I found myself spawning through profiles on a "match-making" website a while back and I swear I meant to blog about this earlier but never could find the time (see the previous 2 blogs.) So now that I have a free minute, let me toss out a few tips on things dudes should NOT do when joining a website for the purpose of finding their soul mate/love-match/future partner in crime/whatever.
1. Do NOT, under any circumstances, put up a profile picture of you in sunglasses. One word: FOB. And the funniest thing about these dudes is that you never see them wearing Gabbanas or Ray Bans. You only see the ones from circa 1985 with the dark black circles and the obnoxiously prominent silver or gold lining. So gross. Pictures of people in sunglasses should only be taken on vacation or during sporting events against scenic backgrounds with preferably more than 2 people in it with you. And for absolutely no reason should that be your main pic on any website unless you are one of the following: 1) a liar 2) a World Series of Poker professional or 3) a cheesy, creepy, fob.
2. I once came across a slanted picture of a guy in scrubs. And it wasn't JUST a pair of scrubs. It was like some Party City costume complete with the paper hat and face mask...I'm surprised he wasn't holding his bloody gloves up too. Don't get me wrong, I really do appreciate your attempt to prove to the gold-digging female population out there that you are well equipped to handle the burden of their 24kt gold dreams. But is this 'proof' of your profession really necessary? Personally, if you must be in scrubs, can I at least get an action shot of you covered in blood, pumping someone's heart back to life?? Gimme something to work with here...don't just put up some gay snack lounge picture of you (and only you) posing to the right of some 17 year old microwave. Unless you're not really medically ordained to do anything and are trying really, really, REALLY hard to make your lie believable. Then by all means, pose away "Doc!"
3. Don't pose in your lab coat either. Cheapster.
4. When writing a synopsis about yourself, try not to describe yourself by telling us you are "a good looking guy," "quite handsome," "pretty damn hot," "would like to think you are blessed in the 'looks department". Are you telling me this because you know I'm probably not going to think that about you on my own once I see your pic? You know, the one of you in your sunglasses/scrubs/white lab coat?
5. Taking pics with other girls: So hot. Oh wait...so NOT. My personal favorites are the ones where you guys haven't cut the girl out well enough and I can still see the side of her sleeveless arm or golden curls sprawled on the left collar of your suit jacket. If you don't have any pictures of you without a female cuddled up into your armpit...go find a friend and ask him/her to take one of you so you don't have to come off as such an obvious douchebag. Or.....at least learn to crop well.
6. The "IN YOUR FACE!" pose. You know the one. The pseudo-Nike ad taken against a pitch-black or graphically enhanced psychidelic background, the dude's face close enough to the camera for me to count his pores, the "AAAAAH" mouth and bug-eyed look optional. Stop it, you're creeping us out.
7. Posing with your car: proceed to do this only if you own a McLaren F1, AC Cobra, Lambhorgini, Aston Martin DB5, or Ferrari F50. And this should preferably be accompanied by a picture of your car title blown up showing you and your co-signer's signature. Otherwise, congrats on the M5. If you're a cool person, I'm sure I'll see it later and you can meet my Kia Sedona at that point too. LOL
So I hope that's helpful..best of luck in your pursuits!
Friday, November 28, 2008
Rollercoasters
...the tale continued.
So I sat in the hospital waiting room reading Surahs and waiting for mom's biopsy to finish. The smell of generic tea bags and dirt-like coffee in the corner that I remember so well hit me so hard, I literally felt my stomach churn. The nun who held my mom's hand for so many days, recognized me and came over, offering comfort and the loving smile I'd become so familiar with. "God doesn't give us more than we can handle. And I know that everything will be alright." Her words gave me hope as I listened half-attentively while still trying to read the thasbi in my hand. Its so funny how we go from being expert soccer players and social butterflies to simple disciples of God when a heavy burden hits.
The cardiothoracic surgeon and his assistant came to find me..my heart pounding so loudly I could barely stand it. Dr. Cappello, a surgeon we tried our best to get on daddy's case but weren't lucky enough, had finished performing mom's surgery. He said in a solid voice "The surgery went well. From what we can tell right now, the tissue isn't cancerous. It might be something else and we need to wait for final confirmation in 48 hours, but by the looks of it, no cancer."
