my hips certainly don't lie

it's no secret that i'm all about being indian. so of course i tried my hand at bharata natyam. however, unlike most people who start at an early age, i was a 16-year-old learning poses in a class full of gradeschoolers. soon enough, though, the teacher moved me up with people closer to my age, and by my senior year of high school she had me performing in a group with a few people who had even completed their bharata natyam "graduation," which requires many many years of extensive training. this was cool with me-- i sweat through my clothes, toned up my body (there's a lot of sustained crouching which hurts like hell but makes for great muscles), had fun with ri's sister in class and got to perform in some pretty cool places.

the teacher was young, beautiful and an accomplished dancer. she was strict with us, keeping time with a special wooden rod on a block of wood and mock threatening to smack us in the legs if we weren't "sitting" into the positions as we were supposed to. she said she had big plans for me, despite the fact that i'd be going away to school after only two years of training with her. she was confident i'd come home every weekend to continue. and while that was highly unlikely, there was a chance i might have gone back and trained with her after college, because i had found a day job nearby. that is, if i wasn't still pouting.

it was my senior year of high school. i had an afterschool job, was trying to pay attention in class, applying to college, maintaining a *secret* boyfriend (whom my parents pretty much knew about all along, what a waste of effort that was) and still looking for more time to goof off with my friends for the last months we'd all still be together before graduation. so i told the teacher auntie that i wasn't going to be able to come all the time because i was barely getting any sleep as it was with my schedule. she said it was fine, but to come over so she could introduce me to her guru, who was visiting from India.

obviously i wanted to meet this woman; my teacher revered her so much that she turned into a simpering lady-in-waiting in her presence. but what i thought was a visit over tea turned into a backbreaking lesson from the guru-- and NOBODY says no to the guru-- because she wanted to see what i was made of. the next thing i knew, i was roped into doing several pieces in a show with her; it perfectly ate up what little unscheduled time i had left. but i did it. i sat in those rehearsal rooms barefoot with no heat waiting for my turn and doing my homework in the corner, i stayed up all night finishing projects because of work and practice and i ended up catching a mammoth headcold. i felt like i had sacrificed a lot of a special time in my life out of respect for my teacher, but it was cool to be around all those accomplished people.

it was fine, i chugged some medicine and performed, happy for it finally to be over. there were so many people involved from so many places -- the guru had her chosen musicians and there were people from all over the area that came to be a part of it, kids, adults, everyone. and we had all put in hella time and effort, too.

teacher auntie took the mic at the end of the night and made a sweet speech, talking about how people gave up a lot of their precious time and reshuffled commitments to attend practice and kids stayed up late and moms ignored their families and everyone worked tremendously hard. standing up there, huffing and puffing in a line with all the performers, i was aw-shucksing and sheepishly smiling, sorta thinking she was talking specifically about me. and then teacher auntie individually called all of our names, from the littlest four-year-old to the guru, to step forward and take a bow individually.

except she forgot to call mine.

it was just an oversight, i know. but something in that moment just broke in me. i had been running on fumes for several weeks, not sleeping, skimping on things that meant a lot to me and a lot of it was to accommodate this damn show and this woman, whom i probably wouldn't see after i went away to college. i was sick, drugged up and more tired than i could explain. and she made sure to thank the kids who played foliage but forgot about me?

i went to the dressing room and started ripping off all the jewelry and extra costume pieces and stuffing them into my bag. teacher auntie saw i was annoyed and apologized to me. i said it wasn't a big deal, but it WAS a big deal. i felt like such a fool. i had bent over backwards to appease this woman and i wasn't expecting anything from it, but i thought i deserved as much as everyone else. i felt like a fool for being guilted into it in the first place and i started to cry, just like i had when i was six and lost my doll. appropriately, a six-year-old looked at me with disgust and said to her friend, "look! such a big girl and she's CRYING!" and laughed.

that was it. i was done with this auntie and her cackling proteges. on top of that, she never managed to return all those costume pieces that i stayed up all night sewing, either.

that was more than ten years ago. i haven't thought about that woman or what happened for a very long time. until this morning, when i was flipping through a magazine and read that teacher auntie's dance company in chicago impressed Shakira so much she wanted to work with them. teacher auntie and four dancers were flown out to new york, two of them were featured ON STAGE, ON MTV during the introduction to the "hips don't lie" performance at the video music awards in August.

i couldn't help but wonder if, in some kind of an alternate universe, i could have been bumping hips with Shakira on television.

aw snap, the Auntie Patrol is locked and loaded

So this morning at like 6am, A and I were up on one of the floors of the hospital to see a nurse about a patient, and I spotted one of the members of the Auntie Patrol sitting at a nurse's unit with her nose buried in a chart.

The good little Indian girl that I am (You MUST "time-wish" anyone who is more than ten years older than you after church, no exceptions), I went up to her and gave her a hug. But while she was stunned I took off for the other end of the ward, realizing that if I weren't so well-trained I could have walked right past her and she never even would have noticed me. Damn internal programming.

I called my mom during break and warned her about the run-in so she could prepare. "Oh no," was all she had to say.

A understood the implications of what went down and shook her head about the "way 'the community' works." It's only a matter of time before the rumor mill starts churning and my mom has to deflect talk about about what a shame, with my degree from that live-away-from-home university, it is that I am doing something that has nothing to do with said degree. I reminded her that I am still freelancing in my field and that I plan on more school as soon as I figure out what, and hello, BENEFITS? We don't have to make excuses to anyone. But I hate to have put her in a position where my parents will likely be judged. Because a) they didn't create this craptasticular economy b) letting me follow my own path actually made them better parents c) shit happens.

There's a chance the Auntie Patrol will exercise some discretion and refrain from slinging backhanded compliments about how getting into the medical field is such a great idea, even if it's so late, or casually mentioning that kids I used to babysit are already two years into medical school. But there surely will be commentary out of earshot. Who knows, maybe that's a good thing; it'll take their minds off wondering if my sexual orientation is the X factor keeping me from being married already.

I'm not terribly upset about this, because it's better than having one of them come in as my patient and see that I'm still working out the kinks on my stretcher-parking. Again, I know I don't have to explain myself to anybody. But seriously, what are the odds?




*"Time wish"= saying "Good [morning/evening]/Happy [Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year/Easter], Generic term for relation such as [Uncle/Auntie/Big Sister/Big Brother]." Those kids who did not act accordingly back in the day were perceived as snotty little brats who were not raised properly.

even if it means they call me Dork

I remember trying to explain the Auntie thing to H when he and I were first dating. I confessed to feeling weird about the idea of calling people who are older than me by their first names (even now I only do so at work). What's with all the awkwardness? I blame the motherland. 

Where my family's from, everyone has a very specific title; you never have to say "My father's younger brother's wife," you say "My Chachi" (or whatever the word is depending what area you hail from). And while learning them can be tricky, using them makes things easier. Especially when you employ my no-embarrassment method of addressing any unrelated elder as Auntie or Uncle.

Sepia Mutiny had a tribute post to the Auntie today and one commenter mentioned that he feels more warmth and affection when his cousin's children address him as "Mama" (mother's brother) or "Chacha" (father's brother) than if they were to just call him "Uncle."

I feel exactly the same way. In fact, I've been telling my brother for years that my kids will call him "Mama" no matter how much he protests. My brother, however, thinks that sounds ridiculous and would prefer that my children call him by his first name, or "Uncle." He swears that if I make my kids call him "Mama" he will make his own children address me as "Dork."

