WATERLOGGED SHOES, QUEBEC CITY and THE NERDDD or HOW IT ALL WENT DOWN or THE SPARKLE MAKES MY EYES BLEED TEARS OF HAPPINESS

So, kittens, hope you're well. As always, it's been way too long since I've blogged. Oh, I've been crazed, what with being whisked away to Quebec City last weekend by our favorite Manadian, MP, who, after a string of mishaps and misery, finally managed to propose to me. And now your socially awkward, perpetually single, on-her-way-to-spinsterdom Nerddd is actually engaged, which is hard to believe, I know but goodness, it's true. What is even more difficult to believe is the fact that I'm engaged to the Madlibbin' Parasailer but that, too, is very, very true and I thank the Blogger gods for making our match possible. 

It's surreal. 

I spent last week reading through my earliest correspondences with MP and if anyone would have told me then that this guy was my future husband, I would have choked on my saliva and, upon being able to breathe once again, would have said, "Nuh uh." 

Two years and two days after the very first time MP left a comment on my blog--my response to which was, interestingly, a prophetic, "Anonymous, do I know you?" (MP went by Anonymous in those early days)--here I am, engaged to the guy. 

Life's funny kittens; it's strange and absurd, full of twists and turns that never quite seem to make sense, until that one day when all of the scattered pieces fall into place and suddenly you can see that life is beautiful, that underneath the strangeness and absurdity there is this thing called kismet or naseeb or destiny. 

Call it what you will.  It is beautiful. 

MY COLD: A Long and Necessary Whine

Apologies for the lack of updating here, readers. For once, I have a valid excuse: I've been ill, terribly, terribly ill.

It all started back on Thursday, October 23rd, when I was suddenly overwhelmed by fatigue. I usually have boundless reserves of energy, so I found my listlessness a bit odd. Chalking it all up to over-working, over-exercising, and over-hiking I decided to take the day off from boxing. The following day, however, found me just as exhausted. What was going on?! I refused to miss another day of boxing because of a little fatigue but, unfortunately, my body had other ideas. So, instead of the gym, I went out with MP, who, upon holding my hand, commented that I was burning up.

I woke up with a devastatingly sore throat on Saturday morning, which eventually subsided over the course of the day. I even managed a seven mile run.

I paid for the seven mile run the following morning, when I woke up with not only a sore throat but nasal congestion like you wouldn't believe. It felt very much like someone had stuffed water-soaked cotton balls up my nose, an odd and wholly unpleasant sensation, indeed. I stayed in bed all day.

I felt even worse on Monday morning and, yet, I somehow made it into work. I even managed to be productive. I was taking measured swigs of Robitussin by this point, in the hopes of kicking this horrible, horrible cold. Not feeling terrible on Tuesday morning, I came into work hopeful that I might be on the mend. I was proven wrong, however, when my condition quickly deteriorated over the course of the morning until I, nearly coughing up a lung and blowing deluge after deluge of sickness from my nose into wads of tissue, called the day a defeat and limped back home. I stayed at home the following day, still ill, still chugging Robitussin, to no marked improvement.

Woe.

Thursday saw my return to the office, as my waterlogged nasal passages dried up for the most part. The cough, however, was something to be contented with; booming and wet, it made my body hurt as much as it made people stare. The Robitussin was utterly useless and my hacking became my own personal theme music. The prospect of boxing anytime soon felt impossible. And so I coughed through Thursday. On Halloween Friday, the cough proved to be an appropriate accessory for my Renegade Nun. Dressed as a nun, I also carried a machine gun, was draped in bullets, had a holy water bottle strapped to my waist and a cigarette dangled from my lips. It was only fitting for Renegade Nun to have emphysema.

My cough was so bad that instead of spending a festive night with my friends, I retired home and tried to fall asleep early. As usual, I ended up glued to the cable news networks, fully obsessed with the presidential elections.