I shook Dr. Cappello's hand and thanked him quietly. In a daze, I sat back down in the waiting room chair. "Not cancer. Not cancer. Not cancer." I kept repeating the words in my head...oh thank God. I knew my body and mind were tapped out and like the nun had just told me, "God doesn't give us more than we can handle." I wondered if it was the Surah Yaseen, Rehman, thasbis or the many duas that my friends and family were making that cleared these dark clouds that have been looming over our heads. What did we do right this time that we didn't with daddy? A thought so eerie and chilling, but one that I couldn't get out of my mind. Thanking God but wondering why couldn't we save dad...I headed to mom's new room where she'd be kept overnight. She had a small scar from the surgery and was doped up on meds but she was ok. InshAllah she'll stay ok. I laid in the hospital bed with her the whole night, oddly big enough to fit us both. The hours couldn't go by fast enough, 10PM, 11PM, 2AM, 4AM, 4:45AM, 5:30AM, 6AM, 7AM...how did dad spend 4 months in this foresaken place? I couldn't even bare the few hours we stayed there. So many thoughts, no organization, a sense of loss, a sense of gain, senses hightened and dimmed simultaneously.
So I sat in the hospital waiting room reading Surahs and waiting for mom's biopsy to finish. The smell of generic tea bags and dirt-like coffee in the corner that I remember so well hit me so hard, I literally felt my stomach churn. The nun who held my mom's hand for so many days, recognized me and came over, offering comfort and the loving smile I'd become so familiar with. "God doesn't give us more than we can handle. And I know that everything will be alright." Her words gave me hope as I listened half-attentively while still trying to read the thasbi in my hand. Its so funny how we go from being expert soccer players and social butterflies to simple disciples of God when a heavy burden hits.
The cardiothoracic surgeon and his assistant came to find me..my heart pounding so loudly I could barely stand it. Dr. Cappello, a surgeon we tried our best to get on daddy's case but weren't lucky enough, had finished performing mom's surgery. He said in a solid voice "The surgery went well. From what we can tell right now, the tissue isn't cancerous. It might be something else and we need to wait for final confirmation in 48 hours, but by the looks of it, no cancer."
I shook Dr. Cappello's hand and thanked him quietly. In a daze, I sat back down in the waiting room chair. "Not cancer. Not cancer. Not cancer." I kept repeating the words in my head...oh thank God. I knew my body and mind were tapped out and like the nun had just told me, "God doesn't give us more than we can handle." I wondered if it was the Surah Yaseen, Rehman, thasbis or the many duas that my friends and family were making that cleared these dark clouds that have been looming over our heads. What did we do right this time that we didn't with daddy? A thought so eerie and chilling, but one that I couldn't get out of my mind. Thanking God but wondering why couldn't we save dad...I headed to mom's new room where she'd be kept overnight. She had a small scar from the surgery and was doped up on meds but she was ok. InshAllah she'll stay ok. I laid in the hospital bed with her the whole night, oddly big enough to fit us both. The hours couldn't go by fast enough, 10PM, 11PM, 2AM, 4AM, 4:45AM, 5:30AM, 6AM, 7AM...how did dad spend 4 months in this foresaken place? I couldn't even bare the few hours we stayed there. So many thoughts, no organization, a sense of loss, a sense of gain, senses hightened and dimmed simultaneously.
Monday, November 24, 2008
This Is My Life
About a month after dad passed away and I stopped incessantly crying at everything that reminded me of him (which was everything), I started to feel guilty. Like a bad daughter for not falling into hours of crier's dementia. I eventually went back to work, concentrating on my project and executing it like a champ. Was something wrong with me? Was I hiding my feelings? Why wasn't I broken into a million irreparable pieces?
I knew I was strong, but this just wasn't reflective of the 'good daughter' role I've always played (well, to the best of my God-given abilities.) So why was I like this? Why was normalcy so easily embedded into my days? And so soon?
Three days ago, as I sat in my office, conference call after monotonous conference call, I saw my cell phone ringing as "Mom" displayed on my Treo. "Mom at lunchtime is normal. I'll call her back." But just as the last vibration was about to cease, something inside of me said to pick it up. Her voice was silent...if a voice can be silent...but just about as silent as someone who speaks in the softest of tones can get. Barely audible, I strained to hear the news she'd just gotten from her doctor.