So I guess that just proves that personality has just as much to do with people's choices as culture. But it's interesting how people choose which practices to keep from what they knew as children. And the comments on that Sepia Mutiny post show only a small variety of how many choices are out there. 

I'm banking on the hope that my children will be adorable, so even if they were to call my brother something like "Uncle Doodyface" he'd just chuckle and say, "Just call me Mama." 

further proof that the "Auntie Patrol" exists outside of my imagination

last year there was quite a stir over allegations that 19-year-old Harvard student Kaavya Viswanathan had plagiarized something like 40 sections of somebody else's work for her book, How Opal Mehta Got Kissed, Got Wild and Got a Life. later it was shown that her writing was in fact very similar to passages by author Megan McCafferty.

of course, a college sophomore whose book was in the process of film adaptation is already a talker, but several people found it an especially good conversational piece for me, "local representative of all indian-americans worldwide," because obviously, having similar heritage means i have a direct connection to her brain. yet i was embarrassed for my people. because as much as nobody likes stereotypes, you know there are those out there who made mental notes about this and will associate it with the entire group in the future. there was so much media attention, i had to check this one out for myself. besides, i wanted to know just what the hell was so great about it that ole girl got a book deal so young.

one of my coworkers had bought the book on eBay for four dollars and lent it to me. i'll save you the trouble of hunting it down (supposedly the publishers recalled most copies), but forgive me if i get some of the details wrong. basically this girl opal and her parents' lifelong goal is to get her into Harvard. she has no social life because she's busting her ass garnering the collective achievements of all the characters on tv's Head of the Class. she goes to her early admission interview with the Harvard people and they tell her to come back again when she has a life.

opal has a meltdown and, after her parents remake her into one of the "Plastics" from Mean Girls complete with manolo blahniks, she --SURPRISE!-- gets into that clique. of course it goes badly: she screws over the boy she didn't realize she liked while pursuing somebody she thought she ought to be with, realizes that being fake sucks, comes into her own, lands her man, goes back to Harvard and gets in. hooray! along the way, her parents tivo The O.C. and spout phrases like "gettin' jiggy wit it" and "bling" with what i can only imagine is a thick indian-parent accent. (hearing that in my head was by far the best part.)

after finishing the book, i couldn't help but feel sad for Kaavya Viswanathan. her character, backed by the blessings of her parents, is prepared to sell her soul in order to get into the ivy-league. and while the hoops opal jumps through may have been intended to be funny, how different are they from what the author herself did to get ahead? those of us whose parents sacrificed their own dreams to give us better opportunities know exactly what that means in terms of pressure to show them it was worth it.

Viswanathan has said in interviews that the book was a work in progress from when she was in high school. and while one can't argue the similarities between her words and the phrases used by McCafferty (whose books, Viswanathan admits to admiring), there are some things such as a desi*-minded take on current popculture that i doubt she could have gotten from anywhere but personal experience. that's the saddest part of this story. did she deliberately mimic McCafferty to ensure her book's success? or did rote-memorization techniques that likely helped her get that ivy-league admission unconsciously do her in? we'll never know. regardless, had Viswanathan's book not risked her credibility by piggybacking on somebody else's ideas, she could have still written a decent novel. but now that the damage is done, she'll never get the chance. it's a tough lesson for a kid, and an irreversible one at that. but it's okay, she can always go to medical school, right?

personally, i thought this description of what i like to call the "Auntie Patrol" was especially vivid:

Since all the Indian families lived in identical large center-hall colonials, drove the same cars (black or silver Range Rovers and Benzes), and shared the same twice-a-week Guatemalan housekeeper, Chlorinda, the only real topics of discussion at the ladies' weekly Wednesday lunch were (a) whose child was smarter/ more successful, (b) whose husband bought them the largest emerald set, and (c) do you think she really cooked that paneer herself? (If the hostess in question was ever caught trying to pass off catered food as her own, her days in the Woodcliff Indian social circle were numbered.) In the weeks surrounding crucial dates (November 1: early application deadline; December 15: early application decisions; January 1: regular application deadline; April 1: regular application decisions), topics B and C were completely submerged by A.

Competition between the parents was fierce and unforgiving. Last April, when my mom had hosted the lunch, I had seen the superficially pitying, inwardly gloating glances exchanged over masala dosai when Shalini Gandhi was rejected by Yale. The day Kishan Patel announced that he was dropping the premed track at NYU and entering Tisch School of the Arts for filmmaking, his parents shuttered their blinds for three days to avoid the shocked stares of their neighbors (everyone knew that an Indian who didn't study medicine was a failed Indian). Relations between Mrs. Kumar and my family were always strained because she had a son in my grade, who she was determined would make it to the Ivy League. I never had the heart to tell her that Amit was notorious throughout WHS for pretending to be a Sikh so that he could keep marijuana stashed in his turban.

the sentiment is dead on, even if the details are ridiculous. but just to be safe, i should get a copyright on the term "Auntie Patrol" before someone steals it for the big screen and i get no royalties. you know, it takes some serious cash to make sure Chlorinda does a good job buffing the rims on the 'Benz.

* desi (they-see): a word used by indians to describe something or someone as being from the motherland

everything you didn't realize you wanted to know about Do They Read Obituaries in Hell?

You've been called many things: Dungeon Diva, champion for the rights of left-lane drivers, Grammar Nazi. Why Cadiz?
It's a town in Spain that I visited when I studied abroad in college. There's a story there, which involves a city full of drunken people and five of them sleeping in a Micromachine-sized hatchback on the side of the road. But I'll save that one for another time. I just like the way the name sounds. Especially with the twelve. Oh, and it's pronounced cAh-deez, not cuh-dizz.

Ok, that's good to know. So what is this blog about?
Me, mostly. For a couple years, I worked fluctuating, late hours in a tiny, windowless, cinderblock office with only a computer to keep me company. Then I'd come home and be unable to sleep until the birds started chirping so when I was available, everyone else was either asleep or at work. A blog is a nice use-at-your-own-convenience reminder to other human beings that I am still alive. Oh, and this is the exclusive online place to find Musto & Bones's "Dangerous On the Dance Floor" lyrics, the pursuit of which plagued me for years.

But most of your commenters seem to be other bloggers.
I know! The original target audience seems to have either forgotten that I am indeed alive, or is unable to remember or bookmark the entire address to look at the thing. And if they do, they rarely comment. But personal-time computer stuff isn't everybody's bag, and I can respect that. Regardless, I've gotten to know some awesome people from this, and now I sort of write for them.

You talk a lot about this H character. What's his deal?
He and I met through a mutual friend in New York and get to see each other about once a month because he lives in California and I live in Chicago. It doesn't make a lot of sense, but it works for us. Maybe not forever, but for right now.

***H moved to Chicago in March 2008.***
***H asked me to marry him in September 2009, I accepted, and we have a tentative wedding date for sometime in 2013--sooner if someone wants to make a very generous donation.***
***H is Jon***
***We moved the wedding date up to September 17, 2011, because it's been long enough already, dangit***
***Our wedding was great. In fact, I wrote about it here for every day of November 2011.**


Sometimes you write about heavy topics, especially when your brother is sick.
If you think about it, I'm pretty much an open book. Sure, I don't use my real name or talk specifics about what I do, but just as Real-Life-me is an atrocious liar, it's hard to keep stuff I'm going through off the blog. My little brother's struggle with his heart condition is a huge part of who I am. And though he's a tremendous smartass, he's the strongest person I know and one of the best people on the planet.