The following week was a blur of coughs. People continued to stare at me as I wondered if I was succumbing to some sort of cancer that manifested itself in cold symptoms. I bitched about being sick all of the time. I bitched about missing days and days of boxing. I suspect everyone but MP grew tired of listening to me (if you're reading this MP, now's NOT the time to be honest! Kisses!).

Oh, the patience of Canadians!

And, just when I thought things couldn't get worse, worse they became. During an especially awful coughing fit on Friday, November 7th, I severely pulled my intercostal muscles on my right side. Now, in addition to coughing like the fate of the free world depended on it, it hurt to breathe, laugh, and, oh yeah, cough. I cried about "my rib, oh, my aching rib!" all weekend. Amma told me to suck it up. My brothers ignored me. MP commented that this was an unfortunate turn of events.

I had moved onto Robitussin bottle number two and wondered if perhaps my rib pain wasn't an intercostal muscle pull at all. What if it was another manifestation of cancer. I fretted and, finally, finally called my doctor, looking for a cure!

All I found, instead, was a message stating that the number had been changed. Extensive Google research revealed that my doctor had upped and moved without informing any of his patients.

Lovely.

So, after hours of extensive online research, I found someone who looks to be a capable physician, wrote out a timeline of my lingering sickness, and brought it to him. In turn, he prescribed me with antibiotics ("you've fought this cold valiantly but sometimes it's okay to ask for a little extra help"); a strong cough suppressent ("be careful, this is a narcotic"); and Celebrex("it'll help with the severe intercostal pain").

The cough medicine is making me a bit loopy, my gastrointestinal system is experiencing all kinds of crazy because of the antibiotics, and the Celebrex has me feeling like an old fart, but I'm on the road to recovery...and might very well be boxing again tomorrow.

Anyway, that's why I couldn't blog quite as often as I would've liked to readers.

Forgive me.

BARACK OBAMA

I am a proud, proud American tonight.

ELECTION DAY

Update: The calm to which I refer below has left me, only to be replaced, once again, by my constant companion since yesterday--an upset stomach.




The Nerddd just voted for Obama/Biden. She wants all of you (especially you kitten-fools out in the swing states) to do the same.

I've never been prouder to vote and after years of fretting, a calm has settled over me. I suspect that I'll return to wiggin' out tonight as the polls close, but right now, this is a good feeling. Go Obama.

ADDICT or I'M SICK

Apologies for not posting in a week, dears. I've been ill with a cold for several days now. In addition to making me cough, sneeze, and burn with fever, this most peculiar cold has made me addicted to Word Whomp Derby.

ADDICTED.

AD-DIC-TED.

I CAN'T STOP.

I find nothing more satisfying than making the gopher drive at turbo high speeds by creating different combinations of words from the letter tiles I'm given. It's awesome...a waste of my life but awesome nevertheless.

I HATE being sick.

BEAR MOUNTAIN: TRANSFORMATIVE!

I won't lie: I was nervous about a hike that I couldn't do in a dress and flip-flops. Visions of being stranded on a mountain haunted me for days. The possibility of being assaulted by the elements was not appealing. And what about wild animals? I love all animals, wild or domestic, but the thought of getting up close and personal with a bear*? Sorry, that's not my cup of green tea. But, I love MP who's Canadian and, therefore, loves hiking and communing with nature and needs to reacquaint himself with both before he heads off for three weeks in Nepal.

And, so, this past weekend, the two of us went hiking. It was a crisp, bright fall day and the world was awash in a breathtaking palette of reds, golds, browns, oranges, and yellows. In spite of my nerves, I managed to show up in a downright cute, sporty number. MP wore the beginnings of a beard, explaining that there was no better place for facial hair than in the mountains. He looked adorable, which may not have been the look he was going for. With map in hand, compass in MP's pocket, and cap on my head (I know! I never wear caps! It was a rather fetching look, if I say so myself), we headed towards our trail.

