you won't get this if you don't listen to Weezer

We just got back from the Weezer concert at the Aragon Ballroom* and I've gotta say, the band put on an excellent show. I only wish I could say the same for the people in the audience. 

Here's a little bit of commentary from H and I, Siskel and Ebert--style.

H: I don't know if I know how to do "Siskel and Ebert--style." Doesn't that mean that one of us has to hate it?

C: No, they agreed sometimes, right? Anyway, we can agree that we both loved the songs (except that one I didn't like) and that Weezer put on a great show. 

H: Agreed.

C: But those motionless dudes in front of us who only came to life for the Pinkerton songs, those guys I could have done without.

H: I could have done without them, the potsmokers, the chick next to me who was constantly updating her Facebook about how much she loved Rivers Cuomo. Coulda done without a lot of them. 

C: I was coveting the balcony seat of that one guy ROCKING OUT above us. Kind of like when we went to see Rancid and my boss hooked us up with center balcony seats. H, what are some highlights for you? (That's part of my s&e spiel.)

H: I just enjoyed Rivers's performance, because he was just fun to watch. And when they had that radio contest winner come out and duet "(If you're wondering if I want you to) I want you to," I thought it was going to be terrible, but it turned out pretty decent. I didn't know if they were putting any prerequisites on whether the person had to know how to sing or not. You know, at first. 

C: She was pretty good. She's from my hometown--of course she'd be good. I liked when he put on the blonde wig and did the Lady Gaga "PokerFace" cover. But the sad thing is that everyone in the audience was surprised. What's that about? That song is on the new album. At concerts I've been to in the past, I always felt lame because everyone already knew all the words to the latest album--which, duh, came out right in time for the tour. NOBODY knew any of the new songs, which I was pretty much rocking out to. I can admit it: I LOVE POP MUSIC.

H: Yeah they did "Let it all hang out" early in the show, and the crowd just stopped moving. Nobody was singing along. They were just standing there like they were waiting for it to be over. 

C: I think people were way too uptight. And I'm tired of people saying Pinkerton is the be-all/end-all of the band's catalog. Seriously people, there are WAY MORE SONGS that do not sound like that. GET OVER IT. As you can see, I'm not much of a fan of Pinkerton. I happen to adore the fact that Weezer's Cuomo is "ticking off some of his hardcore fans." Hello, hip-hop? I'm all about it!

H: It's like you hate Pinkerton on principle now. I think it's a decent album, but I agree, it's not the be-all/end-all, but their entire catalog is solid; there's not an album that I don't like. I don't understand how you're ticking off fans just because you do something they don't like. What are you a fan of the in the first place?  

C: Yes, I now hate it on principle. I can't believe people are stupid enough to think bands are supposed to sound exactly the same from album to album. Bands grow, too, people. Which is sad, because maybe I would have given it a chance if it weren't for the die hards who hate on everything else. Make Believe is the album that resonates with me the most.  

H: I agree. I'm always annoyed when fans don't like a band to experiment. I'm a fan of the *artistic* side of it. If you want to keep re-creating the same album over and over again, I'm just going to get bored with it.

C: Amen.

H: Less Than Jake is the same way. Some of their fans got pissed when they changed up the band a little bit.

C: Same with Madonna.

H: What songs didn't we hear that you wished they would have played? 

C: There were so many. Personally, I would have loved "This is such a pity." I'd say that's the song that made me really start liking them. It reminds me of driving around with you in California and falling in love. I also like "My best friend." But I'm a sappy cheeseball.

H: Those were good times. It's funny because it took me three or four full playthroughs before I started to really like Make Believe. On the flip side, their new album, Raditude**, I've loved from the first time I heard it. 

C: We could go on and on, but then it'd be like that part of I Love You, Man when Paul Rudd and Jason Segel were talking on the phone to "go over the setlist" of the Rush concert and Rashida Jones felt all left out. Actually it's going to be exactly like that. Here's the setlist*** from tonight's show, which was the first stop on their national tour: 

Opening acts: Jack's Mannequin

1. Hash Pipe

2. Let It All Hang Out

3. Tired of Sex

4. (If You're Wondering If I Want You To) I Want You To

5. Say It Ain't So

6. Troublemaker

7. My Name Is Jonas

8. Perfect Situation

9. Why Bother

10. Dope Nose

11. Undone (The Sweater Song)

12. Surf Wax America

13. cover of Pink Floyd song that is killing me that I don't remember the name of

14. I'm Your Daddy

15. Can't Stop Partying

16. Beverly Hills

17. Pork and Beans

18. Kids/Poker Face 

19. Island In The Sun****

20. Buddy Holly

*References to Chicago places like this are what made me EXTRA love Audrey Niffenegger's Time Traveler's Wife.

**Apparently, Rainn Wilson came up with the name of the latest album.

***Don't quote us on this order.

****This was the first song in the second encore. Rivers pretty much performed it by himself using a loop-back machine. He started off by playing a few measures on the drums, followed by the bass, then a little rhythm guitar and he had the crowd do the "hep hep"s. Wil Wheaton linked to a similar-technique performance by Kid Beyond. The concept is very cool; probably one of our favorite things of the evening.

milestone: year 4, month 1, day 8

Apparently the four-year anniversary of this blog sailed by on March 7 and I didn't even notice.

On the first and second anniversaries of this blog, I compiled quotes from old blog posts for my own amusement. Like this and this. I didn't on the third, because that year was kind of busy what with the layoff on my birthday, the startup stuff and in March I was raising hell as a landlady (not doing that again).

So I'm going to indulge myself with a snippety roundup of the last two years because no matter how I try, I haven't felt like posting lately* and reading back over the old stuff might get the juices flowing again.