You also talk about being Indian-American. What would your Biodata say?
That I am 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34, educated and I live in Chicago suburbia. I have no children and have not been am married. The problem with all that Biodata nonsense is that it's just a resume with a picture. It won't tell you that I can do a breakdance six-step and I can't live without cheeseburgers, I have been classically trained in dutiful daughterism and can walk around in a sari and heels without falling down. Or that I can sing the entire "I'm a Toys-R-Us Kid" jingle and hum the themesong music to the A-Team. Or that I graduated from my mom's Indian cooking lessons with a PhD in At Least Your Children Won't Starve. The Auntie Patrol would take one look and tsk-tsk that I am not a doctor, lawyer or engineer. And to them, I'm practically expired my eggs are drying up. But getting their approval isn't terribly high on my to-do list.

Auntie Patrol? Is that some kind of secret military society?
No, it's what I lovingly call my parents' peers. They gave each other disapproving looks when my parents let me go away to college, but then heartily congratulated me on my graduation (and probably breathed a sigh of relief that being away from home didn't turn me into a heroin-addled harlot after all.) They uphold the centuries-old tradition of oneupping each other about their kids, but really, they're very nice people who have been like real aunts and uncles to me because all my genetic ones live on the other side of the world.

Word on the street is that you're starting your career over. How's that going? (2009)
Yeah, the dungeon-report industry is seriously floundering these days. Competing against more-experienced people as well as those who work for practically free (read: recent grads who don't have mortgages) isn't as glamorous as it sounds. Plus the slim pickings we're vying for could dump us back into the unemployment line before we're there two months--that's already happened to me. I went for this hospital job (September 2009) because I had the experience and they had the benefits. It's challenging to the mind, keeps the body moving, and it's nice to know I'm helping people feel better. I'm still freelancing in the old career, but now I can add "Quick with a throw-up bucket" to my resume.

Now for a few questions from the gallery. At what age did you realize what your favorite color was? (from H)
No age. My favorite color seems to change every several years. When I was little, it was pink. Then red, then blue for a long time. And the last couple years, it's been green.

How long is your hair cadiz? (alexandra)
It hangs about a foot and a half down from the top of my head, but it's shorter when i leave it curly.
***I donated 21 inches of my hair to Locks of Love in December, 2008***

What's next for you?
Next? Oh, I'll probably watch some TV, eat, talk on the phone and go to bed. And then one day I'll die. Hopefully I'll leave behind some kids and a legacy.

Describe yourself in one word.
Savory.

Ok, one last thing: Do they read obituaries in hell?
Yes, I've decided that they do. They need to know who's coming.

escort cards

When Jon proposed, we didn't set a wedding date right away (savings draining away into the condo on the market). You'd think I would still be thinking about it, or at least gathering ideas, right? Nope. Through the end of 2009 and most of 2010, before we actually started planning, I had only decided on one thing: How I was going to make sure Jon's mistress got a prime spot at our wedding.

Sports, people. SPORTS IS HIS MISTRESS. Between work, hanging out with me and friends and fueling the devotion to his teams, the man doesn't have time for an actual mistress. And I like it that way.

Escort cards are generally how people figure out where they're going to be sitting when they show up to the reception. They differ from placecards in that placecards tell you which specific seat you'll be occupying at the table. Some people make one big sign, some people combine the cards with favors, some people skip the numbers all together--some friends of ours named their tables after places around the world that they'd visited together.

Here's what we did: Each table was named after one of our favorite professional sports players. We put the jersey icon displayed at a table on the back of the name card for people sitting at that table so they could match it up. Jon was worried that because the numbers weren't going to be sequential, people would be confused. But when we made our grand entrance, it looked like everyone got to where they needed to sit just fine.

 

Henry Ellard is Jon's favorite athlete of all time (Rams). He wore the numbers 80, 85 and 17. Anyone who has emailed Jon will note the significance. Michael Jordan (Bulls)? Well, duh.

Kai came over a couple days before the wedding to help us get some "conceptualizing" done about how we were going to decorate the space. She and her husband have been gutting their new house and re-doing it for the last two years, so she's pretty practiced at mocking up her vision. I wanted the escort cards pinned up on glassless frames with a fabric background* kind of like this. Here's the mockup for the escort card table, just outside the doors of the reception area. I designed a poster based on our wedding invitation so that we'd have a nice even number of frames. I think that was a nice touch.

 My brother and his M couldn't stand the frames up against the wall because of some pillars, so they just laid them on the table. Honestly, I didn't even get to see what it looked like. I hope it was nice.

Three nights before our wedding, I was typing out all the guests' names and printing out the little cards. Jon and my sisters-in-law and Steve were wrangling it all together, gluing the correct tables with the correct jerseys, punching the holes and making sure everything was going to work out, mathwise. 

Steve (Jon never goes without socks) did a great job with quality control.

My mom had helped me figure out the whole who can sit with whom thing (very tricky when you're dealing with the Auntie Patrol, in which some people cannot be sitting at the same table together). I agree, this is clearly the hardest thing to do when you're planning a wedding, floral tape notwithstanding. As you can see, we had a very sophisticated method of  Post-It Notes cut into strips to designate who was sitting at which table.

 The batik fabric was not half bad, though.

These are the escort cards. The table numbers were simple orange cardstock with a jersey image. Each of those was meticulously cut out by my dad, my cousin's husband, my dad's sister and her husband. You know, because when you fly all the way here from Dubai and India, you really want to be sitting at a kitchen table in suburbia with a pair of child safety scissors all night. God bless them all.

 

 

Thank goodness some of my friends took pictures of the decorations/elements--we have about a billion photos of ourselves, but slim pickings of the rest of the stuff. Which is why there aren't a lot of detail shots for me to put up here. We haven't gotten photos back from the photographer yet, and we want him to take his time with editing.

During the reception when Jon and I were sitting on a raised platform and looking out into the crowd, I realized that I hadn't really given my crew much direction as to where to put which table. Our parents and immediate families were very close, but everyone else was sort of scattered around randomly. I think it's funny that the two people involved were the ones with the least idea of who any of these people are, my brother's M and Jon's sister's husband. But I guess it doesn't matter; there wasn't a bad seat in the whole place. 


Oh, and if you're wondering which players we chose, here they are in no particular order:

Jon's guys: Henry Ellard (Rams, 80), Kobe Bryant (Lakers 24), Derek Fisher (Lakers 2), Marshall Faulk (Rams 28), Eric Gagne (Dodgers 38), Steven Jackson (Rams 39), Earvin "Magic" Johnson (Lakers 32), Matt Kemp (Dodgers 27), Clayton Kershaw (Dodgers 22), Kurt Warner (Rams 13), Lamar Odom "Kardashian" (Lakers 7)


My guys: Michael Jordan (Bulls 23), Walter Payton (Bears 34), B.J. Armstrong (Bulls 10), Scottie Pippen (Bulls 33), Andre Dawson (Cubs 8), Patrick Kane (Blackhawks 88), Derrek Lee (Cubs 25), Greg Maddux (Cubs 31), Jim McMahon (Bears 9), Mike Singletary (Bears 50), Jonathan Toews (Blackhawks 19), Brian Urlacher (Bears 54)

*When I made a quilt for Ale's baby at the beginning of the year, I just fell in love with one particular square: the not-teal-not-green-sort-of-peacock-feathery one. Of course, when I went to the store to get it for the escort frames, I found out that they stopped printing it. I had to settle for some Indonesian batik print that was nice, but not nearly as cool as the original. Oh well.

my sister's keeper

I just finished reading My Sister's Keeper by Jodi Picoult. I approached it with a little hesitation. Mostly because I've always thought of myself as my brother's keeper, but more in the sense that I asked for him, I can't give him back and (don't tell him but) I would never want to. 

