*8:43AM: Okay, now where the fuck's my book.
*8:46AM: I bloody hate Amazon.
*8:53AM:...fuckin' incapacitated UPS man...I bloody hate UPS.
*8:54AM: (shaking fist to the heavens) It was the biological urge, surely! The urges, they're stronger in men!
*8:56AM: for the love of MERLIN'S BEARD, where the FUCK is my book?
*9:00AM: FUCK!
*9:01AM: Maybe I should go for a run to kill the time!
*9:02AM: But what if the delivery man stops by while I'm on my run?
*9:03AM: Surely, he'll leave the book with the doorman?
*9:04AM: But what if he bloody doesn't?
*9:05AM: What if doorman is a rabid fan and STEALS the book?
*9:06AM: Eff running. I'm waiting for the book.
*9:13AM: I just called downstairs again and, guess the fuck what? NOTHING! EFFFFFFFFFF! I was better off just going to a store bright and early in the morning. I never attend those midnight bookstore parties because I have this fear that some douche at the party will skip to the last few pages and blab the ending to everyone...and get destroyed shortly thereafter but only after spoiling the book for EVERYONE!
*9:14: That's it. If my book isn't delivered within the hour, I'm going to my local B&N! Eff you Amazon. Eff you UPS.
*9:29: Preordering from Amazon? WHAT WAS I THINKING??!!!!!
*9:55: Just called downstairs and my package from Amazon wasn't part of the UPS delivery for the morning. But I shouldn't fret because there will be another delivery today. When? Well any time from now to FUCKIN' 5:00! AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!
*9:56: THIS IS RI-FUCKIN-DICULOUS. WHERE'S MY BOOK?
*10:21: I still don't have it. I hate standard shipping. It's an asshole bitch.
*10:27: I've finished an entire pack of Orbit bubblegum. The fingernails are next on the menu (and I don't even bite my nails!)!
*10:28: fuck
*10:40: surely, this is what a drug addict in need of a fix must feel like.
*10:44: I'm taking a nap...
*10:45: ...after I call downstairs again...
*10:46: ...blood HELL! Now I'm fuckin' takin' a fuckin' nap.
*11:17: fuck this shit. I'm going to buy a copy at my local supermarket.
*11:40: I have the book! I'm in my pj's! Talk to you later!
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Friday, July 20, 2007
THE WEEKEND!
So, this week has seriously been the longest week of my life. I've been trying to cope but can't help coming up with all sorts of horribly scary scenarios in which Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows does not end up at my door bright and early Saturday morning. I really hope that the UPS man in charge of making the delivery won't be incapacitated by any variety of factors including, but certainly not limited to, 1) the canned heat, 2) the bottled heat, 3) the dope, 4) the sex(y)/the biological urge, 5) nuclear war, 6) sloth, 7) illness, 8) hunger, 9) apathy, 10) a total disregard for my needs, 11) an alien invasion, 12) the apocalypse, etc.
Oh, and I'm watching Spring Awakening tonight with the girls. Shockingly (or not shockingly at all), I just want to get it--the musical, this Friday night--the hell over with. Let it be Saturday morning!
Oh, and I'm watching Spring Awakening tonight with the girls. Shockingly (or not shockingly at all), I just want to get it--the musical, this Friday night--the hell over with. Let it be Saturday morning!
Thursday, July 19, 2007
WORDS OF WISDOM FROM MY OTHER BFF
Following is Rachel's response to my recent post about busted pheromones:
Allow me to offer some words of wisdom to you, friend. Instead of pulling up your neckline and covering up when you see some dude ogling at your chest, just sit back and let him look. He might like the boobs enough to want to talk to you.
Allow me to offer some words of wisdom to you, friend. Instead of pulling up your neckline and covering up when you see some dude ogling at your chest, just sit back and let him look. He might like the boobs enough to want to talk to you.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
SID or I NEED PROFESSIONAL HELP
I'm convinced I have some sort of sensory integration disorder.
At least three of my five senses become severely compromised in group settings in unfamiliar* locales. I become taciturn and reserved and my eyes take on this glassy, somewhat drugged hue.
It's spectacularly odd.
I might need professional help.
Oh dear.
*On second thought, the sensory integration disorder kicks in all group settings regardless of the locale.
At least three of my five senses become severely compromised in group settings in unfamiliar* locales. I become taciturn and reserved and my eyes take on this glassy, somewhat drugged hue.
It's spectacularly odd.
I might need professional help.
Oh dear.
*On second thought, the sensory integration disorder kicks in all group settings regardless of the locale.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
BREAKING NEWS! The Nerddd Rescues a Pigeon!
I've had so many failed animal rescue attempts in the past that these few and far between successes are blog-worthy, in my opinion.
I found an injured/sick/old pigeon across the street from the PATH station on the way to work this morning and, as per usual, couldn't walk away. I was soon joined by a young woman with as bloody a bleeding heart as mine and together we wrung our hands, watching the pigeon breathe laboriously.
She called her mother while I called information for animal control. We both hung up at around the same time, with her mother suggesting we call animal control and animal control pulling a "We're-currently-closed" on me. We both agreed that one of us should run to the veterinarian's office across the street and ask them for advice.
The girl ran. I stayed by the pigeon and told it to hang in there. Pedestrians walking past us gave me suspicious, sidelong glances. I tried other animal control offices in the city and continued talking to the pigeon while on hold.
The girl came back with a box and a towel.
"If you can get the little guy in the box, we'll take him in," the vet had promised her.
We both cooed to the pigeon as we worked together to put him in the box. The pigeon is now at the vet's office. I'll check in on him (or her) this afternoon.
Another animal saved. Phew.
I found an injured/sick/old pigeon across the street from the PATH station on the way to work this morning and, as per usual, couldn't walk away. I was soon joined by a young woman with as bloody a bleeding heart as mine and together we wrung our hands, watching the pigeon breathe laboriously.
She called her mother while I called information for animal control. We both hung up at around the same time, with her mother suggesting we call animal control and animal control pulling a "We're-currently-closed" on me. We both agreed that one of us should run to the veterinarian's office across the street and ask them for advice.
The girl ran. I stayed by the pigeon and told it to hang in there. Pedestrians walking past us gave me suspicious, sidelong glances. I tried other animal control offices in the city and continued talking to the pigeon while on hold.
The girl came back with a box and a towel.
"If you can get the little guy in the box, we'll take him in," the vet had promised her.
We both cooed to the pigeon as we worked together to put him in the box. The pigeon is now at the vet's office. I'll check in on him (or her) this afternoon.
Another animal saved. Phew.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
MY PHEROMONES ARE BROKEN: Love Potion No. 0 or Those Dogs Smile at EVERYONE
The bffs (that’s the wisdom-shelling RR and the fiercely outspoken Rachel) and I met up for dinner on Friday night. After dinner, we made our usual trek to the local Starbucks for our usual caffeinated conversations. During the last quarter or so of dinner and on the way to coffee, we tried to figure out my utter haplessness when it comes to that strange creature, the SEMI- or NON-PLATONIC MALE. The girls weren’t buying my argument, which boiled down to me swearing to all goodness that my pheromones were busted. This segued into a discussion of that giant of cinematic art, Love Potion No. 9, during which I realized that I must be at the mercy of a Love Potion No. 0, by which the SEMI- or NON-PLATONIC MALE, while engaged in that age-old process of wooing, very suddenly loses interest and vanishes. Again, the girls simply weren’t buying it.
As we continued along our way to the café, we happened upon a little dog. Dear reader, what followed was most strange because, rather serendipitously, this little dog was able to demonstrate exactly the basics of Love Potion No.0! It happened as follows.
I was engaged in conversation when, my attention was captured by the small, powder puff white dog—a bichon frise, I suspect. He lay at it’s human father’s feet and, quite literally, smiled at me. He appeared to be a most jovial and friendly little dog.
“Why, the little guy’s smiling at us,” I told the ladies.
As we approached closer, the little dog actually stood up and, with his dark, wet eyes trained on me, he moved towards us. “He MUST want to say hello!” I determined.
The ladies, uninspired by the dog as well as my cooing, kept right on walking—they’re not very fond of animals. I, on the other hand, had already stopped and was in the process of crouching down towards the dog with my right hand out in greeting when it, suddenly startled by me, jumped back and, almost falling over itself, ran and took cover under the bench.
"Oh shit...sorry!" I exclaimed in the direction of the amused dad and scuttled away, perplexed, confused and more than a little hurt.
RR and I clutched on to each other, barely able to stand up straight because we were laughing so hard.
Anyway, though, reader, that's Love Potion No. 0 for you: the inviting smile, that "come hither" behavior and what appears to be genuine interest is followed, inexplicably, by the MALE hightailing it right out of there. It's mucho mysterioso.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
A CORRECTION TO MY PREVIOUS POST
So, turns out that instead of celebrating my 500th post below, I was, in fact, celebrating my 502nd post. Ahem.
Well, I'm not one to discriminate. Woohoo 502!
Well, I'm not one to discriminate. Woohoo 502!
DEAR READERS OF MY BLOG: An Open Letter On the Occasion of My 500th Post or Woohoo!
Dear Readers of My Blog:
I love (the majority of) you. Really, I do.
When I started Revengeofthenerddd in late 2005, I didn’t think that the handful of friends and relatives who knew about my blog would read it, let alone total strangers. 500 posts later, I think it’s safe to say that the majority of my readers are folks who I don’t know in real life. And though my readership is small—anything less than 500 hits per day is the blogosphere equivalent of shaking the contents of one tiny salt packet into the Atlantic—it is dedicated and I’m grateful for that.
I’ve never had lofty goals for this blog. It’s meant to be lighthearted and entertaining, funny and sweet. I hope that it elicits more chuckles than eye rolls, nervous twitches, and/or inexplicable fits of rage. With an ever-growing readership, however, I see it as my duty to tell you that in the event that you start to experience the latter adverse side effects, please immediately desist from reading Revengeofthenerddd. Apparently, this so called life of mine is too extreme for you (between the driving lessons and overbearing relatives and, oh, the rampant vacationing with—shudder—males, it’s enough to make one cyber blush!) and you are entirely too caught up in how and with whom I spend my time. You might want to minimize my suddenly serious—it’s pink, after all—blog on your computer screen and gather yourself before you start to either a) cut yourself or b) leave nasty comments directed at me. Massaging my temples has always done the trick for me. Other techniques that might help you calm down are listed below:
1) lighting candles, 2) sniffing scented oils, 3) listening to Yanni, 4) stuffing your face with ice cream or something with an equal amount of calories, 5) breaking stuff (your computer would be the obvious choice here), 6) kicking stuff (again, your computer), 7) going to your special place
Please remember that if you find yourself under such an extraordinary amount of stress that the only way you can relieve the pressure is by either a) cutting yourself or b) leaving nasty comments directed at me, always, always go with a. I daresay that would be the more effective of the two choices.
Perhaps, you will someday arrive at a place where you will no longer have the need to make disparaging remarks about the character of someone you don’t know. If this doesn’t happen, I thank you in advance for no longer reading my blog. Later!
To the rest of you guys, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading!
Yours truly,
The Nerddd
I love (the majority of) you. Really, I do.
When I started Revengeofthenerddd in late 2005, I didn’t think that the handful of friends and relatives who knew about my blog would read it, let alone total strangers. 500 posts later, I think it’s safe to say that the majority of my readers are folks who I don’t know in real life. And though my readership is small—anything less than 500 hits per day is the blogosphere equivalent of shaking the contents of one tiny salt packet into the Atlantic—it is dedicated and I’m grateful for that.