Also, next week H's best friend's sister is getting married and she's flying us out so H can photograph her wedding. I am taking a detour to San Diego, where I will hang out with cc and her son, b before taking the train back to L.A. for the wedding. So I might not be around and this could take you an entire week to read. (I will not be offended if you don't; it's mostly for me). Here goes:

2007

"whatever, i know your record; the less you know about the teams, the better you do. and i'm NOT going to be shown up by my sister in a pool with all my friends."


and it didn't help that there was a tv news camera crew at the wall, obviously capturing fodder for their let's-say-goodnight-on-a-bright-note shot. you know, because 55 minutes of murder and mayhem is perfectly canceled out by a 30-second segment featuring stickyfaced kids or furry baby animals. sadly for us, H lost his footing and wiped out on his back directly in front of the cameras while i spun around on my palms and skates.


fine, it could be that the girl's a lifelong country fan-- that's fair; they're sort of in their own musical universe. and besides, i myself couldn't find the cheese in a maze if all the clues were based on classic rock. somehow during my formative years, the only music available to me fell into two categories: sappy country and even sappier hindi movie music.


I think the time has come for me to trade the day-old pizza boxes and pajamas-as-streetclothes lazy college email style for the language of grownups. You, my dear readers, deserve the extra keystroke effort required for me to make use of capital letters.


I started with my parents because a) it's much easier to throw out other people's stuff and b) I inherited saving techniques from my father, Mr. Just In Case, who is gunning for some sort of keeping-stuff championship. Granted, junk he saves comes in handy once in awhile, but the useful-to-spacewaste ratio is severely skewed toward the latter.


When your parents come from a place like India, you have to take the good with the bad. I'm talking about a society that generally says "Do not even look in the direction of the opposite sex" for years, then suddenly one day: "Hurry up and get married so you can make as many grandchildren as possible. 1-2-3, GO!"


When I was little, I wanted to be a cardiac surgeon. I held onto that dream for a really long time (especially when my dad said he'd buy me a convertible when I got my MD). I realized somewhere in the middle of high school that if I couldn't watch fake doctors doing fake surgery with fake blood on tv without my stomach churning, medical school was probably not a realistic option.


"I could have told you that you're not retarded, silly girl," she said. "What I want to know is this: Did the guy say when you're going to get married?"


The woman is knowledgeable, and she don't waste no kinda time. Back in college, I wouldn't be satisfied with a trip to the mall unless I had systematically touched every hanger in every store, a habit that elicited threats of bodily harm from pp. She goes in knowing what she wants, targets it, takes a sweeping glance at the rest of the offerings and exits. She's like an assassin. A trained killer who can quickly calculate markdowns.


"However, if the situation were completely different: Let's say I was carrying something heavy, and you were not carrying anything at all but you didn't think to help out? Then I would have to put whatever it was down and kick your ass."


A recent conversation with H revealed that an integral part of my physical education--the Square Dance--was not a part of the curriculum where he went to school in California. I was appalled to hear that fourth-graders out there weren't forced to devise methods of partner dancing without actually touching their cootie-infested counterparts. How else do kids learn the complex techniques that make for the stilted, awkward interactions they call *relationships* in junior high? Maybe that's why people in California are so very laid back; they don't know how to Do-si-do.


13) I can't make rice. Please don't tell anybody.


Movies to which I wish I could have awarded zero or fewer stars: 1 (I'm looking at you, The Puffy Chair)


His homing tactics went on to include driving three hours to sit outside my college dormitory and interrogate my friends, who feigned ignorance about how I was sneaking into the building through the the back basement laundry room as they spoke. I believe that pager ended up at the bottom of a lake, to be joined by the relationship shortly thereafter.


"Uh, I did NOT spend all that time and money raising you just to die because you can't do a puzzle.*"


One definite downside to this whole working-days concept is that for years, my brain learned to shut itself off between the hours of five and nine in the morning, which is exactly when some key daily decisions need to be made. Mission Critical choices, such as what I'm going to wear.


And while that may be true, If you go through enough crap with people--no matter how much they make you want to tie them to a chair and duct tape their mouths closed so you can beat them about the head and explain just how wrong they are--one day you'll wake up and they're part of your family. And everybody knows, no matter what you do, it's not easy to break away from family.


"No kidding! Last week there was an eight-percent-visibility monsoon when I was driving to the airport to pick you up, and as soon as you got in the car it was gorgeous the whole time--right up until your plane took off again five days later, when it promptly started drizzling. You really are magical."


2) This girl, Amy "The Kisser," would smooch my brother every day in kindergarten. But when she started touching him with her tongue, the engagement was off.


2) He can't plan his life. This was supposed to be a pretty straightforward antibiotic annihilation (because that wound around his pacemaker had been open and covered with gauze for more than a year, they went in, took out the pacemaker, flushed the spot where it had been with the most powerful antibiotics, put in a new pacemaker generator, closed him up and put him on IV super-antibiotics for two weeks.) Now it's looking like healing may take longer, which will delay going back to school, which will drag out his already-six-year attempt to graduate even further.


People like to tell me they think I'm overly paranoid and to "just chill out," "let it go," or "don't worry so much." But honestly, if a reminder that you could lose the things you care about most in this world smacks you in the face at least once a day, you'd start to clutch onto everything just a little bit tighter, too.


Sure enough, it came. Swiftly, semi-unexpectedly and deadly-ly. We got back from that great lunch and had a meeting with the mother office to learn that our entire office is getting laid off, two months (and one day) since I started. Happy Birthday from The Man!


It's a good thing I grew up with a dad that accelerated at hairpin turns, so I was only slightly fazed when my chauffeur for the evening was texting, dancing and even reading me a Forward joke in a bad Indian accent from his Blackberry, all while zipping around cars on the highway.


"Well, there have been known to be ugly babies out there. You can’t just generalize."


There's a frigging LAMBORGHINI parked outside the office, for use in the new Christian Bale batman movie, The Dark Knight. They've blocked off all the streets on our block and on the way into the office this morning, my colleague almost got run over by Bale in a sleek black car flying up the street. When you see the movie, look for a bewildered dark-haired woman in white pants and a dark brown shirt, hopping onto the curb to save her life.


As we walked down the path, we saw a bunch of girls in hijabs carrying brightly-wrapped gifts into the meeting hall attached to the pool, which was obviously rented for the occasion. I wondered if those nasty people in the pool (and I say people because no one said anything to him, including the lifeguard) had seen the girls, made some assumptions and taken it out on us. I couldn't help but worry for those girls and their party.