And I fell in love.

Oh, kittens, it was lovely. Being immersed in nature was surreal: I was the center of the universe as well as a mere speck on an immense topographical map. My feet were planted firmly on rugged terrain but my heart felt enormous and afloat in the world around me. Sweating, struggling to get over especially steep rock faces, trying to keep my footing in running shoes, I felt numinous; I am human but a part of myself was reflected divine that day as I walked upward, towards the peak, towards the sky.

I won't lie, though: the downhill was fuckin' treacherous. I thought I was going to injure myself horribly during the entire descent, which lasted about three years. I was trying hard to maintain a good and positive attitude as I sat on my ass and slid down the numerous and steep rockfaces on the mountain, attempting not to, you know, die, but those bastard rocks just didn't want to end. Can we get some more uphills here, I asked no one in particular, as MP led the way, showing me exactly where to put my feet in order to avoid spills. Finally, after years and years of going downhill, we arrived at a clearing and my heart leapt with joy. MP assured me that we weren't very far from the bottom of the mountain. I wanted nothing more to do away with this joint, jump on the bus, and go home. I led the way, nearly running towards safer ground.

Oh, but wouldn't you know it. The terrain had briefly fooled us, readers, and, there, stretched before us were even more rocks.

This is getting old, I declared at this point. I'm so sick and tired of these fuckin' rocks. I hate this. I HATE THIS!

I sat on rocks, in tears and defeat.

MP took a picture of me. Look how far we've come, he said pointing up at the trail behind me. I'm a seasoned hiker, he told me, and this has to be one of the more difficult trails I've experienced. I'm so proud of you. You're a natural.

Finding firm ground on MP's words, I stood up and continued down the trail silently; he continued to encourage me. Before I knew it, we were at the foot of the mountain albeit on the opposite side of where we were supposed to catch our bus. I ran in a fruitless attempt to make it to the bus before it departed without us but it was too late. MP and I were trapped in the loveliness of Bear Mountain Park's Octoberfest for another two hours, with nothing to do but eat farm fresh pears, straight from the kettle kettle corn and sample delicious fudge.

Dears, you'll be surprised to know that I've decided I love hiking. MP's 1-year anniversary (it was on Sunday!) gift for me: a lovely dinner at Bouley and hiking boots!

*a friend tells me that Bear Mountain is a misnomer, that there actually aren't any bears on the mountain.

THANK YOU COLIN POWELL

In endorsing Barack Obama for president on NBC's Meet the Press yesterday, Colin Powell repudiated the Islamophobia that has been a part of the presidential campaign for quite some time now:

I'm also troubled by - not what Senator McCain says - but what members of the Party say, and it is permitted to be said: such things as, "Well, you know that Mr. Obama is a Muslim." Well, the correct answer is he is not a Muslim. He's a Christian; has always been a Christian. But the really right answer is, "What if he is? Is there something wrong with being a Muslim in this country?" The answer's "No, that's not America." Is there something wrong with some seven-year-old Muslim American kid believing that he or she could be President? Yet, I have heard senior members of my own Party drop the suggestion he's Muslim and he might be associated with terrorists. This is not the way we should be doing it in America.
I feel strongly about this particular point because of a picture I saw in a magazine. It was a photo essay about troops who were serving in Iraq and Afghanistan. And one picture at the tail end of this photo essay was of a mother in Arlington Cemetery. And she had her head on the headstone of her son's grave. And as the picture focused in, you could see the writing on the headstone. And it gave his awards - Purple Heart, Bronze Star; showed that he died in Iraq; gave his date of birth, date of death. He was twenty years old. And then at the very top of the headstone, it didn't have a Christian cross. It didn't have a Star of David. It had a crescent and a star of the Islamic faith. And his name was Karim Rashad Sultan Khan. And he was an American. He was born in New Jersey, he was fourteen years old at the time of 9/11 and he waited until he could go serve his country and he gave his life.

