Writers are forgetful,
but they remember everything.
They forget appointments and anniversaries,
but remember what you wore,
how you smelled,
on your first date…
They remember every story you’ve ever told them –
but forget what you’ve just said.
They don’t remember to water the plants
or take out the trash,
but they don’t forget how
to make you laugh.
Writers are forgetful
the important things.
I found this poem a little cute. I’m not calling myself a writer or anything, but I do forget a lot of many things on a daily basis—including something someone just said. It doesn’t mean I don’t listen or aren’t attentive, I don’t know what it is, but I promise I do listen and am attentive. I am usually so content having a nice conversation with you, that I space out in an odd way thinking about our conversation. It doesn’t make sense at all, but it’s not supposed to.
Now that I’ve caught your attention, let me honest. If you thought this was going to be a heart-breaking story about how a little Muslim girl was married at a tender age or about my cultural or religious history—it’s not. It’s actually a story about how “CRASY” my mother is. Because guess what, not all Indians do this and not all Muslims do that. Some of us do some weird stuff picking out some really weird and unusual things to wear for their party. My mom, Zaheda, dressed me up as an “American” bride for my first birthday and I don’t know how I felt about it then, but I think it was a great, freaking idea! Because you know what, I look pretty adorable. With my mushroom cut hair, my “asian” eyes, shocked look, and oh, my fair skin. I have NONE of those features anymore; now I’m a dark monster with long, black hair who doesn’t stop making really weird faces that I think are slightly attractive to the opposite sex.
Indian brides don’t usually wear white, our traditional wedding outfit is RED and it’s pretty awesome and really, really heavy. We make a lot of statements when we get married—fashion, wealth, style, jewelry—well I guess every culture does, but Indians really like to take it to the next level. The people who are close to the bride and groom are also expected to dress ridiculously over-the-top amazing.
Unfortunately, many Indian brides these days are under the impression that they can substitute their traditional red dresses with different shades of pink, yellow, oranger or perhaps the worst in my opinion—BABY BLUE—oh god, just let me get my morning sickness right now and VOMIT. In my opinion, an Indian bride should ONLY be allowed to wear RED or WHITE. Both of those colors are just fabulous, have serious significance in them (nuptials in the East and purity in the West), and when a woman is wearing them, you can usually point her out as a “Bride.” It also lets you remain traditional even though you probably aren’t (you’re probably a ‘Freak-a-leek, how you like it Daddy’).
I’m going to wear both of those colors when a man (whose probably lost his mind) decides to like it and put a ring on it. And I’m PROBABLY going to look amazing. Whether he’s brown, white, black, yellow, purple, or green, he’s going to get me henna-ed up in my extremely heavy red outfit, which will probably determine his upper body strength later, and church-ed up in my white dress.
Therefore, I’m thanking my mommy for dressing me up in white. I don’t know if there was or was not a handsome man at my first birthday party dressed as a groom, but I do consider this my first wedding, in a really weird, abnormal, convoluted way. And guess what my friends—it won’t be my last!
All the world is birthday cake, so take a piece, but not too much.
I have a lot of friends. I’m not the bragging type, but I am seriously blessed in that department (along with other departments such as my good looks, a bosom and once again, my good looks). I don’t have that quote “It’s better to have 4 quarters than 100 pennies,” in my life, because in reality, I have a lot of dollar coins—and I’ve saved all of them.
Hence, when one of my BFFs asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I sent her this list. I’ve added several things to this list because I know this has been on the mind of several people this month, mwaahahaaa. So, any one of these things will do or ALL OF THE BELOW would be perfectly fine as well:
What Nadia Wants For Her Day of Existence, Which Ultimately Made Your Existence Worthwhile:
Decision making skills
A puppy who I can call Nacho (preferably a Yorkie, Samoyed, Husky, Beagle, Pomeranian, or Spaniel)
A job (preferably one that’s well-paid, with lots of benefits, good hours & brings me fame and glory. Something with the NYT is sufficient, where my name is on the front page)
State of NJ driver’s license for my mom
2 cats I can call Hummus or BabaGanoush (Persian, Bengal, Ashera, Savannah, or Russian Blue)
An Audi with leopard print interior (not a 2 seater)
SOME GOOD LOVIN’ owwwwwww
A penthouse (this one is more flexible anywhere in NYC will do, or Spain, Greece, London, Mexico, or even Hawaii just to give you a few ideas)
“Fashion has two purposes: comfort and love. Beauty comes when fashion succeeds.”