Get your boobs checked. And your pipes. And the rest of yous. It's way less sucky than the alternative. This may be hard to accept, but you are not invincible, after all. As someone who's spent way too much time pacing around helplessly in hospital waiting rooms, trust me when I say that your loved ones will thank you for taking care of yourselves.


Don't get me wrong, it wasn't even close to the first time H had hung out with my parents; it was important to me that they all met each other straightaway, mostly because he lives so far away and I wanted them to know he wasn't a serial killer or someone who couldn't appreciate the virtues of a good chapati.


It took every ounce of energy I had for nearly 35 minutes not to turn around and yell at the top of my lungs: LISTEN LADY, APPARENTLY YOU HAVE SOMETHING IN YOUR THROAT. WHY DON'T YOU PUT SOME EFFORT INTO COUGHING IT OUT AND DO SO IN AN ABRUPT, ALBEIT LOUD, MANNER? YOUR METHOD IS DRIVING ME FRICKING BALLISTIC! But instead I sat there, eyes glazed over, pretending to read but contemplating exactly how I'd word my bitter, hateful blog diatribe against her.


I like to chat.
I am a bad liar.
Someone told me my face is louder than my mouth. And it's true.


Mrs. Leuken certainly did not make Baked Alaskas and Peach Cobbler this way in seventh grade Home Economics class; she gave out written recipes. On the other hand, my mother's idea of a recipe is to tell you to put a "fistful" of this and and a "little bit" of that and "don't forget to throw in some" of whatever else. Repeating it too many times or writing it down is too taxing, and she'd remind me that if I had stood around and watched when I was a kid, this wouldn't have been a problem.


I have to say, the concept of eating all Chicken McNuggets and then touching a screen 10,000 other people have touched with their licked fingers is kind of gross (and when the screen goes black between games, you can see all the grease on it, too).


"Oh, by that time I'll be dead, so it'll have to be flowers you can put on my grave. But I'm going to be cremated, so I won't even have a grave, so you'll just have to put them on the table and think of your poor, dead mother."


And poor Highcon--who had told Kaiya he wouldn't be able to make it--he spent most of the party concealed in a stuffy Grim Reaper costume disguising his voice and introducing himself to everybody as "Fareed." That worked until someone whose actual name was Fareed showed up, and no one bought the story that Highcon's name had suddenly changed to Julio.


"He said, 'Mom, why are you talking about all this other stuff when I called you for business reasons'? And I was like, "What business reasons?" And he said, "My Christmas List."


I do not care WHO you think you are, it is NOT okay to clip your nails during a crowded and herkity-jerkity train ride.


Even all these years later, cc can make herself crack up just by thinking about my reaction to those flying tampons; it freaks people out on the train or in the elevator when she laughs to herself for no apparent reason.


When there are too many people in a revolving door, there's no room to move your legs and actually make it revolve. It took some fancy coordination and Fred-Flintstone-like quick babysteps, but we finally got out of there. I turned around and said to H, "What the HELL was that?" He was like, "What? That's not how you do it?"


The reason today is called Black Friday is because that is the color the tips of your toes and your nose turn after waiting in line outside in the middle of the night in 20-degree weather.


"Well, according to your blog, I'm too simple to operate a revolving door, so I wouldn't want to tackle something as complex as winter gloves."


a) The people downstairs give dance lessons. promptly at 3:15 yesterday, the lilting strains of "if you don't know me by now... you will nevereverever know me... OOOoooOOOO" started, then continued. On repeat.


"I never wanted Charles to be in charge of me."


"Boy, you have a very nice voice on the voicemail! Your mother must have taught you how to speak so well. Please give me a call and have a pleasant morning. Bye, I love you."


So sometimes, if he's been standing too long or taking too hot of a shower or if the wind blows the wrong way or if the cable goes out, a vein in his left leg will spontaneously burst, spurting blood everywhere. And I don't use the word "spurt" lightly.


All I want to do is curl up on the couch with my knitting and watch Roll, Bounce.


Let me clarify: I refer to Jo Ann Fabrics (or any craft store) as "The Crack House." Mostly because I get a rush out of going there and acquiring items that are probably not good for me. Like boxes and boxes of choice cuts, gadgets, pattern envelopes, balls of yarn, loose sheets of pretty paper and a whole mess of other stuff that will likely get crumpled in my closet for decades to come. And with every trip, I suddenly find my pockets empty and my home bursting with heaps of craftery. It's nothing like the tragedy of an actual crack habit, but it's an addiction nonetheless.


At 8:45, we started moving. Then we stopped. More groans. Leather Jacket was on his third piece of gum and in a jolly mood. He began to tell me that the last time a train he was on hit somebody, the person didn't make it and that the transit authority actually let people off during the cleanup. He said police were walking around, covering things up here and there. It took me a second to process that.


But if you've spent more than 2.5 seconds here, you've probably noticed that I live in the Land of Worst-Case Scenarios and I believe that if I spend some time hashing out every possible bad outcome, then maybe they won't come to fruition after all. I know this is not logical, but it helps me sleep at night.


"Like if I told you, 'Cadiz I just murdered someone,' I know you'd probably say something like 'That bitch probably deserved it.' "


I spent eight of my formative years learning to play the cello. I figured that having played an instrument where you have to know where to place your fingers without markers while swinging a bow would make holding down five colored buttons and strumming a flap on a plastic guitar incredibly easy on the very first try. I figured wrong.


2008

I plodded along. I didn't realize until it was too late that the flimsy cardboard pizza box was coming open at the side and after a thump, I saw my lunch face down on the concrete.

We were laughing so uproariously that we didn't even notice the door open. All heads swung around to face the giant girl who had come back upstairs, this time with a giant yellow Labrador tucked under her arm, and invited herself in.


He swears that if I make my kids call him "Mama" he will make his own children address me as "Dork."