I'm not going to go into detail about the book, except that it's about how a family deals with having a daughter with a serious medical condition. Cc is also reading it; she mentioned that it could hit close to home for me and that I didn't have to finish if it made me uncomfortable. And I did identify with some of the book--the helplessness, the confusion, the loving somebody so much that you'd risk anything for them. But that's about it.

As the story unfolded, I started to examine the memories of feelings I had as a kid. Sure it wasn't always a picnic when my brother was in the hospital (and maybe it's because that was so long ago), but I rarely felt overlooked and certainly never felt invisible. I credit my mom for that; she grew up having to share my nani's attention with six other kids and three jobs. It made sense why other, more needy kids got more facetime, but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt her. So my parents have always gone out of their way to make sure I had special moments as the center of attention, too, and that I wasn't an afterthought. 

I assumed being vigilant about doling out attention was something everyone's parents do, but as I moved through the book I realized that's not the easy feat my mom and dad made it seem. It must have been tricky to keep sight of something as silly as an extravagant birthday party for your six-year-old when your 2-year-old is getting ready to have open-heart surgery. But I remember all those birthday parties, every special outing, and how they only shuttled me off to some Auntie's house a couple times when the going got really tough, not as a protocol.

Little kids are perceptive. They remember things like the refreshing relief that not everything is about the other guy. And they hold onto feeling loved and special well into their adult life. I can only hope to do just as right by the kids I might have someday.

one less thing to worry about

So Illinois finally passed the bill that saved my commute. I'm greatly relieved about still having a way to get to work, but I'm anticipating the punch in the face I'll get from the Real Estate Transfer tax hike later this year. Part of the drama leading up to this "doomsday" scenario was that the proposal (which included bumping up the real estate tax in Chicago and the sales tax in the city and collar counties). But at the last minute the Governor said he wouldn't sign it unless senior ride for free.

Don't get me wrong, I love seniors; crotchety as some of them are, most are pretty darn cute. But in the coming years, there are going to be a whole lot of them as more Baby Boomers tire of the 9-to-5. What's going to happen then? How high will the taxes/cost of public transportation jump to make sure all of that is still covered? It's already so expensive to try and live "green," am I going to have to start walking the 72 miles every day? Wait, will I even be able to DO that in a day?

And what about Social Security? I've been paying into the system; am I even going to have anything to lean on later? Oh crap, am I going to have nothing to live on in my twilight years because I didn't set up my 401k until three years into my first job and haven't contributed much since then? And what about when the country goes into a Depression? Waiting-for-Reports jobs are already starting to shrivel up (hell, I practically had four different jobs in a single year).

Oh my God, I should be taking night classes in electronics or iPhones to have some kind of backup plan! What if my kids won't take care of me when I'm old because they're in jail or something? What if I don't even get any kids? What if I never get married and end up living in some ashram somewhere with only one tattered sari because I'm the social outcast that Bollywood and the Auntie Patrol have insinuated I will become if I don't hurry up and make a family before the expiration date stamped on my ass?

And here I thought my worries were over.

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.

*************

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!

ode to a box of dust: part 1

Part of my problem during Spring Cleaning is that, while digging through boxes that haven't seen UV in years, I stop and gingerly leaf through letters and ticket stubs reminiscing while the sun goes down around me and my makeshift fort made of piles of stuff.

These are the contents of a 10-year-old Nike shoebox I found in the back of my closet:



It's every corsage/bouquet of note I have been able to hang on to during the last 15 years, dried and preserved. Every time I opened that box, a flood of memories came rushing back, which is probably why I haven't gotten rid of these things. So, to convince myself that throwing these rotting skeletons of once-beautiful flowers away isn't a crime against all that is sentimental, I snapped some pictures and will share some of the memories with you:


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!" While my parents are a great deal more reasonable than that, I was deathly afraid of them finding out that I actually spoke with boys and even dared to "date" one (if you consider passing notes, talking on the phone, getting rides home from school and going to six movies in three years dating). Most of my fear was that my parents would have to dodge barbs or be ostracized from the Auntie Patrol for being so lenient if I did something stupid like be caught holding his hand in public. Or even worse, attend a school dances with a date. But I did it anyway. Very carefully.

1) When I was 15, I had a crush on a family friend and swooned to find out he liked me back. This corsage was from senior-year Homecoming two years later, the only dance at my school he was able to sneak away from his parents to attend. He wore a black suit and a Mickey Mouse tie and I wore a long-sleeved, floor-length, clingy evergreen dress (the top part was sparkly!). It was made of the kind of fabric that hugs every last curve, but back then I didn't have too many of those, good or bad. A few years ago I tried it on again before giving it to my modelesque cousin, and while I filled it out much better that time, I had to suck in my stomach because the four-pack is now a distant memory. If highschool girls only knew what was coming down the road, they'd be so much easier on themselves. And each other.

2) My father had once watched a Leeza (Gibbons' short-lived Oprahesque talkshow from the early '90s) episode about date rape at The Prom. And although I'm pretty sure he still doesn't fully understand what The Prom is to this day, he forbade me to attend under any circumstances.

I wasn't big into school dances anyway, but I didn't want to regret not going to my senior prom after it was too late. Mr. Mickey Mouse Tie declined my invitation, citing too many logistical problems with lying to our parents, but suggested I go with a friend. And after much debate with ri about the probability of my saying yes--even though, Duh--highcontrast called me up and asked, "so, do you wanna go or what?"

Years of sneaking around on dangerous reputation-destroying missions such as meeting my boyfriend for coffee when I said I'd be at the library taught me that you don't necessarily have to lie. I sweetly told my dad that the school was having a party at a hotel banquet hall for all the soon-to-be-graduates and that I'd need a formal dress. I also threw in that they'd be seating us boy-girl-boy-girl out of tradition, so I'd be sitting with kaiya and highcon, both of whom he already knew. Pops said cool, and handed over the money.

I leafed through the phonebook to help my date order the corsage while we procrastinated writing our English papers. It had tiny pink roses and baby's breath with grey ribbon and tulle. I wore a sleeveless gunmetal-colored satin floorlength dress and had sewn a ridiculous bolero jacket to wear over it so that my father would allow me out of the house. It came off as soon as I was out the door, but I put it back on for the pictures because my mother would want to see them (she knew nothing was going to happen with highcon and distracted my dad while i snuck out). I had my friends pick me up down the block and I put the corsage on myself in the parking lot as we walked in. It definitely wasn't romantic, but all the lame couples clinging to each other on the dancefloor were sneering at us all night out of envy. Afterward, we met up with the Prom Protesters and hung out in downtown Chicago. I had a fabulous time.

