"Dating"

Not everyone in Pakistan approves of dating. In this searing expose of how "dates are happened, and one can guess further," hordes of lascivious boys and girls "go in the cabins of net cafes and do the love making" (that internet cafes can be so goddamn sexy is news to me!). And, even more shockingly, boys can purchase "fresh" mobile numbers of girls to indecently assault from "Easy Load Centers" (gasp, though the Easy Load Center might provide some great business opportunities for American entrepreneurs...I'm just saying...).

Obviously, this is my favorite article of all time and the following is my favorite comment in response to this eye-opening report:

Ishtiaq Ali said...
Let me tell you a true experience of mine. I was coming back from work from DHA, and was going back to home in Malir Cantt. As it was dark, and I was getting really hungry I opted to follow a short cut which passed through some lonely plots where there were bushes and shrubs.

As I was passing through it, I heart some weird "sounds", and then a female laughter. First I thought I am about to be taken away by some fairy, and then I thought it might be a demon. As I followed the voices, I found that 3 girls and a boy were lying on the ground and were busy in ****.

I stood there shocked, and suddenly, there was a mayhem, as lots of people from nowhere stormed the area, and they started beating the hell of out four of them. It was quite a scene. Almost nakes girls screaming with terror, boy was uttering abuses, everyone in the crowd was so excited and earger to beat the girls then the boys.

This carried on for 10 minutes, and then people took four of them unconsious to police station.

And it just happeneed three days ago.

Shudder is all I have to say. SHUDDER.

STATIC CLING, YOU BASTARD!

I woke up this morning with a burning desire to wear fishnet stockings with my black dress. Fearing the static cling that's destroyed my life of late, I followed commenter extraordinaire Big Kahuna's advice and, after moisturizing as per usual, I rubbed my legs, the skirt of the dress, and the stockings down with dryer sheets. I spent a good ten minutes attempting to neutralize the static cling and, by the end of the ten minutes, the operation seemed to be a success. So, I packed my black boots in a bag, threw on a jacket, and headed out to work, under the impression that my problems were a thing of the past.

It was once I was out on the street that the problems started. Walking to the station, the skirt of my dress fell prey, once again, to that bastard static cling. The more I walked, the more the skirt stuck to my stockings and climbed up my legs. Carrying two ginormous bags while attempting to pull my skirt from my stockings was challenging to say the least and it became downright impossible to do once I picked up my coffee.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to dive into a secluded corner where I could peel off the goddamn effin' static-charged mofo stockings but, alas (I suspect that some would argue, thankfully), such a corner never showed up. And so I tried to walk and, somehow, I managed to make it to my office, where I, in the heat of my anger and frustration and on the verge of tears, took off my stockings as I bitched to my assistant outside her cube (a moment that was very reminiscent of Halloween 1992, when Roselle and I dressed like rock stars and I was wearing problematic pantyhose. After marching in what felt like the longest Halloween parade of my life, with the crotch of the pantyhose hovering mid-thigh, I put myself out of my misery by pulling the hose off on a street corner on my way home from school. My shocked and outraged mother and best friend, along with a city bus that happened to be pulling into that corner, were witness to my desperate action).

I hate stockings.
I hate static cling.
The end.

WORDS OF WISDOM FROM MY COUSIN

"You'll be surrounded by hot, eligible South Asian British guys on those London tubes, Sabila! I suggest you keep several copies of your biodata in your handbag... stranger things have happened."

No. I beg to differ.
Nothing quite takes that strangeness crown like a chick handing out her biodata during her commute.
Ahem.

THE NERD DATES AND GOES TO LONDON: A Countdown

T minus four days until my amma-sanctioned "hot date," to which I alluded several posts ago. Between you, my vast multitudes of readers (I'm rounding up, naysayers...ahem...), and me, I'm effin' nervous. Let's be honest here, folks: I'm not very skilled at that fine art of courting or at being courted, for that matter. Perhaps there's a book out there that can teach me how not to come across as a complete moron on a first date...? Any pointers would help.

T minus six days until I leave on a jet plane bound for London. Just between my immense audience (ahem) and me, I'm effin' nervous. Let's be honest here, people: I'm not very skilled at that fine art of taking-off without having a nervous breakdown. Perhaps there are drugs out there that can zonk me out for the duration of the six hour flight without making me feel groggy afterwards...? And, by the way, the thought of packing for eight days and then lugging my ginormous suitcase, handbag, and laptop bag from the airport to the hotel is making me wish I had an entourage. Sigh.

EID

HAPPY EID TO ALL MY KITTENS!
If you're not Muslim, I suggest you visit one of your Muslim friends. They're guaranteed to have loads of delicious food and an open door policy for guests on this day!

Me, I'm as uncomfortable as ever in the fancy schmancy native garb! I can't wait to change!

DEAR LINKSYS WIRELESS ROUTER: I Hate You

Dear Linsys Wireless Router:

You're an effin' slacker and I hate you. I should've just coughed up the cash and bought the Apple Airport when I initially bought my G4 two and a half years ago but I was concerned about keeping the purse trings tight after I'd just spent over three grand on the laptop. For the love of Steve Jobs, I work in publishing; I can't go around spending close to $200 on wireless routers! So, yes, I was stuck with you and thought, well, maybe this reasonably priced router will do what it claims to do (that is, wirelessly route me, or whatever--I told you, I work in publishing!).

Alas, you can't even do that, you prig! Do you have any idea how sick and tired I am of disconnecting the ethernet cable-- first from my modem and then from you--and then waiting for a minute before I restart the modem, wait until it's booted, restart your sorry router ass, and then restart the computer. I'm exhausted! You were supposed to have helped me with my connectivity issues but, guess what genius, you've only succeeded in slowing me down. I don't need an effin' tortoise, you effin' tortoise! I demand a hare!

If you act up one more time, God help me, I'm gonna fire your ass and I don't give a rat's ass if it does happen right before the holidays. Give me an excuse to replace you with the Airport...just give me an excuse...

I thought so.

Yours,

The Nerddd

AND HERE I THOUGHT YOU JUST WEREN'T THAT INTO ME!

I was on the verge of developing a complex about my come-hither-ly skills, but, thank Immanuel Kant, it turns out that German men might just be into me, after all! According to this article, the German male expresses his attraction towards a female by staring at her blankly and occasionally discussing geopolitical matters with her but mostly by ignoring her. Read about it here.

Success! We've rescued an entire nation of prospective suitors for me! I like intellectual discussions as much as the next fraulein. I can appreciate subtle, long drawn out courting processes and having the pants bored off me. Bring it on!

I'd love to hear from my German readers about this matter.

This, of course, begs the question: do I have any German readers?

ANTI STATIC MY ASS!

I am at my bloody wit's end, trying to figure out a way to rid my stupid-asshole-idiot tights of goddamn static cling! I've recently purchased three (yes, THREE) different static guard sprays, hoping that one of them will be able to deliver on the bloody promises that all three of them boisterously make.

So, do the sprays work? NO! They're liars, all of them liars or else why would my dress still be fuckin' clinging to every single pair of tights I own! And it's too bloody cold outside to go without tights but that's precisely what I have to do because of outrageously false advertising!

What would Heloise do? Or is she an effin' liar, as well, playing with the fashion dreams of girls everywhere?

THIS MORNING or SMALL MIRACLES

From the minute I wake up, I know this morning’s going to be impossible. I’ve awoken a little after my usual 6:30AM and now, I lay still in bed, listening to the discourteously energetic jingle of my cell phone’s alarm clock as it does what feels like permanent damage to my cabeza. By the time I turn off the alarm, it is already 7; I manage to climb out of bed ten minutes later. I pad out of my bedroom barefoot and wearing my nightie, which—pictured above—was purchased in Rockland, Maine for an exorbitant amount of money.

I shower. I brush my teeth and cleanse and moisturize my face. I change into the first dress I fish out of the closet, blow-dry my hair, and apply blush, lipstick. With that I’m set to face the day, which I first do by closing my eyes during my commute and willing it to be Friday. Alas, I know it’s still Monday morning when I open my eyes so I settle for facing the day by reading Brian Hall’s I SHOULD BE EXTREMELY HAPPY IN YOUR COMPANY.

It’s exactly 9AM when I step out of the elevator at work. The receptionist hasn’t arrived yet. She must be having a rough morning too, I think and smile to myself. Letting myself in, I walk to my office, noticing how quiet the corner that my department occupies is. Most of the foreign rights managers are at the Frankfurt Book Fair, after all. At least it’ll be a quiet week. Pushing the door to my office, I’m surprised to see that my assistant isn’t in yet. Her dog wasn’t well last week and I hope she hasn’t had to take him in to the vet again.