For years, I've said that I lived at my parents' house because I had to stockpile money for the impending Depression, and that all my years spent learning to make clothes, knit and generally be crafty were preparation for the hard times I was sure are coming. I was mostly kidding, of course.


If I had gotten to see my boss before she died, I would have told her that not only did my brother finally graduate after seven years, but he'll be turning 26 in September and continues to raise hell every single day. I think it would have made her happy to hear.


"We all make sacrifices. Like when I started dating you, I had to come to terms with saying goodbye to my liver-flavored chapstick."


Even though we were stuck on a bridge the bayou for three hours in the dark with hundreds of other cars because of a fatal accident, with no idea when we'd be able to see the inside of a bathroom.


Strangers walking around and touching our things, sitting on the couch where I fall asleep every night at 10 pm, fondling my pillow, opening my fridge and seeing my stockpiles of string cheese. It's a little too much to think about.

While we were still working there, we decided (based on no historical knowledge whatsoever) that gangsters used that safe to hide ungodly amounts of cash, guns or booze during Prohibition. Or bodies. It's over the top, I know, but any sort of intrigue makes sitting at a desk job seem a little more sexy.

My brother is the only person I know in real life who can get away with shenanigans like that. He will shrug his shoulders, smirk and hand you a card that says HAPPY BAR MITZVAH for your birthday or one with LA ABUELA MÁS FABULOSA on Father's Day. Somehow it works for him; people find it absolutely hilarious.


"Okay. Let me get this straight, you're coming HOME for LESS THAN A DAY and you need to bring SHAMPOO? You're coming HOME! Not some cheap motel with no complimentary cleansing products! HOME!"


This was one of those scaredy times: I had my jacket over my arms and would hold it up to the bridge of my nose or higher whenever a villain had someone by the throat. This Joker is much more terrifying than anything I'd seen on the Adam West television program. And I was pretty sure he wouldn't be challenging Batman to any surfing contests.


My brother called while he was high as a kite on pain medication and said he told the nurses that he was a pimp, but that no one believed him. Someone called him out on it and he said, "You're right, I'm not a pimp. I don't believe in beating on women and treating them bad."


Somebody really should determine the distance-walked to distance-walked-in-heels ratio. You know, for the record.


"Oh yeah, I remember that. And your name on there is Cod-zee, right?"


There was a lush park of green grass in the center with a gazebo, and all around were perfect little houses with perfect white picket fences; everything so gleamingly new (or so it seemed). I kept looking around for the Truman Show-cameras.


I had figured that by 30 I'd be married to a Nice Indian Boy with a couple of kids, living in suburbia, working at a job that "hasn't been invented yet" and serving as scout leader on Tuesday nights.


"Nah, that's a little too old. If your name is Gertrude, you might as well be dead. Something not too oldish, that still has spunk... I got it! Beverly! Still youthful, but yet—you're old. Yeah, BEVERLY!"


If I were smarter/more alert/not so flustered I would have said Sorry, my mom still cuts my hair (what would he know, it was in a bun) and be on my way. But what did I do instead? Hemmed and hawed until he threw in two for a reduced price of one and wrote a check, thinking Hell, at least I have an excuse for being late to the status meeting.


He will leave things to the last possible hour, and then squander 55 minutes of that hour hysterically pacing and complaining about how he has no time left and so much pressure. And then in those last five minutes, he will come up with something brilliant and shrug it off as no big deal when he's patted on the back about it. That's just how he rolls. But it's one hell of a rollercoaster if you're along for the ride.


Last week when I dropped the gift off at her parents' house, I asked Kai's mom if she was going to cry at the ceremony. "No way!" she had said, "Why would I cry? I'm happy!" But of course she did. And it's rumored that her tough-guy little brother was wiping his eyes, too.


As if the harried looks on our faces and the piles of paper on our desks weren't obvious, I answered that we were extremely behind and it looked as though we'd be there till about 8 p.m. that night. He responded, "Oh. Well, would you like some wood to knock on?" and sailed out the door.


Even if I must switch careers, I have worked in several facets of my industry, including a place I visited during school and said, "I'm going to work here someday." So I can leave with no regrets.


I realized that this is the exact expression that comes over your face when you have had quite enough and decide to check out of the listening portion of a sermon by Mom, Dad or myself. It's precisely the face you make 2.5 seconds before you take an enormously long pause, say "Ok, I gotta go" and get the hell out of the house.


Today I've been making Very Important Decisions that my boss would have handled if she were still here. And I feel a little like a fraud telling people what to do. I mean, I get it, but I feel like a kid at the adult table—grabbing a turkey leg in my fist will get the job done, but it would destroy any credibility I have.


So while things become even more uncertain in the coming weeks, I'm going to lean on family, friends and food to stay afloat. But it'd be really nice if I can figure out how to use the remote controls.


"I'm a mess. And this morning when I called you on the walk to work and said I had to go back home because I forgot the bag with my files in it? Yeah, when I got into the house and looked around, I found it on my shoulder—it was flipped behind me and my purse was over it, so I hadn't realized it was there."


But the highlight of the evening for me was when The Boy told his mom he'd like a hug from me, and was too shy to ask. I was delighted to oblige.


It's just that we all have to take a hard look at just what we're honoring, decide if it's really something we can be proud of, and if it isn't, we should do something about it—no matter how long it's been a part of "the tradition."


I sincerely hope that after years of being in the same room with genius minds, I have managed to absorb some of the smarts it's going to take to pull off this little endeavor.


So the boss and I did what any self-respecting dynamic duo would when faced with shutting down and hitting the road. We knocked back a few drinks.


29. He says he doesn't dance, but I think I caught him—once.


"Holy crap, if we're both this touchy about age now, what's going to happen when we really ARE as old as mold?"


The line was out the door and people weren't bothering to wait for a booth. Instead we lined up and colored in our circles on the stage where I reprised the role of Calamity Jane and sang festive holiday songs on risers more than 20 years ago. Ah, the memories.


I left my brother a message saying that being on Michigan Avenue right then, with all those people so happy to just be there, felt as though all the sports teams in Chicago won the championship on the same night.


