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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TURTLES!

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

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

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

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

So now we have turtles.

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

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

REGINA SPEKTOR AT THE TOWN HALL

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

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

Dear lady (or ladies, really) at work:

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

Thanks for your time and consideration.

Sincerely,
The Nerd

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any ideas from my readers will be much appreciated.

HAPPY RAMADAN or HOW I SPENT MY SUNDAY

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

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

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

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

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

THE MATRIMONIAL BANQUET AT ISNA...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few winners from our conversation:

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

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

OMG

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

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

Will post about rishta-related crapiness tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thanks for your consideration in this most delicate matter.

Best,
Nerddd

INTERVENTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE JOY OF TATTS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WINNING WORDS FROM THE NERD'S MOTHER

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

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

AND

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

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

Have you talked to him about marriage yet?

LOVE AND THE CONJOINED TWIN

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

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

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

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

PEACE

SUNDAY MORNING BRUNCH W/ A SIDE OF AN ULTIMATUM

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I am pissed because:

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

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

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

TEST

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

THE MARKET

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

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

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

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

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

THE CAT NIPS

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

This is illustrated in the pics below:


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



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



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



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

THE NERD SEES HER FIRST MALE GLAMOUR SHOT

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

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

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

"Amma. No," I tell her.

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

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

Good luck to him.

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

THE NERD HEARTS HALLOWEEN

I'm a fan of Halloween.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BIODATA (UGH!)

See: Revengeofthenerddd.blogspot.com

CANADIAN iTunes AND THE AMERICAN GIRL

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

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

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

Dear Sabila,

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Erin
iTunes Store Escalations

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

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

REGINA SPEKTOR

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

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

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

Ghost of Corporate Future

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE NERD NEEDS TO TAKE A CLASS...

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

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

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

LAST NIGHT...

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

I READ

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

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

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

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

TRES LECHES AND THE NEUROTIC NERD

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

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

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

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

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

M, ANYONE?

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

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

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

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

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

Or not so much.

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

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

The following conversation with my mom took place earlier today:

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

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

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

I See You!

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

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

Oy.

THE BIODATA

The parents are now asking me to put together a matrimonial biodata. There was one that the they cobbled together for me a few years ago, using my work resume and anecdotal experience. I think I proofread and signed off on it at some point. Alas, the biodata, which was saved on my father's old PC, is no more (the PC crashed; I highly suspect that my explosive biodata had something to do with it. Ahem).

Now, everything (ie my future...ie whether I grow up to become a fabulous wife/mother or a miserable and curmudgeonly old spinster type with lots of cats to whom she's allergic) apparently hinges on my curriculum vitae, which will include, amongst other details, my education and work experience, appropriate measurements (height, weight...I don't think these things include THOSE kinds of measurements), personality, hobbies and interests and a seperate section where I can include a personal essay of sorts.

Part of me wants to put together the most ridiculously heinous biodata I can. Part of me wants to satisfy the 'rents. Then there's the part that actually wants to be curmudgeonly and old and spinstery and unattached. Of course, there's another part that wants to be all Emily Dickinson-ian and remain in a world of perpetual childhood. Worry not, you romantic types. There is a part of me that wants to eventually meet someone decent enough to hitch myself to for eternity, but I seriously don't care enough at this point to condense my life into a 1-2 page resume in order to meet this dude. This part, perhaps apocalyptically, still believes in romance.

For the record, this last, unacceptably lame and foolishly wide-eyed part of me is obviously a remnant of my teeny-bopper days. The other parts of which I'm comprised don't care very much for it and are working on exorcising it for good...because intelligent folks can't be stupid like that.

THE NERD PONDERS: Why Do Men Love Bitches (continued...)

I'm just glad I didn't have to pay for this bloody book.

THE NERD PONDERS: Why Do Men Love Bitches (continued...)

I've never been able to do the whole self-help book thing. I read (parts of) the first chapter, feel decidedly enlightened (or not so much) and toss the book aside.

Yah, this Why Men Marry Bitches book might be informative and enlightening and my mom would probably want me to read it from cover to cover but I'd much rather finish reading Giraffe. I just finished The Ruins by Scott Smith, which was EXCELLENT and comes highly recommended by me!