I sit down at my desk and start to plug away. Thirty minutes go by. Then an hour.

It’s a little after an hour when I realize that the floor’s still dead quiet. It’s almost as if everyone’s decided to take a personal day on the same d---

HOLY SHIT, IT’S A HOLIDAY AND I’M IN THE OFFICE!

And so I sit there, quite possibly the lone person in the office this morning, laughing. I consider sticking around and being super productive on what will doubtlessly be a quiet morning. Quickly coming to my senses, I grab my bags and scramble out of there, praising the Lord for everyday miracles.

KNOCK ON WOOD

Though it feels like I've been fasting for several years now (in actuality, it's only been twenty some odd days), things are, for the most part, on the up and up. I'm currently crushing on a charming, brainy (read: nerdddy. sigh), and handsome young lad, who finds me adorable--neuroses, bum hip, recent chubbiness resulting from the bum hip and all. While the thought of putting my notoriously bad dating skills back to use is a bit terrifying (I've recently discovered that there are rules to dating. Men, apparent slaves to their hunter-gatherer days, find the chase more thrilling than the catch. Women must, therefore, play hard to get. Showing any eagerness or interest in an object of affection is a no-no. Yes, readers, I'm SCREWED), I think that this guy might just be worth the risk of potentially making a jackass of myself.

Speaking of the bum hip, it took a turn for the worse last week but has been on the mend ever since, thanks to my vigilant icing, heating, stretching, myofacial releasing, and praying. I do believe that I'll be back to normal in no time.

Finally, my super fabulous London trip is almost upon us. Yes, I remain terrified of the flight and, in all honesty, a bit apprehensive about traditional British cuisine, but visions of the British Museum, the National Gallery, the Tower of London, Westminster Abbey, the London Eye, and the Tate Modern are getting me through the fear!

This promises to be an eventful month, kittens.

I CARE FOR...

.....crushes.

Yeah, yeah, I know I'm a grown woman and should be able to maintain my poise in the company of a boy I fancy but I can't help it, really. I mean, even The Secret Language of Birthdays book claims that all Pisces born on March 14th idolize their objects of affection. I'm sure this is ultimately detrimental to my love life, but what can I do? I'm a slave to the date of my birth. It's out of my hands.

Plus, I've been told that dating / dealing-with-crushes poise is mastered during ages 15-22. Clearly, I've missed that window of opportunity (I wasn't dating very much back then...hell I'm not dating very much now...ahem). So, this is what you're left with people. Love it or snicker at me behind my virtual back. I can deal with it...well, for the most part, anyway.

SOOOOOO.........

......it seems that I might have busted my hamstring again today (additionally, I don't seem to have complete feeling in two toes...I wonder if that has anything to do with the busted hamstring and the always busted hip).

Thank goodness I don't have a hot date on the 19th because if I did have a hot date on the 19th not only would I be bespectacled (and still a bit red in the allergy eyes) but I'd also be horribly bloated (remember, I haven't worked out in eons), gimpy (seems like it's going to be quite some time before I'll be able to work out again) and a bit crazy (owing to the allergies, the busted leg, and the bloat).

Phew. I am so glad that I haven't met anyone who wants to take me out on the 19th!

DILATED PUPILS AGAIN

So, I visited opthamologist no. 2 today, who ended up not being the hotty optho that my mother was hoping I'd end up seeing but some little pregnant lady, instead. She confirmed what my allergist and I knew all along: my eyes are experiencing major allergic reactions. The underside of my eyelids have broken out into tiny little bumps, which are irritating and scratching up my corneas every time I blink. I'm to stay away from contact lenses for at least a month, during which time I'll be on two different prescription eye drops plus fake tears to help lubricate the balls.

Hypothetically speaking, let's say I have a hot date in another couple of weeks, right? This raises the very real possibility that I might be bespectacled during this potentially hot, hypothetical date. Glasses are WAY more attractive than red, watery, photo-sensitive eyes, yes but, still, I'd prefer not to wear glasses on a date. If I happened to have a date, of course. Which I don't...because I'm perpetually single and not very dating adept.

Ahem.

DEAR SABILA: An Open Letter to Myself

Dear Sabila:

The surest way to scare off an obviously learned and self-possessed man, who is vaguely interested in you, is by

1) dissolving into slightly hysterical and extremely screechy giggles that are more befitting a teenage chimpanzee than a grown ass woman;
2) blushing so furiously as you giggle that that you feel lightheaded and flush and are reduced to futilely fanning your tomato-colored face with your hand and, ultimately, left with a pounding headache; and, finally,
3) admitting to the man that you’re blushing, hysterical and lightheaded because you’re nervous as hell that you’ve revealed all of your neuroses to him in the first shot.

You might want to start by practicing restraint and speaking at a pitch that is below the threshold of pain and discomfort.

Super! Good luck in the future!

Yours,
The Nerddd

ps: You're a dork. Thanks!

HOW NERDDDY ARE YOU? and other thoughts

Per regular commenter and friend Big Kahuna's urging, I recently took the How Nerdy Are You Test. My result:




I'm so curious to find out how my favorite commenters will score on the quiz!

In other news, while cleaning out a closet, I found myself with one of those Magic 8 balls that were all the rage in the '90s in hand. Of course, I decided to give it a shake. The results were, to say the very least, disenchanting. If the bloody stupid ball has its way, my future holds the following pitiful layers of pitifulness (there are a couple of stars here but, alas, the more pitiable perdictions totally eclipse them):

Outlook's not so good on my being independently wealthy and owning luxurious real estate around the world;

the ball's sources say no, I will not be a spinster;

but it also says that I'm most likely to be single for another decade;

and that I may rely on my being incredibly lonely for a very long time;

I shouldn't count on ever having kids;

but it is certain that I will win the MegaMillions lottery (this prediction made my mother, the only person I know who regularly plays the lotto, very happy and now she's trying to convince me to play this week's draw);

it is very doubtful that I will have a good time on the 19th (dear you-know-who...obviously, this magic 8 ball business is a crock of shite);

as far as having a tremendously great time in London, according to the blasted ball, it is decidedly so.

I trashed the stupidly idiotic magic 8 ball.
I need sleep.

Ciao kittens.

4:36 AM

'Tis a very strange and lovely time to eat, pray, and reflect and although the 15th day of Ramadan always ends up feeling more like day 1,356,889 of Ramadan, the thought that the month is close to wrapping up makes me sad.

MUST SEE TELEVISION

So, I’m super excited about Thursday night television, right? ABC might be my answer to shutting that portal of suckage, albeit temporarily, swung wide open by Aunty Ass-face last night. Is there any better therapy than a night spent watching the season premieres of Ugly Betty, Grey’s Anatomy, and ER*. Yah, so ER is on NBC, but who cares. I was ready for (mostly--read asterisked note below) excellent television, dammit.

As usual, Ugly Betty delivered campy comedic perfection wrapped around a gooey, heartfelt, and genuine center. I started watching it a half an hour after the show started, so that I could fast forward through the commercials. It was wonderful. I was at peace (long live DVR).

At 9:30, after finishing up with Ugly Betty, I started to watch Grey’s Anatomy. The first hour was fantastic, wrought with trauma—emotional as well as physical—and that great big helping of neuroses that we’ve all come to know and love.

But then, my mother** sat down between Zanadune and me to watch the second half of Grey’s Anatomy. And, boy, did the running commentary start it’s 30-minute dash:

Amma (sighing): That could’ve been you.
Me (distracted, confused): Meredith Grey? I could’ve been Meredith Grey?
Amma (sighing): You could’ve been a surgeon. And you would’ve looked way more beautiful than that woman in scrubs.

Ignoring her, I return to the show and a period of silence between us ensues...

Amma (sighing again, pointing at the screen): Sabila, you would’ve been around surgeons like that all day! All day!
Me (looking from her to the screen and back at her again): Patrick Dempsey and Eric Dane? Hate to break it to you, amma, but not all surgeons are quite as hot as Hollywood actors.
Amma: Trust me, a lot of them are.
Me (under my breath): Yeah, like on the set of a television drama.

I get caught up in the show again until,

Amma: That could’ve been you…you would’ve enjoyed delivering babies, reattaching severed arms…and meeting such nice, eligible surgeons for marriage!
Me: Amma, T.R. Knight is gay.
Amma: REALLY? Huh.

And after another while…

Amma: Are you just saying that?
Me: No Amma, he came out of the closet last year. Can we watch the show now? Please?

This went on, back and forth, from scene to scene. And then we get to Shepard and Meredith, finally "talking" about their relationship status in that sex closet, or whatever the hell it is, of theirs (doesn’t everyone at Seattle Grace have sex in that closet?).
So, they’re not having sex as of yet, and my mom is going on and on.