Now, we have got to stop polarizing ourself in this way. And John McCain is as non-discriminatory as anyone I know. But I'm troubled about the fact that within the Party we have these kinds of expressions.


It's about time that a respected figure in American politics has taken a firm stance against Muslim bigotry.

Here is the photo that Powell spoke about on the show.

HIKING

Some of my readers have expressed a desire to know more about my relationship with MP (and less about Sony Readers...although in all honesty, this blog started as a blog about strictly nerdddy stuff..).

Know this:

1) we are hiking together for the first time ever today. MP's bought me proper hiking attire so the hike will be nothing like my hike with Rich in Maine last year (I did it in a dress and flip flops, remember?). While shopping for hiking attire, MP asked, in a concern-tinged voice: you won't be complaining during our entire hike, will you. Because I, um, I really enjoy hiking.

I can make no such promises MP, especially when you're bringing along toilet paper for the trail (ahem).

2) tomorrow is our one year anniversary.

3) I'm deliriously happy.

Another Follow-up

Upon closer reading and further inspection of my late night postings (below), I just vomited a little in my mouth (not because of the kittens, kittens. The kittens are ADORABLE).

Good morning.

A FOLLOW-UP TO THE POST DIRECTLY BELOW

I feel so fuzzy inside [as a direct result of composing the post directly below this one] that it's actually making me feel a little ill...and dirty.

I still love you guys, though (ahem...). I don't think my blog's ever been more pink than it is at this moment.

DEAR READERS, WHERE HAVE YOU GONE?

Seriously.

I know I haven't been around very much these days--blame the boyfriend for that...who knew being in a relationship would be so time consuming (and he doesn't even post comments anymore! DIOS MIO!)???--and my postings have been, at best, sporadic but, seriously, kittens, where did you go? I beg you to climb out of the car engines you've crawled inside to keep warm during the long stretches of my absence from the blogosphere. They are bone-chilling times, indeed, but I give you my word: I'll keep you warm. Return to me and I'll keep you warm.

MY READER(s)

I was reading a manuscript on my Sony Reader during my commute this morning when I realized that I have yet to tell you about my Sony Reader. So here's some old news, kittens: the Reader is a miracle into which I can download the same manuscripts I was once forced to lug around everywhere I went (and we wonder why I have a bum hip). Although I have yet to use the device to read for pleasure (at the moment it's used solely for reading manuscripts for work), I can tell you that it has changed my life. I absolutely love it! It's small, lightweight, and slides right into my bag's back pocket. The best part: it holds up to 160 books. To have such an extensive library at my fingertips, wherever I am is a miracle and this nerd has converted to the church of the digital book.

It would be so very easy for me to announce that print is dead, but I hesitate to make any such pronouncements (for mostly sentimental reasons, yes). There's nothing like the weight of a book in one's hand, the feel and the smell of it, be it old or new, as one devours the words from pages that she can touch. I like nothing better than walking through the seldom visited aisles towards the back of my library, where the dust has settled over books on obscure topics. I am, however, at the tail end of a generation that prepared its first book reports on a type writer. My generation remembers when the personal computer was a novelty. We know what it was like to pop coins into pay phones. Is it any wonder that we still have an affinity for books?

What I often wonder is whether or not the child who is born in today's digital age will have an affinity for print. The answer often feels glaring and simple (and eco-friendly!).

FIRST LADY DREAMS

I dreamt that Michelle Obama and I were hosting Saturday Night Live together.
It was awesome.

AWAKE AT 1:33AM

Hello readers:

I'm not an insomniac. In fact, I've always been quite a prompt and heavy sleeper.

And, yet, here we are, chatting at 1:30AM. Don't get me wrong. I desperately, desperately want to sleep. Work's been grueling and I've returned to boxing after a month-long hiatus, so all I can think about is sleep. Even now, I'm barely able to articulate my thoughts because all I can think about is sleep.