I’ve never had lofty goals for this blog. It’s meant to be lighthearted and entertaining, funny and sweet. I hope that it elicits more chuckles than eye rolls, nervous twitches, and/or inexplicable fits of rage. With an ever-growing readership, however, I see it as my duty to tell you that in the event that you start to experience the latter adverse side effects, please immediately desist from reading Revengeofthenerddd. Apparently, this so called life of mine is too extreme for you (between the driving lessons and overbearing relatives and, oh, the rampant vacationing with—shudder—males, it’s enough to make one cyber blush!) and you are entirely too caught up in how and with whom I spend my time. You might want to minimize my suddenly serious—it’s pink, after all—blog on your computer screen and gather yourself before you start to either a) cut yourself or b) leave nasty comments directed at me. Massaging my temples has always done the trick for me. Other techniques that might help you calm down are listed below:
1) lighting candles, 2) sniffing scented oils, 3) listening to Yanni, 4) stuffing your face with ice cream or something with an equal amount of calories, 5) breaking stuff (your computer would be the obvious choice here), 6) kicking stuff (again, your computer), 7) going to your special place
Please remember that if you find yourself under such an extraordinary amount of stress that the only way you can relieve the pressure is by either a) cutting yourself or b) leaving nasty comments directed at me, always, always go with a. I daresay that would be the more effective of the two choices.
Perhaps, you will someday arrive at a place where you will no longer have the need to make disparaging remarks about the character of someone you don’t know. If this doesn’t happen, I thank you in advance for no longer reading my blog. Later!
To the rest of you guys, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading!
Yours truly,
The Nerddd
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Seriously? SERIOUSLY?
Why is everyone in an uproar about me going on holiday with a boy, anyway? I am 28, after all, as the entire South Asian community keeps reminding me. I've vacationed with friends plenty of times in the past, people. It's not like I'm 12 and running away on a Greyhound bus with my allowance money.
Please, chill the hell out.
And thanks Rach, for that kick ass comment in my "PUSHING ALL THE WRONG BUTTONS" post!
Please, chill the hell out.
And thanks Rach, for that kick ass comment in my "PUSHING ALL THE WRONG BUTTONS" post!
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
DEAR STRAPPING YOUNG FELLA ON THE TRAIN LAST NIGHT: An Open Letter
Dear Strapping Young Fella on the Train Last Night:
The next time you see a girl struggling for balance while weighed down by three extremely large bags and a medicine ball in a train car that has a busted ac and is filled to what feels like maximum capacity, perhaps--and this is just a suggestion--you might want to offer her your seat instead of spending the duration of the fifteen minute ride staring at her chest, especially if you have plans to mack it to her once you've both arrived at your destination.
Thanks,
The Nerddd
The next time you see a girl struggling for balance while weighed down by three extremely large bags and a medicine ball in a train car that has a busted ac and is filled to what feels like maximum capacity, perhaps--and this is just a suggestion--you might want to offer her your seat instead of spending the duration of the fifteen minute ride staring at her chest, especially if you have plans to mack it to her once you've both arrived at your destination.
Thanks,
The Nerddd
Monday, July 09, 2007
PUSHING ALL THE WRONG BUTTONS: The Nerddd Hangs Up
According to a relative who shall remain unnamed (she asked to remain anonymous; she's weary of my blog, apparently), I'm doing a great disservice to my family, myself, and the WORLD, by not getting hitched and tapping into those fast-curdling eggs. Time is unkind, she tells me and, pretty soon, my looks will fade (I AM 28, after all!), all my friends will be married and I'll be alone. Aging is always accompanied by a rapid evaporation of that pool of eligible bachelors--which, in my case, is already rather shallow (I AM 28, after all!)--and, well, I'm screwed if I waste another minute so I should let my relatives set me up.
Plus, I really shouldn't be blogging about taking holidays with--shudder--boys!
This is where I hang up.
The end. :)
Plus, I really shouldn't be blogging about taking holidays with--shudder--boys!
This is where I hang up.
The end. :)
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
LESSONS LEARNED FROM MY BFF
Nerddd: Hey, so we've decided against taking Amtrak up to Maine. It's a 10 plus hour trip! JetBlue flies up to Portland for dirt cheap prices.
BFF: Maybe I should call Rich and apprise him of the flying-with-Sabila experience.
Nerddd: Oh, but I've totally gotten over crying during take-off and turbulence! That being said, I know I'm going to regret not taking the train the second I step into that plane.
BFF: Well, it's not like your track record with trains is any better.
Period of silence during which Nerddd considers her experience on trains.
BFF: Will you guys rent a car from Portland?
Nerddd: Yeah.
BFF: Will you drive?!
Nerddd: The reason I'm practicing as feverishly as I am is because I want to make sure I can drive on the highways of Maine...there is one problem though.
BFF: What's that?
Nerddd: Rich can't parallel park and, though I learned how to K-turn and parallel park this past Sunday, I've already forgotten how to do both. I can't be trusted to parallel park or K-turn anywhere, let alone in a strange new state.
BFF: First, there's no parallel parking in Maine. I imagine Maine to be a state of parking lots, many, many parking lots. Secondly, if by some stroke of improbable bad luck you do find yourselves and your rental car in dire need of parallel parking, the locals will be more than delighted to help out. I imagine them to be impossibly friendly. Just don't tell them you're Yankees fans. As for K-turning, let's hope Rich knows how. Otherwise, you're both fucked.
BFF: Maybe I should call Rich and apprise him of the flying-with-Sabila experience.
Nerddd: Oh, but I've totally gotten over crying during take-off and turbulence! That being said, I know I'm going to regret not taking the train the second I step into that plane.
BFF: Well, it's not like your track record with trains is any better.
Period of silence during which Nerddd considers her experience on trains.
BFF: Will you guys rent a car from Portland?
Nerddd: Yeah.
BFF: Will you drive?!
Nerddd: The reason I'm practicing as feverishly as I am is because I want to make sure I can drive on the highways of Maine...there is one problem though.
BFF: What's that?
Nerddd: Rich can't parallel park and, though I learned how to K-turn and parallel park this past Sunday, I've already forgotten how to do both. I can't be trusted to parallel park or K-turn anywhere, let alone in a strange new state.
BFF: First, there's no parallel parking in Maine. I imagine Maine to be a state of parking lots, many, many parking lots. Secondly, if by some stroke of improbable bad luck you do find yourselves and your rental car in dire need of parallel parking, the locals will be more than delighted to help out. I imagine them to be impossibly friendly. Just don't tell them you're Yankees fans. As for K-turning, let's hope Rich knows how. Otherwise, you're both fucked.
Monday, July 02, 2007
DEAR READERS, PLEASE VOTE FOR MY FRIEND BRENDAN: An Open Letter
Dear Readers of Revenge of the Nerddd:
Please vote for my friend Brendan Duffy, who's one of five contestants vying for the hottest-straight- man-in-book-publishing title. Take it from a single girl in the industry: the straight-man-in-publishing is among the rarest species of man. The hot-straight-man-in-publishing, however, verges on the miraculous. Throw non-douchebag into the hot-straight-man-in-publishing mix and you got yourself Brendan Duffy.
Vote for Brendan here!
Thanks and love,
The Nerd
ps: It's too late now. Polls have closed. Thanks anyway.
Please vote for my friend Brendan Duffy, who's one of five contestants vying for the hottest-straight- man-in-book-publishing title. Take it from a single girl in the industry: the straight-man-in-publishing is among the rarest species of man. The hot-straight-man-in-publishing, however, verges on the miraculous. Throw non-douchebag into the hot-straight-man-in-publishing mix and you got yourself Brendan Duffy.
Vote for Brendan here!
Thanks and love,
The Nerd
ps: It's too late now. Polls have closed. Thanks anyway.
Sunday, July 01, 2007
DRIVING LESSONS: Part Deux
In my quest to become reacquainted with the road, I climbed into a car with Flatulent Mike (hereafter, "FM") for the second time this month.Though FM refrained from farting (he burped, but one time) and I--anticipating my emotional meltdown upon hitting highways, turnpikes, thruways or freeways--brought along my mother for emotional support, the experience was, on the whole, a bad one for several reasons. The first and foremost of these reasons is that I've been rather heavy-harted of late, so everyday things have become trying and annoying. But that's a whole other blog entry.
I'm still feeling wretchedly and would much rather sleep than blog about the never-ending (and eventually dizzying) Kturn-parallel park-Kturn-Kturn-parallel park-Kturn-Kturn circuit I had to endure for what felt like HOURS; or FM's distracting habit of making future appointments on his cell phone while he's "instructing"--he was on the phone for probably 45 minutes of my 1 hour lesson; or how the student who picked us up not only drove like she had a busted inner ear but also, upon discovering that my mother had come along for emotional support, felt compelled to share the following profound words with us:
"If you have skill you have a dollar but no emotional support."
The silence hadn't quite settled in the car before FM decided to impart his own wisdom about emotional support to us:
"If you throw a party, everyone comes. If you have work, no one comes."
He should've just farted and kept his mouth shut.
I didn't end up on any highways, turnpikes, thruways or freeways but I did drop off Ms. driver-savant (I was shocked, SHOCKED to discover that this was her 6th lesson! She's so gonna fail her road test!) at the movies.
Driving fuckin' blows.
I'm still feeling wretchedly and would much rather sleep than blog about the never-ending (and eventually dizzying) Kturn-parallel park-Kturn-Kturn-parallel park-Kturn-Kturn circuit I had to endure for what felt like HOURS; or FM's distracting habit of making future appointments on his cell phone while he's "instructing"--he was on the phone for probably 45 minutes of my 1 hour lesson; or how the student who picked us up not only drove like she had a busted inner ear but also, upon discovering that my mother had come along for emotional support, felt compelled to share the following profound words with us:
"If you have skill you have a dollar but no emotional support."
The silence hadn't quite settled in the car before FM decided to impart his own wisdom about emotional support to us:
"If you throw a party, everyone comes. If you have work, no one comes."
He should've just farted and kept his mouth shut.
I didn't end up on any highways, turnpikes, thruways or freeways but I did drop off Ms. driver-savant (I was shocked, SHOCKED to discover that this was her 6th lesson! She's so gonna fail her road test!) at the movies.
Driving fuckin' blows.
Friday, June 29, 2007
LUNCH
After asking me how I would feel about relocating to Chicago ("For an engineer, of course!"), expressing her total disappointment in my priorities ("Work, independence...these things are silly. Life begins only after one gets married!"), and her confusion about how I could've missed the marriage boat that, according to her, most Pakistani girls my age boarded five years ago ("You're not getting any younger, you know!"), my cousin recently concluded that my biological urges must be out to lunch ("although, as I said before, the urge is much stronger in boys...").
Ah, family...you've gotta love 'em.
Ah, family...you've gotta love 'em.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
HMMMMM...BEEF JERKY
I've been craving beef jerky all morning.
I haven't craved beef in the 2.5 years I've been a vegetarian.
For the love of Ingrid Newkirk, what kind of a vegetarian am I!!!???
I haven't craved beef in the 2.5 years I've been a vegetarian.
For the love of Ingrid Newkirk, what kind of a vegetarian am I!!!???
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
DEAR LADY WHO IS OBSESSED WITH ME AT THE GYM: An Open Letter
Dear lady who is obsessed with my moves at the gym:
I hate you.
I don't know who you are but you seem to think that you can synchronize-stretch with me and that's just not cool. You don't even pretend to do your own thing, you freak. Instead, you roll out your yoga mat right next to mine and, staring right at me, you attempt to mimic my stretches and corrective exercises, move by every challening-yet-restorative move. This is just weird and has to stop. I'm happy to answer any questions you might have about my warmup routine but I will not be your synchronized-stretch partner.
Thanks in advance for your cooperation.
Yours,
The Nerd
ps: If you are mentally handicapped, which on some days I suspect you may be, please accept my sincere apologies for putting you on the spot with this open letter on my blog. If you don't suffer from a mental impairment, you really ought to be ashamed of yourself, jerk, and let me work out in peace. Thanks again for understanding and best of luck with the stretching!
I hate you.
I don't know who you are but you seem to think that you can synchronize-stretch with me and that's just not cool. You don't even pretend to do your own thing, you freak. Instead, you roll out your yoga mat right next to mine and, staring right at me, you attempt to mimic my stretches and corrective exercises, move by every challening-yet-restorative move. This is just weird and has to stop. I'm happy to answer any questions you might have about my warmup routine but I will not be your synchronized-stretch partner.
Thanks in advance for your cooperation.
Yours,
The Nerd
ps: If you are mentally handicapped, which on some days I suspect you may be, please accept my sincere apologies for putting you on the spot with this open letter on my blog. If you don't suffer from a mental impairment, you really ought to be ashamed of yourself, jerk, and let me work out in peace. Thanks again for understanding and best of luck with the stretching!