Amma: Just imagine it Sabila. Imagine yourself there, where that woman doctor is. That’s where you would’ve been, having these important discussions with this very handsome male doctor.
Me (sighing, whining): Amaaaaa. I’m not a surgeon. Life isn’t Grey’s Anatomy. If it was, I would’ve ended up sleeping with every other surgeon on the show and I don’t think you would’ve liked that very much.
Amma (totally ignoring me now): Just imagine though. That would’ve been you—
(except now, Derek and Meredith are going at it, just like they always end up going at it in that sex closet)
Amma:…you would’ve met a handsome doctor like that, married him, and then this (pointing to the television) would’ve been fine. We would’ve let this happen.

I have to give it to my mother. She didn’t miss a beat when the sex scene interrupted her nice, halal reveries of what it would’ve been like had I been a surgeon on ABC’s Grey’s Anatomy. And, in spite of not being able to give the wondrous second half of the third season’s premiere my undivided attention, I was practically falling off the sofa, laughing.

Then, as Ellen Pompeo’s voice over tied the episode together, and Izzy, eating ice cream went to answer the door to find George on the other side, my stupid DVR recording ended! THAT’S when the portal of suckage reopened, reader. And it sucked! Anyone care to tell me what happened next?

*Yes, I’m still on that sinking ER ship but I swear to goodness I have one big toe in the ocean, meaning I realize the NBC melodrama jumped the shark, like six seasons ago but rest assured that my level of commitment is limited to DVR’ing the show and then fast forwarding with an always fast-diminishing hope that they’ll come up with something that I want to watch.

**For the record, I realize the tone of this post has been super melodramatic an annoyed but just know that my mother is a comedian at heart; truly she is. She isn't serious about half of the things she says. I couldn’t keep a straight face even as Izzy was working to save that poor nearly road-killed deer.
.

DEAR FAMILY FRIEND: I Hate You...

Dear Friend of the Family, who said hello by way of lamenting for long and torturous minutes about how much weight I've gained since the last time we met (all in the spirit of Ramadan, I'm sure):

I hate you.
A lot.
I happen to hate you so much that I hope you're reading this blog right now so that you know exactly how much I hate you.

Thanks for opening the portal to suckage on a day that was turning out to be unexceptional but swell.

I'd love to wish a pox on you, lady, but seeing that it's Ramadan and I'm trying very hard to refrain from cuss words and ill will, I'll just pray that someone introduces you to these interesting concepts called "minding your own business" and "minding your manners." They're all the rage. You might want to look into them, maybe take a couple of classes.

In the meantime, I'll focus on healing my body before I can whip it back into shape.

I'm glad we understand each other.

Yours,
The Nerddd

ALLERGY EYES: The New Sexy

So, my allergy eyes are so bad these days that I might need to start using steroid allergy drops!
"But, but, my eyes are my best feature!" I pleaded with my allergist over the phone yesterday. "I can't subject them to 'roids."
"You're shit out of luck, Nerddd," she replied.

Okay, I didn't say anything about the loveliness of my currently photo sensitive and watery eyes.
And she is anything but flippant.
But I am seeing my father's opthamologist on Monday, kittens. Yes, the very same opthamologist who my mother was trying to convince me to see several weeks ago (only some of you know about this story) and the following conversation with my mother did take place:

"But I've already had a comprehensive eye exam! Like last weekend, amma!" I told her.
"And, so you'll have another. Just say no to the pupil dilation drops!"
"Ugh!"
"Sabila, I think he's single! And he's half Pakistani and very cute!"
"UGH!"

And now I must see him.
I hate my sexy eyes.

SPINSTERHOOD

Both of my brothers have settled into significant other-hood with their lovely significant others.

The frequency of my parents noting "Wouldn't-it-have-been-nice-if-Sabila-also-had-someone-to-invite-to-dinner/brunch/whatever" has, as a result, increased tremendously.

I often wonder why the hell I'm still single. The answer is, of course, pretty obvious: I have none of the fortitude necessary to survive the emotional rigors of the dating world and so I choose being a non-contender over having my heart broken.

Surely, this is a curse that's doomed me to a life of spinsterhood, to be spent in the company of cats and dogs and, of course, the cats and dogs will make my allergy eyes rain down a constant deluge of tears.

What a depressing and wussy choice, indeed.

Contrary to the overwhelmingly despondent tone of this post, my readers should know that I had a most lovely day today! Just wanted to throw that out there!

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

Dear Madlibbin Parasailer:

Hi! How've you been?

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

So, following are my questions:

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

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

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

I look forward to hearing from you dear sir!

Yours,
The Nerddd

DOES THIS MEAN YOU LIKE ME?

Holy moly. 192 readers have subjected themselves to the third How Well Do You Know Our Nerd quiz. Someone calling himself/herself "Nerdy N" scored a perfect 100 (I doubt my immediate family would score higher than a 50 on this test, yo. It's the most difficult in the series of How Well Do You Know Our Nerd quizzes. So good for you Nerdy N, good for you).

I don't say this enough but I really appreciate having a devoted readership---it may be small-ish but it is mighty.

I'm in a good mood. Sigh.

OH CRAP

I'LL BLOODY BE IN THE BLOODY UK DURING THE WEEK OF THE BLOODY WORLD SERIES!!!!!!
What the EFF*?!!!!!
WHY, OH WHY MUST LONDON BE FREAKIN' 5 HOURS AHEAD OF US! THERE'S NO WAY I CAN STAY UP ALL NIGHT AND EXPECT TO BE A FUNCTIONAL HUMAN BEING THE FOLLOWING MORNING!
I'm too old to learn how to pull all nighters now.
Sigh.
I knew this was too good to be true.

*I'm one week into Ramadan. In addition to abstaining from food and drink during the day all Muslims are to refrain from, really, anything negative, which includes swearing. I try not to swear but every so often, those pesky little bad words slip past my God-fearing lips. Let's take for instance what happened this morning. I was shocked, outraged, and angered at the fact that someone who's as devoted a baseball fan as I am wouldn't realize sooner that I'D BLOODY BE IN THE BLOODY UK DURING THE WEEK OF THE BLOODY WORLD SERIES:

"I'M GOING TO BLOODY BE IN THE BLOODY UK DURING THE BLOODY WORLD SERIES?! FUUUUCK!...wait-shit-I'm-not-supposed-to-curse!"

RESCUE ME: The Plant Edition

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

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

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

We nodded at each other without another word.

LONDON CALLING

Breaking news Kittens!***

I've been selected to spend a week at the corporate mothership next month! Yes, Wills-and-Harry-Land is welcoming your Nerddd with open arms (now, Wills or Harry welcoming her with open arms would be cause for an entirely different sort of celebration...ahem). I've never been to England before. I can't wait to have high tea (or any other sort of tea...plus maybe scones...or a crumpet or two?) on an arty patio overlooking the Thames at the Tate Modern (our very own Madlibbin' Parasailer highly recommends this). I'd also love to be a groundling at the reconstructed Globe theater, visit Jane Austen's house in the English countryside, shop at Harrods, ride a double decker and the tube, watch the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace, run around Emily Bronte's romantic moors of northern England, etc, all while I learn stuff at the corporate mothership! Phew.

Crap, it's going to be a very long week.
And, oh crap, the realization that I will be making this trans-Atlantic flight all alone is just starting to sink in. Crap (yep, I said it again).

***well, news actually broke last week but I forgot to tell you then...it's breaking news to you, anyway)!

GLOBAL SWARMING AND THE SINGLE GIRL

My wonderful 27-year-old cousin and his 24-year-old fiance will get hitched in Karachi, Pakistan in June 2008. Yours truly will be a whopping 29 years and 3 months in June 2008. I'm well on my way to developing a complex about being the oldest single chick in the wedding party. These things would have never, ever bothered me before, so why now? I guess because I've never been 28.5-years-old and without a romantic prospect in sight.

According to Rich, we could always fall back on the "I'm-a-childless-spinster-because-I-care-about-the-toll-that-global-
swarming-is-taking-on-the-environment" argument, if we do ever find ourselves single and childless in older age. But if, at 40-something, I continue feeling like I need to be included in this "global swarm," then perhaps adopting from around the globe, a la Angie Jolie, would be the most mutually beneficial way to do it:

"It'll be just like adopting a kitten or puppy, only no allergies (we hope---what if you're allergic to babies? Man, then you really would be eff'ed)!"

I'm totally using the global swarming argument at the June 2008 wedding.

BIODATA: A Follow-Up

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

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

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

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

BIODATA

Eff.

HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW OUR NERD III: Another Follow-Up or I Just Got In From a Wild Night (reading a manuscript and watching the Yankees Beat those Sox

...ahem) and Now I Can't Sleep

Taking a closer look at this, my third quiz, I've arrived at the conclusion that I'm probably the only person on the face of the planet who can ace it. Aside from maybe Alan Greenspan. It's mucho difficult.

I've also determined that I Can Has Cheezburger is the greatest gift to the internet since Google and the following is, perhaps, my favorite post:



Brilliant.

GENERALIZATIONS: An Argument

Roselle and I had our first argument in 15 years today. Of course, we made up and swore our love and best friendship to each other because is there really any other way to end a fight after 24 years of best friendship? We’ve already started pointing out and cracking up over a few chosen highlights from the argument (most of which were things that I said, in the heat of the contretemps). They follow:

A) Who died and made you the fuckin-Statue of-fuckin-Liberty!
B) No, I'm what makes America GREAT, DAMMIT!
C) This is exactly what happened to the Dixie Chicks!
D) All hail the president of Jesusland!

Okay, so most of the choice highlights from the argument (ahem, all of the highlights) were mine but I was making a really great point. And, just for the record, Roselle is not a crazy, Bible-thumping right wing Bush supporter. She’s simply someone opposed to the generalizations I love to make. And I am prone to generalizing. For example, this weekend I told my Korean-American friend, ES:

“I LOVE your people. They’re the nicest, most respectful and respectable people on earth...wait, is that prejudiced of me?”

Yah, so it turns out that was totally prejudice of me.

I’ve also said in the past:

“I LOVE all East Asians because they’re the nicest, most respectful and respectable people on earth.”

“I LOVE ALL gay men because they redeem all other men for me.”

“OMG, every single middle American is a Bible-thumping right wing Bush supporter!”

Well, sue me.

What in the eff am I doing blogging at 4:45AM? I hope this post makes sense later today.

Okay, I’m going to sleep.

HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW OUR NERD III: A Follow Up

The average score on the third How Well Do You Know Our Nerd test was 23. How sad. The highest score was a whopping 60 scored by a "Khan." Khan, are we related?

THE BIODATA

My folks will likely disown me (or at least give me the icy silent treatment for several days) after they discover tomorrow AM that my shiny, new biodata isn't in their inbox. I've asked them to refer all of the (un)suitable boys they and their friends unearth for me to this blog and my gazillion profiles on online networking sites, but amma very firmly declared, "I will not send anyone to that block of yours!" to which I just giggled and said, "You said block." Then, becoming very defensive, I threw in there, "You want to know how many people read my blog? Hundreds! It's good enough for them."

Okay, so maybe I embellished the number a little bit, but I was trying to make a point.

Anyway, the biodata still doesn't exist. I say phooey to such silly things. How am I supposed to condense my life's experiences into a single page? I do have a feeling, however, that my folks are going to guilt me--or ignore me--into doing just that, at which point I will make a special plea to all of my biodata experts out there to help me put something together.

Eff.

MY MOTHER HAS SPIDEY SENSE or SHE'S BAAAAAAACK

The realization that---given the expeditious rate at which I'm working on finding a husband---my parents might not be around by the time I'm ready to have children, paid me another visit yesterday. This time, it was during a routine walk from the ladies' room to my office. I was in quite a panic, thinking about how I had to be pregnant now in order to ensure that my kids would know their grandparents.

I cursed that blight of advancing age, told myself it would be okay, and tried to get back to work.

I couldn't get back to work right away though.
My mom, you see, seems to have spidey sense when it comes to this marriage-baby garbage. Not five minutes after my "I-need-to-be-with-child-NOW" moment, the phone rang. It was her. After a brief and distracted hello, she announced that I must send her a new biodata straightaway---I was supposed to email it to them last night but I've resisted---plus a photo of myself, which is to be vetted by my mother, of course.

Of course, as per usual, she's not especially forthcoming with the information she does have (a family friend knows of some eligible bachelor in New York....um, and that's all she's told me........). Of course, as per usual, I've reverted to pouting and rolling my eyes a la pre-teeny bopper Nerd.

I really don't want to bloody write a bloody biodata. And, to tell you the truth, this nonsense has made me get over my "I-need-to-be-with-child-NOW" moment pretty quickly. Eff. I dunno what to do.

By the way, you kittens don't know me at all. The highest anyone's scored on the quiz in the post below is a 30%! Damn straight, I'm an enigma!

HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW OUR NERD III

Yes, ladies and gents, it's that special time again! Test your knowledge of the Nerddd with this brand-spanking-new test. Don't be shy! Share your results and your thoughts about the test with us!
And, all of you overachievers can take the first two tests here and here.

THE NERDDD DOES THE US OPEN

I was surprise-gifted with tickets to the US Open this weekend and it was excellent. Well, to tell you the truth the men's semis yesterday took place under a ferocious sun so the experience was more draining and distracting than excellent (it also left me with the most desperate tan I've ever seen on myself---or on anyone else, for that matter). But I'd be lying terribly if I said that I didn't enjoy seeing Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic play their ways to the finals. The conditions for tennis were nearly perfect by the time the women's finals got underway, but Justine Henin (the former Justine Henin-Hardenne--I used to love saying her name back when she was married. Alas.) trounced Svetlana Kuznetsova too promptly for us to really appreciate the weather.

Today was amazing though. I was joined by some of my favorite people--my brother, our friend Gloria, and my bff Roselle--and although the sun sizzled down on us for the duration of the women's doubles championships (Roselle and I were too busy giggling ourselves silly over the minor everyday absurdities that only the two of us seem to notice to care much about the women's doubles championships. The Taiwanese, I suspect, may have lost), we were blessed with clouds very soon thereafter. Unlike yesterday, when I was encumbered by my brand-spanking-new pair of bargain aviators (I can't bring myself to purchase---or accept gifts of---sunglasses over $10 ever since I lost the $300 pair my brothers bought me), the Nike visor I wore today allowed me to enjoy the sporting spectacle without any tinted misery (I mean, seriously folks, all that dimness is depressing!).

Federer didn't play his best but maintained his amazing calm and composure throughout the match. His style of play is so relaxed, smooth, and effortless. I was rooting for Djokovic, who put up a great fight but, ultimately, choked under the pressure of his first Grand Slam final. He's only 20-years-old (so, I was totally crushing on him when Roselle and I did the math and realized that he was born in 1987; that he was 4 in 1991, when we were 12; and that he was 15-years-old only five years ago! Age, I suppose, is but a number). He'll be back.

It was good times.

MEAT MARKET: DAY 2

The highlight of my second day on the marriage market was the fact that my face stopped leaking.

I need help but shudder to think what kind of circus this might turn into if I get my mother and her cohorts involved.

Perhaps, like amma suggested, I should invest in literature. How does one go about picking up a guy, who'll make a great husband during her commute (because seriously folks, where else am I going to pick him up)?

MEAT MARKET: DAY 1

So, my first day on the meat--I mean marriage (ahem) market didn't start so auspiciously.

I fell asleep wearing my contact lenses last night--something I haven't done in the ten years that I've been wearing contact lenses.

This morning, I woke up to an ocular DISASTER. It was awful. My eyes, which are pretty sensitive to begin with, were red, watery, and super sensitive to the light. Plus, I had a runny nose (lachrymal fluid draining into the nasal cavity). I stumbled into work wearing shades, which I kept on in the office, appearing odd and mysterious when all I was, in fact, was MELTING. Behind the shades, big, fat tears rolled down my cheeks. My vision was severly compromised, I could barely keep my eyes open, or my nose dry. Needless to say, I was forced to make today a sick (half)day. At the time, I was pretty certain that my allergies were raping and pillaging my immune system (an aside: In addition to all this drama, I haven't showered since yesterday! My allergist is running skin patch tests on me to determine if I have any chemical allergies and the patches aren't coming off until tomorrow. Ew, gross, right? (I also haven't taken my allergy medication since Thursday, which is why I suspected my immune system was vulnerable to abuse)) but my optometrist told me that the contact lenses had destroyed (okay, I said "destroyed"; he wasn't quite as dramatic as I am) me. He prescribed two different eye drops for the inflammation and reassured me that I wasn't "destroyed" and that I would regain optimum vision in no time. I've regained a lot of my vision in the past hour alone, as a matter of fact. And, to all of you Acuvue2 wearers out there, it's supposedly a dinosaur among the birds of the contact lens world, so WATCH OUT.

Let's hope tomorrow's a better day.

THE NERDDD ON MARRIAGE

As of today, I'm officially ready to get hitched and make babies.
Thanks,
The Nerddd

WHAT HAPPENED IN MAINE: Part II

11) After visiting the deliriously beautiful Marshall Point Lighthouse in Port Clyde, I jumped behind Barbie's wheel and drove us to Montpelier, the General Henry Knox Museum in Thomaston, Maine. We made it just in time to join a tour that was underway.