-You are legally guilty of first-degree murder if you take part in, well, any step involved in the events that led up to the crime. (Even if you weren’t the one holding the gun.) So if anyone ever asks you for help doing something shady, say NO!--angel07


"Nice, Dad. Your daughter is 30 and you're 28?"


Even then I have contemplated starting a new trend where he has his place across the street from mine, a la Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.--pp


To hell with the "loveable losers." It has been almost a full week since the nightmare, and I sat there and watched the BoSox win yet another series and get one step closer to the World Series.--my brother


I'd like to say a few things about what it's like to be a fan of the team that beats the most cursed team in all of sports—not counting the Washington Generals. First of all, it feels fantastic.--H


All these years when I've waited in pre-op with my brother before his procedures, I thought getting blankets out of a warmer must be so awesome. Yeah, not really.


So basically, in order to accomplish something good we actually have to take action and not just sit in the corner and pray and hope good stuff will happen and if it doesn't—feel guilty about it.--Alexandra


Working from home is rough—you can't turn it off and you feel guilty if you take time to watch The Colbert Report during nonmeal times when you could be working. On top of it, the laundry/housework is sitting there mocking you, and you need to remind yourself to take a shower.


And after he mentioned something about another Aquabat giving the dad some paper to sign, he asked Alex if he was ready, doublechecked with the dad, counted to three...and then The Commander HEAVED THAT SIX-YEAR-OLD HIGH INTO THE AIR AND INTO THE CROWD.


"Hang on, I'll ask...Yes, mother, he said his family dresses up in their finest Pilgrim-wear every year."


All I can think about are those people who were hurt and are still being held hostage in that hotel in Mumbai. This terrorism thing really blows.


I am still trying to figure out why it's got to be so black and white: I'm either working 24 hours a day or unemployed.


I'm not advocating the throwing of health and wellness out the door for work (it's not for everyone); but that extra cash gives me a tiny window of financial security during which I can hopefully find a job.


We decided to share some spiced apple cider wine, which came in a commemorative cup. That stuff was pretty rough going down, but I have to say it left me with a very warm belly. And a buzz.


She said I could air-dry and go, put a little gel to bring out the curl and go, roller-brush with a dryer and go or do a bunch of other things. I liked the "and go" parts the best.


It's so ridiculous because for three years H and I said goodbye for months at a time and he's only going to be gone for ten days this Christmas. The funny thing is all those times we'd wish for a snow day to cancel flights, but it never happened.


a) It's virtually impossible to demonstrate something while trying to keep only your arms in front of the camera.


Have I truly expressed how much the people who love and support me are appreciated? Do I really need to watch so much television? What needs to change to prevent my being taken advantage of in the future? Maybe that life-assessment I didn't go through when I turned 30 is catching up with me four months late, but I suddenly feel like a bomb is going to go off if I don't get my crap together as soon as possible.


Unfortunately for my mom, everybody and her momma wanted one, too, and the shelves were bare. To hear Mom describe it, getting a Cabbage Patch Kid that Christmas probably inspired that Schwarzenegger action flick Jingle All the Way.


3. When I'm home by myself, I often forget to eat. When other people are around, I'm constantly snacking and asking if they're hungry, too.



If every American could feel included, there's a much better chance we will work together to turn this ship around. And in these frightening times, the hope that things will get better is what I'm relying on to make it through.


And if enough time and resistance wears away at my enthusiasm, a big part of my identity will be relegated to the spice rack--busted out about as often as a non-Chinese family springs for dim sum or hot and sour soup. And that just makes me want to cry.


There was the bug-eyed kid who looked like he'd skipped fourth grade that I was sure figured out a way to access dirty pictures on school machines. The weird broody kind of guy who gave me the feeling he was hiding an uzi in his big backpack and waiting to take us all out for high crimes of procrastination. The girl with the twitch I kept catching in my peripheral vision. The sad-looking person who seemed a little too relaxed, like she had already finished all her work and was just in there for fun. Beeyatch.


I have been logging in some serious hours in front of the television--escaping into the drama of fictional people really takes the edge off of my real-life issues.


I do not know WHAT THIS EFFING BANK WANTS FROM ME! I AM TRYING TO BE A RESPONSIBLE HOME OWNER, BUT THEY SEEM TO THINK THAT THEY DON'T HAVE TO DEAL WITH ME UNTIL I'M ON THE BRINK OF HOMICIDE.


It takes me a full day to accomplish what she does in a few hours. And if you lend a hand in her kitchen and don't hear some form of "move your hands and feet faster," either she's not feeling well or you're not in the right kitchen.


All this is making me question my mothering capabilities; if I can't wrangle one grown woman, how the heck am I going to raise children?


For me, the best way to hone a skill is by playing for keeps. And this project slowed me down and steadied my hand--it's amazing how few envelopes you waste by actually stopping to think about what you're going to do before dipping the pen.


I can only describe the woman's accent as having had a terrible accident.

*Even though for a month I have promised a post about the AWESOME Amazing Race I participated in for Angel07's birthday--I took the photos on my mom's camera and saved them onto Blogger at my parents house when I was there for her recovery, but apparently part of dial-up is that it only pretends like it's uploading photos and they are no longer on here. So I have to go back and get them on a jump drive. Sorry ladies!

looks like we made it

Ah, the last day of my third year participating in NaBloPoMo. It got kind of rough there for a few weeks, but you guys stepped up and helped me through it. A very big THANK YOU goes out to everyone who offered and wrote guest posts for me this month. I could never have done it without you guys!

In case you missed them:

Angel07 described what it's like on jury duty on the 7th
The Psychic Pimp asked about living with a boy on the 11th
My brother considered breaking up with the Chicago Cubs on the 12th
H followed up with his take on baseball prognosticating on the 13th
Alexandra got the religious take on guilt on the 21st

and Mr. Toast submitted a lovely post that I didn't get around to putting up. I'm going to keep that one in the bank for later.

On the 9th, I posted a big long list of things I did the night before a big deadline, including rolling up each extra plastic bag in the kitchen pantry for easy removal. The ever-intrepid Syar sent me an email explaining her triangle-folding method, which my brain was too fried to comprehend, so she whipped up this handy diagram. In like two minutes! She's got mad skills.

