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Birth & Religion. My father is Palestinian and Muslim, and my mother, who is from New York, is Lebanese and Christian. Neither practice and I couldn’t be more thankful for that. While I do believe in something larger than myself, I also believe that the world would be a better place without religion.

My mom and dad grooving on their wedding day.

My name. I was born Taghreed Ghassan Taha. The Arabic meaning of Taghreed means the “singing of birds.” Ghassan is my father’s name and Taha is somewhat of a common Arab surname.

My mom met my dad in Beirut while hitchhiking across Europe. They fell in love and eloped. When the civil war started they followed my dad’s colleagues to Nigeria to wait it out. My brother was born first and I followed 13 months later (yes, I was an oops baby). We were given Arab names with the intention that we would be raised in Beirut.

Nigerians affectionately dubbed me “Taghreedu,” since West African tongue tends to end consonants with an “ooo” sound. From that my family derived the nickname “Reedu,” which was wise because my real name proved too difficult, and too different, for Americans. I was known by this moniker for nearly all my life, so while grappling with names for my unborn child in 2010, I decided to change my name permanently to Reedu.

School. If they offered a degree in being social, I would have graduated Magna Cum Laude. School was never my strong-suit. It took going to three different colleges but I finally grew up and got my bachelor’s degree. I even graduated on the Dean’s list and went on to finish Graduate Journalism School.

At the beach instead of class.

Work. After having my fair-share of bartending and waitressing jobs, I held a few coveted spots in Corporate America. I interned with CNN at the United Nations and got my first, real job as a customer service representative at the New York Stock Exchange. From there I went on to be a compliance analyst at Goldman Sachs. During that time I also began teaching introductory business classes at my alma mater. Two nights a week I was surrounded by teenagers who for the most part, knew what they wanted to be when they grew up. I found that inspiring and it set me on a path to get back to my roots, or at least back to what I spent 35 grand on an education for… writing. After a year of networking I landed a position as a writer and editor for a start-up financial securities lending company. The job was fun but socially demanding. It took me to Monte Carlo and to some of the finest restaurants and hottest clubs in NYC. It was the other end of the spectrum from my days spent behind multiple Excel spreadsheets on dual flat screens at Goldman. But in 2009 I was reduced to half time at my sexy writing job. It was a set back, but it also freed me up to pursue a passion of mine… animals. The start-up didn’t survive the credit crisis though, and at just three months pregnant I found myself laid-off and unemployed.

Animals. In Nigeria I grew up reluctantly eating goat — the same goats that were hung and slaughtered under the large tree adjacent to the sandbox that I played in. It was a daily struggle to get me to eat meat, and by the time I was 18 I became a vegetarian.

I grew up with pets but it wasn’t until I was living on my own in Brooklyn that I began opening my door to homeless animals. First came two cats and then a Pit Bull with two broken front legs. She was a victim of animal cruelty and was my introduction to a breed of dog that is not only largely maligned, but grossly misunderstood. I learned about the plight of NYC’s homeless animals and daunting euthanasia rates while volunteering at an animal shelter. This led me to start a non-profit animal rescue organization while supporting other animal welfare-related causes. And because not all stories about animals are warm and fuzzy, I found a niche on the Internet in writing for the voiceless.

My pretty little Pit Bull.

This past Tuesday night I left the house to pick up takeout from the only restaurant in South Brooklyn that doesn’t deliver, Bar Tabac, and passed a mobile cupcake truck on Court Street. It was called CupcakeStop.com.  Awesome.

I returned on my way back home with the food excited to purchase three: a Nut & Nutella Crunch for my husband, a Smores for his friend Geoff who was eating over, and a classic chocolate cupcake for myself. I stood in front of the window of the truck, the inside of which was far-less cluttered than your typical ice cream truck and waited for someone to chime, “what can I get you?” Yet no one ever did. After a few moments of looking around, a man approached me from where he was standing in front of the storefront closest to the truck and sheepishly advised that he was “sort of on a smoke break.”

This was NOT the dude who was too busy smoking.

Shocked and disappointed, I walked away. Did he really expect me to wait for him to finish so I could then give him my money?

Jason reminded me that I was young once too and used to smoke butts on the job when I told him I had good mind to call out the kid on CupcakeStop’s Facebook page. “Young once too?” Now I don’t know whether I should be mad at the kid, or my husband!