Que sera.

THE NERD PONDERS: Why Do Men Love Bitches?

Read the following book and find out!

WHY MEN MARRY BITCHES

The Nerd is skimming through it as we speak. She'll report back to us shortly.

BACK ON THE MARKET: Oh Crap (part II)

My mother nagged me for pics all day yesterday. Each telephone conversation (and there were five of them altogether) went as follows:

Me: This is Sabila.
Amma: Have you emailed the photos to your father yet...
Me: I'm at work, amma...
Amma:...because we promised your cousins they'd have your photos...
Me: I don't have pics on my work computer.
Amma: ...two days ago, but you haven't sent us anything...
Me: I'll do it as soon as I get home.
Amma: ...and your cousin called me this morning asking about the photos...
Me: I'm really busy right now--
Amma: ...I told him you'd send them right away...
Me: --so let's talk later, okay?
Amma: ...so just send the photos, okay?
Me: Okay.

I suspect that a lot of thought goes into which rishta photos a family decides to circulate.

*There's the requisite natively-garbed shot, which illustrates the respect a girl has for her cultural heritage, thus proving that she must be a good person.

*Photos of the girl dressed in Western garb, demure enough to appeal to the parent's (well, more likely than not, the mother's) sensibilities, but edgy enough to attract the eligible bachelor's interest (please note that the ratio of natively-garbed shots to Western-garbed shots is directly proportional to how traditional or progressive an interested family is).

*While one must appear to be happy in most of the photos, happiness must manifest itself in varying degrees:

1) the open-mouthed smile (aka, the big smile) shot: because what kinds of dental monstrosities is a girl trying to hide by not including at least one big smile shot in her rishta portfolio?! No mother wants her son to have a dental case on his hands. And good teeth are indicative of overall goodness of character.

2) the close-lipped smile shot: because the big smile, when displayed too often, might be suggestive of loose morals.

3) the smile-with-your-eyes shot: I was channel surfing the other day when I happened upon reruns of this past season's America's Next Top Model. I watched long enough to witness Tyra Banks demonstrate how to smile with your eyes and not your lips. I'm not exactly sure why a girl might want to include this shot in her rishta portfolio, but I'm guessing that

a) it might further reinforce that she doesn't have loose morals,
b) shows that she watches reality television and
c) is downright model-like, all of which
d) confirms that she is a really good person.

4) the unsmiling shot: one should never frown in the unsmiling shot because no one likes a recalcitrant girl. Instead, a girl must appear to be pensive and lost in thought; perhaps she's dreaming of her wedding or imagining the dozens of children she will birth for her husband. This shot will surely add depth and dimension to her character...and she will come across as a very good and decent person.

*THERE MUST BE AT LEAST ONE FULL-BODY SHOT IN A RISHTA PORTFOLIO because too many close-up photos might lead the eligible bachelor as well as his mother to suspect that the girl is fat. And everyone knows that fat people can't possibly be good or worthy of marriage.

*A few overachieving parents pay to have professional pics (read: heavily airbrushed, close shots) of their offspring taken at photo studios. Prospective families (ie, moms) sometimes fall head-over-heels, not so much for the eligible bachelorettes featured in these shots, as much as for the time, effort, thought, care and money devoted to these shots. Surely, this means that the girl comes from a good family and, as a result, must be a good person, herself.

For my readers who are not familiar with the Pakistani or Indian mathcmaking process, these rules don't necessarily apply to men because a degree in medicine or engineering trumps all photos they will send to a girl's family. The degree, in such cases, becomes interchangeable with the bachelor.
All of that being said, you best believe I'm getting ready to ogle some male glamour shots!

THIS ONE TIME, THE NERD'S COUSIN PROPOSED TO HER...

...and it was gross. It was very, very, very gross.

So's my life.

Welcome.

I'm not going to go into the details of the surprise incestuous proposal--all I'm going to say is that it happened earlier this year, while I was vacationing in the motherland with the family. It certainly was not cool. Instead, it ranks amongst the most bizarre experiences of my life.