I kind of got used to posting every day. While I can't promise I'll continue, I will probably be posting more frequently in the coming days, as I procrastinate on these projects, and I'll likely be
having a lot more to say when I don't have much to do but try and find a job. Stay tuned!

guilty as charged. and then some.

Today's guest post comes all the way from the Netherlands. It's by my real-life good friend and very first blog pal, Alexandra. More than three years ago, we made a pact to start blogs and accomplish our goals, one by one, and we're actually doing it! She even made the leap from New York to Holland and recently moved into a new home with her man, Vito. Holy paint chips, life can change a lot in three years!

This post is pretty timely, as I was just explaining to someone the other day that not only do I have Catholic guilt, but Indian guilt, daughter guilt and oldest-child guilt. Trust me, that's a heavy load to walk around with every day. I blame the Auntie Patrol.

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In the Netherlands, presents are exchanged on December 5 instead of December 25. This is also due to the fact that the Dutch have "Sinter Klaas" (in lieu of SANTA CLAUS and of course COMPLETELY different from Santa Claus, even though both are big old men with white beards wearing big red coats). Anyway, this Sinter Klaas comes to Holland bringing gifts a bit earlier then Santa Claus, thus the exchange is earlier in Holland. Maybe it is a good thing after all, because the whole gift-exchange craze does take over Christmas completely and people forget why exactly they are exchanging gifts in the first place. But at the same time I think the anticipation is completely heightened when you get to see those gifts under the tree multiply through all of December!

I have been thinking about what gifts I would like to get and to give...every time I think about it, I can't help but to feel guilty, thinking about all those people in the world that need a gift more than I do. However, I want gifts too! I like getting them, besides I know it makes loved ones feel good to give ME gifts, just like it makes me feel good to give them gifts and see them smile. So why this feeling of GUILT???

I've heard of the various phrases, the "Catholic guilt", "Jewish guilt"—I'm not Catholic and due to my Jewish background, I always thought that "Jewish guilt" was when mothers scolded their sons for not calling them enough (every five minutes).

Well, maybe we can clear up some of this by going to the "experts." And by that of course I mean Google!

So...

Here is an excerpt from Torah.org that states that guilt, to a certain degree, is a positive thing as it moves us to change and improve our actions to get positive result. However sometimes guilt gets to a point that it simply discourages us to improve because we feel hopeless that anything we do won't be enough. The advice is to understand where guilt becomes a negative thing and basically nip it!

A simple test is suggested to distinguish good guilt from the bad:

"Ask yourself the following question: I did the wrong thing, I feel bad, I am sorry I did it...now what? Is this feeling of guilt motivating me in a positive or negative way? Am I getting too depressed to continue doing the right thing (I am in "shutdown" mode) or am I determined to succeed the next time? The answer will help you decide what kind of guilt you are feeling. Keep in mind, if the guilt is unhealthy guilt, DON'T LISTEN TO IT. Fight it. Pull yourself out of the slump and do the right thing. You will see an immediate change in the way you feel."

Here is an example of an explanation of the "Catholic" or Christian guilt in a huge document from 1904 called "Explanation of Catholic Morals."

I just read the beginning paragraphs, and interestingly enough it pretty much talks about the same thing: Guilt is supposed to help you to act in a positive way. For example, feeling that we are indeed responsible for doing the right thing even though God will step in and help us along... but ONLY if we stand up and actually start doing something.

"God helps those who help themselves. A supernatural state does not dispense us from the obligation of practising natural virtue. You can build a supernatural life only on the foundations of a natural life."

So basically, in order to accomplish something good we actually have to take action and not just sit in the corner and pray and hope good stuff will happen and if it doesn't—feel guilty about it.

How does this all apply to my little guilt dilemma of receiving gifts? Well, from both the Jewish and Christian advice I realize that it's OK to not be able to cure world's hunger single-handedly. I should NOT feel guilty about not being able to do that. My "good" guilt should, however, propel me to DO something. Even if it's something small. I should not let the "bad" guilt get me so down and feeling hopeless about the situation that I just sit and do nothing...spiraling into feeling even more guilty and bad.

So! I can do the gift exchange but ask for a smaller gift and for a cash portion that can in turn be donated to my favorite charity. YEY! Problem solved!

...unless we consult those whose religion is Atheism... They would say that this exercise here we just did is simply rationalization of guilt:

"In psychology and logic, rationalization is the process of constructing a logical justification for a belief, decision, action or lack thereof that was originally arrived at through a different mental process. It is a defense mechanism in which unacceptable behaviors or feelings are explained in a rational or logical manner; this avoids the true explanation of the behavior or feeling in question."

Oy vey!

leave the punditry to the indian scholars

The Major League Baseball playoffs were a tense time for me this year. First off, it was NEVER ENDING. Second, I couldn't get away from the superfans, which actually made me care less about what was going on. Third, my boyfriend and my brother are each devoted to teams who were battling it out in the first round of National League playoffs. My daily conversation during those several weeks included far too much baseball talk, and my loyalty was often called into question. It was enough to drive a girl to want to knock herself out with a bat.

But I maintained my ground. FOR THE RECORD: I will always root for Chicago, no matter what. And any children I may create in the future will have plenty of Cubs influence, but they will have the freedom to choose which team they'd like to support.

I thought it'd only be proper to have H post his own thoughts about this past baseball season after my brother had his take. Above all else, I always try my best to be fair. And while I hope that this will be the last sports-jargon fest on Do They Read Obituaries in Hell?, I realize that's probably just wishful thinking.

So here is H's perspective.

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The 2008 Philadelphia Phillies are everything that's right with baseball. It's not easy for me to say that, but it's true. What I really wish I could say is that the 2008 Los Angeles Dodgers are everything that's right with baseball, but they didn't win the World Series and that still stings. But the Phillies, and even more so the Tampa Bay Rays, represent the greater good for fans everywhere. Neither of those teams were anywhere near the top of the list of World Series contenders, and yet there they were, competing for the ultimate prize in baseball. And while it pains me greatly, I can recognize the value in this.