Monday, June 25, 2007
DAMN, IT FEELS GOOD TO BE A BADASS
I was a wussy kid. I had problems socializing (I now realize that this was probably due to the fact that I hadn’t ever really spoken English prior to kindergarten so it still felt very foreign on my tongue. I should add, though, that while I couldn't speak the language, I tested at a sick reading level, which I still find very peculiar), I couldn’t keep up in gym class, and someone made me cry at school almost every single day.
I was as far from cool as one could get.
And yet, have you seen a more badass creature than the one in the pic above? I’m four or five in it and, sweet goodness, between the apathetic posture, the black with red-trimmed galoshes over red tights, the crazy attempt at cornrows, the puffy Victorian-meets-the-‘80s inspired rockin' dress, and the “I’ll-shiv-you-bitches-if-you-stare-too-long” gaze, I look like I could obliterate just about anyone. And, let’s not forget the turntable over my left shoulder (sure, it’s probably just a record player but badass-tot-Sabila demands that it be an EFFIN’ TURNTABLE so she can spin sick beats).
Goddamn, it feels good to be a gangsta…or look like one in a photograph.
ALLERGIES or MY IMMUNE SYSTEM IS AN ASSHOLE
The universe played a cosmic joke on me when I was diagnosed with allergies to cats, dogs, and horses four years ago. I still blame the allergies on my parents for 1) giving me the defective genes in the first place and 2) preventing any chances I had of training my malfunctioning, asshole immune system to realize that cats, dogs, and horses are NOT THE ENEMY by not giving into my kicking-screaming-I'll-hold-my-breath-until-I-have-a-goddamn-caaaaat!!! tantrums.
While I do have a cat now--the lovely Zanadune--I have to pop and snort medications on a daily basis just to keep her. And, what about my dream to someday have three dogs and four cats (all rescues and special needs, of course)? Sadly, the volume of dander in such a household would likely kill me (or just make me extremely itchy). I'm afraid that short of a miracle cure, it can never be.
What has made me so miserable and crestfallen, you ask? Sarah McLachlan's ad for the ASPCA. It had me sobbing in front of the television today. Not even those Kodak ads from back in the day--you know, the ones that aired during the summer Olympics back in the late '80s and featured "True Colors" by Cyndi Lauper--made me cry like I cried today.
While I do have a cat now--the lovely Zanadune--I have to pop and snort medications on a daily basis just to keep her. And, what about my dream to someday have three dogs and four cats (all rescues and special needs, of course)? Sadly, the volume of dander in such a household would likely kill me (or just make me extremely itchy). I'm afraid that short of a miracle cure, it can never be.
What has made me so miserable and crestfallen, you ask? Sarah McLachlan's ad for the ASPCA. It had me sobbing in front of the television today. Not even those Kodak ads from back in the day--you know, the ones that aired during the summer Olympics back in the late '80s and featured "True Colors" by Cyndi Lauper--made me cry like I cried today.
Friday, June 22, 2007
LESSONS LEARNED FROM MY BFF
Two winters ago on Pinel Island, my bff--pushing aside aside my spf 50 sunscreen with a look of utter disgust on her face-- declared "Asians don't get skin cancer! There, you've heard it from a goddamn nurse. Now, stop being paranoid, put on my spf 5 sunscreen and let's freakin' try to look like we actually spent 11 days in the freakin' Caribbean."
By the time we returned home to an arctic mainland, we were both a matching shade of eggplant.
Good times.
By the time we returned home to an arctic mainland, we were both a matching shade of eggplant.
Good times.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW OUR NERD NOW?
It's time to quiz your knowledge of the Nerd again! Take the HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW OUR NERD NOW test and post your results in the comments section.
I strongly encourage the overachievers among my readers to take (or retake) the original test. You'll probably know me better than my shrink after you're done with both tests!
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
ON THE ROAD AGAIN
This past weekend saw your nerd behind the wheel of a car after an exceedingly long hiatus from driving.
Rest assured, reader, it was good. Sure, sometimes it was bad (had Mike-the-instructor not stamped on the brake that one time, the chap who was jaywalking would surely have gotten up close and personal with the car's bumper) but it was mostly excellent.
The car from the driving school pulled into my building's parking lot, covered with bright yellow "WARNING! STUDENT DRIVER!" stickers and with a twitchy female student behind the wheel. The woman emerged from the car, noticeably relieved to hand the vehicle over to--gulp--me. Little did she know. As she took her seat next to a gentleman (the dude later informed me that he wasn't a student but had just tagged along with the chick. Who in the hell tags along on driving lessons? Weak, man. WEAK.) in the back. Mike-the-instructor, who was all belly with matching little stumps for arms and legs, also emerged from the car to help me get situated behind the wheel.
As I slipped into the driver's seat--already having developed a bit of a complex because of those damn friggin' warning stickers--I announced in my most responsible-driver voice, "I just want you three to know that it's been close to a decade since I've driven a car, so I'd wear my seat belt if I was you." They gulped in unison.
Other than that close call with the jaywalker, my tendency to go over the crawlingly slow speed limit of 25 miles per hour ("I'm sorry, I'm sorry," became a constant refrain of mine in the car), and Mike-the-instructor's flatulence (I kid you not. We were forced to roll up the windows because it had started to rain and, oh boy, with that most brutal assault on my olfactory organs, I could barely focus on the road. I'm even tempted to blame the near vehicular manslaughter of the reckless jaywalker on the silent-but-deadly bombs my corpulent instructor kept throwing at me but, alas, I can't. Reckless jaywalker and I share responsibility for that almost-tragedy. Thank goodness it was averted), I learned a lot. Really:
I (re)learned how to drive in a straight line (I'm still trying to get a hang of driving at 25 miles per hour. Between that and the bright yellow sticker, I felt myself return to a place I still hate: third grade gym class). I also learned that being able to drive would make me less dependent on my future husband than I would be otherwise ("Why would I ever depend on my husband for anything," I asked Mike-the-instructor defensively); that female drivers were always a nervous lot, who simply needed a couple of hours of instruction before they became confident enough to drive ("Now that statement, Mike-the-instructor, was among the most chauvinistic I've heard in quite some time. What, are men born clutching driver's licenses??" I demanded); and that Mike-the-instructor would reward me with a "You're a good girl," each and every time I came to a full stop before a stop sign. Shudder.
Anyway, next weekend will see the nerd parallel park, k-turn and drive on a highway. I won't lie: the thought of driving on a highway makes me wet my pants a little with fear. Perhaps I, too, will bring along a friend for the moral support.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
LESSONS LEARNED FROM MY BFF
When a hot guy asks what you have planned for the weekend, "Lots of reading," is never the right answer.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
MAINE SQUEEZE
Dear guys,
A friend and I are planning a trip to an undetermined location in Maine at an undisclosed time this summer. As neither of us has ever visited the great state of Stephen King, Ron Currie, Jr., lobsters, lighthouses, toothpicks (Maine happens to be the number one exporter of toothpics), blueberries (Maine also happens to be the number one exporter of blueberries) and large print publishers, we'd be ever grateful to have travel tips from folks familiar with the area.
Thanks.
Yours,
The Nerddd
ps: It was back in 1998 that I nearly ran over a family as I attempted to parallel park. The mother and a couple of the kids may have flashed obscene gestures at me but that was it. Nothing more critical transpired. The emotional trauma of the event, however, resulted in my almost decade-long absence from behind the wheel. Say a prayer for me (as well as for all of the poor souls who will be on the road with me) at 4PM this Sunday as I take a two hour driving refresher course!
Monday, June 11, 2007
DIRTY MADLIBS*
Over the past two days, at least fifteen visitors--nine alone today--found my blog by running searches for "dirty MadLibs." I've always known that my blog has long been among the top search results for "dirty MadLibs," but to think that I might be the progenitor of a dirty MadLibs revolution is staggering and at times humbling. Some may argue that the uncensored director's cut of MadLibs has existed well before this Nerd started playing the game and perhaps it is safe to surmise that the dirty MadLib has been around since that very first time a MadLibs fell into the hands of a kid--or an adult...ahem--who found words like scrotum , crab, armpits, and loins inherently funny, in which case I'm not a trailblazer, after all, and all I've simply done is jumped onto a bandwagon that had always been in full swing...but maybe I'm wearing earplugs and don't hear the music and have deluded myself into believing that there isn't any music at all and I'm doing everyone a favor by bringing the music to them that I, at the end of the day, can't hear because of the ear plugs.
All that may very well be true but I am still proud to be a practitioner of the fine art of the dirty MadLib and am honored to maintain a top result in your Google and Yahoo searches for this most sophomoric and enjoyable of games.
*disclaimer: I'm very sleepy at the moment. I have a feeling that I will regret this post in the morning.
LAZY SUNDAY
This was one of those rare weekends during which I find that I have absolutely nothing but hours and hours of free time on my hands. It was a rare blessing, indeed.
I had all the time in the world. I could've done anything I pleased...or nothing at all. Had I wanted to, I could've probably even finally sat down and watched those three Netflix movies that, a third of a year since they arrived, are still languishing on top of the DVD player.
Did I watch any one of the three?
You guessed it, reader: not a chance.
Instead of catching up with the ol' Netflix, I caught up on three hours' worth of DVR'd episodes of A Haunting, The Discovery Channel's series on haunted houses; I walked to the video store (walking to the video store happens to be precisely what I was hoping to eliminate from my life by signing up with NetFlix. Hell.) and rented Catch and Release and Because I Said So (so what if I was in the mood for romantic comedies? The Nerd happens to enjoy the occasional romantic comedy); I read Diane Setterfield's fantastic debut novel The Thirteenth Tale (not only did I read it on Saturday but I found myself rereading the last quarter of it on Sunday...why? Because I had the time to reread it); I (finally) read the first quarter of Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma ; I spent hours and hours loitering the old haunts and reminiscing with my bff; I washed the windows to a streakless clean; I cleaned the bathroom; I slept for hours in the afternoon.
I could've done anything with my free time but I DIDN'T WATCH THE NETFLIX MOVIES. I can't do it. I have some sort of mental block that's preventing me from picking up one of those godforsaken Netflix envelopes, removing the bloody DVD from the bloody envelope, inserting said DVD into the friggin' DVD player, sitting back and finally watching any one of the movies. And though I know that getting over this Netflix block seems rather impossible right now, I'm not quite ready to admit defeat. I'm not ready to relinquish that impressive queue I spent time thoughtfully putting together.
And, like a patient parent, Netflix--the queue!--waits for me, its prodigal daughter.
Sigh.
I had all the time in the world. I could've done anything I pleased...or nothing at all. Had I wanted to, I could've probably even finally sat down and watched those three Netflix movies that, a third of a year since they arrived, are still languishing on top of the DVD player.
Did I watch any one of the three?
You guessed it, reader: not a chance.
Instead of catching up with the ol' Netflix, I caught up on three hours' worth of DVR'd episodes of A Haunting, The Discovery Channel's series on haunted houses; I walked to the video store (walking to the video store happens to be precisely what I was hoping to eliminate from my life by signing up with NetFlix. Hell.) and rented Catch and Release and Because I Said So (so what if I was in the mood for romantic comedies? The Nerd happens to enjoy the occasional romantic comedy); I read Diane Setterfield's fantastic debut novel The Thirteenth Tale (not only did I read it on Saturday but I found myself rereading the last quarter of it on Sunday...why? Because I had the time to reread it); I (finally) read the first quarter of Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma ; I spent hours and hours loitering the old haunts and reminiscing with my bff; I washed the windows to a streakless clean; I cleaned the bathroom; I slept for hours in the afternoon.
I could've done anything with my free time but I DIDN'T WATCH THE NETFLIX MOVIES. I can't do it. I have some sort of mental block that's preventing me from picking up one of those godforsaken Netflix envelopes, removing the bloody DVD from the bloody envelope, inserting said DVD into the friggin' DVD player, sitting back and finally watching any one of the movies. And though I know that getting over this Netflix block seems rather impossible right now, I'm not quite ready to admit defeat. I'm not ready to relinquish that impressive queue I spent time thoughtfully putting together.