12) After the museum, RR and I (and by "RR and I," I actually mean "RR." By this time, I'd resumed my role of trusty navigator) drove in search of The Olson House, which was the subject of many paintings by Andrew Wyeth--one of the best known artists of the 20th century. Christina's World--a favorite of both mine and RR's--is, undoubtedly, his most famous work, so there was no way we were leaving Maine without having seen the house that figures so prominently in the painting. We found it. It was lovely albeit somewhat creepy from the inside. Across the road from the house is the Olson family plot, set among trees adjacent to water. That parcel of land was among the most peaceful I've ever seen.

13) I channeled Wyeth as I photographed RR channeling Christina outside the Olson house.

14) RR and I dreamt about bidding farewell to our lives down south and enrolling in the College of the Atlantic, which was right across the way from our hotel and where we could pursue degrees in Human Ecology, while watching ridiculously fit and shirtless blondes emerge from a campus garden like Adam. Sigh.

15) In an effort to prove ourselves as adventurous foodies, RR and I had lobster ice cream. We ate enough of the ice cream (and by "enough," I mean not very much at all) to conclude that we're not very good at playing adventurous foodies.

16) The final day of our vacation was grossly misspent on an agonizingly boring trip to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. Was Yarmouth worth the six hours of brain numbing misery--that's three hours each way, folks--we experienced on The Cat? No. Now as beautiful as the rest of Nova Scotia might be--and I have no doubt it is--Yarmouth was the pits. Our "Ultimate Nova Scotia" bus tour was awful. Our loquacious tour guide drove past the local McDonald's (or, as the locals like to call it, the American Embassy! Har, har, har) and WalMart and her doctor's office. I was quickly losing consciousness by the time she stopped outside her opthamologist's house. Like we gave a hoot, right?
Even seeing the spout of an ocassional whale or dolphin on the way out to Nova Scotia didn't make the trip any less wretched. The highlight of the awful Yarmouth trip ended up being the two hours we spent watching Music and Lyrics on the ride back home (and by "home," I mean "Bar Harbor," of course).

17) Lobster dishes I had in Maine: lobster roll, lobster sandwich, lobster ice cream, lobster salad, and a lobster strudel.

18) On the flight home, I ended up sitting next to a gregarious teacher from Chicago, who, after I'd told him that I was an awfully nervous flier, did a fine job distracting me with conversation. We talked about books, injuries, hiking, religion, war, politics, his fear that he'd miss his connecting flight home from JFK. He was such a lovely person, that I gave him my copy of Brian Hall's I Should Be Extremely Happy in Your Company. When, shortly after landing, the pilot announced that our same flight would be going to Chicago, the gentleman declared that I must be a lucky charm! I've never had a pleasanter flight in my life!

WHAT HAPPENED IN MAINE: part I

This is what happened in Maine, Part I:

1) RR and I rented a white Chevy Malibu with Florida plates. We christened the Malibu, Barbie. Barbie was a good car.

2) Since I’m an expert reader of maps and a virtuoso turner of radio dials, I designated myself “navigator.” This left RR, an exceptional operator of automobiles-- especially on highways and freeways--in the role of “driver.”

3) I had a brief stint as “driver.” While behind the wheel, I nearly ran over a chipmunk, a close call that severely compromised my confidence in the role of "driver". My cautious driving also seemed to irritate drivers from several different states—NY, MA, NH, to name a few—and Canada (“I’m from FLORIDA, you jerks!” I often cried out to the procession of cars tailing me. "Cut me some slack!"). The cars overtaking me, one by one, gave me enough of a complex to abstain from driving again for the remainder of our holiday.

4) Number of times we parallel parked: 0 (phew—a minor miracle if you ask me, an active decision on our part if you ask RR)

5) RR and I discovered that a) the lighthouses in Rockland are optical illusions—you can walk for hours in their general direction only to discover that they’re just as far as they were two hours ago or, perhaps, b) the older gent at the lighthouse museum who told us that the bloody lighthouse was 1 mile away was a bloody liar and that c) pajamas in Rockland cost $50. RR and I hated Rockland.

6) Rockport confused us. We missed it entirely on our way up Route 1 and, although we found it on our way down, we couldn’t quite understand why a couple of folks as well as our Maine tourism guide called it one of the nicest, most quaint towns along the state’s craggy shores. Like, what? We drove in and drove right out.

7) We fell asleep before 9:45 each night and woke up no later than 6 each morning. It must’ve been the Florida plates rubbing off on us.

8) Number of times we got lost: 3 (twice in car, once on foot)

9) I wore a skirt or a dress and flipflops every single day. Hiking the trail around Jordan Pond, we came upon a family of three little girls. While the oldest and youngest were dressed hike-appropriate, the middle daughter, who was five or six years old, was wearing a denim skirt, a sparkly t-shirt, and flipflops. "I got WATER on my shoes! I DON'T want water on my shoes!" she cried out, trailing behind her family.
I loved that little girl.

10) RR and I spoke in old world Bah Habah accents for a good part of our vacation.

KINK MY PIRIFORMIS

I knew one thing for sure earlier today as my physical therapist attempted to Myofascially release my right piriformis with his fist: I wasn't in Maine anymore. Already in the throes of fierce vacation withdrawal symptoms, the absolute last thing I needed was someone's fist working out the kinks in my ass.

That, however, is exactly what I got.

I know I promised you darlings a full report on the state of Maine but I'm so sleepy that I'm practically typing with my eyes closed. I'm afraid the report will have to wait. And since I've been, once again, sidelined from the gym (effin' effed up piriformis and supertight hamstrings), I'll have plenty of time to blog all about the holiday tomorrow.

In the meantime, whatever happened to Madlibbin'?

MAINE: TRANSFORMATIVE!

I did it.
I hiked in a dress and flip flops, with a tote slung over my shoulder, a ribbon in my hair and a busted hip. The trail, I might add, was rather treacherous. We hiked for two hours.
It was fabulous.

Maine is breathtaking. I'm rather in love with the state and I'm sure Rich concurs.

Next time, I'm packing my hiking boots (and other hiking-appropriate apparel) and I'm roughing it properly (during the day and returning to the amenities of a four diamond hotel at night, of course).

More details about the trip to come tomorrow, sweethearts.

LIVE FROM MAINE

Dear All My Kittens:

I blog to you live from a quaint Bar Harbor internet cafe. After getting lost on the airport grounds for a good half hour yesterday, Rich and I found and stayed on the lovely and picturesque Route 1, which took us through many small towns, including Rockland (hated it, mostly because we got lost in the town's underbelly as we attempted to walk to a lighthouse and were stalked, along the way, by a trucker who thought we were stalking him. Creepy) and Camden (we enjoyed our first meal in Maine here--a lobster roll. Yes, a lobster roll. I'm not ashamed to admit that it was DELICIOUS and I have NO REGRETS).

It was 7PM by the time we arrived in Bar Harbor. We ate soft serve blueberry ice cream cones in the downtown before returning to our hotel and calling it a night at 9PM. Breakfast today was pancakes at a local breakfast restaurant--Rich had blueberry, I had the banana walnut. Now, we find ourselves sitting in this lovely internet cafe, next to an open window from which the Maine breeze wafts in. I'm loving it.

'Til next time.

The Nerddd

AU REVOIR

Au revoir kittens.

I'll be "roughing it" in Maine for the next several days. Now, I hope that this "roughing it" involves lots of air conditioning, eating, destressing, unwinding, and strolling on paved surfaces; I must say, however, that after Google-imaging the land of lobster ice cream, vast forests, and lighthouses, I might just end up "hiking" rather happily, bum leg-hip-bum and everything!

Talk to you guys soon!

Love,
The Nerddd

ps: Don't forget to leave comments that I can read upon my return (...or from the hotel...). Kisses.

pps: Madlibbin' Parasailer, hath thou become bored of this Nerddd?

ppps: You guys should really talk among yourselves in your comments. That would be awesome. Who's brave enough to get start off a conversation?

PERFECT PARALLEL PARKING

According to just about everyone, I can't hike in a skirt and I must take my ratty sneakers along with me to Maine. So, yes, I'm grudgingly packing my Asics up for the trip. But my great assistant, JD, who's spent many summers in Maine, tells me of lovely scenic driving on Mount Desert Island. Perhaps we won't have to hike at all? Unfortunately, the scenic driving is on mountains and, I don't know about Rich, but I've never driven on a highway, let alone a mountain. And to top things off, there's loads of parallel parking everywhere in Bar Harbor, apparently. I've transcribed JD's step-by-step instructions for perfect parallel parking on a Post-It that I hope to goodness I remember to take with me (it also lists the lighthouses, restaurants and towns that we must visit). Apparently, though Mainers are super friendly, they might still give us strange looks and silently judge us if we ask them to parallel park for us because, you know, they are human. But, they will feel sorry for us and do it anyway, which is reassuring.