But I can't sleep. I can't sleep. And now it's 1:44 in the morning and here I am, still working on this post sporadically, uncertain if I'm even making much sense.

It must be the boxing. I'm so glad to be back in the ring (although, for the record, I'm not actually in the ring all that much just yet) and I'm also grateful for hydration because working out (ie running) without water is difficult. It's sure got my adrenaline pumping and, as a result, it's 1:48AM and I'm still awake. I want to stop typing but I can't. I physically can't stop. It's almost as if my fingers would rather type anything--gibberish, garbage, whatever--than shut off my computer so that I could even try to fall asleep.

So, on the occasion of my insomnia, I present you, ever loyal reader, with the following haiku:

I can't stop typing
And to sleep I've now bid bye.
Thank goodness for snooze.

WEDDINGS, DATES, AND THE NERDDD***

***For the purposes of maintaining the anonymity of friends who are not complete exhibitionists like myself, I have assigned assumed names in the following retelling of this Saturday past (it should come as no surprise that the bf, who, ironically enough, isn't one for having his life plastered online, will continue being called those two most magical letters of the alphabet: MP).

It's Saturday, October 4th. The clouds have conga'd right on out of the day, leaving behind plenty of blue skies for N's wedding reception. I've skipped lunch in anticipation of a 12-course banquet dinner. I've ironed my outfit for the evening (alright, so amma ironed my outfit because, truth be told, I have no idea how to iron these traditional Pakistani numbers. And, yes, like most second generation desi-Americans, who--for the most part--have only attended desi weddings, I have no idea what to wear to non-south Asian weddings and usually just settle for the traditional garb that I'd wear to, say, my second cousin's wedding. I do so without any qualms, thank you very much). I've washed my hair. I've dried it and styled it. I've rewashed and dried again because, holy mother of the internet, what the eff is going on up there anyway?!! I've fantasized for a split moment about pulling a Sinead O'Connor but then, realizing that shaving my hair probably isn't the most time efficient of options, I've taken a curling iron to it.

I've now lathered both hands with soap and, after breathless minutes of gentle squeezing and praying that there is no blood (oh God, DON'T LET THERE BE ANY BLOOD!), I've managed to put on delicate glass bangles that, for all intents and purposes, should be too small for me (when it comes to bangles, it's the smaller, the better--or so I'm told by the Pakistanis). My ironed outfit is now in a garment bag (since I'd rather not be too blinged out on the train, I've decided to change at MP's). My clutch, my heels, and my dhupphata are in my purse. My hair is done.

But, holy holy, it's already 4:15 and, the last time we spoke (five days ago) my great friend ES said that she and her lovely husband would arrive via rental car at MP's at 5 and there I am, standing in the bathroom, still contemplating my hair without a single lick of makeup on my face. For, what feels like the first time in my life, readers, I'm on the verge of being late (this is a monumental moment in the life of this very punctual Nerddd) and it's stressing me out. The stress works in my favor and, before I know it, I'm wearing a light layer of makeup and, damn, I don't think I've ever done my eyes so well. And, although it feels like it didn't take very long, it's 4:40 by the time I'm done with the makeup application and I'm running to the train station, garment bag and giant purse full of another purse and shoes and stuff in hand.

By some fortuitous stroke of train scheduling luck that, very clearly, isn't my own, the train arrives within five minutes of my own arrival at the station. Unluckily, however, when I put my left hand on the wall behind me, in order to steady myself as the train barrels to MP's part of town, those goddamned glass bangles explode (my wrist and hand, somehow, remain unscathed). A nice man collects the shards for me and hands them to me. Not knowing what to do with what's left of glass bangles that I've silently sworn off for as long as I am sane, I stuff them in my bag.