In all fairness, I realize that marriages between cousins are accepted and even encouraged in many cultures. Additionally, research conducted only a few years ago--and discussed in a front-page New York Times article--revealed that the chances of first cousins having offspring with birth defects are only minimally higher than those of biologically unrelated parents; ultimately, there is no biological reason to discourage cousin marriages.

All that being said, may none of you ever have to dodge the advances of a lovesick first cousin because the heebijeebies such situations inspire are downright debilitating.

Ew.

BACK ON THE MARKET: Oh Crap

What the eff am I getting myself into?

Mom: Sabila, email five or six recent pictures of yourself to your dad.
Nerd: Um, why?
Mom: Your cousin X called from Florida. He knows quite a few Pakistani families that are looking for girls.
Nerd: Um, why?
Mom: Sabila. Stop joking around.
Nerd: I thought you were going to look for boys in the tri-state area, amma. Florida isn't in the area.
Mom(talking to the ceiling): There she goes again, jinxing herself even before we've started.
Nerd: How am I jinxing myself? Florida isn't New York, New Jersey or Connecticut. It's a fact, not a jinx!
Mom: Just be grateful for the proposals you get.
Nerd: I'm not wasting time emailing strangers. I want to meet them.
Mom: And you'll meet them.
Nerd: I feel like a piece of meat...and I'm a freakin' vegetarian, which makes it even more awful.
Mom: That's something that I don't want you to mention on your first meeting with any boy!
Nerd: Ugh.

I'm thinking I'll just email the link to my profile on Friendster to my dad.
This is such bs.

MISSION IMPOSSIBLE: Find Aging SabilaK a Husband...Maybe

So, I expertly manuevered myself out of having to attend not one but two weddings this past weekend. "But amma, I have SO MUCH reading to do," worked for the first wedding; "But amma, I already have plans with my friends," with a "Why didn't you tell me sooner. I'm going to miss out on SUCH a GREAT matchmaking opportunity!" thrown in for good measure worked for the second wedding.

Amma met up with a gaggle of her girlfriends at the second wedding and, upon her return, she spent a good hour bemoaning my absence from the nuptials:

"EVERYONE was asking about you and all of the women admitted that they were there to find single girls! Oh Sabila! You need to start attending weddings. You aren't getting any younger..."

Of course, as (my miserable) luck would have it, we met a woman at the Pakistani Independence Day street fair (or another WONDERFUL matchmaking opportunity according to my mom)who sized me up, declared that I was pretty and pulled out a pen and slip of paper to take down our number.

"How old is she?" the woman asked. Mind you, I was standing right there.

"27," I announced, smiling and standing up a little straighter, knowing what was about to come.

"Ohh, she's too old to get married now," the woman announced.

My mom, who is just as aggressively amiable as I am, smiled and said something about kismet and such things being out of our hands.

"Yes, but we're supposed to try. We can't leave everything to kismet," the woman preached. She actually looked annoyed with us.

I had to keep myself from laughing in the woman's face. Surprisingly (and much to my relief), my mother wasn't too bothered by her since we'd already had a countless barrage of women inquire about my availability for their cousins/brothers/neighbors/dentists/cabbies etc. Of course my mother responded to each woman with a "Yes, we're looking." Of course this response, as often as I heard it over the course of the day, threw me off guard. "We are?" I wondered each and every time.

I suppose we are.
Oh, the lengths I go to to keep the parental units satisfied...and my readers entertained.
And, worry not. I'm constantly working on my emergency escape plans.

Sometimes..........................................

ILIKEBOOKSMORETHANILIKEPEOPLE!

There, I said it!
Don't get me wrong. I like people A WHOLE LOT. But books are so great. And so are the folks who write them. Really.

Ahem.

In any case, Shirley, recognizing me for the book groupie that I am (a bookie to some...grook to others...I don't enjoy being called a grook, by the way...or a dirty hooker, for that matter. so stop it. Just FYI), asked me to answer a few questions. I suspect this might have something to do with homeland security, but who am I to ask questions? I just answer them.

