just for the record though, I am an expert dishwasher. I don't mind washing dishes quite as much as I mind cooking and/or baking).

There have been times when I've been, quite suddenly, plowed over by a desire to cook/bake. Usually, the desire wanes after a minute or two. Other times, it possesses me, walks my body to the kitchen, where I then apron-up and become all serious cook/baker-type. And, usually, fifteen minutes into the baking/cooking, I end up cursing myself for giving into a desire as silly and nonsensical as the desire to cook or the desire to bake and dread each second I'm going to have to waste whisking, mixing, cutting, peeling...WASTNG AWAY in the kitchen.

I was possessed by that downright succubus-like desire to bake last night.
And so I decided to bake a tres leches cake. The recipe came from Cooking Light Magazine. The tres leches in the tres leches cake recipe were: sweetened condensed milk, fat-free milk and evaporated milk. While I had the first two leches, I neither had the leche tercer nor the desire to run out at 8PM to buy the leche tercer because I was SO OVER baking at this point (10 minutes into baking. Sigh). So, I found on the 'net that dry milk (welfare milk according to ES) with 40% of the water usually called for converting it to (almost) real milk can double as evaporated milk. I don't know why we own dry (welfare) milk (seeing that we're not on welfare or anything) but there happened to be a box of dry Carnation milk in the cupboard, which I converted into something that might or might not be close to what is evaporated milk. And, this, folks was the final ingredient in the tres leches sauce that I would later pour over my cake. I suspect that the sauce was not as visocous as the recipe called for but, as I said before, I was so over baking and didn't care so much anymore.

So, I baked the cake; I poured the sauce over the cake. I saran-wrapped the cake with the tres leches and refrigerated it overnight. I was paranoid and crazy in the morning about the thought of feeding my coworkers a lousy tres leches cake and having them judge me, so on the way to work I purchased a (consolatory) box of cookies from a local bakery. I fed them both.
They liked the cookies.
They (claimed to have) liked the cake.

I'm way too uninterested during cooking/baking and paranoid after cooking/baking to cook/bake in the future. It's not healthy.

M, ANYONE?

It was a clear early Sunday morning circa summer 2003. I had spent my Saturday (afternoon, evening and) night watching the Real World/Road Rules Challenge marathon on MTV, and with my brain thoroughly numbed, I decided to finally climb into bed. That night, I dreamt one of the most real dreams I've ever had in my life. I won't go into details but a younger, twenty-something version of my aunt, who had recently passed away was in the dream, alive and heartbreakingly beautiful. She was so vivid that I can still remember what she was wearing: a short red kurta top with delicate white embroidery, white trouser shalwar with red embroidery, a white dhuppata and a single red ribbon in her hair. I attempted to convince other relatives that my aunt, whose death I was very aware of in the dream, shouldn't have been there, alive and vibrant and well. Meanwhile, she attempted to tell me something but I was too damned scared to even look at her, well because she should have been dead.

Anyway, my aunt finally managed to corner me in my office, where I seemed to be hosting a family reunion of sorts (she entered the reunion uberdramatically, parting a line of relatives standing in the hallway with a slight gesture of the hand) and told me that I worry too much, that I'd eventually marry a wonderful man who'd make me very happy and that his name was--and she stopped just as she started to tell me his name, saying," Well, maybe I shouldn't tell you," and then she walked away.

So, the name she was about to reveal to me started with an "M" and I remember thinking "Mish," "Mich," "Mitch," and similar variations during and shortly after waking up from the dream (at which point, I'm not in the slightest bit embarrassed to confess that I ran to my parents' room and jumped into bed with them. I was terrified, it was so real). Ever since, my brothers tease me about "Mish," "Mich," or just "M," my perfect man ("Damn, you look like crap today, Sabila. What if we walked by M and you missed out on destiny? And all because you went to bed late and have dark circles under your eyes! Tsk, tsk, tsk," they'll say.

I should include somewhere in my biodata that I'm only looking for men whose first names begin with "M." I suspect such a request might get me blacklisted for life from Desi matchmaking circles.

I don't worry too much (I don't worry at all) about such ridiculous things, but I do often wonder where my M might be. Sigh.

Or not so much.

Ahem. Gag. Ahem (with some sighs thrown in there, just in case).

THE NERD GETS NO LOVE AND BREATHES A (SOMEWHAT OFFENDED) PHEW

The following conversation with my mom took place earlier today:

Nerd: So, how's finding me a husband going?
Amma: Not so good.
Nerd: (gasping) What?!
Amma: (sighing) Well, I knew this time would come. We used to get dozens of proposals for you--DOZENS!--and you made us keep turning them all away. Now people don't think you're serious about this. They think twice about sending us rishtas...
Nerd: That makes no sense! Are you saying I have a reputation in matchmaking circles?...Actually, that's kinda awesome...
Amma: You keep turning away proposals and eventually you won't get any proposals.
Nerd: Amma, I couldn't have accepted every single proposals. I'd have like 20 husbands right now!
Amma: Step 1, take this seriously.
Nerd: This is a 12 step program?
Amma: Step 2, give me a biodata! I've been asking you for too long now.
Nerd (mumbling): Sure, I'll have one for you soon.

I won't lie, dear reader: as lightly as I'm taking this bs process, I'm a little bit offended that the rishtas (proposals) aren't flooding in. I mean, what's the point of practicing escape strategies, if there aren't any horrible blind dates from which to escape in the first place? I'm afraid I've exceeded my shelf life by dumb Desi standards.

As far as the biodata goes, I have writer's block. Yes, I'm having difficulties penning a CV of my own life. Dang, that's sad.

I See You!

So, a few weeks ago, I received an email from some random dude on some random social networking site (Friendster, Naseeb, Orkut). I try to adhere to a no-reply policy to randomness on such sites for the sake of proving the point that I only joined said sites to reconnect with old friends, friends of friends and friends already made before I adopted this policy (this is, of course, barring displays of extraordinary writing skills or other scholarly talents by random emailer).

In any case, this random dude emailed me, saying that he'd seen me working out at my gym. A couple of weeks prior to that another random guy emailed me mentioning that he sometimes sees me on the train during my morning commute. Such emails make me nervous for many (hopefully apparent) reasons. I'm not saying that I have stalkers (that would be presumptous of me) or anything but the thought of cyberworld intersecting with real world without my knowledge leaves me feeling not so super.

Oy.