The train pulls in at MP's station after what feels like weeks and I shove my way past tourists, race up the stairs, and hail down an off-duty cab that is seemingly going in the direction of MP's place. Even though the cabby tells me he can't do it, that MP's place is actually out of the way for him, I sorta beg and stomp and feel my face turning red with desperation so the cabby, who's likely afraid for his life at this point, lets me in.

Once in the cab, sputtering about usually being so punctual and suddenly being so late to no one in particular, I fish through my shard-filled bag and emerge with my phone. I frantically dial ES's number to let her know that I'm on my way and that she and her husband should go upstairs to MP's apartment because I still have to change and, I'm so sorry I'm late, and, historically, I'm punctual so this is just so out of character.

I'm sweating now, yes.

The phone rings a few times before I get ES on the other line.

ES: (whispering) Hey, what's up?
Nerddd: (panting heavily) Where are you?!
ES: (as calm as an art museum) Hm, at the museum.
Nerddd: (on the verge of hives) But what time are you coming over to pick us up? For the wedding??? Sir, please take a left here. A left!
ES: (talking to B, her husband): B, what's the date today? The 4th, right? (getting back to me) The wedding is tomorrow.
Nerddd: (um, no it isn't) Um, no it isn't.
ES: Sabila, the wedding is on the 5th.
Nerddd: No!
ES: Yes. Yes, it is. I don't know who's wedding you're planning on attending tonight, but it isn't N's.
Nerddd: (exploding, much like those deadly glass bangles) SERIOUSLY??! OH MY GOD! WHAT IS MY PROBLEM? PULL OVER RIGHT HERE, SIR! I PRACTICALLY HIJACKED THIS GUY'S CAB BECAUSE I THOUGHT I WAS RUNNING LATE AND THE WEDDING ISN'T EVEN TONIGHT!
ES: (already giggling) It's a Sunday night reception.
Nerddd: (paying the cabby) I apologize for this, sir (the cabby doesn't look amused). Can you believe the wedding wasn't even tonight (ahem)?! I'm an idiot, clearly (I add this for good measure. He doesn't crack a smile. I double my tip and step out of the cab). ES, do you realize I've done my hair and my makeup. I took PAINS to do my hair and my makeup. And poor MP, he's probably already dressed. Ugh. I'm an idiot and I'll call you back.
ES: (trying hard not to howl at the museum, manages a very muffled goodbye).

I'm defeated. I walk slowly towards MP's apartment, the garment bag limp in the same hand that, though it was spared injury, now appears naked and patehtic wearing a lone surviving bangle. The makeup that looked so good only an hour earlier feels heavy under the layer of panic-induced sweat I'm now coated in. My hip hasn't hurt in quite some time but I feel myself almost limping: I've been routed by a misunderstanding. I've been schooled.

And, goddamn it, I'm starving.

It's only when MP opens the door, looking wedding dapper in a black ensemble, and wearing an eager-to-go-to-the-wedding smile that I allow myself to dissolve into laughter. I laugh and laugh and he laughs too, without even asking me what's the matter. Finally, I manage to spit out that the wedding is tomorrow.

We laugh for a very long time and MP takes these really nice pics of me laughing on the phone with amma (who's promptly declared that I'm crazy and now all of my friends know it, too).

And then we go out for a very nice dinner.

The End.

NOW WE STOP EATING

Seriously. The volume of food I've consumed today is just wrong.

Eid Mubarak, kittens.

NOW WE EAT

Eid couldn't have come at a better time, kids. I was getting tired of Ramadan'ing. Judge me if you must for not bearing the difficulty of fasting with good cheer and patient piety but I'm just being honest here. Perhaps it's just age creeping up on me--the Nerd faces down the big 3-0 (uh oh!) next year, after all--but Ramadan is rough, y'all.

Thank Allah for Eid, however. My mom cooked enough to feed a small village and, like every year, we have an open door policy (translation: anyone who wants to waltz in and have some food can and probably will), so come on over if you're in town (and aren't a crazy-stalker-serial-killer type, okay, thanks).  So...