And, like a patient parent, Netflix--the queue!--waits for me, its prodigal daughter.
Sigh.
Friday, June 08, 2007
YOUR Qs, MY As or ANOTHER FRIDAY NIGHT
1) Anonymous asked: Would you be interested in a blind date?
Dear Anonymous, I'd probably prefer a sighted date...wacka wacka wacka......ahem. Seriously though, anonymous, I hate the blind date. As much as one tries to walk into the blind date with an open mind and a good attitude, the night inexorably heads in the direction of great misery and even greater awkwardness...well, at least it has when my mom and her cohorts have set me up. In any case, I avoid the blind date at all costs so, no, I wouldn't be interested in one at this or any other time.
2) Anonymous asked: Would you marry an Indian muslim?
Sure, why not?
3) Sikanderk asked: What are five things in your life for which you are thankful?
*my family (my Zanadune's included, dammit)
*my friends (you know who you are)
*my health
*my job (it's going to be six years with the bird next year and this working relationship still makes me feel downright giddy. I know, I know...I'm a boob)
*my conviviality and my books tie for fifth
4) Anonymous asked: If I put my head in oven and legs in ice, on an average am I ok?
Only if you are a statistician, dear anonymous. Now, if you're a poet, we've got problems...
5) Anonymous: Since your mom loves to play the role of matchmaker, and none of her kids are interested in getting married, would she mind hooking me up; I'm desperate :P
Anonymous, are you KIDDING me? I won't hear the end of how I should aspire to be as good, obedient, and desperate as you are. Thanks but no thanks!
6) Anonymous: How do you get spray paint out of your hand?
With Lava. Lava had a brief stint as the Khan family bathroom soap back in the day. I kinda loved it.
7) Anonymous: Would you marry a non Muslim is what I'm interested in?
Sure, why not?
Dear Anonymous, I'd probably prefer a sighted date...wacka wacka wacka......ahem. Seriously though, anonymous, I hate the blind date. As much as one tries to walk into the blind date with an open mind and a good attitude, the night inexorably heads in the direction of great misery and even greater awkwardness...well, at least it has when my mom and her cohorts have set me up. In any case, I avoid the blind date at all costs so, no, I wouldn't be interested in one at this or any other time.
2) Anonymous asked: Would you marry an Indian muslim?
Sure, why not?
3) Sikanderk asked: What are five things in your life for which you are thankful?
*my family (my Zanadune's included, dammit)
*my friends (you know who you are)
*my health
*my job (it's going to be six years with the bird next year and this working relationship still makes me feel downright giddy. I know, I know...I'm a boob)
*my conviviality and my books tie for fifth
4) Anonymous asked: If I put my head in oven and legs in ice, on an average am I ok?
Only if you are a statistician, dear anonymous. Now, if you're a poet, we've got problems...
5) Anonymous: Since your mom loves to play the role of matchmaker, and none of her kids are interested in getting married, would she mind hooking me up; I'm desperate :P
Anonymous, are you KIDDING me? I won't hear the end of how I should aspire to be as good, obedient, and desperate as you are. Thanks but no thanks!
6) Anonymous: How do you get spray paint out of your hand?
With Lava. Lava had a brief stint as the Khan family bathroom soap back in the day. I kinda loved it.
7) Anonymous: Would you marry a non Muslim is what I'm interested in?
Sure, why not?
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Q&A
Folks, it's that time of the month again: I open the blog floor to your questions. Actually, the last time I did this was back in 2006 (check it out here and here)
and, sure, I've just now decided to make this a monthly feature because I'm exhausted, which makes me unable to type and think at the same time, rendering me as useless as wet matches, which I realize is a horrible similie but, wow, I'm tired.
So, ask me questions--the question can be about me, you, your in-laws, your neighbors, Brad Pitt, or freakin' Bhutan. I'll answer them tomorrow.
I'm going to bed.
and, sure, I've just now decided to make this a monthly feature because I'm exhausted, which makes me unable to type and think at the same time, rendering me as useless as wet matches, which I realize is a horrible similie but, wow, I'm tired.
So, ask me questions--the question can be about me, you, your in-laws, your neighbors, Brad Pitt, or freakin' Bhutan. I'll answer them tomorrow.
I'm going to bed.
Tuesday, June 05, 2007
BUM HIP? WHAT BUM HIP?
I threw caution and my physical therapist's expert, $35 per-visit-copay advice to the wind yesterday. I ran.
It was terrific. Though the run was only 5 miles and on a treadmill, it managed to eradicate all of the day's shittiness (and, trust me, it was an EXTREMELY shitty day). I stretched like a maniac before the run and I stretched like a maniac after the run. The endorphins were still pumping through my system today, which made for sheer loveliness and inspired me to run another 5.5 miles after work. Endorphins are my friends.
Thank God the hip doesn't hurt but, for some reason, my right pointer finger is freakin' killing me. Wonder if it'll require therapy.
In other news, I dreamt last night that I was making out with Mekhi Pfeiffer. Bizarre? Yes. I've never found Mekhi Pfeiffer attractive and, really, I have absolutely no reason to be dreaming of him, let alone making out with him in my dream. How random is that, right? Not very, if you consider that, years ago, I dreamt of making out with another actor who played a doctor on ER, an actor who I didn't find attractive: Anthony Edwards. In that dream, Anthony Edwards was wearing a red and black flannel shirt--it looked like a farmer's shirt--and we were kissing in a red pickup truck.
Coincidence?
Any dream interpreters out there?
It was terrific. Though the run was only 5 miles and on a treadmill, it managed to eradicate all of the day's shittiness (and, trust me, it was an EXTREMELY shitty day). I stretched like a maniac before the run and I stretched like a maniac after the run. The endorphins were still pumping through my system today, which made for sheer loveliness and inspired me to run another 5.5 miles after work. Endorphins are my friends.
Thank God the hip doesn't hurt but, for some reason, my right pointer finger is freakin' killing me. Wonder if it'll require therapy.
In other news, I dreamt last night that I was making out with Mekhi Pfeiffer. Bizarre? Yes. I've never found Mekhi Pfeiffer attractive and, really, I have absolutely no reason to be dreaming of him, let alone making out with him in my dream. How random is that, right? Not very, if you consider that, years ago, I dreamt of making out with another actor who played a doctor on ER, an actor who I didn't find attractive: Anthony Edwards. In that dream, Anthony Edwards was wearing a red and black flannel shirt--it looked like a farmer's shirt--and we were kissing in a red pickup truck.
Coincidence?
Any dream interpreters out there?
CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH A SOUTH ASIAN AUNTY or YET ANOTHER CALGON-TAKE-ME-AWAY MOMENT IN THE LIFE OF OUR NERD
I ran into an old family friend at the mall last week. As I fully expected, our conversation quickly segued from courteous greetings to the woman reassuring me that I need not fret about being single in my late 20s because even though I was old by South Asian marriage standards, at least I looked younger than my age.
I fought the urge to suplex her.
She proceeded to tell me that she might have one or two potential suitors for me and that I should have my mom be in touch with her. When I thanked her and told her that I wasn't interested in being setup at the time, she said [cue: Twilight Zone theme] that she'd prefer continuing this conversation with my mother and that I should know better than to meddle in the business of elders.
I disengaged myself from the conversation before I could triple-jump moonsault the idiot.
I fought the urge to suplex her.
She proceeded to tell me that she might have one or two potential suitors for me and that I should have my mom be in touch with her. When I thanked her and told her that I wasn't interested in being setup at the time, she said [cue: Twilight Zone theme] that she'd prefer continuing this conversation with my mother and that I should know better than to meddle in the business of elders.
I disengaged myself from the conversation before I could triple-jump moonsault the idiot.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
My posts have been few and far between of late and while I'd love to ascribe my negligence to an overwhelming amount of fabulousness in my life, the truth of the matter is that I'm currently experiencing a spell of complete and utter (and--let's be honest here--somewhat self-inflicted) B-O-R-E-D-O-M. Since watching Spring Awakening, the most excitement I've experienced is a near-slip on spilled fava beans at ShopRite and the resultant stiffness (plus a feeling hovering uncomfortably close to pain) in the almost-healed bum right hip. Not to worry--the hip hasn't been re-strained and I should be up and running again in another couple of weeks barring additional close encounters with beans.
If we're going to count the fava beans incident as a not-so-boring moment in my current state of ennui, we shouldn't leave out the Mexican food I had for dinner last weekend. Given the contentious relationship my digestive system has with the cuisine from south of the border, the fiesta in my stomach that followed the meal was no surprise. That's what I call a change of pace.
And while we're on the subject of food, I recently discovered two heretofore never before sampled LightLife vegetarian deli meats. I've been eating the company's vegetarian bologna for years but I had the roast turkey and baked ham for the first time last week and, oh my goodness, both flavors are delectable. The latter was a revelation since I've never had pork in my life. It was a nice break from routine.
Still, my current state of existence is not unlike that of the amber-encased prehistoric mosquito fossil in Jurassic Park. Actually, it was because of that mosquito that scientists in the novel/film were able to genetically engineer dinosaurs (and goddamn it, am I jealous of that insect's legs? really?), so I guess I lose. Bloody hell.
Super. Back to watching the Yankees blow another lead. Sigh.
UPDATE: I'd like to add tonight's final game in the Yankees-Red Sox series as a greatly satisfying moment for me.
Monday, May 28, 2007
SHIT
I'm having a pretty awful day and am in a bad mood. When I was younger, the thought of cutting people out of my life seemed not possible. This is no longer the case, (un)fortunately.
Monday, May 21, 2007
AY
The cold, she has socked me!
Oh, reader, it's too beautiful a day to be bed-(or sofa-)ridden in one's pajamas, all blocked up with mucus. But here I am, congested and logged into work from home, while everyone at work has a spring in his and her step and an iced coffee in hand. Good things always seem to happen when I'm absent. For example, I was absent one Friday in the second grade only to find out on Monday morning that I'd missed out on a surprise viewing for grades 1-3 of Pollyanna in the auditorium. I've been unable to bring myself to view the film since. Later, in the 8th grade, I fell victim to (yes, yet another) stomach bug and was out for a couple of days, during which my fellow classmates sniggered through parts 1 and 2 of a sex ed video shown during Health class.
I wouldn't be surprised if everyone in the office is getting promotions and pay raises and possibly even ice cream cones as we speak. Sigh.
Oh, reader, it's too beautiful a day to be bed-(or sofa-)ridden in one's pajamas, all blocked up with mucus. But here I am, congested and logged into work from home, while everyone at work has a spring in his and her step and an iced coffee in hand. Good things always seem to happen when I'm absent. For example, I was absent one Friday in the second grade only to find out on Monday morning that I'd missed out on a surprise viewing for grades 1-3 of Pollyanna in the auditorium. I've been unable to bring myself to view the film since. Later, in the 8th grade, I fell victim to (yes, yet another) stomach bug and was out for a couple of days, during which my fellow classmates sniggered through parts 1 and 2 of a sex ed video shown during Health class.
I wouldn't be surprised if everyone in the office is getting promotions and pay raises and possibly even ice cream cones as we speak. Sigh.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
SPRING AWAKENING BUT A COLD
Apologies, kittens, for being such an absentee blogger but life, work and the rest of it have been hectic of late and there’s just no getting away from such things now is there? To top things off, I’m now suffering from a most bothersome cold. I hate being sidelined by something as silly as a cold so you better believe I’m od’ing on Vitamin C. Alas, I have exhausted my supply of green tea with echinacea and don’t have the energy to run out to the store to purchase more. Alas.
In other news, I watched Spring Awakening yesterday with one of my favorite people in the WORLD, really (I have a handful of favorite people in the WORLD and I LOVE ‘em all. Kisses, kittens, kisses) and it was everything that I’d expected and more. Spring Awakening is a dark and edgy musical—composed by none other than Duncan Sheik of “Barely Breathing” fame in the mid-90s—about the sexual angst of teenagers. Masturbation, wet dreams, sadomasochism, abortion, sexual abuse, suicide, homosexuality, naked breasts and a derriere—this musical’s got it all played out (anachronistically) against rock ‘n roll. Amazingly, the musical is based on a 19th century German play by one Frank Wedekind. I have to give Herr Wedekind props for writing in 1891 about topics that are still considered taboo today. The cast is very young and hot and talented, the songs are contemporary and excellent and the set is replete with neon tubing.
