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.

CHALLENGE: More Adventure, Less Routine

I need to be more adventurous. I have to learn to stop thinking, rethinking, analyzing and dissecting situations. I want to skydive and rockclimb and wander off the beaten path once in a while.

Seriously.

I'm such a creature of habit. I take solace in routine and, frankly, I'm starting to get bored. I've weighed out actions and reactions for long enough. It's time for me to freaking' lighten up.

So, be it hang gliding or skipping a workout session with my trainer, I'm going to try new things and shake the old things up a little (try being the operative word here).

Suggestions are welcome.

...AND MY MOM MANAGES TO PIMP ME OFF TO TWO 17-YEAR-OLDS. SIGHS AND JOY ALL AROUND. THANKS.

It's not really a big deal. I practically raised one of the two boys and both he and his buddy are sweet and respectful kids. However, the way my mother just offered me up for lunch with them was hilarious. "You should call Sabila baji during the week and she'll treat you to lunch in the city." Baji is older sister in Urdu.

I really love my mom (I am not at all trying to be sarcastic here. I swear. She's just such a great, unique and mighty personality. I truly love her).

CABBY: The New Match.com (yikes!)?: My mom's reaction

After we're done laughing at my yellow-cab-matchmaking story, my mom points out, "You know, Sabila, most of these boys who drive cabs are doctors and PhDs. They've probably just moved here and are waiting to take their exams. They're good boys. What did this cabbie look like?? Did he sound like he came from a decent family?"

Ahem.

CABBY: The New Match.com (yikes!)?

Today started with brunch with a couple of friends at Sarabeth's on Central Park South and was followed by a trip to the MET where we checked out two special exhibitions. The first exhibit was the lushly bizarre AngloMania: Tradition and Transgression in British Fashion. The exhibit examines the simultaneous celebration of and rebellion against noble pageantry in British fashion of the last 30 years. We then saw the exhibit of works by a lesser known artist from revolutionary France, Girodet. It was all breathtaking and enjoyable stuff.

After the MET, I hung around the upper east side long enough to work on a nice tan. When plans to meet a friend up there eventually fell through, I ended up hailing a cab to take me back to 34th Street (nice tan and all, I felt like I was on the verge of heat exhaustion).

So, my cabby was on the phone when I got into the cab. I noticed that he was wearing a Muslim prayer cap; not thinking much of it, I quietly took in the cool air. Eventually, he put down his cell phone and I, my core temperature cooled down considerably, tried to strike up polite conversation with the guy (this proved to be a very bad idea, as you will see), who turned out to be very well spoken:

Me: Are you Pakistani?
Cabby: No. I'm Bangladeshi. Are you Pakistani?
Me: Yep. Parents are from Pakistan.
Cabby: I was wondering if you were from the subcontinent.
Me: I am (I was pretty much done with the conversation at this point).
Cabby (sounding apologetic because I suspect he thought I'd overheard him talking to his friend about me): That was my friend I was on the phone with a second ago. He's Pakistan but grew up in London. I was telling him about you, that a passenger who looks just like Salma Hayek just got into my cab!

(Okay, I totally cracked up at this point because 1) I don't think I look a spit like Salma Hayek. I'd be lucky if my right nostril looked like Salma Hayek's and 2) I get that "has anyone ever told you you look like Salma Hayek?" question A LOT, leaving me, my best friends, and my brothers scratching our heads in confusion).

Me: hahahahah!
Cabby: He's a singer!
Me: Hahahahahah!
Cabby: He's Pakistani!
Me: hahahaha!
Cabby: He lives in London!
Me (still giggling to myself): giggle
Cabby: you should talk to him!
Me: Oh, um, what...
Cabby (on the phone): Hey, remember that girl I told you about? Yes! She's still here and, guess what? She's Pakistani! Here, talk to her!
Me: Er, actually...(Cabby turns around and shoves Razor Moto in my hand)
Guy on Phone: Hi.
Me: Oh. Hi.
Guy on Phone: This is Saif.
Me: Oh. Hey.
Guy on Phone: What's your name?
Me: Oh. Sabila.
Guy on Phone: So you live in New York City.
Me: Oh. Um. I live around...in Jersey.
Guy on Phone: So, I'm a singer. I live in London.
Me: Oh. Wow. Great.
Guy on Phone: You should come to my concert. I'm having a concert tomorrow.
Me: Oh. Thanks. But I'm not in the UK. Ha.
Guy on Phone: No, the concert is in Queens. I'm in New York at the moment. You should try to make it tomorrow.
Me: Haha. Oh. Um. I don't think that's going to happen.
Guy on Phone: It's tomorrow. In Queens.
Me: Oh. No. Seriously. I can't make it.
Guy on Phone: Well, I'm in New York until the 6th. We should meet up.
Me: Um. Yah. That would be totally bizarre. It's not going to happen.
Guy on Phone: Oh.
Me: Yah. Sorry.
Guy on Phone: Well, it was nice talking to you...
Me: Great. Ahem. Bye.
Cabby (talking on the phone): Yes, she's great. She's beautiful on the inside and out (please, he was laying it on a bit thick. whatever).
Still on his cell phone, Cabby turns around to look at me as he stops at a red light.
Cabby: Please try to come to the concert tomorrow night. My friend would really like to meet you.
Me: Um, I have plans.
Cabby: Even if you can drop by for a little while. Tell you what! You can bring your parents! It will be nice if my friends can meet you and your family! He's a very great guy. He's handsome.
Cabby pulls up to my stop.
Cabby: Listen, I'll give you my cell phone number. You think about it. And then, please, do us the honor of coming with your family.
Me: Yah, how much is the fare?
Cabby: Here's my number. The concert is in Queens. If you need a ride, just call me and I'll send a car to pick you and your family up. It would be our honor.
Me (taking Cabby's number): Um. Great. Thanks.
Cabby: It'll be a lot of fun.
Me: Sure. How much do I owe you (reading the meter, I see that it's $8.20). I owe you $10.
Cabby: No, no. I can't take your money.
Me (digging through my ginormous bag for my wallet): No, you must.
Cabby: Please. It is unacceptable to take money from a friend. Think of this as a ride from a friend (he says this with his hand on his heart, which makes me feel bad about the fact that I will not, under any circumstances, be attending cabby's friend's shady Queens concert).
Me (unable to find my wallet in my big ass bag and not being able to stay in weirdo matchmaking cab for another second): Okay. Thanks! Khudha Hafiz!
Cabby: Khudha Hafiz!