Years later, I was watching the Dawson's Creek prom episode where everyone was yelling, fighting and storming out on each other. My father happened to walk in just as I turned to my brother and said, "See? This is why I went to The Prom with highcon. Absolutely no drama."

"YOU WENT TO THE PROM!?!??!? I THOUGHT I HAD TOLD YOU NO PROM!"

It just goes to show that even the most careful of goody-two-shoes can't hide things forever.

no words for this thank you

You know how there are certain people in your life whom you don't see very often, but when you run into them at the grocery store or see them at a party, you can feel there's a deep and important connection? I have that with my godmother. Whenever I see her and the way she smiles at me when she sees me, it just seems very comforting, like that feeling you get when you show up at your childhood home after it's been awhile.

***

In August 1977 my father got on a plane to the United States from Kuwait, where he had been working. My mom had already been here a few months, and the two were getting married shortly after he arrived. Not much of that--the visas, the travel, the wedding--would have even been possible without my godmother, who (with her family) was their ally and their support through some of the toughest leaps of faith two twentysomethings can make: Leaving everything they knew and loved to make a life for themselves on the other side of the world.

***

Several years before that, my mom had come to the Dairy Capital of India to study nursing. She'd had to learn Gujarati and did so fairly easily, the superstar she is. Her feisty roommate kept things interesting, but there wasn't much to do outside of training. A bookstore nearby would rent books for a week, a per-book-fee-library of sorts. After awhile, my mom realized a girl who lived down the hall from her in the dorm was taking out the same books. They started splitting the cost and sharing the rentals. Soon they began hanging out, and it didn't take long for before they were great friends. A few years later, my future godmother went to America. And she invited my mom to come and join her.

***

On my mother's wedding day, not a single member of her rather large family was present. And, except for his bride and my godmother, my dad had only met everyone two days before. It was a foreign place where everyone spoke their second language, so far from the comforts of home. I can't imagine how scary that must have been. My mom said she cried the entire day. 

My godmother and her family arranged everything. It was a simple ceremony at the Bretheren Church in town (the first Indian wedding there, I believe). People brought food. My mom made her own wedding sari from white fabric, a bronze-brown/red/green border she attached and lacy appliques she sewed on by hand. And my godmother and her sisters were at her side the whole day. They helped her get ready, did her makeup and hair and pleated and pinned her sari, surrounding her like a warm, comforting circle, stepping into the spots her sisters would have had on such an important day. I have no doubt they wiped away her tears. 

I know this because they were there on my wedding day, too. They showed up early, armed with no-nonsense expertise and vivid memories. None of my mom's sisters were able to make it for my wedding, either (not for lack of trying, stupid Visas). Even though cc and pp arranged for coffee, breakfast snacks and bottled water for everyone, Mom mentioned to my godmother's sister, who was in the car and almost there, that she had a headache from not sleeping the night before and that auntie turned around, made breakfast and a thermos full of tea. She showed up with all that stuff, wearing the same sari she'd worn to my parents' wedding 34 years ago and a solid gold necklace with a flat, wide charm that spelled her name--decades before it became a trend in the '90s. My dad had them made in Kuwait all those years ago, and brought one for each of them two days before his wedding.

When the bridal party and I were beautified and ready to leave for pictures, I went back up to the suite to grab my lipstick. I opened the door and saw them all, half laughing and half crying, standing around my mom. Same warm circle, fussing with pleats and pins, cracking jokes. I could just see how it was 34 years ago.

***

After I was born, my godmother was always there to help. From what I've heard, she came over every day to help with the laundry, cooking and taking care of us while my dad was at work because my mom had surgery to remove the grapefruit-sized cyst they had thought was my twin (before ultrasound was so common). She even washed my cloth diapers (I was allergic to disposable). Later, apparently I would only eat if my godmother was feeding me. 

She is vivid in my memories. I can still feel the warmth of her hug, and remember sitting in her lap pulling on her long long fingernails. I remember her old house, on the street that has the same name as her oldest son; hunting around in the backyard for fallen walnuts and peeking through the posts of the banister; only liking drumsticks the way she made them.

***

I have only one regret about my wedding day. After an awesome performance by my godmother's sons, nieces and nephews as well as the speeches, I grabbed the microphone to say a few words. I started by thanking everyone for coming, some from as far as Hawaii and Dubai, not to mention my dad's sister and her husband from Mumbai. And then I turned to look at my parents. I attempted to thank them for all the sacrifices they made so my brother and I could have the amazing lives we have today, but I could hardly get any words out. And as soon as the tears came, my brain went blank. My voice started crackling and sort of faded out. Just like my mother, I cried throughout my wedding day, but my tears were from being overwhelmed by feelings. 

For months I had envisioned what I'd say at that moment; I'd allotted time to tell my godmother how much I appreciated everything she's done for me and my family, in front of everyone so they would all know just how amazing she is. I mean, there's a chance I wouldn't even exist without her--my parents could have lived out their lives on different continents. On top of that, her extended family was so generous with their time, their talents, their love. They gave me a gift that day that I have always dreamed of: A boisterous, big-family celebration. We're not even technically family, but no one could tell. I cannot express how much that means to me. When I had the opportunity, microphone in hand, I blew it. 

Later, in the disco-light darkness and bumping music, I found where my godparents were sitting and said the thank-you that everyone really should have heard in my speech. She said she didn't need for me to have said it in front of everybody. She knows how I felt, because I'm her daughter, too.

thirty

This summer, cc and I took a road trip to St. Louis, where my brother now resides in a cute second-floor walk-up apartment. It's his first solo place, and it was funny to watch him debating whether to get a living-room rug, attempting to caulk the window casing that was letting in ants and even showing off the fancy coffeemaker-with-the-cups that his girlfriend, M, got him as a housewarming present. Actually, it was kind of adorable.

I was in Mother Hen mode, worrying he didn't have enough towels, surveying the neighborhood suspiciously, lecturing him about how frivolous it is to sign up for pricey tv packages when he's only there on the weekends. Cc had to shoot me the "dude, he's a big boy," look at least once an hour. And I get it: The guy jet-sets around the country, drinks heartily, holds down a demanding job and still manages to feed himself and take his medicine every day. Sure, he is a big boy. But I can't help it--whenever I look at him, this is what I see.

Probably sometime in 1984 or 1985. On the lawn of the local college (which apparently has now become a University).

It was after some event, and my friends and their mom were hanging out with us on the lawn until my mother came to pick us up. My brother started getting anxious. He was a stubborn little one, and after he had his mind set there is nothing you could say to convince him to change it. Everyone was trying to soothe him, distract him with jokes or games, but he kept asking when mom was coming. I did the only thing I could think of and picked him up. My arms were sore, but I held on tight and did not put that kid down until she pulled into the parking lot.

It's always been like that. Maybe I feel extra responsible because I prayed so hard for a brother and my mom did a good job convincing me that I summoned him and I could never give him back:

i let my mother deal with the noise and the mess, but if i do say myself, i was damn good. i even got to choose his nickname: mickey mouse, even though they shortened it to mickey. i didn't even get that upset when people fawned all over him instead of me; but if they were hogging, they'd hear it. of course he's gorgeous, you think i'd pick an ugly one? hello! dammit, i did all the work to get this kid, i wasn't about to let some auntie leave her nasty lipstick all over him.