HAPPY EID, EVERYONE!

MP's Canada

MP and I recently settled into 11 months as a couple together. That we probably wouldn't have met each other had it not been for my pink-and-fabulous-yet-humble blog scares the nerdiness right out of me. I'm still pleasantly surprised by the thought of him and the fact that he is in my life. Where did you come from? I often ask him. The answer, of course, is always the same: Canada.

I've waxed poetic about Canada and Canadians in the past, dear readers, but having recently returned from a vacation in the land of ice hockey, poutine, and nice (yes, I mean the adjective), I'd like to continue waxing poetic.

Firstly, I was practically niced to death by the Canadians. MP's family, his friends, random strangers, storekeepers, waiters, waitresses, airport security, EVERYONE was so nice it hurt (but in a good way). In fact, the only rude person I encountered during the duration of my stay in Canada: the American customs official at the airport in Montreal, who was downright scary.

Canadians, secondly, are a calm and patient people (I suppose that calm and patience are essential ingredients for nice). Example: MP and I are driving up a narrow, one-way Ottowan street, lined with outdoor markets, when, suddenly, a truck in front of us stops in the middle of the street and two guys proceed to unload their market fares. These guys spend a good five minutes unloading and I stop having my "Oh-my-gaw-the-nerve-of-these-guys" moment long enough to listen to something extraordinary: silence from the long line of cars behind us. They're as quiet and as patient as MP is beside me and they seem to have no beef with these dudes holding up traffic. I am shocked.

Ottawa is beautiful. Check out the following pics:






Montreal is beautiful.





I don't think I'll ever tire of a Canadian accent (for the record, Canadian accents vary aboot as much as the American English accent does...I recently met one of MP's friends who hails from Saskatchewan and her "aboots" are "a-boats". Learn how to speak like a Canadian here. To be surrounded by polite aboots was lovely.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not planning on moving to the lovely north* and even though I'm extremely critical of the good, ol' US of A**, I do still love my country and plan on raising a famiy here.*** All that being said, I'm so glad that I've found MP and he's helped me discover Canada.

*I will be revisiting my plans if Palin/McCain dupe my not-always-bright countrymen into voting another Republican adminstration into the White House.

**as all good patriots should be

***see first asterisk

RAMADAN, IT'S PLAYING WITH MY MIND

I'm suddenly craving Pakistani food, readers, and I don't mean the few and (well, somewhat) uninspired vegetarian dishes, with which I have to resign myself at Pakistani gatherings. Oh, no, no. I would like nothing more than to stuff my face with kababs wrapped in steaming, fluffy, straight-out-of-the-tandoor naan. I want to eat a spicy chicken korma with parhatas . I want to lose myself in a delicious chicken pulao and delicious tandoori chicken.

Of course this is problematic, given that I'm a vegetarian and, yes, I've occasionally craved meat, but, goodness, the crave is strong today. Hopefully, my weekend trip to Pittsburgh where I'm attending a wedding where only the most delicious veggie cuisine will be on the menu will combat this sudden onslaught of meaty love.

RAMADAN: FASTING AND WHINING

'Tis the season of fasting, kittens, and like most Allah-fearing Muslims on the planet, I've been going sans food and drink from sunrise to sunset for several days now. Since the Islamic calendar is lunar, each year, the month of Ramadan is about ten days earlier than in the previous year. This Ramadan, sunrise and sunset are roughly 13 hours apart. To say that I feel famished and listless these days is a gross understatement. I hate to complain while happily undertaking a God-sanctioned religious duty but, man oh man, one week into it and it already feels like forever. I think most Ramadan observers will agree that while we can go without food during the day, it's the lack of water that gets us in the end. Plus, trying to squeeze a nice, long run in just before or after sunset these days can be either invigorating or muscle-and-bone-achingly exhausting.

Okay, that's it. I think it's probably in my best interest to refrain from whining during this wonderful month. I'll shut up now.