I listened to mamma break the news of the last two weeks of blood tests, CAT scans and PET scans lead up to words I didn't think I would hear. She had been diagnosed with Lymphoma. Cancer of the lymph nodes. Preliminary, but it was 90% confirmed.
Cancer? But...dad just passed away 8 months, 1 day, 17 hours and 45 minutes ago. Immediately, I began asking her a thousand questions as I rushed away from the office just in case I turned back into Wilma Waterworks again. I told her it couldn't be, they were wrong, the doctors are idiots, we need to confirm. As I did everything in my power to coax the positivity, or...as much confusion as I could cause to diffuse the prominence of truth...I knew at that moment, why I hadn't fallen prey to depression, anxiety, stress-induced breakdowns and the hundreds of illnesses people have when they lose a parent. I needed to remain level-headed for this trial.
The road ahead is a bit blurred. Ransacked with the thought of chemo-therapies and not having the positive attitude and words of the man who taught me to be strong all my life...I'm lost most of the time. Not lost in words or locationally, but just a general feeling of displacement. I went home and called up the doctor myself to make sure nothing had gotten lost in between the Urdu to English translation and, much to my dismay, it hadn't. I wept in a way that made my body shake. In the arms of an angel-like friend, I filled a box of tissues with tears. Not because of the sadness. Who has time for sadness? But because my insides felt as if they hadn't had time to rest and heal yet. Because of the plans I'd made for myself. Because of those 8 chunky children I want so badly and can't seem to find a way to bring them into this world because Allah needs me to do something else. Oh yeah, I have to find a husband first too, but you that part shouldn't be too hard right? Who doesn't want to marry the world's most occupied champion multi-tasker who chalks up her daily strength to rose colored lip gloss, Kinerase eye cream, a damn good blow-dryer and a few swigs of Green Goodness Nutrient Drink?
I know now that there wasn't anything wrong with me when I found normalcy in my life so soon. Allah kept me sane because he knew that life ahead would require my superwoman skills again. Ne'er a day goes by when I don't see how the puzzle fits together so perfectly. And imperfectly all at the same time. In the grand scheme of things, "why me???" I yell to the heavens above. A question which never receives a reply. "Why more sorrow, more work, more sickness and sadness?" I know there's an answer there somewhere. I know He'll reveal it to me when I'm ready. Right now, I just need to make sure I pack my quiet hospital shoes and read up on Lymphoma. More words I never knew the meaning to nor cared to understand. I can do this. These are my cards. These are my lemons and we're going to be making many a batch of raspberry tea with them. From douchebag ex's made of empty promises, A-hole tendencies and the inability to reach outside of their own self-serving lives to the omnicient feeling deep down that one day there'll be light again. For now, I lay my laptop to rest. I may start writing more often, so apologies in advance of any quasi-morose posts in the months to come. But it is what it is folks. This is my life.
I knew I was strong, but this just wasn't reflective of the 'good daughter' role I've always played (well, to the best of my God-given abilities.) So why was I like this? Why was normalcy so easily embedded into my days? And so soon?
Three days ago, as I sat in my office, conference call after monotonous conference call, I saw my cell phone ringing as "Mom" displayed on my Treo. "Mom at lunchtime is normal. I'll call her back." But just as the last vibration was about to cease, something inside of me said to pick it up. Her voice was silent...if a voice can be silent...but just about as silent as someone who speaks in the softest of tones can get. Barely audible, I strained to hear the news she'd just gotten from her doctor.
I listened to mamma break the news of the last two weeks of blood tests, CAT scans and PET scans lead up to words I didn't think I would hear. She had been diagnosed with Lymphoma. Cancer of the lymph nodes. Preliminary, but it was 90% confirmed.
Cancer? But...dad just passed away 8 months, 1 day, 17 hours and 45 minutes ago. Immediately, I began asking her a thousand questions as I rushed away from the office just in case I turned back into Wilma Waterworks again. I told her it couldn't be, they were wrong, the doctors are idiots, we need to confirm. As I did everything in my power to coax the positivity, or...as much confusion as I could cause to diffuse the prominence of truth...I knew at that moment, why I hadn't fallen prey to depression, anxiety, stress-induced breakdowns and the hundreds of illnesses people have when they lose a parent. I needed to remain level-headed for this trial.