Mommy: The New Match.com?

*Flowers rock. Clearly. Sigh.

So, I'm waiting for a friend at 71 Irving earlier, when I pick up a random section from today's Times that someone's left by my table. It's the Styles section. The front page article that catches my eye: "Spouse Courtesy of Mom the Matchmaker." Check this:

"For some people parental intervention may seem like an arranged marriage. But for today's superattentive parents, involved in almost every aspect of their children's lives, dating is merely one more sphere of influence. Surprisingly, many adult children don't seem to mind."

Americans are coming around to the meddling ways of the 'rents. One woman interviewed says of her mother that, in spite of their difference of opinion on what is handsome, "I kind of trusted her to find me a nice guy. I stopped asking her about looks."

What bothers me about my parents' method of pimping me out (I hate calling it "pimping," but whatever...that's what it essentially is, no?) is that matches are made parent to parent. The kids are just randomly thrown together, without the slightest bit of consideration going into whether or not they're at all compatible. They work on the philosophy of "If we get along, our kids will DEFINITELY get along!" It's almost like they're expanding their social networks at our expense, which isn't cool.

All that being said, I am seriously considering letting my mom put me back on the market, just so I can have some juicily hilarious material for your reading pleasure (I'm so selfless! Gosh! And isn't "juicily" a tremendous adverb?! It's almost as good as "sexily" (shout out to Craig of Puntabulous fame. That's so our FAVORITE adverb, isn't it Craig?)).

ps: I pity the fool who shares the aforementioned Times article with my mom.

pps: While I am slightly nauseated by flowers (and every other piece of sentimental, heart-shaped garbage) on Valentine's Day, I do accept flowers on my birthday, most Tuesdays, Flag Day, Yom Kippur, the Great American Smoke Out (Day), Eid, as well as on other people's birthdays. Thanks.

THE NERD'S MOTHER "CONVERSES" AND MAKES A SAD PREDICTION ABOUT THE NERD'S IMPENDING SPINSTERHOOD: Alas

Conversation (noun): The informal EXCHANGE of ideas by spoken word

Lately, "conversations" with my mom have been abundant in ideas and spoken word but grossly deficient in the exchange part of the definition. This leads me to suspect that what we may actually have taking place here is not so much a conversation but instead a method of systematic persuasion (ie brainwashing), by which my mother thinks I will eventually succumb to the deluge of information she's pumping my way and defer to my parents' knowledge of the relationship scene, thereby allowing them to marry me off to some random dude in some remote region of the planet.

Our "conversation" from last night follows:

Me:Hey amma. What's going on?
Mom: Oh! X's daughter is married!
Me: I thought they were vacationing in Pakistan.
Mom: Yes, they were. They found the boy there for her. Part of the reason X went was to find a son-in-law.
Me: Really--
Mom: I spoke to her earlier today. I think she was right in taking her search for a good, honest boy from a decent, respectable family to Pakistan. She told me that there simply aren't any good boys left here.
Me: Oh--
Mom: Y did the same thing. Her daughter was born here. She's just as American as everyone else. Yet she trusted her parents enough to find her a husband in Pakistan. And now, she's probably going to LIVE there. What a good, obedient girl.
Me: But, it won't be--
Mom: Z's daughters grew up here but when it came time to finding husbands, they let their parents do the searching because you know what parents have that kids don't?
Me: I--
Mom: Experience. Parents have lived longer, parents have seen all different sorts of people and parents know their children better than anyone else. Experience is a good judge of character.
Me: B--
Mom: Z's brother's daughter was the VALEDICTORIAN of her university's graduating class. She was smart. What happened to her? Her parents found her a nice young man who comes from a family of jewelers! He lives in India? So what? Now she's practically swimming in jewels. Be it in India or Africa or in outerspace, she's happy and she's SWIMMING in luxury. Smart, smart girl.
Me:

Eventually, I gave up trying to interrupt her and just nodded as she ran down a list of "smart, obedient girls." I pretended to watch television.