This year's World Series should give hope to fans everywhere (not surprisingly, I'm still miffed it wasn't my team). The greatest (and worst) thing you can give a fan is hope. This year showed us that next spring, it doesn't matter what happened this year, it's all up for grabs again and there are no guarantees. All you have to do is make the playoffs and get hot at just the right time.

I was born and raised in Southern California. So when it comes to professional sports, that's where my loyalties lie.* I bleed purple, gold and blue. It never ends either, much to the dismay of Cadiz. When the Lakers were dismissed by the Celtics in the NBA Finals, I drowned my sorrows in many, many Dodger games. It wasn't therapeutic at the time, but then something extraordinary happened: We got Manny. Sure, I've heard the stories about him in Boston, but we gave up surprisingly little in the trade. We finally had a Big Bad that other teams would fear (by the way, did this feel like when the Lakers traded for Gasol? You bet you're a$$ it did, but nothing will ever be as lopsided as that Gasol trade. Nothing.).

Manny did the unthinkable. In two short months, he gave people everywhere a reasonable argument to nominate him for National League MVP while having played little less than a third of the season there. The Dodgers ended up taking the National League West Division title and ended up facing the Chicago Cubs in the first round of the playoffs.

I moved to Chicago right before the baseball season started. I sat through six months of "Go, Cubs Go" and "W" flags flying all over the place. Apparently, you "can't stop TheRiot" and Fukadome is people's "homie." I wore my Dodgers hat every day and thanked every Cubs fan for his or her valuable insight as to how much my team sucked. It didn't help that the Cubs swept the Dodgers during their only visit to Wrigley. (I attended two of those games personally.) I will say this though, Cubs fans at Wrigley were much more civil after a victory than the Cubs fans I've seen at Dodger Stadium after they win there.

But that was prior to the Ramirez trade. Leading up to the first game of the playoffs, I was amazed (especially given their history) at the confidence Cubs fans exuded. More than a few people I ran into had the Cubs locked into the World Series. Worse yet, the sports pundits were saying the same. That's usually the kiss of death as far as I'm concerned. So I issued my own warnings about how the Dodgers' pitching staff is better than they thought and how Manny had really opened up the lineup, but they seemed to fall on deaf ears.

We all know what happened now so I won't recount history, but I'd like to say a few things about what it's like to be a fan of the team that beats the most cursed team in all of sports—not counting the Washington Generals. First of all, it feels fantastic. Second, I don't really have anything against the Cubs. If my team isn't competing against them, I don't mind if they win. Really, they are the lovable losers that everyone makes them out to be. But I'd be lying if I didn't relish every single victory my team claimed. That is the life a true sports fan. And this is how you justify things like beating the Cubs.

After the Cubs' elimination from the playoffs, all the sports pundits (including some ludicrous simulation that said the Dodgers prevailed 67% of the time, which is apparently an overwhelming number in those obviously useless simulations), picked the Dodgers to easily beat the Phillies. I'll go on the record as saying that I hate sports punditry and prognostication.

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*He also follows the St. Louis Rams (which incidentally have gold and blue as their colors) because they originally were a Los Angeles team.

we're on a break

Today's guest post is actually the first one I received--even before I realized I ought to think about having guest posts this month. I can't even say why I saved his for today. It just felt right. There's not much I can say about my brother, except that I love him as much as he loves the Chicago Cubs. But I guess that's saying more about his love for the team than anything else, because if you've spent any time reading my posts, you know how much I love my brother.

Apparently, he still loves them even after the disappointment of this past baseball season. This post was sent to me on October 8, after the once-promising Chicago Cubs were eliminated from the playoffs.

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In 2003 as I sat in a local bar in Cajun Country sipping on the last of my Bud Light, I drowned my sorrows as I watched my beloved Chicago Cubs once again find a way to collapse. I thought to myself How much more can a long-suffering fan endure? The previous night I had been in the same bar watching the events of Steve Bartman as he reached over the stands to basically rip out millions of Cubs Nation hearts and end any hope of the world series. That incident, not to mention an Alex Gonzalez error in the infield, changed the complexity of the enitre series and led me to sorrows the next night. I could not explain it. I was not in Chicago, thank the good lord. I could not believe my eyes and thought nothing could be worse.

Let's fast-forward to 2006, three years after the Bartman incident: new team, new life etc. Alfonso Soriano, D Lee,* Aramis Ramierez--this was the year; we caught the Brew Crew to end the season and won the NL Central. We were on fire going into the playoffs facing a difficult road, but it wasn't impossible. I, however, was nervous as usual but enjoyed the fact that the Cubs were not the front-runners for the NL pennant, but they still had a legitimate shot. Game 3 came before I knew it and the brooms were out already in Roll Tide Nation, where baseball was just an afterthought because Nick Saban and his 4 million dollars had entered 'Bama. I was ridiculed because I was a sucker for a team who just could not win the Big One or smell anything close to it, but I hung in there, thinking that things could not get any worse.

This year was different. I'd had my heart broken twice. I'm not old enough to remember '69, '84 and '89, but I had read and heard enough about "the goat," etc. to believe many others were suffering far worse than I.

2008! One hundred years without a title, a weak NL--the cards just felt right and this was the year. I went to Chicago in May after graduation to see the Cubs as much as I could: six Cubs games in a span of two weeks, even inviting my roommate from LA (Lower Alabama) because I wanted him to visit the Friendly Confines the year that the Cubs were going to finally go All The Way. By mid-September, the Cubs had acquired a pitcher who would complete the rotation and take them to the promised land. Big Z threw a no-hitter, the first since 1932. We had wrapped up home-field advantage. Many said this team was better than every other team that had a realistic shot. 97 wins, an NL best. Repeat NL central champs, All-stars galore. The stars were aligned...