1) One book that changed your life?
As I Lay Dying by W. Faulkner

2. One book you have read more than once?
The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger (cliché, I know, but I find myself returning to the Holden Caulfield per annum)

3. One book you would want on a desert island?
Leaves of Grass by W. Whitman (because books of poems best count in this questionnaire; and because Walt knows a thing or two about life, loafing, grass and such things)

4. One book that made you laugh?
Good Omens by N. Gaiman and T. Pratchett (so, so, so funny)

5. One book that made you cry?
Wuthering Heights by E. Bronte (I cried BUCKETS of tears that night. BUCKETS)

6. One book you stayed up all night to finish?
All of the Harry Potters. That series is just pure sorcery, I tell ya.

7. One book that took you too long to read?
Crime and Punishment by F. Dostoevsky--I was reading way too many other books/manuscripts at the same time. But I enjoyed the F. Dostoevsky thoroughly.

8. One book you are currently reading?
Among the dozens of books/manuscripts I subject myself to at any given moment, this moment's shining star is The Ruins by S. Smith. Yes, I'M STILL reading it.

9. One book you have been meaning to read?
Gravity's Rainbow by T. Pynchon (I swear I'll read it some day, RR)

10. Now tag five people.
I have no idea whether or not these people actually read, but here goes:
Adventures in Anonymity
Rich, the Thespian
The Hipster Douchebag
Mist
Puntabulous

AUGUST ANYONE?

The beauty that is August is upon us. Didn't I tell you that August would be a star that overshadows its bastard brother July?
This probably goes to show that I'm always right but following are discoveries made this month, which have proven otherwise:

1) Crepes are great: I don't know how I managed to go 27 years without a single crepe but I suspect immigrant parentage had something to do with it. While the fact that my friend with whom I had crepes last weekend is also the product of immigrant parentage likely proves that my suspicions are ungrounded, I'd rather not dwell on such details.

2) Eating out doors = not so bad, in spite of annoyingly vicious city flies.

3) Sometime it's not such a bad idea to answer the parents' phone, even when the caller ID warns you not to do so.

4) Jacques Torres' giant chocolate chip cookie is all hype OR I have defective taste buds. I think most people would go with the latter of the two choices; in any case, I always thought that JT's giant choco chip cookie would be much better. I was wrong.

5) According to an older Pakistani lady my mom and I ran into earlier today at the Pakistani Independence Day Street Fair that my father organized, I’m too old to get married now. And here I thought I actually had a shot someday at matrimonial bliss.
Alas.
Oh well.

6) Point number 5 was soon proven incorrect as about a dozen women of varying ages announced that they wanted to play matchmaker for me.
Alas.
Oh well.

7) Pakistani street fairs = not so bad.

8) Pakistani street fairs = a pretty damn good time.

9) Walking around a Pakistani street fair for 6 hours = brutal (I always knew this to be true).

10) It ain't no thang: If one believes that it's no big deal, even the biggest deals will inspire only the slightest of shrugs.

11) Life's good. Life's chill.

12) Stepping outside of my schedule once in a while won't kill me.

13) Professing my love for people I love is grand (but I always knew this to be true as well. I'm a notorious dropper of "I love you"s--and I mean it every time--and I follow it with loud, smacking, trippy kisses. This annoys the hell out of my mother, inspiring countless "I-can't-believe-you-come-from-me" looks, but everyone else seems to be all right with it).

PATH PANTOMIME?

I was leaning against one of the columns on the platform of the Christopher Street PATH Station last night, waiting for my train to show its tired face and take me home when, as is usually the case when its late(ish--it was actually only 9:30PM) and one is tired, the other train--Hoboken--barrelled in. So, I remained resting against the column and momentarily contemplated fishing out the weatherworn galley I've been reading for the past month from my bag but, deciding that my bag was too busy to navigate in my state, I gave up even before I started. A little bit bored, I happened to glance into the PATH car standing next to me and a tall, good looking man seated between a much older woman, who might have been his mother, and another guy, who looked like he could have been his brother caught my attention. The following exchange ensued between the four of us entirely in mime:

Good looking man: Hey, baby, wanna join us?
Me: No, not my train.
Older woman: This guy's crazy. Don't trust him at all. He's a ladykiller, I tell 'ya, a ladykiller!
Good looking man: C'mon. It's a train. It'll take you somewhere.
Me: No, no.
Brother: You sure you don't want to join us? Because my brother would like it very much if you could.
Good looking man: I tried.
Me: Alas.
Good looking man: You're hot.
Mom: I think he likes you.
Me: Too bad I'm on the platform and you're in the wrong train.
Good looking man: I know. Sucks.
Me: So is life.
Brother: Man, I'm tired. Are you sure you don't want to take this train?
Me: Yah, sorry guys.
Good looking man: Why don't you call me?
Mom: You should call him.
Me: No, no. YOU call ME.
Good looking man: I will. You have my heart (holding his heart).
Me: Byeeee (blowing them a kiss)!
Good looking man: Bye (blowing me a kiss)!
Mom: Bye (waving)!
Brother: Bye (waving)!

PENCIL SKIRTS AND HOT POTATOES: The Nerd's Almost Pre-Teeny Bopper Moment

Yes, in spite of the general awkwardness of my younger years, I too enjoyed a couple of close brushes of the romantic kind with the opposite sex as a youth.

There was that occassion of my 12th birthday party. I remember it like it happened yesterday. I was wearing a black knee-length pencil skirt, a black t-shirt topped off with an olive green jacket that had tassels sprouting out from both sides of the waist and black ankle boots. My mom had pulled my hair into a sideways ponytail that was secured with a hot pink scrunchy. I must have looked odd back then in 1991 but, clearly, I was fashion forward.

As with all of my (legendary) birthday parties, this one had games that were supervised by my brothers--who were 19 and 17 and much cooler than me--and their friends. Most of my guests were girls; while some of them had been forced to bring along their much younger brothers, the number of boys in attendance who were close to me in age was two. For the sake of anonymity, let's call them Tom and Joe.

So, Tom and Joe happened to be the only two boys who sat in the circle during our game of hot potato. For those of you who aren't familiar with this game, a cushion, or any lightweight object, is passed from person to person while someone mans a radio. The person who's holding the potato when the music stops is not only left feeling like an asshole but has to pick out a random dare from a container full of dares scribbled on folded up paper scraps. It can potentially spell WORST NIGHTMARE for a kid at a party. Really.

Of course, in all of their teen wisdom, my brothers and their friends included a "give the birthday girl a hug" dare, probably secretly wishing that one of the two boys, who seemed to be well-entrenched in their "Ewwwww, girls are gross and have the cooties" ways, got stuck with said dare. The pre-teeny bopper gods were on duty that evening because Joe, who I didn't know very well, got stuck with that dare first. He twisted his face into the picture of disgust; he dry-heaved and refused to get up from his spot on the floor, while I giggled and wrinkled my nose with my friends, safe on my side of the circle. The "Ew-I-so-don't-want-to-hug-you" shenanigans went on for a good 15 minutes or so before Joe and I pulled the downing- disgustingly-bitter-cough-medicine-while-pinching-your-nose equivalent of a hug.

Since the teeny-bopper gods were fully awake and up to no good that night, a very quiet and demure friend of mine confessed later to accidently returning the "hug the birthday girl" dare to the cup of dares (surely, the moments leading up to the hug left the poor child momentarily hot, bothered and confused)and who got that particular dare during the next round of hot potato but Tom, the other boy at the party. I was buddies with Tom, had known him for years and, not wanting to waste any time with dramatics, we just hugged amidst the juvenile "ooooh"s and "aaah"s and "Tom and Sabila sitting in a tree" chants. Whatever.

Shortly following the game, however, there was a moment that would make any writer of the pre-teeny bopper genre proud. My friends and I were stepping out into my balcony when Tom suddenly emerged from the shadows, nearly running into me in the doorway. He asked to speak to me alone. My friends gave me sly looks as they tripped away, already dissolving into giggles. I stood with Tom outside on the balcony. He was scuffing the toe of his sneaker on the ground. His hands were buried in his pockets and he couldn't meet my eyes. So, we stood there for a while, rather awkward in our silence, until I asked him what he wanted to talk to me about.