Finally, during a commercial break, when my mom had slowed down her spamming, I said, "I don't trust men. One minute they're with you and the next minute they're running the other way and you're left wondering what happened during the interim. Look at Christie Brinkley and she's a SUPER MODEL!" I laughed. "Good riddance to all that garbage. I'd rather be alone."

It was my mother's turn to pretend to be engrossed by the television.

"Wait," I continued, perking up with a bright idea, "Why shouldn't I have kids? I'll adopt a bevy of children."

My mom supplied the following nugget: "And you know what will happen? Those kids will probably end up MURDERING you."

"Eh?" I asked.

"One, they're not your blood so they wouldn't have any loyalty to you and two, most of the adopted kids they show on Dateline are on the show in the first place, for murdering their parents.

She says such bewildering and ridiculous things when she's angry.

I was reduced to a baffled silence as she returned to watching television.

I FEEL LIKE...

...I'm going to hurl.
Just thought I'd share that nugget of information with you.
Ain't I eloquent?

TAKE THAT YOU SPAMMING BIATCHES

I was hit with nearly 200 spammers-posing-as-commenters over the weekend. I have now activated the word verification feature on my blog, so that I can weed these automaton bastards out.

Take that jerks (and by "jerks," I actually mean "assholes," but I don't want to sound like a pottymouth or anything).

PAKISTANDARDS: Topics of Impolite Conversations or Operation: Find Grandma's Bra

There are certain things, like female undergarments, that are never spoken of or even alluded to in polite Pakistani society. Like menstruation, sex, and dating, dainty underthings are topics of hushed and giggled conversations, which usually take place amongst members of the same gender and age. Not once during my vacations to the motherland have I ever seen ads for tampons, sanitary napkins or bras.

Naturally my mother is demure when it comes to such taboo subjects. I, on the other hand, am not. Imagine her shock and outrage when, as a teenager, I’d often preface my usual declarations directed to my brothers of “I don’t care so much about the smooth move you just made in John Madden’s Football, so no, I wouldn’t be interested in watching an instant replay,” with, “Dudes, I have monster cramps right now. It feels like my uterus is doubling as someone’s stress ball.” Even mentioning that I need to purchase a new sports bra in front of them makes my mom’s eyes widen in disapproval, her cheeks flush with embarrassment. I’ve explained to her a million times that things such as periods and breasts are biological inevitabilities that one shouldn’t have to skirt around (no pun intended). She just harrumphs her disappointment in me.

Earlier today, my mother joined me in the kitchen as I prepared a salad. She had just returned from Sears where, she told me, they were having a sale on (dear goodness, she would just melt with shame if she ever discovered that I was blogging about this!) Playtex bras (I like to call them “Mommy bras”). She ignored me when I wrinkled my nose.

She told me that while trying on bras, she overheard two women in the fitting room next to hers. Both were Pakistani and sounded to be a (very old) mother (or mother-in-law) and her daughter (or daughter-in-law). Now, the younger woman was trying to convince her mother to try on the bra that she’d picked out for her. “The poor woman had probably never seen a bra in her life,” my mother said, holding her hand to her cheek, embarrassed on behalf of the older female. In any case, the daughter was speaking very loudly and in Punjabi, which makes the entire scenario all the more hilarious.

So, the daughter says “Amma ye burdha chunga hai. E pao na!” (Mom, this is very good/nice [referring to the bra]. Try it on!).

What sounds to be a struggle ensues followed by the old woman sadly declaring “May ne payna, burra thung hai.” (I don’t want to wear this. It’s very tight.)

“Es vastay ye thung hai, ye cotton ka hey. Dusra jersey kah hain. Who burdha chunga hain.” (This one’s tight because it’s made of cotton. The other [bra’s] made of jersey. That one’s very nice/good.)

"The way that woman was talking, one would think that her mother was still in Pakistan!" my mother exclaimed.

My mom exited the fitting room to discover that the search for this bra made of jersey had become a family event. Not only was the younger woman searching through the sales racks, but she had enlisted her husband as well as her little boy to participate in what seemed to be “Operation: Find Grandma's Bra.” The old woman looked mortified. Even as she tried to contain her giggles, my mom was mortified on the woman's behalf as she stood before me in the kitchen.

“And then,” she continued, “the little boy yells out to his dad: ‘Abu jee, vaykho, e bra burdha chunga hai! (Dad, look at this bra, it’s very nice!),' before he tosses it in the pile his mother's carrying."

We were both cracking up at this point. "Amma, I swear to you that my future husband and children won't have anything to do with your undergarments," I declared as solemnly as I could.

"People have no shame these days," she sighed. And then she laughed some more.