Oh, and then there's this issue of my effed up right side. The tightness in my right glute has morphed into an electric pain that runs from glute to ankle, which can't be good. I need to visit an orthopedist who does more than tell me to suck it up. Any brilliant orthopedists out there?

Apologies for the foul mood kittens but I feel utterly spent. I'm in pain, I have yet to pack, and the summer hasn't been too kind on my hips (ie, I've been enjoying dessert a little too much), so, yah, foulness is in order.

I'm so ready for the fall.

ps: I suspect that MP, who, I gather from his comments, is something of an outdoorsman, is shocked, outraged, and saddened by my aversion to "roughing it."

Is this the end of MP and the Nerddd???
Will MP ever comment on this blog again???
Will the Nerddd hike and drive up a mountain???
How will our Nerddd parallel park???
And will the Nerddd ever get back to her healthy, not-too-much-dessert ways???

Stay tuned folks.

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: An Open Letter in Which I Finally Answer Your Questions

Dear Madlibbin' Parasailer:

Without further ado, following are your questins and my answers to them.

1. You obviously have an affinity for writing and work in the publishing business. Do you have any aspirations to publish your own work?

Eventually (I'll explain later).

2. Which of your favorite books would you like to see made into a movie and which actors would you cast in the role of the main characters?

I don't think I'd ever wish for a favorite book to be adapted to the big screen.

3. Books aside, what is your favorite work of art?

I couldn't possibly pick just one work of art as my favorite. I haven't been able to choose a single favorite thing of mine--books included--in, like, 18 years (alas, I designated favorites rather arbitrarily during the first ten years of life). So, what I'll do is, choose a few of my favorites artists, writers aside,
I love the Impressionists like Monet, Cassatt, and Renoir; Edward Hopper; though I've never really been taken with modern art, I do love me some Jasper Johns; Rodin; and, who isn't enamored of the Pre-Raphealites, etc, etc, etc.

4. What is your idea of a perfect vacation?

a) a car, a road atlas and the Pacific Coast Highway;
b) a cruise ship, tons of food that's bad for me, and the Caribbean;
c) a spa holiday

5. How do you feel about hockey?

I was all about hockey when I was a kid. Alas, I've outgrown it since.

Your turn to answer the same questions, which I'm sure you'll do much more eloquently than I have here. I plead exhaustion.

Yours,
The Nerddd

DEAR READERS and MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER (sigh): An Open Letter

Dear Readers and Madlibbin' Parasailer (sigh):

I'd like to take this one-day break from dedicating posts to the charmingly cerebral and downright dreamy MP (sigh) in order to ask my dear readers for prayers, reassurances, blessings, best wishes, and snap-out-of-its to combat my irrational fear of flying. As the day of our flight to ME approaches, my trepidations about take off, turbulence, and (gulp) crashing intensify.

And what about my effed up right side? My right glute has been tighter than Jocelyn Wilderstern's face in recent days and, oh my goodness, what if I'm on the verge of throwing out my hip again?! What if I throw out my hip en route to Maine, rendering enjoyment and relaxation impossible, and then the plane crashes on the way back to NY?!!!

Effin hell, that would blow a lot.

Help me out my people. I'm freaking out.

Thanks.

Yours,
The Nerddd

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: Another Open Letter

Dearest Madlibbin‘ Parasailer:

Thanks so much for putting up with this gentle interrogation and my haplessly romantic ways--I feel like I should finally be able to exorcise the romance out of my system now that I'm two years from 30 but I just can't help myself. So, here we are again. I just hope to goodness that you aren't becoming tired of our exchanges because I'm certainly not and neither are my friends. Most of them are loving getting to know you as much as I am. One just emailed me to say that this is the most excitement she's had in months.

In any case, I hope you’re willing to continue our blog exchanges for at least a little while longer.

Without further ado, let’s get to our next set of questions, which are pretty straightforward. Again, you can reveal as much or as little as you please.

1) How do you spend your weekends?
2) How long have you known your best friend?
3) When’s your birthday and what’s your sign?
4) When was the last time you cried?
5) How do you feel about baseball?

I await your response.

Yours,
The Nerddd

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: A Third Open Letter

Dear Madlibbin’ Parasailer:

Getting to know you over my blog is proving to be a most pleasant experience. Your thoughtful and eloquent answers to my first five questions have reaffirmed my fondness of you and I remain rather smitten with your charm, honesty, and intelligence (as do most of my friends).

Now, before I reveal my next set of questions for you, I’ll first answer the questions I asked you in the post below (though not nearly as thorougly and eloquently as you did...I hope you don't hold this against me. It is way past my bedtime, after all):

1)If you could spend one year of perfect, blissful happiness but afterward would remember nothing of the experience, would you do so? If not, why not?
No. I’d much rather continue to evolve and learn from my normal, day-to-day experiences, be they good or bad, than, essentially, lose a year of my life, as brilliant and perfect as it may be.

2)Would you call yourself “emotionally constipated”?
No. I'm afraid I have emotional diarrhea. I believe this scares most males, especially those who are emotionally constipated like you are MP, away. You're not afraid of ardent declarations of affection are you?

3)Ahem. Ahem. While I’d rather not reveal what sorts of lingerie I prefer to wear (Ahem), I will let you know that my friend ES wholeheartedly approves of the boxer-brief, as does one commenter, Nusrat and most American females (Ahem).

Onto our next set of questions:
1) Was it business or pleasure that took you to Bhutan?
2) How many siblings do you have, where do you fall in birth order, and are you close to your family?
3) What would you say is your greatest flaw and what is your biggest regret?
4) ES asks, do you carry a messenger bag to work or an attaché case?
5) From where do you hail and in what part of the nation do you now reside?

As always, I await your answers with bated breath.

Yours,
The Nerddd

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: An(other) Open Letter

Dear Madlibbin' Parasailer:

I must confess that I awaited your response with bated breath. Though I may have shocked my devoted readers into a rare silence (actually, a thank you goes out to Cyberfish for leaving a comment and not making me feel like a freak), I am much relieved that you didn't find my pickup line to be bold or presumptuous. That you find me charming is rather marvelous. I blush. Your comments remain delightful; you know how to please a lady's demure sensibilities and for this, I thank you.

I've decided, dear sir, that I shall ask you five questions at a time. Though I have dozens of questions for you, the last thing I'd want is for you to feel overwhelmed. The first five questions follow in no particular order. Remember, how much or how little you reveal about yourself is entirely your choice. I've been told that not everyone is an exhibitionist* like me.

Onto the questions!

1) If you could spend one year of perfect, blissful happiness but afterward would remember nothing of the experience, would you do so? If not, why not?
2) Would you call yourself "emotionally constipated"?
3) My friend ES asks, do you prefer boxers or briefs?
4) Do you LOVE your job? Why or why not?
5) Finally, gasp, I have inlaws?! Or do you mean you have inlaws?! Gasp!

*dear readers, I don't mean to say that I flash my bits in public. That's gross. I simply mean that I enjoy sharing details of my life with complete strangers on a public, online medium, as I'm doing right here, in this post. This, I understand, might not be true of everyone.
Interestingly enough, I've always seemed to attract exhibitionists. People love flashing me. It's extremely curious and disturbing.

DEAR MADLIBBIN' PARASAILER: An Open Letter

Dear Madlibbin' Parasailer*:

How you doin'?
Ahem.

Yours,
The Nerddd

*Madlibbin' Parasailer is a(n) (in)frequent blog commenter, veiled in a shroud of anonymity, to whom our Nerddd has taken a shine.

This post demonstrates, better than any of her previous posts, our Nerddd's weak game and total cluelessness when it comes to man.

Will the Madlibbin' Parasailer speak?
Will he be turned off by the absurd dramatization of this post?
Will he feel objectified and tell our Nerddd off?

Stay tuned folks!

MAINE APPROACHING

The Maine holiday is upon us and I hope to goodness that none of the excursions Rich and I partake in require 1) sneakers, 2) fanny packs, 3) long pants to ward off Lyme-disease causing ticks, 4) parallel parking, 5) us to take tours of hatcheries, where we will be sujected to seeing mother lobsters and their babies (I'm afraid it's all too emotional for me), 6) me eating lobster meat that is not imitation, 7) an excess of insect-infested nature, 8) sun screen (I'm currently allergic to it and that I'm exposing my skin to deadly UV rays is killing me on the inside--as well on the outside), 9) eating outdoors, or 10) too much exertion.