Trust me. Check it out.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
CUTE
If my assumption that a large majority of my readers are folks I know in real life is correct, then most of you already know that I, SabilaK, overwhelmingly prefer the cute guy to the handsome man (ironically enough, I loathe the word “cute.” I’ll have to share my tale of the pseudo-surfer banker dude who left me with this deep-seated and likely life-long aversion to the otherwise harmless adjective at a time when I’m not nodding off as I am now). Many a sweet and nerdy male with boyish good looks has run off with my heart, a fact that need not be delved into any further right now, since the cab light is still officially off and I'm verging on slumber and I have a sore throat.
Honestly, I don’t know why I brought this up at all.
Honestly, I don’t know why I brought this up at all.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
TUSCANY
I love, love, love Under the Tuscan Sun. No movie has ever made me want to get married, discover my husand's cheating on me, get divorced, lose everything to the philandering husband in the divorce, fall into depression, vacation in Tuscany in order to fall out of depression, impulsively purchase a ramshackle villa and set out to repair it in order to find meaning and purpose in my life and make out with hot Italian men along the way, more.
So, I've superimposed my head on Diane Lane's and I'm daydreaming that it's me in the movie, that it's my life that's been turned upside down. Taking a break from reading, I decide I'm going to Google Image pics of the Tuscan landscape and the only image that I find striking as a thumbnail is the following, which upon closer examination makes me gasp, "Even those Tuscans have sold out to the monstrosity of gated communities!! Anti-social Italian elitists be damned!"
But then I read that this is a pic of a gated community in Vegas called Tuscany. So, I breathe a sigh of relief, damn the anti-social American elitists of Nevada and continue surveying my search results. And then I come across this image--
--but quickly realize that it's a pic of a Las Vegas hotel. I damn Nevada for its obsession with Tuscany and move on until I find this, the only decent pic of Tuscany that Google-Image has retrieved for me. Anyone can see that there are several problems with it, that lady being the most glaring of them:
Plus, at first glance, that branch--or whatever the hell that thing hovering above the chair with the blue jacket draped on it is--looks to me like a taxidermied bird of prey. This freaks me out a little bit. Clearly, it isn't a taxidermied anything and, clearly, taxidermied isn't a verb. But then again, when did Google-Image'd become a verb? There are other problems with the photo that seemed to stick out at me like a monkey in a boardroom in one of those "What Doesn't Belong Here?" drawings, but they're no longer sticking out, so they couldn't have been THAT important or so monkey-in-the-boardroom problematic.
I'm sleepy.
Good night.
So, I've superimposed my head on Diane Lane's and I'm daydreaming that it's me in the movie, that it's my life that's been turned upside down. Taking a break from reading, I decide I'm going to Google Image pics of the Tuscan landscape and the only image that I find striking as a thumbnail is the following, which upon closer examination makes me gasp, "Even those Tuscans have sold out to the monstrosity of gated communities!! Anti-social Italian elitists be damned!"
But then I read that this is a pic of a gated community in Vegas called Tuscany. So, I breathe a sigh of relief, damn the anti-social American elitists of Nevada and continue surveying my search results. And then I come across this image--
--but quickly realize that it's a pic of a Las Vegas hotel. I damn Nevada for its obsession with Tuscany and move on until I find this, the only decent pic of Tuscany that Google-Image has retrieved for me. Anyone can see that there are several problems with it, that lady being the most glaring of them:
Plus, at first glance, that branch--or whatever the hell that thing hovering above the chair with the blue jacket draped on it is--looks to me like a taxidermied bird of prey. This freaks me out a little bit. Clearly, it isn't a taxidermied anything and, clearly, taxidermied isn't a verb. But then again, when did Google-Image'd become a verb? There are other problems with the photo that seemed to stick out at me like a monkey in a boardroom in one of those "What Doesn't Belong Here?" drawings, but they're no longer sticking out, so they couldn't have been THAT important or so monkey-in-the-boardroom problematic.
I'm sleepy.
Good night.
Monday, May 07, 2007
RANDOMNESS
Dear Readers:
It's 12 midnight and I have to be up super early tomorrow morning, the stress of which is seriously impacting my ability to blog properly. So, in lieu of a proper blog, tonight I leave you with the pic above, which was taken by yours truly during my 2004 trip to Pakistan. Apparently, the folks in the pic are engaged in a fierce game of cricket.
This is all I know.
Goodnight.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
CIGS AND BIG RIGS
One night, years ago--I must've been 16--I dreamt that I was driving an 18 wheeler on a highway. The truck's cab was zero gravity, so I was floating, my legs swimming in the air behind me as I held onto the wheel. A cigarette dangled from my mouth (just for the record, I held or smoked a cigarette in almost every single dream I had that year; also, for the record, I think smoking is awful).
I've been thinking about the dream all day today. I've also been feeling nostalgic for high school, not the way it was but the way it could've been. A do over would be nice.
I've been thinking about the dream all day today. I've also been feeling nostalgic for high school, not the way it was but the way it could've been. A do over would be nice.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
SYMMETRY
My hips are misaligned. The left hip is higher than the right hip, which is why I keep injuring the right hip. Jack, my physical therapist, assures me that while I'm doing everything right--warming up for effin' 45 minutes before every workout--he'll need to do some manual manipulation, etc., in order to set my hips straight again. I'm to see him twice a week for at least 6 weeks and I absolutely cannot run in the meantime. No, not even a little bit. Not even if I'm doped up on Motrin and pain free. And three miles will, most certainly, be just as bad as nine miles.
I will defer to Jack's superior knowledge of physical therapy.
I will also occasionally burst into tears at the sight of people running on the long line of treadmills at the gym, to the great horror and dismay of my trainer-friends.
They will give me pep talks and I will get over it.
In other, non-hip related news, I've recused myself from that wedding I was supposed to attend next weekend. I never divulged the details of the nuptials, so here goes: my paternal cousin is marrying a man who was handpicked by my maternal cousin as a potential match for me. I refused to pursue the lead, which terribly upset my mother so that, several weeks later, she threw in the proverbial towel and announced that she'd tell my cousin to put the man in touch with my aunt in Michigan whose daughter was on the market. She paused briefly after making the announcement. I took the opportunity to pat her on the back and tell her that she had a wonderful idea.
This isn't what she wanted to hear.
After a couple of months of meeting under the supervision of their families, my former potential match and my paternal cousin are getting married. The maternal cousins--some of the very same cousins who gave me the talk about biological urges a coupl of months ago--will be in attendance. As much as I'd like to have shared in my cousin's happiness, I refuse to be the fresh veggie bologna trapped between stale and moldy slices of bread for even just a weekend. Or something like that, anyway.
I will defer to Jack's superior knowledge of physical therapy.
I will also occasionally burst into tears at the sight of people running on the long line of treadmills at the gym, to the great horror and dismay of my trainer-friends.
They will give me pep talks and I will get over it.
In other, non-hip related news, I've recused myself from that wedding I was supposed to attend next weekend. I never divulged the details of the nuptials, so here goes: my paternal cousin is marrying a man who was handpicked by my maternal cousin as a potential match for me. I refused to pursue the lead, which terribly upset my mother so that, several weeks later, she threw in the proverbial towel and announced that she'd tell my cousin to put the man in touch with my aunt in Michigan whose daughter was on the market. She paused briefly after making the announcement. I took the opportunity to pat her on the back and tell her that she had a wonderful idea.
This isn't what she wanted to hear.
After a couple of months of meeting under the supervision of their families, my former potential match and my paternal cousin are getting married. The maternal cousins--some of the very same cousins who gave me the talk about biological urges a coupl of months ago--will be in attendance. As much as I'd like to have shared in my cousin's happiness, I refuse to be the fresh veggie bologna trapped between stale and moldy slices of bread for even just a weekend. Or something like that, anyway.
Monday, April 23, 2007
CELEBRITY? THE NERD HAS A FAN
It's finally happened. The nerd has experienced a quasi-celebrity moment.
It went down yesterday when I decided to celebrate spring's reemergence from the lingering pall of winter with an unpalatable iced coffee and a delightfully delicious manuscript at my local Starbucks. Judging by the line that snaked it's way almost out the door the entire time I was there, most of the city's inhabitants seemed to have the same idea--minus the manuscript. That I found a table amid the bustle verged on miraculous. It was rather easy to slip into anonymity among the anonymous multitude.
I sat there, absorbed in my reading, coming up occassionally to rest my eyes on the faces floating around me. My table was next to a window overlooking a promenade that brimmed with people who could have become more placeable had I looked at them longer. I wasn't interested, however. I only had eyes for the manuscript and I hoped more than once that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew.
But then there was an "Excuse me," and I looked up to find a young man standing before me with a venti cup in hand. His smile appeared frozen and a little forced, as if he was still trying to decide whether or not this was a good idea. "Isn't your profile on (insert name of networking site here)? And you have a blog..."
I clutched onto the corners of the manuscript. I didn't want to be rude so I slapped on a smile. Okay, so my lips were more likely contorted into an anxious and horrified shape than an actual smile but it was the best I could offer Mr. Stranger Danger at that moment. He nervously prattled right along "...and you're from Libya..." at which point I found my voice, albeit for a moment, to correct him. "I was born in Libya," I said.
"Oh, right," he said, waving his venti cup. "I recognized you so I thought I'd say hello."
He stood still. His venti cup was still. He continued to smile too brightly. The seconds seemed to stretch into minutes, into hours. My mind drew a blank and, finally, the only words I could managed were:
"This is weird."
"Well," he said and I imagine he would've rubbed his hands together or slapped me on the back in order to defuse the situation if he could. "Have a good day."
I said bye. I accompanied the bye with a wave. I watched him scamper away.
Later, when I told my mother the story, she declared that I was stuck up. "What did you want me to do?" I asked her, "Ask him to sit in my lap because he's recognized me?"
"No," she replied, after a good laugh, "you should've just shrugged and smiled and said 'It's a small world, isn't it.' 'This is weird' was just rude, Sabila."
Oh well. At least I'd smiled.
It went down yesterday when I decided to celebrate spring's reemergence from the lingering pall of winter with an unpalatable iced coffee and a delightfully delicious manuscript at my local Starbucks. Judging by the line that snaked it's way almost out the door the entire time I was there, most of the city's inhabitants seemed to have the same idea--minus the manuscript. That I found a table amid the bustle verged on miraculous. It was rather easy to slip into anonymity among the anonymous multitude.
I sat there, absorbed in my reading, coming up occassionally to rest my eyes on the faces floating around me. My table was next to a window overlooking a promenade that brimmed with people who could have become more placeable had I looked at them longer. I wasn't interested, however. I only had eyes for the manuscript and I hoped more than once that I wouldn't run into anyone I knew.
But then there was an "Excuse me," and I looked up to find a young man standing before me with a venti cup in hand. His smile appeared frozen and a little forced, as if he was still trying to decide whether or not this was a good idea. "Isn't your profile on (insert name of networking site here)? And you have a blog..."
I clutched onto the corners of the manuscript. I didn't want to be rude so I slapped on a smile. Okay, so my lips were more likely contorted into an anxious and horrified shape than an actual smile but it was the best I could offer Mr. Stranger Danger at that moment. He nervously prattled right along "...and you're from Libya..." at which point I found my voice, albeit for a moment, to correct him. "I was born in Libya," I said.
"Oh, right," he said, waving his venti cup. "I recognized you so I thought I'd say hello."
He stood still. His venti cup was still. He continued to smile too brightly. The seconds seemed to stretch into minutes, into hours. My mind drew a blank and, finally, the only words I could managed were:
"This is weird."
"Well," he said and I imagine he would've rubbed his hands together or slapped me on the back in order to defuse the situation if he could. "Have a good day."
I said bye. I accompanied the bye with a wave. I watched him scamper away.
Later, when I told my mother the story, she declared that I was stuck up. "What did you want me to do?" I asked her, "Ask him to sit in my lap because he's recognized me?"