"That hug back there," he started, still unable to look at me.
"Yah..." I said, not knowing whether or not I wanted to encourage his weirdness.
"It wasn't that bad," he said, shrugging.
Now, I probably should have closed my eyes and went in for that first kiss. But, alas, I enjoyed the horror and classics (especially the horror classics) reads much more than I did those pesky pre-teeny bopper books, so, instead of puckering up, I said, "Oh," and then after a very long pause asked, "Is that all?" to which this poor kid who'd very clearly put his heart--or his raging hormones, but what's the difference, really--on the line said, "Yah," and I walked back into the party leaving him to scuff the toe of his sneaker alone.

We never talked about that moment again. And then he moved away.

Surely, the gods pulled out their hair that night and sure, I kind of regretted the missed opportunity shortly thereafter but knowing that I was wearing a cute outfit at the time of the kiss that never was mostly makes me not regret it so much.

Dear Persons Who Mispronounce My Name, I Don't Like You: An Open Letter

Dear Persons Who Mispronounce My Name:

I don't like you.

Maybe I should start calling you Effin' Imbecile. What? That's not your name? But doesn't J-A-N-E D-O-E spell out Effin' Imbecile?
I don't know, Effin', that's how we pronounce it where I come from.

For everyone out there who's even a little bit unsure of how my name is pronounced, following is a phonetic guide that will be of great assistance to you:

Sabila: Sa-bee-la

No, it's not Sa-bil-la or the ever wrong but oh so popular, Sa-bee-lee-ah. And, thanks for trying to make my name just a little bit more exotic by pronouncing the single "l" like the double Spanish "ll". I appreciate the effort on your part but no, my name is NOT Sa-bee-YA. Say-bee-la, Sha-bee-la, and Sa-bla are also not cute.

Clearly you folks must have the same sort of twang I have when I attempt to say Effin' Imbecile.

Now that you know how to say my name (see phonetic guide above), please correct all of those individuals who have picked up on your bastardization of my beautiful name.

I suspect that I will continue to hate you even after you've mastered the pronounciation of my name.

Sincerely,

SABILA (once again, please refer to pronunciation guide in the body of this letter)

THE WEEKEND: A Review

I have two words for you: the Whitney.
I have two more words for you: Edward Hopper.
I have a declaration (not for you but for the above-mentioned): I heart you, Ed Hopper.
I have five syllables for you: Good Enough to Eat.
I have an omelet made with Granny Smith apples, Vermont white cheddar cheese and served with two biscuits and strawberry butter: The Gramercy Park served at the above-mentioned five-syllable eatery.
I also have crepes. I mean I had them. Filled with gouda. And tomatoes. Yum. And a blue star-shaped lollipop and coffee.
I have three people I love: my brothers and my mother.
I have nineteen sylabbles: a dingy, hole-in-the-wall, meat heavy Pakistani restaurant THEY love.
I also have this: relationship advice. Lots of it. Ladled out between mom and siblings like the chicken korma (and other varieties of meat-heavy salaans) I'm not eating.
Instead I have this: a tall iced coffee. Perfection. Another.
I also have this: the giggles. Lots. And ginger candy. Lots. Lots.

I heart the weekend.
Is it really the start of another work week?
I have to sleep.
And vacation.
And read. And write.
Clearly, I'm tired.
And strange.
But all of you are cool.
Bye.

THE NERD AND HER BFF PARASAIL

Just for the record, this is what I was wearing during the hair-raising, knee-knocking parasailing adventure.

It's comfy. And a determined enough breeze sometimes finds its way inside. The shoes were a pain in the ass but I lost them halfway through the adventure.

Ahem.

THE NERD AND HER BFF PARASAIL

I found myself thinking about Pakistan and the Caribbean all day today, which probably means that I'm desperately overdue for a vacation. I was in Pakistan with the family back in January and I last sailed the high seas of the Caribbean last winter with the best friend. Many of you are familiar with THE hair-raising moment of the Pakistani vacation. Read about it here.