But my brother bought into it too. When he went to the doctor and had to get shots, he often wanted me with him instead of one of the parents. My dad would playfully ask "Whose are you, mommy's or daddy's?" and the kid would say "my sister's" (he's always been very clever). And for years, every time drunk dials were to be made, I was sure to get a ring. Those are the rare times when he's chatty.

While we were in St. Louis, they took us to this place downtown called Rooster (10 different types of bloody Marys!). My brother was nursing his coffee and picking at his French toast, silent as usual. I looked over and saw a black spot on the side of his head that I hadn't seen before--was it a weird mark or some kind of mole? I reached over to touch his face. He jumped away as if my finger was a red-hot iron poker and asked me what the hell I was doing. Cc's eyeroll was practically audible. What? It's not like I licked my finger to clean off his face or something.

Later that day while he was driving the car, I saw Girlfriend M reach over and touch my brother's face in that same spot with the black mark. He turned and smiled at her in just the way that my husband smiles at me when I absently run my hand over his very soft beard. And at that moment it *finally* clicked for me. He really isn't a baby anymore. He's, like, a man. And of course he will be turning to a significant other for reassurances, not us. Which is the way it really ought to be. It just took me a long time to accept it.

Today my brother turns 30. I am so proud of the man that he is. He's intelligent, strong and under all that sarcasm, very kind. The fact that he orchestrated and attended a girls' trip to Las Vegas for my bachelorette party (he was maid of honor) last summer speaks to how much he loves me, too. And when we had that car accident in December, he calmly took charge of the situation while I fell apart like a soggy Kleenex at the thought of nearly killing him.

I may no longer be able to make him feel better by picking him up and squeezing him tight. But I hope he knows that no matter how old we both get, I will always be there for him. And he will never have to be alone.

Happy birthday, brother.

all my life

Last spring, I was still working in a tiny office, phone ringing nonstop, furiously trying to keep people happy. It wasn't always easy: There were grumpy patients, other departments demanding their needs be met first, the undesirable evening shift when we flew by the seat of our pants while the people with answers were at home watching The Bachelor. But no matter how frenetic it got, my partner in crappy hours and multitasking, Eileen, always kept things entertaining.

She had a joyous laugh. She was so sweet with the patients, especially the very young and the very old, and she was so very thoughtful to everyone. Eileen was going to use her experience working in a floral shop to assist us with those paper flowers and was already suggesting all kinds of awesome ideas. She took a lot of pleasure demonstrating moves she picked up watching Bollywood dance numbers on YouTube that she planned to show off at the wedding.

***

We had asked our guests to add song requests to their wedding invitation RSVPs. A surprising number of people interpreted that as a request for first-dance recommendations, including Eileen. She gave me a list of about five, all slow-dance jams. But, she insisted, we absolutely HAD to play her alltime favorite, "All My Life" by K.C. & JoJo. So we added it to the list.

***

The music at our wedding was fabulous. A coworker had recommended a cousin duo of industrious Indian college students who had played her daughter's sweet sixteen party. One of them played the dhol, which was right up my alley. They were responsible and punctual and worked with our list. And the dholi absolutely rocked the house. The only beef I can think of was that I wanted them to play "Personal Jesus" as an homage to the mosh-type circles we had in college every time that song came on, and how I would try and keep up with all the boys. I should have clarified that I meant the Depeche Mode version, because instead they played Marilyn Manson's cover. I guess I can't blame those college kids; they weren't even alive when the original came out in 1989. Ol' Marilyn got the job done, but I think the Auntie Patrol was a bit frightened.

***

By the end of the night, when people were munching on McDonald's cheeseburgers and the bartender with moves straight out of Cocktail was trying to convince my brother to have a "slop shot" (a shotglass full of the spilt liquor from the little plastic mat on the bar--he didn't go for it), I realized that I had yet to hear a single slow song. Amazingly, Jon was actually out there, even though he'd never be caught on a dancefloor unless it's during a slow song. Your wedding day truly is a once-in-a-lifetime event.

Suddenly the deejays were announcing the evening was coming to a close, and the last song was going to be a slow one. My new husband took me in his arms as I caught the first few bars of that piano, and the tears began to flow. Of all the great slow songs on the list, they went with Eileen's number-one choice. I cried onto Jon's shoulder until the lights came up.

There were a lot of people I wished could have been with us on that day.

***

A week later, on our honeymoon, Jon and I were on a white-water rafting trip in Costa Rica. Soaked, tired and sore, we were really happy. Suddenly a butterfly landed on my leg and refused to fly off, no matter how I gently tried to shoo it away. Most likely it was interested in the watermelon juice I had dribbled all over myself, but I chose to believe Eileen had come by to say hello. She loved butterflies.

***

Today, Eileen would have turned 35. She died unexpectedly a week before her birthday last year, and never got to show off her moves at our wedding. I made a purple paper rose and kept a purple set of the bangles that we gave out as favors. Her best friend put them on her grave. It would have been great to see her face light up when she heard her request come over the speakers. I'm pretty sure that for the rest of my life, the song will always make me cry.

nothing says "Good Luck" like Underoos

As you may recall, a month ago my brother came home for a visit. He's decided to stay in Alabama, and he started his first *real* job last week. (Kiss those long school holidays goodbye, kid!)

While he was in town, my parents threw him a graduation dinner at a local pizza joint. To be perfectly honest, I think it was more of a party for them; the guest list was severely tipped in their favor. However, my brother got to choose the invitations, which he picked up at the party outlet store, that read COME TO MY LINGERIE PARTY!

I didn't make that up.

We had about 50 people on the list, most of whom are colleagues and friends of our parents (and some of whom are on the Auntie Patrol) and they each received a hand-written pink invite in the shape of a lacy camisole. 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. I couldn't get away with it. I guess that charm gene must have skipped over me and given him a double dose.

So what did the guests do when they got those invites besides laugh? Poetic justice: They brought him skivvies.

There were Jockey shorts, lacy panties and even a sparkly thong with rhinestones that spelled out "Fabulous." And my mom's friend made a delicious half-chocolate/half–vanilla-and-strawberry cake in the shape of a bra and panties in my brother's school colors. But the best gift of all was from his long-time nurse, who has seen him through various surgery recoveries since he was in junior high. She made a long trip to be there and brought her four-year-old son. And she presented the new grad with a tiny pair of Underoos and a card estimating they're probably pretty close to my brother's size with a post script apologizing because they are used.

My mom gave a sweet speech in which she named nearly everyone in the room individually and thanked them for being there for us all these years: canceling work meetings to come and donate blood for my brother's surgeries, bringing food and hugs and prayers to the hospital, picking up slack for her so she could stay with him in the hospital for weeks at a time and letting her cry on their shoulders. She had nearly everyone in the room wiping their eyes.

It was a lovely party. We all felt pretty proud of the kid and I think all the guests had a good chuckle watching him open package after package of ridiculous underwear. But don't feel too bad for the little brat—along with all the undies, he got a fancy used car from my parents.

Somebody let the Auntie Patrol into Ogilvy & Mather

Check out this commercial*, Kabhi Kabhi Pyar Mein, for Pond's "whitening" cream featuring Indian actors Priyanka Chopra, Saif Ali Khan and Neha Dhupia. It's the first of a several-part "novella." Here is the entire commercial series (as configured for another region in Asia).

I remember Aunties suggesting we use Fair and Lovely "fairness" cream in junior high so we wouldn't get "too dark" from hanging out in the pool. That stuff is just jasmine-scented sunscreen/moisturizer, but I bought into the hype back then. I feel lame about being shamed into using it. 