Oh, and I hope my driving skills kick in when I'm behind the wheel because, truthfully, it's been well over a month since I've practiced.

FANTASTIC BOOKS and EVEN MORE FANTASTIC READERS

I'm compiling a list of books to take with me to Maine at the end of the month. Rich and I plan on doing lots of reading en route to Bar Harbor and in between lobstering, bicycling, hiking, sightseeing and eating. Reading fantastic works of literature by the likes of Junot Diaz and Ron Currie, Jr. has destroyed me so that now, books that aren't close to that level of fantastic, disappoint me terribly.

I don't want to be a disappointed reader, dear reader. So, I, great recommender of books that I am (I'm pretty terrific at recommending books; it's one of the things for which I'm known..."Oh, you're flying to Australia and will have tons of time to read on the plane? Call that Sabila, she's GREAT at recommending just the right book for every occasion!"), now ask you to help me put together this vacation reading list. I'll read anything just as long as it's nothing short of FANTASTIC.

Bring on the recommendations!
Thanks!

STRANGER DANGER! The Nerddd Gets Recognized During Her Commute

Holy shit, it's happened again!

So, I'm reading this week's New Yorker on the train this morning, minding my own business, when, suddenly, out of nowhere, this man, dressed very business causal-like asks,"Excuse me, you're the Nerd, aren't you?" and then laughing,"I mean, Sabila K?" And I say,"Err....." and panicking on the inside, I can't find anything more to say, until, finally, I croak out a "Yes," and a "Do I know you?" because maybe I know him from some real life thing or through a real life person (although I'm positive that I don't).

He laughs again and says,"No, no! I've seen your profile on--" and he names one of the gazillion social networking sites I'm on. "I read your blog. I can't believe I finally ran into you on the train!"

"The city's smaller than you think," I say, and I return to reading my magazine. I turn a little so that I'm not facing him anymore (because this is all a bit odd) and pretend to be totally into the article I'm reading. Then, to prove to him (and my mom) that I'm not stuck up at all (because I'm not), I wave to him before exiting the train.

I think I handled the situation like a pro.

EFFIN' MASS TRANSIT

EFFIN' MASS TRANSIT.

The PATH train line to and from 33rd street is down, man. It's 9AM and I'm still at home, trying to figure out how to get to work.

Plus my tooth hurts.

And my right glute is tight. Like, one-wrong-move-and-you're-fucked tight.

I also feel fat. And ugly. I feel fugly.

To top things off, I have major PMS.

Effin' mass transit.

CATHARTIC EXPLETIVES

I'm having a bad day.

I've been having a bad day for the past eight days, as a matter of fact. These days, every other word out of my mouth is a flowery expletive (oh, the cathartic experience of swearing is rather exquisite!), and I've lumped most everyone into a single incompetent-uncaring-soulless-bastard category. Other peoples' feelings, needless to say, are the least of my concerns at the present time, so it should come as no surprise that the number of folks I snapped at this past weekend alone easily surpassed the number of confirmed allergies I have. For instance, I got into a heated debate with my new neighbor and ended up calling him a foolish and self-centered blowhard. It's all right because he is a foolish, self-centered blowhard. It's also all right because I caved into the guilt that nagged me for the remainder of the day and ended up buying him and his wife a box of welcome-to-the-neighborhood and it-was-probably-not-right-of-me-to-call-you-a-foolish-and-self-centered-blowhard-even-though-you-are-one cookies and cupcakes from Out of the Kitchen.

Yes, reader, this behavior is clearly out of character for me. Up until a couple of weeks ago, I was my usual even-tempered and pleasant self. Now, I've suddenly transformed into this scary person, who enjoys peppering everything she says with fucks, shits, and stupid-fuckin-bitches and sulking and/or crying when she's not eviscerating anyone who gets in her way. What's up with that?

Maybe I'm just tired but that doesn't seem to be a good enough excuse.

But I ramble. I meant to say that I'm exhausted. All of this bitterness is really doing a number on my system and, as a result, I don't feel much like blogging today. Perhaps you can entertain me with your comments, instead? So, I open the floor to you, readers. Go ahead. Say anything.

DILATED PUPILS or PHOTOPHOBIC IN CHINATOWN

I had my first comprehensive eye exam with an opthamologist on Friday. The office was located in the heart of Chinatown. Part of the comprehensive exam involved the doctor dilating my pupils with tropicamide. He assured me that this drug-induced mydriasis wouldn't last longer than four hours. I'd have trouble reading and some sensitivity to light but it wouldn't be terrible. After the examination, I was so relieved that my eyes were healthy and I wouldn't need prosthetics, after all (welcome to the abnormally anxious world of the hypochondriac) that I didn't give the dilated pupils much thought as I joined our favorite commenter, Rachel, for lunch in the area. Rach and I had a good laugh when I had to squint down from under my glasses, senescent-style, in order to read the menu. Over the course of the meal, however, my vision deteriorated even in the relative dimness of the restaurant. I kept on taking off my glasses only to put them back on. Rach asked if I was okay. I said no and I tried to eat, which is hard to do when you're distracted by the thought of making your way back home with less than optimal vision. After pushing my charred salmon steak around in my plate, I rushed off to the cramped bathroom and nearly fell backwards into a stall when I took one look at my freakishly wide pupils and the tiniest slivers of brown iris that struggled against the expansion.

When we finally emerged into the hot, bustling streets of downtown Manhattan, my light-hungry pupils had their fill and I, reduced to a bright blindness was incapacitated. I dodged tourists and merchandise, pungent smells that I could almost touch and taste, while hanging off Rach's arm. I must've looked blind to the throngs that made their way around us as we attempted to find cheap knockoff sunglasses that might ease my pain. Anyone who knows me knows that I don't do sunglasses--I feel like a phony in them--but these desperate times called for $8 aviators, which, even I must admit, looked pretty hot (well, at least from what I could see...which, we've determined, wasn't very much at all).

While the the aviators had reduced the photosensitivity, vision was now greatly compromised by the fact that I had to remove my glasses in order to wear my sunglasses. Suddenly, I found myself shoved into one of my worst nightmares: being dropped off in a teeming metropolis sans contact lenses or glasses. The early afternoon was overwhelming and frightening.

To make a long story short, Rach did see me to the PATH station in a cab and I, even in my myopic and photophobic condition, did manage to stumble and feel my way home, looking hot in the aviators the entire way. It was intense.

The morale of this story: don't ever have your pupils dilated in Chinatown. Also, having someone wait for you in a car with aviators and enough Benadryls to knock you out for several hours might be a good idea. Plus, please keep in mind that if your eyes are as crazy, hypersensitive as are mine, they're likely to remain dilated for well over thirty-six hours, which is fucked up. Finally, you don't look nearly as phony as you think you do in sunglasses, so keep them on. Your eyes will thank you.

HIVES!: A Followup

So, my recent battle with hives prompted me to see an allergist. My last visit with an allergist (which also happened to be my first visit with an allergist) definitely wasn't fun, as my wicked allergiesto cats, dogs and horses (and dust mites) were confirmed. This time around, I just wanted to get rid of the unpleasant hives. What the visit ended up doing, readers, is forever ensconce me in nerd-dom...because, seriously, a nerd who doesn't have over five allergies is not a nerd.

My allergies to cats, dogs, and horses (and dust mites), have now been joined by a severe allergy to mold, a host of spring allergies, and allergies to rats, cockroaches. If one should be allergic to anything, I suppose vermin is it. So is mold. But spring? I'm allergic to spring? This explains all of those lingering colds.

To make matters worse, my allergist suspects that I might have food allergies and chemical allergies (of course I have food and chemical allergies). I was sitting on the examining table, my legs dangling over the edge, my arms an alarming red from the combination of the hives and the skin test that the allergist had administered when she told me about the procedure for chemical allergy testing: she would have to apply two patches to my back, where the patches would remain for two days, during which time I can't get my back wet. It took a second for that information to register and all I could manage in response was: "Oh. Ew." This reaction made the allergist laugh for a good three minutes.

The moral of the story: I'm fucked, yo.

Robbed: The Surreal Follow-up

Sure, some might call me a tad bit dramatic but, dammit, the conditions in the office yesterday demanded that I dive under the desk of a stranger's cube, while on the phone with office services, begging that a certain, suspicious person be removed from the premises.

Just another day at the bird.

DEAR PERSON WHO STOLE $50 FROM MY WALLET: An Open Letter

Dear person who stole $50 from my wallet:

I hate you. You've totally invaded my space and violated me. I don't know if I'm ever going to feel safe in my office again, you ass (yes, readers, this brazen act of thievery was committed in the safety of my office. The said money was in a wallet, in my handbag, which I keep behind my desk, in my office). You have some nerve to waltz into someone's office and rifle through her wallet. What were you going to say had someone interrupted your robbery? What would your excuse be? "Oh, like, I dropped something in Sabila's bag?"