"No," she replied, after a good laugh, "you should've just shrugged and smiled and said 'It's a small world, isn't it.' 'This is weird' was just rude, Sabila."
Oh well. At least I'd smiled.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
My Left Eye
It's 4:23 AM. I've woken up in the middle of the night. An itchy left eye is the culprit and although it feels weird, like I have something foreign floating around in the aqueous humor, a trip to the bathroom mirror reveals that there's nothing visibly wrong with it. So, I make sure one last time that I haven't left my contact in there and when I'm certain that the eye is debris-free, I wash it out with warm water and head back to bed.
Except I can't sleep now. Instead of spending the couple of hours I have before I must wake up and get ready for work in sweet, sweet slumber, I've taken a drowsy plunge into the sleepless world of hypochondria. The eye still feels heavy and irritated and now I swear that I have a newly acquired blind spot. I'm going blind at 28 and I don't want to go blind at 28 or ever. Oh, dear, sweet God, WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS? I happen to like sight very much. It happens to be among my favorite senses.
But what if it isn't simply blindness? What if my eye's infected? How safe are contact lens anyway? And, yes, I admit that sometimes I just throw the lenses in their case, without first rubbing and rinsing them clean. HOWEVER, there was this film student girl in my creative writing class who would remove her contacts from her eyes, pop them in her mouth to wet them, before reinserting them into her eyes. IF ANYONE SHOULD HAVE A PROSTHETIC EYE, IT SHOULD BE TISCH GIRL! How could it possibly be right for someone whose only mistake is not cleaning, rubbing and rinsing every single time she removes her contact lenses to have an eye removed while Tisch girl gets to keep both of hers. And, sweet jeebus, if I thought popping a contact into my eye was an impossible task that first time at Lens Crafters, nearly a decade ago, I can't even begin to imagine what fitting a prosthetic eye into my orbital cavity will be like.
It's 4:39AM and I'm lying in bed, kicking myself for not rubbing and rinsing my contact lenses. So, I pull out my G4 and Google "prosthetic eyes," and find this site of the Prosthetic Eye Institute and, oh my God, this is the absolute last thing I need. Between a bum hip and a prosthetic eye, I'm done. I'M DONE.
Speaking of the hip, it's not feeling so hot at 4:45AM. So, I plug in my electric heating pad and wallow in the realization that I have a bum right hip and a bum left eye. And I still can't sleep, so I continue Googling "prosthetic eyes" and am somewhat relieved to read that ocular science has taken leaps in bounds in the area of prosthetics, that todays prosthetics use porous materials that allow blood vessels to grow right into them. I don't know how that helps but it sure sounds like it does.
I imagine forming a support group for all wearers of prosthetic eyes; we can meet weekly and discuss phantom eye crusts and tears. Oh, the phantom tears! And, to think that, only this morning, I was bemoaning something as simple and repairable as the snugness of my jeans. Silly, silly Sabila. If only you'd rubbed and rinsed those contacts, you wouldn't be awake with an infected eye at 5:15AM.....
...um...actually, the eye doesn't feel half bad anymore...THANK GOD!
Maybe I should try to get some sleep. Goodnight.
Except I can't sleep now. Instead of spending the couple of hours I have before I must wake up and get ready for work in sweet, sweet slumber, I've taken a drowsy plunge into the sleepless world of hypochondria. The eye still feels heavy and irritated and now I swear that I have a newly acquired blind spot. I'm going blind at 28 and I don't want to go blind at 28 or ever. Oh, dear, sweet God, WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS? I happen to like sight very much. It happens to be among my favorite senses.
But what if it isn't simply blindness? What if my eye's infected? How safe are contact lens anyway? And, yes, I admit that sometimes I just throw the lenses in their case, without first rubbing and rinsing them clean. HOWEVER, there was this film student girl in my creative writing class who would remove her contacts from her eyes, pop them in her mouth to wet them, before reinserting them into her eyes. IF ANYONE SHOULD HAVE A PROSTHETIC EYE, IT SHOULD BE TISCH GIRL! How could it possibly be right for someone whose only mistake is not cleaning, rubbing and rinsing every single time she removes her contact lenses to have an eye removed while Tisch girl gets to keep both of hers. And, sweet jeebus, if I thought popping a contact into my eye was an impossible task that first time at Lens Crafters, nearly a decade ago, I can't even begin to imagine what fitting a prosthetic eye into my orbital cavity will be like.
It's 4:39AM and I'm lying in bed, kicking myself for not rubbing and rinsing my contact lenses. So, I pull out my G4 and Google "prosthetic eyes," and find this site of the Prosthetic Eye Institute and, oh my God, this is the absolute last thing I need. Between a bum hip and a prosthetic eye, I'm done. I'M DONE.
Speaking of the hip, it's not feeling so hot at 4:45AM. So, I plug in my electric heating pad and wallow in the realization that I have a bum right hip and a bum left eye. And I still can't sleep, so I continue Googling "prosthetic eyes" and am somewhat relieved to read that ocular science has taken leaps in bounds in the area of prosthetics, that todays prosthetics use porous materials that allow blood vessels to grow right into them. I don't know how that helps but it sure sounds like it does.
I imagine forming a support group for all wearers of prosthetic eyes; we can meet weekly and discuss phantom eye crusts and tears. Oh, the phantom tears! And, to think that, only this morning, I was bemoaning something as simple and repairable as the snugness of my jeans. Silly, silly Sabila. If only you'd rubbed and rinsed those contacts, you wouldn't be awake with an infected eye at 5:15AM.....
...um...actually, the eye doesn't feel half bad anymore...THANK GOD!
Maybe I should try to get some sleep. Goodnight.
Friday, April 13, 2007
WORDSWORTH FOR THE YOUTUBE GENERATION
Watch the video on this site.
Yes, that's a giant squirrel rapping William Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud."
No wonder Will's holding his head in the pic above.
Thanks to my favorite former expat for bringing this most, um, psychedelic poetic experience to my attention.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
PASSIONS
Remember my cryptic post from a few days ago? Since I'm pretty sure the magic's going to go down, I figure I can tell you folks about it.
I read a book recently, which claims that it is only when you clearly know what your passions are, that these passions begin to manifest themselves in your life. The book comes with a test designed to--through self-evaluation and a process of elimination--reveal a person's top 5 passions. The authors also say that people who take the test are often surprised by what makes it (or, perhaps just as importantly, what doesn't make it) to their top 5.
My number 1: owning luxurious real estate around the world (the authors encourage readers to be as unrealistic--or, ahem, ambitious--as they must be in order to stay true to their passions).
I want to own cribs around the globe? Really? This came as a shock to me. I mean my interest in real estate has thus far been limited to watching Cribs on MTV. And, to be honest, the last time I watched anything on MTV was when I spent a Saturday night a couple of years ago with a Date My Mom marathon; I'm not even sure if Cribs is still on.
One week after taking the test, I find myself on the phone with a mortgage broker, discussing mortgage rates. A week after that, I'm pretty damn close to signing on the dotted line. Once I became clear about my passions, the universe magically tossed them into my lap. How awesome is that?!
The real estate isn't, by any means, luxurious,--it's a fixer-upper studio apartment --and of all the places around the world that it could be, it's in Jersey (well, I've always liked to think of Jersey City as a renegade colony of Manhattan...) but I'm this close to owning it and that makes me very scared and very happy (and something of a believer of West Coast juju...I mean seriously? S-E-R-I-O-U-S-L-Y?!)
I read a book recently, which claims that it is only when you clearly know what your passions are, that these passions begin to manifest themselves in your life. The book comes with a test designed to--through self-evaluation and a process of elimination--reveal a person's top 5 passions. The authors also say that people who take the test are often surprised by what makes it (or, perhaps just as importantly, what doesn't make it) to their top 5.
My number 1: owning luxurious real estate around the world (the authors encourage readers to be as unrealistic--or, ahem, ambitious--as they must be in order to stay true to their passions).
I want to own cribs around the globe? Really? This came as a shock to me. I mean my interest in real estate has thus far been limited to watching Cribs on MTV. And, to be honest, the last time I watched anything on MTV was when I spent a Saturday night a couple of years ago with a Date My Mom marathon; I'm not even sure if Cribs is still on.
One week after taking the test, I find myself on the phone with a mortgage broker, discussing mortgage rates. A week after that, I'm pretty damn close to signing on the dotted line. Once I became clear about my passions, the universe magically tossed them into my lap. How awesome is that?!
The real estate isn't, by any means, luxurious,--it's a fixer-upper studio apartment --and of all the places around the world that it could be, it's in Jersey (well, I've always liked to think of Jersey City as a renegade colony of Manhattan...) but I'm this close to owning it and that makes me very scared and very happy (and something of a believer of West Coast juju...I mean seriously? S-E-R-I-O-U-S-L-Y?!)
Monday, April 09, 2007
NETFLIX
The honeymoon with Netflix is over. The same three movies have been sitting atop the DVD player for a couple of months now: 24 Grams, The Prestige, and Flags of Our Fathers. And these are movies I want to watch; but what do I find myself watching instead last night? The NeverEnding Story II: The Next Chapter and the first inning of Ken Burns' Baseball. Now, the former was nowhere as entertaining as the first but I already knew that. The latter, I own and can watch whenever the fancy strikes. So, why I'm not watching these tremendous movies that I need to watch and return to NetFlix in order to watch the other tremendous movies in my queue is beyond me.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
POST
Dear Friends and Stranger (I'd like to think this is minus the Danger) Friends:
I haven't posted since Tuesday and, yes, four days is an awfully long time to go sans posting but I've been so immersed in this one, very real life thing that 1) I haven't had a moment to post and, 2) frankly, this real life thing is precisely what I want to talk about here; however, since it's only 98.2% confirmed, I fear that, if goodness-juju forbid, this doesn't pan out, I'll be left feeling rather like an asshole.
So, there it is. Now, I take my leave and, who knows, I might just cave in and blog about this real life thing once it's 99.0% confirmed. Let's just say, kittens, it has something to do west coast juju. I know, I know, it's bizarre and crazy and SO WEST COAST but, wow, it's all coming together and kinda falling into my lap.
Kisses and more to come!
SabilaK
I haven't posted since Tuesday and, yes, four days is an awfully long time to go sans posting but I've been so immersed in this one, very real life thing that 1) I haven't had a moment to post and, 2) frankly, this real life thing is precisely what I want to talk about here; however, since it's only 98.2% confirmed, I fear that, if goodness-juju forbid, this doesn't pan out, I'll be left feeling rather like an asshole.
So, there it is. Now, I take my leave and, who knows, I might just cave in and blog about this real life thing once it's 99.0% confirmed. Let's just say, kittens, it has something to do west coast juju. I know, I know, it's bizarre and crazy and SO WEST COAST but, wow, it's all coming together and kinda falling into my lap.
Kisses and more to come!
SabilaK
Tuesday, April 03, 2007
ON PEEP TOES AND HIPS: A Haiku Penned at 6AM, in Pain
Oh fair peep toe pumps,
you've broken my hip, but looked
damned good doing it.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
KARMA
So, as April approaches, things are starting to look better (I've upped the positive juju on my part). The hip's healing nicely, the weather's gorgeous, the job's wonderful, the friends are lovely, and the extended family has taken a break from harassing me about my perpetual state of singleness, my biological clock and my biological urges...ahem....WHICH won't last very long. I predict that May will see both sides of the extended family paying very strong interest in my biological urges. You see, there's a wedding in May.......
And I'll leave it at that! The Nerddd needs her beauty sleep for now but promises to blog more about the wedding to end all weddings tomorrow.
And I'll leave it at that! The Nerddd needs her beauty sleep for now but promises to blog more about the wedding to end all weddings tomorrow.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
DIRTY MADLIBS, GOOGLE, AND THE NERDDD
Just a couple of weeks ago, our little blog was result #3 in a Google search for "dirty madlibs."
Today, Shirley's blog is #2 for the very same search...and all because I left a comment about dirty madlibs on one of her posts. Revenge of the Nerddd doesn't even appear on the first page of results. And to think that I invented dirty madlibs! Oh, the humanity!