Sadly, this prejudice is still going so strong that they have entire soap opera about how much harder life is for the "darker" girl and how unfair it is. My mom watches it. While it's good that people in India are being shown how backwards and archaic these stereotypes are in mainstream soaps, it's sad that this kind of stuff is taking place in present tense.

*via the comments to a post about something even more ridiculous on sepiamutiny.com.

don't you dare say my people are "so last year"

I've never really been into fashion. Sure, I leaf through the magazines and marvel about how fads spin back around on one big old lazy Susan of pantleg widths and sleeve lengths, making what was fugly in high school somehow cool now. And yeah, sometimes I make clothes, but sewing is more an exercise in seeing if I can pull it off than actually parading around in something that executed my "vision." Once in awhile I'll put together an outfit that makes me feel like a million bucks all day long, but most days I'd rather sleep in a little longer than put in the effort.

But Indian clothes are the exception.

For most of my growing-up years, we socialized with a whole community of Aunties and their families who gathered once a week for tea, one-upping each other and some religion. The women came dressed to impress. Whether they were sporting a cotton salwar kameez or a two-ton gilt sari, they'd always have jewelry and shoes to match. And on Christmas, New Year's and Easter? It was a virtual fashion show up the aisles.

I understand that prancing around like that defeats the entire pious purpose of worship. But when it comes to The Community, you've gotta keep up with the Singhs. And there was no way my mom was going to let me get showed up by any of those other chickadees, so every week I'd wear a simple-but-cute outfit with matching anklets, bangles and jewelry. Even though I put on quite a showy protest of being hassled, I secretly loved having the whole morning to sleep in then take my sweet time getting ready. And being fawned on by the Auntie Patrol made it even better.

I don't make it to many of their gatherings anymore, and I kind of miss those quirky people with their junior-high drama about who didn't invite whom to what and tasty tasty food. And I have a walk-in closet full of salwar kameez, lenghas, chaniya cholis and saris that rarely get to see the sun (my extended family goes way overboard with the gifts whenever we come to visit).

Spread from the October issue of InStyle magazine, featuring saris as "the look."

On one hand, it's freaking fantastic for me to see what I grew up thinking was beautiful and elegant getting mainstream American fashion attention. But on the other hand, it just takes me back to all the other novely fashion spreads from years gone by with headlines like, "Trendwatch: Bindis and Bangles" or "This season add a touch of Spice to your wardrobe" over photos of models in skirts with sari-like trim or "Indian-inspired" blouses. Don't get me wrong, I wear a lot of that stuff. And I think it's cool that other people do, too. Indian fashion is so diverse on its own that it's really very insulting to see such a big part of my identity being reduced to a fashion fad.

It seems the magazine editors are starting to recognize this, which is refreshing. In Aishwarya Rai's caption, they gave Tarun Tahilani props as designer and have chosen a variety of styles to profile. Perhaps if I see more of this stuff in the magazines, I'll feel comfortable enough to bust out my outfits on the streets of mainstream America, too.

i think my mom even has that sari

Back in October when 30 consecutive days of posting were glaring at me from the calendar, I put out a request for post ideas. Guyana Gyal suggested I let loose a stream of consciousness--with no editing*. I tried it a few times, but most of my consciousness streams are just spouty releases of my mental circus of neverending worry: How's the job thing going to work out? Is my brother going to make fun of the woolly socks I'm knitting him for Christmas? Will I be able to make my mortgage payments next year? Did I forget to set Pushing Daisies to record? Am I going to have to run for the bus again tomorrow morning? Are H and I going to have to move to Poughkeepsie to be in the same zip code? Are we out of oatmeal?

But I just watched a movie that liquified my already-chewy center, so I'm feeling a little more consciousness-streamy than usual. It made me cry the good cry. You know the one: when the tears slip down their tracks and make a puddle in the hollow of your neck. As opposed to the ones that fall off the side of your face and into your ears. I really hate those; they're uncomfortable. But mostly because things must be really, truly crappy if I've burrowed under the covers to let it all out.

It was the movie based on The Namesake, a Jhumpa Lahiri book I read years ago and adored, not just for the premise of not knowing where you belong (with which I identify very strongly), but because there weren't any flowery descriptions or clever setups; the author just said it how it was. And honest, that IS how it was for me. The extremely specific details snuck up on me like a fight scene from the Batman tv show. The author was just going along talking about these Indian people trying to get their footing in America and BAM! I recognized the nervous excitement from snapshots of my mom getting off the plane here in 1977. POW! I saw a freeze-frame from an auntie party in my own living room in 1995. WHAM! I heard a snide remark like ones I made to my friends back in junior high. I knew these things were coming, but I had no idea they would hit me so very squarely upside the head.

I gave the book to my mother and she identified with the characters too; mostly the parents' struggle to figure out what the heck they were doing when they got here and how to hold on then let go of their children after they'd sort of gotten an idea. However, other people have said the story was too typical. Cliche even. And that might be true; this is a land of immigrants. But aren't we all just writing about what we know and hoping somebody else will read it and get what we're trying to say? I know I am, most of the time.

One thing's for sure: I've never had a story capture feelings of my own experience so precisely that the glimpse of a mustache in the cold drawer of a morgue seemed so potentially familiar that my heart constricted in panic, if only for a second.






*Sorry, gg, I had to edit. The actual stream-of-consciousness version of this post didn't make no kind of sense.

clearly at some point there will be bad news, but in the meantime

I have been told on the regular that I am a Negative Neddy. There's not a lot of proof to refute that, so here we are. Sorry this is long, but enjoy the positivity while it lasts!