I had been counting down the days until late October. My flight was on stand-by and my mom had already talked to several connections about a game-three ticket to the World Series. "Go Cubs Go" became my ringtone as well as the first song on my iPod. Man the Kool-Aid was tasting great. I was talking so much garbage that people were starting to believe. Game 1 against the Dodgers came quick, and I was ready to see history made in front of my eyes. I was decked out in my Cubs gear, including my new pajamas (thanks mom), standing with excitement as I watched. Then happiness quickly turned into sorrow when James Loney hit a grand slam and Game 1 was over quicker than Usain Bolt in the Olympics. I should have learned my lesson from '03 and '06. Big Z took the mound in Game 2, and an error occurred at every infield position. It looked as though I was watching a movie; it was like God was just standing there as the ball was hit and he paused it and moved the ball, laughing his fanny off in sheer enjoyment.

An erie feeling came from my stomach, and just like that we were SWEPT in three straight games. I was sick with disgust, heartbreak and betrayal. First off, I know it is just a game and no one should care about something that they can't control. My love for the Cubs goes deeper than anything I can imagine. I have read many columns and read the newspapers; many fans are saying that it will never happen. I have even heard of drastic approaches like going to the South side or the Red Birds. And many have given up and said To hell with the "loveable losers." It has been almost a full week since the nightmare, and I sat there and watched the BoSox win yet another series and get one step closer to the World Series. They got over the hump in '04 after 86 years. Even without Manny they are still winning. I'm really not asking for much, just one series. One great October. One magical season that is complete.

One column writer went as far as to say that he broke up with the Cubs on Saturday night. I'm not going to go that far. However I think I need to re-evaluate our relationship until I can get a committment to winning. Until then, we are definitely "on a break."


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*That's my favorite player!

Living with a boy: Yay or Nay?

Today's guest post is by pp, my college roommate. I can't begin to describe all the stuff pp and I have been through together. She was certainly a big influence on my formative years in Champaign, and I'm so thankful to have been randomly assigned to live with her, even though she hates holiday music. She's the only one I know who knows random things like when Kirk Cameron's birthday is, and she always gives great fashion advice.

I was around when she met her boyfriend, whom she occasionally refers to as "the male version of Cadiz." MB and I have a lot of the same habits, including procrastination. I don't know how the heck she puts up with either one of us.

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You all may not be aware but MB & I have been together for nine years now. As he likes to say, he was barely legal when we met. We live by our own relationship “rules” and we’re happy. My friends and loved ones know not to be pushy with the whole marriage thing, but I must say they are getting antsy. They are wondering when we'll take that other next step: living together. MB has tried, but I’ve nixed the idea on more than one occasion. The way I see it, I don’t want to live with a dirty boy until I have to (i.e. when we’re married). Even then I have contemplated starting a new trend where he has his place across the street from mine, a la Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.

Recently MB stayed over for about a month straight—and I liked it. So I’ll admit that lately I’ve been toying with the idea of inviting MB to officially move in. I keep going back and forth. Shouldn’t I enjoy these last couple of years of living alone because later I’ll have a hubby and eventually some kiddies? Or should I welcome MB with open arms so we can work out all the roommate kinks before we’re married?

So I’m seeking advice from those who are in this current situation. What are some pros and cons of living with a boy?

it sure ain't like law and order

A few weeks ago when I looked at my schedule but went ahead and signed up for NaBloPoMo anyway, I realized I was going to need some help. So I put out a request to people I have talked about on the blog asking if they wouldn't mind lending their own voices to a few posts.

My first guest-poster is angel07, a really awesome person I met toward the end of college who I still love to hang out with. I'm disappointed I hadn't met her sooner!
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IT SURE AIN’T LIKE LAW AND ORDER...

When Cadiz asked for guest’s posts, I thought “Sure! Why not? I’ve been a loyal reader almost since the beginning! I'll talk about some of my favorites that made me laugh out loud, embarrassingly, at work.” But then I hit a stroke of luck. Bad luck:

I got picked to serve on a jury.

Now, notice I didn’t say I got “summoned” for jury duty. I’ve received a summons for jury duty five times in the last eight-ish years, so that really wasn’t anything special. This was the very first time I was picked to act as a juror. It was for a first-degree murder case, and the courthouse was a hike for me every day. (Lucky for me, gas prices have been low!)

Rather than go on and on about the ins and outs and objections and side bars, here are some key points I’d like to highlight:

-The U.S. judicial system is slowwwwww. This crime happened in 2003!

-Through the jury selection process, you learn of the horrific situations your fellow citizens have endured.

-Once someone describes one of the defense attorneys as a cross between Ursula from The Little Mermaid and an Oompa Loompa, you can’t really help but think about that every time you see her.

-Criminal court cafeteria food quality is a step above airplane food. It’s more of a tiny hop really…

-When stuck in a room with 14 other people, after a week and a half anything can become amusing. Taking bets on how long it will take for the grease to soak out of a stale doughnut onto a napkin can be fun.

-Not everyone knows how to read—not even a 19 year old witness. (No Child Left Behind?!? Yeah RIGHT!)

-Some deputy sheriffs sleep on the job! I saw three of them do it!

-If two defendants are on trial for a murder, they can each have their own juries.

-There is no concrete way for a scientist to determine an exact time of death. Take that CSI!

-After 12+ hours of sitting around, you can forget where you parked your car.

-You are legally guilty of first-degree murder if you take part in, well, any step involved in the events that led up to the crime. (Even if you weren’t the one holding the gun.) So if anyone ever asks you for help doing something shady, say NO!

-No matter how patient I try and be, if you continuously talk over me we WILL have words!

-Nothing speeds up a unanimous verdict like the word “sequester.”

As I drove home just before midnight last night, we finished the trial and I have no regrets. Especially when the judge came to talk to us afterward and explained that the man we just sent to jail was a past convicted felon. No one mentioned that to us previously, as it would have led to prejudice. But I will tell you this: If I EVER get summoned for jury duty again, I will have five reasons in my back pocket as to why I cannot serve. Once in a lifetime is enough. ;)

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If you would like to write a guest post here during the month of November to help me out with NaBloPoMo, just drop me a line at cadiztwelve[at]gmail[dot]com. Thanks, angel07!