UPDATE!!!
I am the top result in a Google blog search for dirty madlibs. I mean, it's no regular Google search but, PHEW, I can save throwing myself into full-length mirrors for a real catastrophe...like when I eat too many cupcakes or can't find the remote control.
Today, Shirley's blog is #2 for the very same search...and all because I left a comment about dirty madlibs on one of her posts. Revenge of the Nerddd doesn't even appear on the first page of results. And to think that I invented dirty madlibs! Oh, the humanity!
UPDATE!!!
I am the top result in a Google blog search for dirty madlibs. I mean, it's no regular Google search but, PHEW, I can save throwing myself into full-length mirrors for a real catastrophe...like when I eat too many cupcakes or can't find the remote control.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
MOTRIN AND OTHER MIRACLES
Motrin is magical. The hip wasn't feeling too hot so, per the doctor's orders, I popped three 200 mg pills on a mostly empty stomach and was almost instantly pain free! God bless pharmaceutics! And, don't fret: I won't graduate to Vicodin or OxyContin...well, at least not until the other hip gives out, anyway...ahem...
Instead of going directly to the gym after work, I found myself walking into a nail salon. Now, you know how much I hate getting my nails done. At that moment, however, I didn't care about being productive or meeting deadlines or expectations. I didn't care about the myriad of ways that the universe kicks folks around. I didn't want to feel guilty about allowing myself, for once, to just sit back and be still...and I wanted sparkly nails! So, I asked my manicurist for the sparkliest shade of fun she had and she whipped out something called "La Boheme."
Ironic, I know.
I watched the trannies reclaim the block as my nails were clipped and buffered and painted; a young South Asian woman, who sat with her hands in a nail dryer, a wireless earpiece attached to her ear and an older business manager-lawyer-handler type practically at her feet, announced that she wasn't even "considering offers less than $110/hour"; I realized that the manuscript I'd wanted to read tonight, was still sitting on my desk; and just as the obnoxious woman exited the salon, I heard birds sing above the commotion of the city. It was just for a moment but I smiled.
And then, after spending a wholly unreasonable amount of time with my hands in the dryer, I went to the gym, said to hell with it and ran 7 miles.
Surprise, surprise: the day wasn't so bad, after all.
Instead of going directly to the gym after work, I found myself walking into a nail salon. Now, you know how much I hate getting my nails done. At that moment, however, I didn't care about being productive or meeting deadlines or expectations. I didn't care about the myriad of ways that the universe kicks folks around. I didn't want to feel guilty about allowing myself, for once, to just sit back and be still...and I wanted sparkly nails! So, I asked my manicurist for the sparkliest shade of fun she had and she whipped out something called "La Boheme."
Ironic, I know.
I watched the trannies reclaim the block as my nails were clipped and buffered and painted; a young South Asian woman, who sat with her hands in a nail dryer, a wireless earpiece attached to her ear and an older business manager-lawyer-handler type practically at her feet, announced that she wasn't even "considering offers less than $110/hour"; I realized that the manuscript I'd wanted to read tonight, was still sitting on my desk; and just as the obnoxious woman exited the salon, I heard birds sing above the commotion of the city. It was just for a moment but I smiled.
And then, after spending a wholly unreasonable amount of time with my hands in the dryer, I went to the gym, said to hell with it and ran 7 miles.
Surprise, surprise: the day wasn't so bad, after all.
Monday, March 26, 2007
MY HIP
I finally managed to see an orthopedist on Thursday. I had high hopes for this guy. Not only did he come highly recommended by an exercise physiologist friend of mine--she has a bum knee--but he also had the second fanciest doctor's office I've seen in my life (no number of plasma televisions will ever beat out the lighted waterfall in my former allergist's office).
I gave him the schpeel on my hip. His people gave me a pair of too-big exam shorts (baggy cut circa-1995) and then had me sit outside the x-ray room, where I hoped to goodness that no one remotely male or remotely good looking would walk by (no one did end up walking by and the lovely, dim, atmospheric lighting was very calming so, to tell you the truth, I thoroughly enjoyed the less than five minute wait, even if I did look ridiculous from the waist down). Before I knew it, I was lying still on the cold, metal slab of an x-ray table, holding my breath as the x-ray tech, who was cut from the same mold as every single x-ray tech I've come across in my life--gravelly, smoker's voice, the straight, brunette haircut painstakingly shaped into a mullet, the pale, sandpapery skin, the heart of gold--took pictures of my hips.
The orthopedist's people then escorted me, still exam-shorted, to an exam room, where I changed back into my jeans only to have the doctor poke his head in and demand that I put the exam shorts back on, which I did. He returned a minute later, announced that my hips were pristine, that I was in excellent shape, and that, he'd tell me to go in for an MRI (apparently not available on the fancy premises) but since I'd already had an MRI when I initially tweaked the hip, that wouldn't be necessary and it was safe to validate the physical therapist's two-year old diagnosis of a hip strain. It would act up every now and then and some days would see worse pain than others but I should continue doing what I'm doing (stretching 45 minutes before every single workout) and I shouldn't be afraid of medicating myself (600 mg of ibuprofen, 3 times a day, when the hip acts up).
Okay, so this is long, drawn-out way of communicating to you, my readers, that the orthopedist told me what I already knew. The fact that he didn't once lay a finger on my hip is another story altogether. I'll save my thoughts on that matter for a post about older male doctors, who have issues touching younger female patients and the resultant increase of misdiagnoses in said younger female patients. I fully trust this doc's diagnosis but a more hands on examination would have,certainly, been more reassuring...also, don't orthopedists specialize in muscles as well as bones, so wasn't this doctor wrong in sending me off to stretch out my problems? Shouldn't he be treating my bum muscle? The reason I went to him was because I wanted answers to why the bum muscle keeps bumming out on me. Am I asking too many questions? Should I go back to physical therapy? But the warmup I'm doing prior to every single workout incorporates all sorts of corrective exercises so is that really necessary? Am I asking too many questions?
Any orthopedists out there care to take a stab at this one?
I gave him the schpeel on my hip. His people gave me a pair of too-big exam shorts (baggy cut circa-1995) and then had me sit outside the x-ray room, where I hoped to goodness that no one remotely male or remotely good looking would walk by (no one did end up walking by and the lovely, dim, atmospheric lighting was very calming so, to tell you the truth, I thoroughly enjoyed the less than five minute wait, even if I did look ridiculous from the waist down). Before I knew it, I was lying still on the cold, metal slab of an x-ray table, holding my breath as the x-ray tech, who was cut from the same mold as every single x-ray tech I've come across in my life--gravelly, smoker's voice, the straight, brunette haircut painstakingly shaped into a mullet, the pale, sandpapery skin, the heart of gold--took pictures of my hips.
The orthopedist's people then escorted me, still exam-shorted, to an exam room, where I changed back into my jeans only to have the doctor poke his head in and demand that I put the exam shorts back on, which I did. He returned a minute later, announced that my hips were pristine, that I was in excellent shape, and that, he'd tell me to go in for an MRI (apparently not available on the fancy premises) but since I'd already had an MRI when I initially tweaked the hip, that wouldn't be necessary and it was safe to validate the physical therapist's two-year old diagnosis of a hip strain. It would act up every now and then and some days would see worse pain than others but I should continue doing what I'm doing (stretching 45 minutes before every single workout) and I shouldn't be afraid of medicating myself (600 mg of ibuprofen, 3 times a day, when the hip acts up).
Okay, so this is long, drawn-out way of communicating to you, my readers, that the orthopedist told me what I already knew. The fact that he didn't once lay a finger on my hip is another story altogether. I'll save my thoughts on that matter for a post about older male doctors, who have issues touching younger female patients and the resultant increase of misdiagnoses in said younger female patients. I fully trust this doc's diagnosis but a more hands on examination would have,certainly, been more reassuring...also, don't orthopedists specialize in muscles as well as bones, so wasn't this doctor wrong in sending me off to stretch out my problems? Shouldn't he be treating my bum muscle? The reason I went to him was because I wanted answers to why the bum muscle keeps bumming out on me. Am I asking too many questions? Should I go back to physical therapy? But the warmup I'm doing prior to every single workout incorporates all sorts of corrective exercises so is that really necessary? Am I asking too many questions?
Any orthopedists out there care to take a stab at this one?
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
ONE FUNERAL AND SEVERAL PROPOSALS
So, my mom calls me the other night and goes on and on about the abundance of rishtas (for those of you who don't know, that's Urdu for proposals) she's been receiving for me and my brother from folks who saw us at the funeral. Yes, at the funeral.
Leave it to Pakistanis to see the matchmaking potential of all occasions.
Monday, March 19, 2007
ON BIRTHDAYS AND BIOLOGICAL URGES
After 28 years of engaging in excessive birthday narcissism, I suppose it was time for cosmic retribution. Yes, the universe smacked some sense into me this time around and, if the way one rings in her 28th year sets the tone for the next 12 months, then I'm in for a long and miserable year.
The final minutes of March 13th found me surrounded by six cousins in a house in Florida. I was lying atop a few blankets that doubled as my bed for the night--there were no less than thirty relatives staying over at my cousin's house and, even though the house is palatial, numbers like that always force folks to take whatever bit of real estate the floors offer. I was going on more than 42 hours without sleep. While most of everyone around me wore dark circles under their eyes, no one had any intention of sleeping. Instead, we were clinging to each other in random conversation, attempting desperately to keep ourselves distracted from the shared grief of having buried my aunt earlier in the day.
The sadness and grief of March 13th quickly took a turn for the bizarre as soon as the clock struck midnight and March 14th ushered in my 28th year, first with a frenzy of text messages from friends and then with my cousins deciding that it was high time someone talked some sense into me about the importance of being married. The lecture took various forms and came in from all different directions but it can be boiled down to the following bulleted points (please note that if you're in a rush and can't read this entire post, go down to the bulleted points that follow the bolded note; you're in for a treat):
*** My problem is that I'm not taking the marriage prospects that my cousins are sending me--perfectly fine, good boys who've NEVER dated or engaged in frivolous conversations with women--seriously enough;
* if I don't become serious about these prospects, my cousins will eventually stop sending them to me. Not only will this leave me shit out of luck but it will confirm my spinster status;
* I rejected my cousin's husband's nephew for NO good reason. I mean, c'mon. He was SO good looking. Who knows what he did but, dude, he was HOT. He wore high-waisted stone-washed jeans for heaven's sake! Plus he lived in Michigan and who doesn't want to live in the MI? Spinsters, probably;
* chemistry is a myth and the common character trait amongst all spinsters is that they spend their lives futilely searching for this chemistry ;
* so what if most of my friends are still single; someday soon they will all be married with kids and they'll no longer have time for me. I will be lonely...and a spinster;
* yah, my job and industry are limited to the tri-state area but there are doctors and lawyers, sick successful career women, who've picked up everything and moved to opposite coasts for their husbands. This goes to prove that not only will I be a spinster, but a spinster without a real career. I'll be a spinster with what may as well amount to an internship;
* I'm overthinking this marriage business. As that wise pundit that is Nike instructs, "Just do it!";
* If I'm scared to take the plunge, I should let my mom pick out a worthy husband for me (to which I shudder and say, I'd rather be a spinster);
* I'm pretty much useless single and serve no greater purpose;
* I should set a goal for myself to be married before my cousin's 16-year-old daughter gets married.
Oh no, your cousin didn't just go there you might be exclaiming, and my reply to you is oh, but she did . Keep on reading;
you're in for a treat from this strange, alternate universe that my otherwise intelligent, educated, and successful relatives occupy:
* No, they're not kidding about telling me to try to get married before a 16-year-old because they have every intention of a) looking for marriage prospects for their kids by the time they're 18 and b) marrying them off by the time they're 21 (at this point, I was shocked and awed into silence);
* They want to ensure that they, the parents, are giving their kids a proper, religious outlet, ie marriage, for satisifying their (ahem) biological urges (ahem) (please don't let them be talking about what I think they're talking about);
* The biological urge is stronger in males than it is in females (they're talking about precisely what I think they're talking about);
* They don't want to have to ever be in a situation where their kids ask them why they can't kiss and date members of the opposite sex the way their friends do;
* Yes, they're talking about marrying their kids off so that said kids can have sex and whether or not these marriages work out in the long run is, ultimately, out of the their hands;
* They shouldn't even be talking to me about bioligical urges, seeing that I'm unmarried (and bound to be unmarried for the rest of my life);
* No, they're not being preposterous…I'm a bloody sad, clearly crazy spinster for insinuating that they are being preposterous.