1. This baby is now at 24 weeks (the produce-size equivalent of either corn or a cantaloupe, depending on whom you ask). That is the furthest me and a baby have ever made it together, so each day is new terrain to discover.
2. This cervix is holding steady, stitch in place. Steady enough that the specialist no longer thinks I need it checked via ultrasound every week. Let's not repeat that bit of news too much out loud or we may jinx it.
3. This baby's heart has all the major components, and they look to be properly formed and working well together. This has always been a concern because heart defects run in my family. If this is the first you're hearing about that topic and you have 12 hours to kill, look up the label "brother" on the side rail and read the 111 posts about him. There could still be problems for the baby down the line, but for today, that ticker is in good shape.
4. If it weren't for the cloud of terrifying possibilities hanging around--that wakes me and keeps me up for hours in the night telling me I'm leaking amniotic fluid, and interrupts all sorts of enjoyable television and not enjoyable conference calls with fears of contractions at every ache and pain--I would really enjoy being pregnant.
5. This baby kicks me. A lot. And I'm grateful for each and every reassuring jab that she's OK in there.  
6. People have been SO wonderful. 
1. Strangers.
2. Coworkers who didn't give a crap about me before.
3. Everybody who doesn't judge me for my extremely, um, ethnic wardrobe of Auntie Patrol-approved muumuus. I scoffed when my aunts sent them for me and now I cannot live without them. (I may never voluntarily wear pants again.)
4. Friends who send me cards.
5. Friends who message to recommend books and see how I'm doing.
6. Friends whom I have gotten to know better because they love someone I am friends with and have reached out with concern and much-appreciated advice about such a scary time from their own experiences.
7. Friends who come over to spend some time with me, won't let me get up to be a proper hostess and don't make me feel bad about it. 
8. Friends who bring their kids over so I can watch them run around and my baby can hear their happy little voices.
9. Friends who don't bring their kids over so we can have an adult conversation. Or watch TV. Or both.
10. Friends who come over and do stuff to help Jon. Even little things like keeping me company so he doesn't have to worry about dinner. And then he can have a few minutes to look at ESPN.com without feeling guilty that the dishes are piling up. Because now Jon has to do EVERYTHING. He has never complained once about it, but still.
11. The "Police" (my mom and my husband) who don't let me lift, walk, use the stairs or pretty much do anything but keep my feet up. I could go on and on and on and on and on about how much these two have done to make my life bearable, but I'll spare you. They are truly my A-Team. The only thing I can hope to give them in return is this baby.
7. The Police let me out on parole and took me to the fabric store for an afternoon. Best afternoon I've had this year. And not only because I got to drive around in the scooter.
8. I have become a legitimate Facebook stalker. Seriously, the OCD is in overdrive and I need to read every single post. And repost. And pontificate about whatever social issue needs pontificating about--such as the overuse of the Oxford Comma. Also, I'm pretty sure I notified EB that her prom date was engaged about 30 seconds after it happened.
9. Everyone but my brother pretends they are not annoyed by my Facebook activity, and some of them even enjoy my posts. Sweethearts.
10. I have discovered Pinterest. I am desperately trying not to fall into that vortex. But I can only browse for about 30 minutes before looking outside at our weedy yard feeling unproductive and useless compared to the Pinterest prizewinners with their beautiful homes, yards and handmade goods. And apparently a lot of time.
11. I have been knitting. I wish I were a lot faster. But then I worry about giving myself carpel tunnel.
12. I have been working. A lot, but not too much. That is ok because:
1. I would be going out of my mind alone all day every day. And worrying.
2. Jon built me this awesome monitor-over-the-guest-bed-hanging-structure so I can truly lie down and work with a wireless keyboard and mouse. My brother gave me a practically new 22-inch monitor so I don't have to crane my neck. It rocks. 
3. I'm trying to get all the crap I do at work in some semblance of order for the people who have to cover for me when this baby comes out. So I am learning to use Microsoft OneNote.
13. I have probably seen more commercials in the last two months than I have in the last two years. The story behind this bored pp (though she'd never admit it) so I will summarize: We only watch dVR, Hulu or Netflix downstairs in the mancave. Jon sold the old jailbroken AppleTV upstairs before they could come out with a new one to make it undesireable. Then I got put on bedrest and can't go downstairs anymore. So unless I want to watch on a small screen in my lap, cable with commercials it is. DIYnetwork has the best ones. 
14. Next week Jon's sisters, M and A (plus nephew Declan!) will be coming for a visit. Madelyn will also come back to hang out. It's always great to have them around.
15. I am just really happy at this moment. 
16. I was worried I complained too much on here, and nobody wants to read blogposts describing the circus in my head, so I will try to post more often now that I'm a little less scared out of my mind.

Again, thank you all for your prayers, your time, your kindness and your love.

sometimes it comes down to playing nice

awhile back i commented with some fervor about how my people had finally made it to reality tv. the specific individuals in question were vipul and arti of the amazing race as well as anchal from america's next top model.

vipul/arti got eliminated in the first episode. the one episode that i didn't catch. so i have nothing to say on that but that i'm disappointed in my peeps. better luck next time, though! hey, at least they got in some quality undisturbed time on sequester-island or wherever they keep people till it's over.

anyway, let's talk models.

i really was rooting for my homegirl anchal. she is beautiful in a traditional, not manufactured bollywood, way (read: snow white with light hair). and while some may have seen her as heavy, i thought hers looked most like a normal person's body.

but anchal's fatal flaw was her self-esteem. i backed the girl for a long time, but even i had to admit that, beauty aside, not believing in herself was killing her edge. granted, we've all been taunted growing up and she had to deal with haters among the competition. but whining that she couldn't do [insert task asked by judges here] was what did her in. people! it's a competition. we knew she had it in her when she laid the smack down on the bitchez of the house, but i wish she could put that energy toward proving herself to the judges. sadly, at the end of her run even i thought it time for her to go. however, she could still have a career in modeling, even if it's just running around among the trees in a sari for the india sari palace calendar. or she could go to medical school and collectively appease the worldwide auntie patrol.

the top model winner, caridee, was very likeable. she's quirky, insulted a judge and all that, but pretty and fun overall. the 2nd runner up, melrose, was the type of nasty ho who might slice somebody to ribbons in their sleep with an X-acto knife if it would ensure her victory. she was scary, man. and everyone hated her, including myself. but she did her homework and gave them everything she thought they wanted. throughout the competition, the judges praised her good work and rewarded her handsomely. however when it came down to it, they went with the loose cannon because she had more *natural* talent. i've gotta admit, guys, i felt just a little bit bad for melrose. yeah, she was snooty and snotty and kissed ass and rubbed everyone's imperfections in their faces, but girl worked her ass off doing exactly what was expected well, but still didn't win. so much for "if you bust your ass you can accomplish anything."

can always count on those lucky numbers

sunday i went with my parents to church for the first time in a very long while. it's an indian service held mostly in Hindi. for many years growing up, my parents insisted we attended the english-speaking church where we had catechism, but never missed a week at indian church so we could be around other people from the motherland. that's a pretty tall commitment, and believe me, i often thought it was a drag.

we don't have any family here; it's just my parents, my brother and myself. and when we were very young, that made for some lonely thanksgivings and christmases. i was always jealous of people who'd say they were going to their grandmother's house or if their cousins were in town. because my cousins live on the other side of the globe, the most i interacted with them were some mother-mandated aerogramme letters that followed the basic formula of "hi cousin. how are you? i am fine. my mom and dad are fine. hope your mom and dad are good, too. i like playing basketball. okay, gotta go. love cadiz." i'd recieve the same at best, and now that we're all old, we only hear about each other through our parents. most of them are younger than me and most of them are married, so we have even less in common today.

but over the years, the indian church sort of became an extended family i got to see every week. to begin with, everyone addresses their parents' friends as "uncle" or "auntie" regardless of blood relation. after the church part everyone hangs around and gossips in the hall over tea and salerno butter cookies. and of course there's the uncle who's always got candy for all the little kids and the old grandmother who pinches your cheeks. gathering with those people every week and dutifully greeting everybody with a handshake, a hug and a "good evening," became kind of nice. they had cake with us on our birthdays, congratulated us on our accomplishments, and most importantly they were always there at the hospital with tupperwares of food and thermoses of tea when my brother was admitted. just as my real family would have done if they could.

going back there felt nice. even getting ready (pulling out an outfit from the section of the closet that takes up the most space and finding the jewelry to match) sort of felt like coming home-- even though i've pretty much been home all this time. there were new people and weird people but the old regulars were there and it felt awkward. but all that melted away when the singing started.

all the dozers (i counted five, including the pastor's DAUGHTER in the first row who is 22 and should know better than to lean her head on her mom's shoulder. dude, at least not in the first row.) woke up to sing. good old numbers 39 and 24. proof that the best things never change. seriously, i've been to religious services of all colors and sizes, all over the world and the overwhelmingly unifying and awesome part is the feeling you get from the singing. i'll confess that it's what will keep me coming back always.

unfortunately, i mentioned this to my mother so now i will be performing on christmas.