The road ahead is a bit blurred. Ransacked with the thought of chemo-therapies and not having the positive attitude and words of the man who taught me to be strong all my life...I'm lost most of the time. Not lost in words or locationally, but just a general feeling of displacement. I went home and called up the doctor myself to make sure nothing had gotten lost in between the Urdu to English translation and, much to my dismay, it hadn't. I wept in a way that made my body shake. In the arms of an angel-like friend, I filled a box of tissues with tears. Not because of the sadness. Who has time for sadness? But because my insides felt as if they hadn't had time to rest and heal yet. Because of the plans I'd made for myself. Because of those 8 chunky children I want so badly and can't seem to find a way to bring them into this world because Allah needs me to do something else. Oh yeah, I have to find a husband first too, but you that part shouldn't be too hard right? Who doesn't want to marry the world's most occupied champion multi-tasker who chalks up her daily strength to rose colored lip gloss, Kinerase eye cream, a damn good blow-dryer and a few swigs of Green Goodness Nutrient Drink?
I know now that there wasn't anything wrong with me when I found normalcy in my life so soon. Allah kept me sane because he knew that life ahead would require my superwoman skills again. Ne'er a day goes by when I don't see how the puzzle fits together so perfectly. And imperfectly all at the same time. In the grand scheme of things, "why me???" I yell to the heavens above. A question which never receives a reply. "Why more sorrow, more work, more sickness and sadness?" I know there's an answer there somewhere. I know He'll reveal it to me when I'm ready. Right now, I just need to make sure I pack my quiet hospital shoes and read up on Lymphoma. More words I never knew the meaning to nor cared to understand. I can do this. These are my cards. These are my lemons and we're going to be making many a batch of raspberry tea with them. From douchebag ex's made of empty promises, A-hole tendencies and the inability to reach outside of their own self-serving lives to the omnicient feeling deep down that one day there'll be light again. For now, I lay my laptop to rest. I may start writing more often, so apologies in advance of any quasi-morose posts in the months to come. But it is what it is folks. This is my life.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Football Stats
I was running at the gym and watching the Stanford/USC game this past Saturday, when all of a sudden -- like a ray of beautifully sweaty, caramel-colored light, he hit me!
Mark Sanchez, #6, Quarterback, USC.
Now, I don't pride myself on being the hugest football fan, but I'm smarter than the average girl-bear on the subject. At least, when it comes to stats. I can spit football stats at you like no other. For example:
Madeha: T, new crush, Mark Sanchez, USC...look him up.
T: Ohhhhh Lord. No Maddy, I'm not a girl.
Madeha: T! Just do it, puh-leeeease!
T: (disgruntled noise) Fine. Let me look him up.
Madeha: I bet he's like 6'4..230....no..he's more like 6'3, between 210 and 230...yeah, definitely 6'3. Anyways, what are his stats?
T: Maddy, really? reeeeeally? Since when do YOU care about football stats??
Madeha: Wait, what? I mean "what are his stats" like height, weight, age, etc. What did you think I meant?
T: Wow. I should have known you don't care about what he's accomplished in life or not. Oh look...he's got a criminal record too.....for sexual assault.....on a freshman...you sure know how to pick the good ones Maddy.
Madeha: I do have a knack for sniffing out the bad boys. Even quasi-celebrities. Sweet! Now, back to those stats.
Mark Sanchez, #6, Quarterback, USC.
Now, I don't pride myself on being the hugest football fan, but I'm smarter than the average girl-bear on the subject. At least, when it comes to stats. I can spit football stats at you like no other. For example:
Madeha: T, new crush, Mark Sanchez, USC...look him up.
T: Ohhhhh Lord. No Maddy, I'm not a girl.
Madeha: T! Just do it, puh-leeeease!
T: (disgruntled noise) Fine. Let me look him up.
Madeha: I bet he's like 6'4..230....no..he's more like 6'3, between 210 and 230...yeah, definitely 6'3. Anyways, what are his stats?
T: Maddy, really? reeeeeally? Since when do YOU care about football stats??
Madeha: Wait, what? I mean "what are his stats" like height, weight, age, etc. What did you think I meant?
T: Wow. I should have known you don't care about what he's accomplished in life or not. Oh look...he's got a criminal record too.....for sexual assault.....on a freshman...you sure know how to pick the good ones Maddy.
Madeha: I do have a knack for sniffing out the bad boys. Even quasi-celebrities. Sweet! Now, back to those stats.
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