Well, my last Ultimate Caribbean Cruise (that's what the itinerary--I will NEVER learn how to spell this word, ever--was called) had it's very own hair-raising moment. Coincidentally enough, this nightmarishly frightening experience unfolded high up in the atmosphere as well. Now, before I delve into this knee-trembler, I would like to state for the record that I do not suffer from acrophobia (interestingly enough, my father does). I just doesn't like the thought of crashing from tall heights. Thanks.

The bff and I had originally wanted to kayak on Royal Caribbean's private peninsula in Haiti called Labadee but when that excursion was scrapped due to the absurdly small number of people who'd signed up for it, we decided to go parasailing, instead (you have to understand that this particular cruise was teeming with older people. Remind me to tell you about the sleazy geriatric who dragged me to the dance floor in the ship's lame club and proceeded to shake his pelvic region in a manner not befitting anyone, let alone someone old enough to be my grandfather. The bff was useless during what I now recognize was the second hair-raising moment of the cruise. She just stood back and giggled) who called it a night by 8PM and had neither the youth nor the vigor to kayak.

So, we were a little jittery about the parasailing but excited nonetheless. That is until our dinner tablemates--three sweet couples from a retirement village in Florida, who were a sitcom waiting to happen--told us a tale, which they'd heard from a waiter, about two girls who were parasailing when the rope securing them to the speed boat snapped. They ended up drifting out aimlessly over the Caribbean until they fell into the water, at which time they were rescued.

By the time the bff and I found ourselves on a speedboat taking us out into the sea with three much older couples and two Royal Caribbean employees, who I hoped to God were Ph-freakin'-Ds in parasailing, my heart was in my throat. Hell, I was chewing on the damned organ and it DID NOT TASTE GOOD. Meanwhile, these geriatric couples (in all fairness, one couple was a pair of newlyweds, so they weren't THAT old but most certainly older than us) were kicking back and enjoying themselves as if the thought of thrashing around 400 feet above the sea was of no concern to them at all. It was decided that since the bff and I were scared shitless, we would go last. The older folks tried to calm us down but we just looked on grimly as one couple after another sailed and landed, throwing thumbs ups and high fives on their return.

When our turn finally came, Roselle was silent with terror. I, on the other hand, in typical Sabila fashion, jabbered on and on. I had questions about everything. I was damned near asking the parasailing experts their bloodtypes when one of them said, "Just do it. You'll see, you'll have fun." The bff and I strapped ourselves into the double harness and I found some comfort in the fact that we were taking this risk together. There was no one else with whom I'd rather drift out over the perilously dark and incomprehensibly deep waters of the Caribbean potentially risking our young lives. We followed instructions and, pretty soon, the rope connecting us to the boat (our freakin' lifeline) unwinded as we were lifted skyward by the wind.

The following conversation ensued between me and my bff:

Nerd: EEEEEFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF
BFF: AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH
Nerd: FFFFFFFFFFIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNNNN
BFF: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH
Nerd: MOTTHEEEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRRRR
BFF: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH
Nerd: AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH
BFF: OOOHHH MYYY GODDDDDDD

An unsettling silence broken only by the unsettling sounds of the parasail canopy whipping unsettlingly loudly settled but for a moment between us.

Nerd: WHY ARE WE GOING HIGHER? FUCK, THE BLOODY ROPE BETTER NOT SNAAAAAAPPPPP!
BFF: HOLY CRAP, HOLY CRAP, HOLY CRAP!!!!!
Nerd: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
BFF: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!
Nerd: FUCKIN' HELL SHIT DAMNATION! I DON'T WANT TO BE LIKE THOSE GIRLS!
BFF: SABILAAAAAAAAAA! WHAT IF WE DRIFT OUT TO THE OCEAAAAAAAN!!!!!
Nerd: AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH! GODDDDDDDD!!!!!! WHY DO WE KEEP GOING HIGHEEEEERRRR!!!!!
BFF: I HOPE THERE ISN'T AHHHHHHHHH PROBLEM!
Nerd: OH NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Utterly exhausted, another brief but overwrought silence alighted between us.