So, this is how I started 28. This was followed by my tweaking my hip so badly, thanks to sleeping on the floor, that I hobbled around in terrible degrees of pain from airport to bloody airport. Flying in planes so small that they inspired my life to flash before my eyes didn't help much either. Neither did going straight into work, consuming massive amounts of birthday-sanctioned sugar in the unfortunate and misguided hope of calming my nerves, and, finally, crashing after a record almost-68 hours without sleep.
Yah, I'm bitching but, you know what, it's my effin' party and I'll effin' bitch if I bloody damn want to bitch.
Happy birthday to me. Yay (or what-the-hell-ever).
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
You will be missed.
Gone to the Unseen
by Rumi
At last you have departed and gone to the Unseen.
What marvelous route did you take from this world?
Beating your wings and feathers,
you broke free from this cage.
Rising up to the sky
you attained the world of the soul.
You were a prized falcon trapped by an Old Woman.
Then you heard the drummer's call
and flew beyond space and time.
As a lovesick nightingale, you flew among the owls.
Then came the scent of the rosegarden
and you flew off to meet the Rose.
The wine of this fleeting world
caused your head to ache.
Finally you joined the tavern of Eternity.
Like an arrow, you sped from the bow
and went straight for the bull's eye of bliss.
This phantom world gave you false signs
But you turned from the illusion
and journeyed to the land of truth.
You are now the Sun -
what need have you for a crown?
You have vanished from this world -
what need have you to tie your robe?
I've heard that you can barely see your soul.
But why look at all? -
yours is now the Soul of Souls!
O heart, what a wonderful bird you are.
Seeking divine heights,
Flapping your wings,
you smashed the pointed spears of your enemy.
The flowers flee from Autumn, but not you -
You are the fearless rose
that grows amidst the freezing wind.
Pouring down like the rain of heaven
you fell upon the rooftop of this world.
Then you ran in every direction
and escaped through the drain spout . . .
Now the words are over
and the pain they bring is gone.
Now you have gone to rest
in the arms of the Beloved.
Gone to the Unseen
by Rumi
At last you have departed and gone to the Unseen.
What marvelous route did you take from this world?
Beating your wings and feathers,
you broke free from this cage.
Rising up to the sky
you attained the world of the soul.
You were a prized falcon trapped by an Old Woman.
Then you heard the drummer's call
and flew beyond space and time.
As a lovesick nightingale, you flew among the owls.
Then came the scent of the rosegarden
and you flew off to meet the Rose.
The wine of this fleeting world
caused your head to ache.
Finally you joined the tavern of Eternity.
Like an arrow, you sped from the bow
and went straight for the bull's eye of bliss.
This phantom world gave you false signs
But you turned from the illusion
and journeyed to the land of truth.
You are now the Sun -
what need have you for a crown?
You have vanished from this world -
what need have you to tie your robe?
I've heard that you can barely see your soul.
But why look at all? -
yours is now the Soul of Souls!
O heart, what a wonderful bird you are.
Seeking divine heights,
Flapping your wings,
you smashed the pointed spears of your enemy.
The flowers flee from Autumn, but not you -
You are the fearless rose
that grows amidst the freezing wind.
Pouring down like the rain of heaven
you fell upon the rooftop of this world.
Then you ran in every direction
and escaped through the drain spout . . .
Now the words are over
and the pain they bring is gone.
Now you have gone to rest
in the arms of the Beloved.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
3
I don't have a pic for you at the moment.
Instead, I have this public service announcement for all of my cousins and friends, especially the young, impressionable ones: don't smoke. Smoking kills and is really bad for you. If I ever see you smoking, smell smoke on you, hear rumors of your smoking habit, etc., I swear to all goodness that I'll kung fu your ass in the most terrible of ways. Your ass, among other body parts, will hurt like you've never imagined parts of your body could possibly hurt.
I threaten you with bodily harm because I care about you...and because I figure you'd rather I beat you down than tell your mom. So, there it is. Stop it before I make you stop it.
Well, maybe I'll leave you with a photo anyway.
I just found this photo and I think it's pretty goddamn awesome. I'm at once fashionable and badass here. I mean just look at the killer combination of style (the fabulous color coordination, those adorable tights, the lovely flats!) in that sassy getup and the stern expression I'm wearing on my face. Not only is it an I-will-break-you look but it may very well be taken from that legendary book of badass and specifically from the chapter called I-can-look-this-serious-and-unrelenting-because-I-practice-Brazilian-jijitsu-and-can-grapple-your-ass-into-submission-so-you-better-not-smoke-in-front-of-me-kid-because-I-promise-I'll-go-all-Gracie-on-you-and-you-know-that's-not-good-news.
I'm rambling. It's late. I'm sleepy. I don't know if any of this post made any sense but it made all sorts of sense to me so enjoy and thank you, come again. I love all of you. Yea me!
This is precisely what happens when I consume excessive amounts of sugar.
Instead, I have this public service announcement for all of my cousins and friends, especially the young, impressionable ones: don't smoke. Smoking kills and is really bad for you. If I ever see you smoking, smell smoke on you, hear rumors of your smoking habit, etc., I swear to all goodness that I'll kung fu your ass in the most terrible of ways. Your ass, among other body parts, will hurt like you've never imagined parts of your body could possibly hurt.
I threaten you with bodily harm because I care about you...and because I figure you'd rather I beat you down than tell your mom. So, there it is. Stop it before I make you stop it.
Well, maybe I'll leave you with a photo anyway.
I just found this photo and I think it's pretty goddamn awesome. I'm at once fashionable and badass here. I mean just look at the killer combination of style (the fabulous color coordination, those adorable tights, the lovely flats!) in that sassy getup and the stern expression I'm wearing on my face. Not only is it an I-will-break-you look but it may very well be taken from that legendary book of badass and specifically from the chapter called I-can-look-this-serious-and-unrelenting-because-I-practice-Brazilian-jijitsu-and-can-grapple-your-ass-into-submission-so-you-better-not-smoke-in-front-of-me-kid-because-I-promise-I'll-go-all-Gracie-on-you-and-you-know-that's-not-good-news.
I'm rambling. It's late. I'm sleepy. I don't know if any of this post made any sense but it made all sorts of sense to me so enjoy and thank you, come again. I love all of you. Yea me!
This is precisely what happens when I consume excessive amounts of sugar.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
6
There's nothing quite like a sore hip to remind a girl that she's 6 days away from being 2 years shy of the big 3-0. I really hope I haven't sprained it again.
Plus, I'm tired...very, very, very tired. I think it's time for a vacation.
Or maybe it's just time for this blissful treat.
So, right, since we're still counting down to bday, here's another pic of a younger me. The hand on the hip seems to foreshadow the pains to come (just for the record, it's the right hip that's bum).
Plus, I'm tired...very, very, very tired. I think it's time for a vacation.
Or maybe it's just time for this blissful treat.
So, right, since we're still counting down to bday, here's another pic of a younger me. The hand on the hip seems to foreshadow the pains to come (just for the record, it's the right hip that's bum).
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
7
My fashion star took a suicidal plunge at about the same time my mother began to fancy herself a designer. And while the hours I spent nearly catatonic in front of the television or with a book, exerting only enough energy to twitch a handful of chips into my mouth or to turn a page, might also have contributed to the death of that star, imagine the unmitigated damage done to my reputation when I waltzed into the birthday parties of other children, wearing the following outfit.
No, your eyes aren't playing a cruel trick on you. I'm wearing exactly what you think I'm wearing: a thick, maroon-colored velvet nightmare of a turtleneck jumpsuit with golden piping writhing on my top half and a wide gold sequined elastic belt thrown in for good measure (my mother loved this outfit so much that she designed another jumpsuit made of black velvet and silver sequins). And, yes, you've guessed correctly! Wrap it around your forehead twice and the belt transforms into a fetching headband.
Fashion is, indeed, without limits.
Plus, I'm not going to lie: when I wasn't moritified at the thought of being the most overdressed kid at someone else's party, I didn't half mind wearing way-too-fancy outfits, which also explains why, as an adult, I'm almost always overdressed.
No, your eyes aren't playing a cruel trick on you. I'm wearing exactly what you think I'm wearing: a thick, maroon-colored velvet nightmare of a turtleneck jumpsuit with golden piping writhing on my top half and a wide gold sequined elastic belt thrown in for good measure (my mother loved this outfit so much that she designed another jumpsuit made of black velvet and silver sequins). And, yes, you've guessed correctly! Wrap it around your forehead twice and the belt transforms into a fetching headband.
Fashion is, indeed, without limits.
Plus, I'm not going to lie: when I wasn't moritified at the thought of being the most overdressed kid at someone else's party, I didn't half mind wearing way-too-fancy outfits, which also explains why, as an adult, I'm almost always overdressed.
Monday, March 05, 2007
8
Here I am at my sixth birthday party, putting on my best, "You went to all of this trouble for moi?!" look (the hand on the heart drives that sentiment home, doesn't it?) and--at the same time--trying to ignore the two little girls standing to my left (the second girl has been cropped out of the photograph), who
A) aren't really my friends since they always try to pick fights with me and B) can't seem to keep their grubby hands off of my birthday cake, casually licking the frosting from their fingers until one corner of the cake is ugly and bare.
Damn poopyheads.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
T MINUS 10 DAYS
A pic in which little girl Sabila isn't posing for the photogs is a rare find, so here I present you with just such a pic. I love the Rainbow Brite nightie I'm wearing and the fact that I, unlike most six-year-olds, am coloring inside the lines is rather remarkable. That's a young Arthur from Disney's animated retelling of The Sword in the Stone I'm giving a blue shirt and red vest, by the way. I bought the coloring book during a trip to North Calorina. Ahh, the good ol' days.
Who would've thought that more than two decades later, this little girl would author a blog that would be the number three result in a Google search for "dirty madlibs," a search that brings at least three visitors to Revengeofthenerddd.blogspot.com every day? Why I'm not number one in this Google search is a different question that we shall save for another day, dear reader. For now, let us think of the Nerd's birthday.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
T MINUS 11 DAYS
It's that time of year when we begin the countdown to my birthday. Poised here on the brink of my 28th year, I find myself rather nostalgic. Nostalgia, however, dear reader, is not to be confused with panic, fear, or horror, otherwise known as the trifecta of emotions that have possessed my parents in these days leading up to my birthday. Another partnerless year for me, in their opinions, means that I become that much more entrenched in spinsterhood.
So, while the 'rents are freakin' FREAKING OUT, I'm poring over old albums to remind myself of the kid I used to be. A dear friend has said I'm obsessed with my childhood and has attempted to psychoanalyze the whys of this apparent obsession from me. Yes, I'm fascinated by how I--or anyone else--am shaped by my earliest experiences and, luckily, I'm able to conjure decades-old memories with ease. That being said, I don't think I'm obsessed with the past.
In any case, I thought that for this year's birthday countdown, I could share with you photos of a young Nerd. They won't be posted in any particular order. I'm going to start with the following photo because it epitomizes the hamminess of my earliest years. Plus, I LOVE the dress I'm wearing.
So check it:
So, while the 'rents are freakin' FREAKING OUT, I'm poring over old albums to remind myself of the kid I used to be. A dear friend has said I'm obsessed with my childhood and has attempted to psychoanalyze the whys of this apparent obsession from me. Yes, I'm fascinated by how I--or anyone else--am shaped by my earliest experiences and, luckily, I'm able to conjure decades-old memories with ease. That being said, I don't think I'm obsessed with the past.
In any case, I thought that for this year's birthday countdown, I could share with you photos of a young Nerd. They won't be posted in any particular order. I'm going to start with the following photo because it epitomizes the hamminess of my earliest years. Plus, I LOVE the dress I'm wearing.
So check it:
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