I am not a “fashion journalist.” If there’s one thing I know about myself, it’s that I am not a writer of style/fashion. I know right, so uncool. At least there’s one thing I do know about myself as a journalist/writer (woohoo!) It’s a shame, however, that not only do I not identify myself as a fashion writer, but I also refuse to “teach” myself to be a fashion writer. Because guess what? There’s A LOT of jobs out there that are for fashion journalism—and I just don’t want any of them. I don’t know what it is; maybe it’s the fact that I wanted to be a “fashion designer” in 7th grade, maybe because I’ve never sewed more than two things in my life, or maybe it’s cause writing about style, colors, and outfits just don’t fuel my fire.
However, if there’s one thing I do know it’s that the French are beautiful, skinny, and smelly. And they gave us Lady Liberty and are also named after one of America’s most delicious fried foods. With that historical information, I’m now going to try something new. I’m going to write a “style” post for the first time in mi vida. But, be warned mi amigos, this is unconventional, irrational, and will probably be exactly what you’re not looking for.
Yay! I didn’t get a job! Well at least not yet. Also, I haven’t received the “rejection” from my last potential employer. I’ve received worse: the silent treatment. So no, there is no closure. I’ve come to realization that job-hunting is analogous to mate-hunting; there’s a lot of damn fish in the vast ocean but that doesn’t mean all that fish is good for you.
Despite the 8% unemployment rate in the US right now, there is work out there. There is always going to be work out there. Of course, you may have a hard time getting the work because of all the competition, but it’s there. Needless to say, that doesn’t mean the job (that you assume will complete your life) is good for you. What I’m really trying to say is that there are a lot of shitty jobs out there. There are a lot of shitty guys out there, too. I usually am more sympathetic to people because I believe that many factors come into play for a person to be “shitty” (bad year, family issues, exs, heartbreak, etc). But, it’s quite interesting to note the similarities between finding a good job and finding the love of your life.
Gingers have no soul, they say. I’m not usually one to believe in rumors, but come on, this one is definitely true, don’t you agree?
I’ve only liked two gingers my whole life. Ronald Weasley from Harry Potter and Dexter Morgan from DEXTER, the best show on Earth. Recently, I was listening to some music on YouTube, when a Victoria’s Secret commercial came on. Oh GOD, not only do I HATE ads before my favorite music plays,(everyone does), but I also DESPISE VS. Why? Because they charge like $27342983+++ for my bra size and that makes me feel sad 😦 It’s not my goddamn fault I was pleasantly endowed with a bigger bosom so why does VS have to torture me? Anyways, while I was about to end myself from the 30-sec commercial, I couldn’t help but notice that there was a REALLY GOOD FKING song playing in the background. After scrolling through the comments and whatnot, I figured out what song, artist it was, since I wasn’t the only one curious. I don’t know what it was, maybe I’m a girl, maybe I’ve been feeling lovey-dovey recently (don’t even dare to ask me why), but “Give Me Love” just sounded really fking great and now I can’t stop listening to it; while I sleep, while I shower, while I write—the combination of the smartphone and gingers have come far.
The lesson here, my friends, is that there comes a time in every individual’s life when the things/people/types/tastes that you usually dislike, even despise, might just surprise you with an inkling of pleasure. Because, guess what? Life works like that. Of course, there’s ALWAYS going to be things/people/types/tastes that are always going to suck no matter what, like Taylor Swift or the show GLEE, and that’s okay, that’s perfectly fiiiiine.
—till manyana, Nadia.
Check out “Kiss Me,” and “Small Bump,” by Sheeran for more lovely-dovey, girly, ohmygod I’m in love songs.