BFF: Look Sabila! Look at the beach! Wow. We're REALLY high up here aren't we? It's beautiful.
Nerd: Look at how small our boat looks from up here! I had no idea we would be so high. The water's so blue and the air--

The boat turned a sharp left, whipping us along like rag dolls.

Nerd: FUUUCCCCCKKKKKK. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!!!!!!
BFF: oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.
Nerd: IS OUR ROPE STILL ATTACHED TO THE BOAT! I'M NOT A STRONG SWIMMER. I DON'T WANT TO DROWWWWN.
BFF: BITCH, I CAN'T SWIM! SHUT THE EFF UP! YOU'RE SCARING ME!!!!
Nerd: I HATE YOU! THIS WAS YOUR IDEA! AND NOW WE'RE GOING TO DIEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!
BFF: I CAN FLOAT. I KNOW HOW TO FLOOOOAAAAAT.
Nerd: I HATE THIS SHIT! IS IT EFFIN' OVER YETTTTT? AAAAAAAHHHHHH.

We started pulling in and as my heart settled back where it belongs in my thoracic cavity, I turned to the bff.
"Wow, that was really amazing," I told her.
My bff smiled warmly at me and I was glad that I'd shared this experience with her. "I want to do that again!" she exclaimed.

"It was no thang," I shrugged, high fiving one of the geriatrics, once we were back on the boat.

17-YEAR-OLDS STAND OUR NERD UP: Our Nation's Enlightened Yet Eff'd Up Youth

So, remember those 17-year-olds to whom my mom pimped me off ?

Well, the boys and I were supposed to have a sushi lunch yesterday but they called me at 1:00PM--which was when we were supposed to meet--to tell me that they had just woken up and could probably make it by 2:00PM--which I couldn't do.

Sure, they stood me up but, just for the record, they totally want to hang out with me. They came over on Monday night, trying to convince me to play pool with them until I finally had to say, "You do realize I'm 27, right?" They hadn't. And then yesterday, after standing me up, they were like, "C'mon. Let's hang out tonight," to which I responded, "Er, no," to which they wondered if I'd hang out with them over the weekend, which only inspired another "Er, no." I mean, they're good kids and all but the day I start hanging out with 17-year-olds, I'm definitely expecting my loved ones to stage an intervention for me.

All that being said, your Nerd might be pretty cool after all--the youth of the nation definitely think so.

But then again, the nation's youth are pretty effed up:

HEAT WAVE AND ALL, AUGUST IS GLORIOUS

So, as many of you know, a dangerous, blistering heat has blanketed the eastern half of the nation. Yesterday was bad but today is IMPOSSIBLE. The temperature is expected to reach 100 degrees F, while the heat index will be as high as 115 degrees in areas. Oppressive and ugly, this heat wave is a tyrant. It was overwhelming on my way in and by the time I finally reached my office, I felt like I'd been stripped of my energy. Of course, now my office is freezing and I've had to throw on a sweater.

What upsets me is seeing people who aren't dressed weather appropriately. There's this one woman at work who wears woolen pantsuits with long sleeved button-down shirts in the dead of summer, which I just don't understand. Even when she wears skirst, she insists on wearing skirts made of wool with pantyhose. Looking at her makes me uncomfortable.

To each his (or her) own, I suppose (but I still don't get it). Who am I to judge, eh?

Anyway, August has been good so far, in spite of the heat wave. My right knee, which had a geriatric moment that lingered over most of July, is healed and I ran for the first time in weeks yesterday. I'm dressed weather appropriately, which makes me very happy. My friend just text messaged me from the doctor's office, informing me that a kid in the waiting room, who doesn't look to be more than six-years-old is reading Hemingway's The Snows of Kilimanjaro. This last piece of news makes me ecstatically giddy. I love lit. prodigies. They are, most certainly, my favorite kind.

Happy heatwave everybody!

CHALLENGE: More Adventure, Less Routine (update)

Yah, it was pretty much all routine today.
Ahem.
What do you want? Being spontaneous requires a lot of thought!

August

It's about time.