As the Pardoner in "The Pardoner's Tale"--from Geoffery Chaucer's 14th century classic of English literature, The Canterbury Tales --said, Radix malorum est cupiditas. I'll translate from the Latin for you, you ignorant punk: "Greed for wealth (Avarice) is the root of all evil."

Hope things look up for you in the future so that you don't have to resort to thievery.

Thanks for your time!

Yours,
The Nerddd

BOOKS

I love my mom. In the past, we've seen her become somewhat obsessed with matching me with eligible bachelor-types, reader. And though I know it's still difficult for her to have a single 28-year-old daughter (and unmarried 34 and 36-year-old sons), while everyday, another one of her friends' kids (some barely out of their teens!!!) is getting engaged/married/or popping out a baby, she's backed off. I think she recognized that her sheer determination to get me hitched did nothing but put a strain on our relationship.

Still, she can't help giving me advice about getting a move on it. Just the other day, we were having coffee, talking about something totally unrelated to the pursuits of the heart when, very abruptly, she changed the subject and said:

"You know, you should try reading a book about how to meet boys. There must be books out there about such things, right? Look for them the next time you're at the bookstore because, surely, they must exist."

And then she dropped it.
Just like that.
She threw it out there.
And she dropped it.
And we kept on talking about this other thing.

I love amma.

AN ABUNDANCE OF AUSTEN

In anticipation of Becoming Jane--a flowery, romantic biopic about Jane Austen, which, I hear takes many liberties with historical accuracy (ask me if I care!)--and the film version of that delicious Karen Joy Fowler best-seller, The Jane Austen Book Club, I present to you, my readers, the Jane Austen font.

Now, even you can celebrate one of the greatest literary geniuses in the English language, that acute observer of human character and relationships, whose novels remain timeless, by writing like her.

Sigh.

A BURQINI? WELL, WHY NOT?

This week's issue of Time magazine features a story on the new swimsuit revolution. Move over bikinis, tankinis, even one-pieces: the burqini is expanding the options women have of what to wear to the beach. Created by two Muslim women, the burqini is a burqa-bikini hybrid, a modest, "halal" alternative to clingy and revealing outfits, which have, at one time or another, left many a female--Muslim or not--in a panic before heading to the beach. According to the article, Muslim conservatives aren't the only ones flocking to purchase these full-body, loose fitting wet suits that cover everything except the hands, feet and faces of bathing beauties. The burqini has also found fans in Christian conservatives, senior citizens, and burn victims.

The Time piece also mentions that the burqini creators are getting anti-Muslim flak. The fact that many in the Western world view the burqa (the loose garment, featuring a veil with an opening for the eyes) and the hijab (the head covering worn by some Muslim women) as signs of patriarchal oppression of women in Islam is nothing new. What they fail to recognize, however, is that for many of these women, choosing to dress modestly is a deeply personal choice that is steeped as much in feminism as it is in religious beliefs. The handful of women I know who wear burqas or hijabs, do so to demonstrate their freedom from conformity. For these women, it is the Western world's cultural obsession with unrealistic and unattainable standards of beauty that is exploitive and oppressive. For them, the veil is liberating, it is empowering.

What it all boils down to, folks, is choice. I'm a Muslim woman but I don't think my wearing a one-piece or a tankini to the beach damns me to hell or makes me a slave to fashion. It's a braver girl than I who chooses to wear a bikini or a burqini.

More power to her, whatever her choice might be.

MMA

While Little People, Big World remains my favorite show of the summer (sure, it's in hiatus at the moment, but I've been catching up on missed episodes on TLC, so it's still new for me...I'm seriously on the verge of writing Matt and Amy Roloff a letter, asking them to adopt me), The History Channel's Human Weapon is coming in a close second.

Human Weapon follows mixed martial artist and all-around hottie Justin Chambers and former pro-football player and wrestler Bill Duff as they travel around the world, learning both the history and techniques of various fighting styles--everything from Muay Thai kickboxing to Russian Sambo to Filipino stickfighting. Each epidsode culminates with one of the two hosts facing a master of that style in a bout. Believe it or not, your nerd used to be quite the fan of mixed martial arts back in the '90s--I worshipped at the altar of the Gracies (before I start getting hate comments from Taliban-style commentors, note that I don't mean this literally).

Anyway, the point of this blog is that you folks should surely tune into Human Weapon...well, if you're into that sort of thing, anyway.

ERR, WHAT?

Last night, I dreamt that Matt Roloff, the dad from my new favorite show, Little People, Big World, was teaching me how to drive an RV on the beach. I'm driving pretty damned well, given all the sand and surf, but I keep telling him "Uh, but I have to drive on the highway! There are so many highways in Maine!" and he's ignoring me, telling me to keep driving. Meanwhile, my semi-hottie neighbor is sitting behind us, flirting with me. When he starts tickling me on my neck, I turn around and shout, "CUT IT OUT! I still need to learn how to parallel park!"

But he keeps right at it and suddenly, the three of us are on a highway, with cars zooming by but we're pulled over to the shoulder and Matt's all like, "Okay, parallel park." And semi-cute neighbor has now stopped tickling my neck long enough to enjoy a giant slice of what looks like coconut cake, so he's no help. And I gulp when I see that the orange cones on the side of the highway are set way closer (like Mini Cooper close) than they should be for an RV but I start trying to parallel park anyway and I'm totally in the zone when Matt Roloff tells me, "You're taking too long!" and the cars are still zooming by us on the highway and neighbor is useless, eating his cake in the back, but suddenly leans forward to kiss me on the cheek and then I wake up.

I've been known to have some random-odd dreams in my time, but seriously...

*Update: Rachel and I both agree that if I should be dreaming about any Roloff, it should be Jeremy, the hotty, taller twin.

HIVES!

I broke out into hives on my arms and legs this weekend. I've never had hives before, so it was at once a fascinating and disconcerting experience. Now, while I've been blaming the breakout on the excitement surrounding Harry Potter, which seems to me the most romantic of psychosomatic causes for hives, the likeliest culprit is my new collection of glittery moisturizers purchased from Bath & Body Works, an establishment that I hadn't visited since, geeze, probably high school. However, a flurry of banners announcing a sick, ridiculous sale a couple of weeks ago at the Bath & Body Works at my local mall inspired me to walk out of the store with $150 worth of products at a third of the price, which was very satisfying. I was so thrilled with my deliciously-scented purchases that I ignored the burning sensation the glittery moisturizers caused each and every time I used them.

I supposed I deserve these hives, then. While they're a lot less fierce than they were over the weekend, translucent bumps are still sprinkled over my limbs, a lovely detail which I'm sure my readers appreciate.

I did learn a lesson from this experience though: never again will I stray from Bliss products.

HARRY POTTER

When my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, which I’d pre-ordered on Amazon back in February, didn’t arrive first thing Saturday morning, I waited as patiently as the situation allowed.
I chewed an entire pack of gum.
I finally cleaned out my gym bag.
I avoided turning on the television or surfing the web for fear of discovering leaked spoilers.
I made myself a fancy portabella mushroom omelet with finely sliced onions and grated cheese.
I ate the omelet rather robotically and couldn’t tell you what it tasted like.
I flipped through last week’s The New Yorker.
I tried to take a nap.

I got up ten minutes later, finding that I could no longer bear the wait. So, off I went to my local ShopRite, where the books were being sold at the courtesy counter. When I made it back home, I sprinted (yes: sprinted) down the hallway to my apartment. Running in, I stripped out of my dress, threw on my pajamas and, turning my back on the remarkably beautiful Saturday outside, I climbed into bed with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

And I read.

I read this book just as I’d read the six that came before it: voraciously, compulsively, losing complete sense of time and space as the words, the pages, the book, everything, seemed to evaporate and I immediately fell headlong into the magical world of wizards and witches. I had learned a long time ago that any attempts to extract myself from this world for chores and conversations were fuitle. This weekend was all about the book.

So I read.

I read and read and read, taking only short breaks to hydrate or shove a handful of nuts into my mouth.

At times I wanted to slow down and savor this last adventure but this, too, was an exercise in futility—a lesson I’d learned from the book’s predecessors—and so I continued to read like a woman possessed.

I finally finished the book early on Sunday afternoon. My reading, my consumption of this final installment in the Harry Potter series was bittersweet--both utterly satisfying and utterly heartbreaking. Hats off to JK Rowling: not only has she firmly ensconced herself in the library of classic children and fantasy literature, but she allowed me to relive, that moment when I, as a little girl, first discovered the sheer, unadulterated magic of books. And that, my friends, is truly magical.