no one's going to date you if you get frown lines

1950s-style Facebook etiquette!



via Eric Skiff at Social Media

I'll work on my belly-to-belly suplex and get back to you

Just a quick note to apologize for the exorbitant length of that last post. Skimming all that stuff was actually very tiring, so I'm hoping the California sunshine will inspire some good posts. From what I gather, cc is busy making all sorts of fun plans and b informed me that the WWE has added an extra night of wrestling just in time for my visit. Apparently the legacy of the "professional" wrestling my brother used to watch--Jake "the snake" Roberts, "Macho Man" Randy Savage, "Rowdy" Roddy Piper, Hulk Hogan and Ted "the million-dollar man" DiBiasi--continues through their children. This I've gotta see.

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!

the weekend isn't complete without the Indian Show

For the last 20 years or so on local non-cable channels (in Chicago it's Class A stations that air Polvision, China Star TV and Greek, Filipino and other cultural shows)--before 24-hour Hindi programming was available via satellite dish--they've shown Bollywood music videos as well as entertainment gossip and news on Saturday and Sunday mid-mornings.

As a kid I'd wake up to my parents making brunch to these shows. And while the music videos are supercheesy (and nowadays a little sleazy), the weekend is simply not the same without them. The ones I catch most often are Namaste America, which has news and songs; Desi Jams, which is all about the music videos; Bollywood Now (?), which is celebrity gossip; and Desi Tunes, which is a local program that throws in some South Indian* videos once in awhile. I'm sure there are a bunch of other shows, too, but it all depends on what's available in your area.

The segues between videos often have newsy little tidbits.

The highlight of the entertainment gossip show, Bollywood Now, is its voiceover talent. I can only describe the woman's accent as having had a terrible accident (What's wrong with sticking to a regular Indian accent?). She incorporates as many American slang words as possible and, most of all, speaks with the lilting tone people often use when imitating a stereotypical "British mum." However the combination is pretty riveting. I couldn't find a clip, but here's an example of an interview done with a completely un-weird voiceover--it's from a show that aired on the west coast sometime in 2007.

Lovely, but it doesn't have quite the panache as the crazy lady who does the show that we get. The actor featured, Aishwariya Rai Bachchan, is in Steve Martin's latest Pink Panther movie.

My favorite part of the weekend programming is a feature on Namaste America called the Shout Outs. People write in their little messages and Obaid Kadwani, a serious-looking guy who sometimes does the news, reads them out.

I can't imagine anyone doing it better. One of these days I'm going to send one in. Probably to H, because as much as he pretends he's not paying attention, I like to think he secretly loves this stuff. But more likely, he just tolerates it because I love it.

How can I have a post about the Indian Show without a clip of what it's all about? I would have embedded it, but the best version of "Desi Girl" from the film Dostana with subtitles has embedding removed. The movie takes place in Miami, and these two guys pretend to be a gay couple in order to be roommates with the woman they both are interested in. Subtitles are often RIDICULOUS on these songs, but I chalk that up to translators whose English isn't as strong as their Hindi.

I should go back to school, learn Hindi properly, and do some of these lyric translations justice. It could be a totally new career path! However, it probably won't deter Bollywood from incorporating English phrases that don't make sense--whoever approved "Krazzy" as an alternate spelling for "Crazy" should be smacked around--but there's only so much one desi girl can do.

*It's important to note that Bollywood alone is not a fair representation of all things Indian. When you cross a state border in India, it's like going into another country with its own language, food, customs and dress. The movie industry puts out about three films a day, but that's across 18-some official languages, which each has its own "-wood." Not to mention the documentaries, theatrical productions, etc. And there's a lot I don't know about this stuff; my love for Hindi movies is tied up in the nostalgia of my childhood.

when you're on camera, be sure to sit tight

"I love the Indian show."

"That's obvious; we watch it every single weekend. But they really need to do something about the on-air talent."

"You know I only watch it for the songs and the news, not to see these people, right?"

"I know, but this guy needs to stop swaying when he talks. It's very distracting."

"So is his shirt. What's that say, 'Sit tight Babushka?' "

"I bet that's an inside joke from the wardrobe department."

dipping in

One of the coolest projects that have kept me busy the last few weeks had me focusing on penmanship.

My pal EB is getting married in May, and as a gift to her and her future husband I did the calligraphy on the outside of their invitations. I hadn't worked in pen and ink for several years, but with a little practice I got the hang of it again. Plus it was a fabulous reason to buy a bunch of new nibs and inks.

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 played with several sizes, styles, fonts and colors before showing EB three samples I thought would work well that were inspired by the scripty font on her invites. She ended up choosing the one I liked best.

I found myself looking forward to the addresses with a capital H or W--those two are fun to do and seem prettier to me than the rest.

All this got me thinking about how bizarre it is that I type faster than I write, and when I do jot anything down, endings of words trail off in a squiggle, I often don't bother with dots or crosses, and most people can't even read my handwriting. Why bother? Everything's electronic--H even makes To Do lists on the iPhone--and I rarely have a need to bust out the penmanship. I have even less patience to do it legibly.

But there's a satisfaction that comes with taking the time to make something pretty. And about 160 invites looked awfully sweet laid out to dry. I'm looking forward to doing this again sometime.

if the first year is the toughest, we've totally got this

"Dude, can you believe that as of yesterday it's been a year since you moved here?"

"It doesn't feel like a whole year. More like six months."

"How ridiculous is it that we used to see each other for a weekend after being apart a month or two and that was totally fine, but now it's weird just to go a week without seeing each other?"

"Funny how things change."

"They say the first year of living together is the hardest."

"And people were concerned about us being practically on top of each other in such a little condo, too."

"I'm pretty surprised it's gone so smoothly, considering there's really no personal space."

"If anything, you think the place is too big. If I'm sitting on the chair you're wondering why I'm not next to you on the couch."

"Yeah, and when you're in the other room you seem so far away...I'll bet we could even make do with a studio!"

"Let's not push it."

the difference: you can give a toddler a time out

My mom's surgery last Tuesday went well; the doctor said it was rare to see flaps around a hole like that fall closed during surgery and that was a great sign. She was groggy for a few days, but diligently sat in her chair--for the first few days, anyway.

She has to sit where the purple scarf is (the seat is shaped like bicycle seat and only slightly comfier), knees on the blue pads and face in the white horseshoe-shaped pillow. The purple-and-pink thing is a hand mirror, and taped under the pillow is my high school locker mirror (they allow her to sort of see the television). She has another pillow apparatus to help her sleep face-down, too. That really sucks--she pretty much didn't sleep at all for five days.

The mirror that came with the chair is all scratched and warped. But they sent us a new one yesterday.

As much as I yell about staying in the chair, I can't imagine having to be face down for nearly 24 hours a day. Yesterday I sat on the floor with the laptop for four hours and my neck was killing me. The pain meds prescribed for my mom weren't so much for the eye, but for her aching back and sore neck. Poor woman.

But that was last week. As of Sunday, she still has to sit in the chair but can sleep on her side, so both of us are getting some much-needed rest. She's also feeling a lot better. However that means she is itching to move around and do stuff. I had been up late and overslept this morning, and in a few hours she managed to do laundry, make puri (Indian fried bread) from scratch, make sevayian (Indian sweet dish made with angelhair pasta), chop the veggies I got from the grocery store and scrape the stickers off our new front and storm doors and window. She swears she kept her head down the whole time.

About 45 minutes ago she left the chair to use the bathroom and I heard the sound of chopping spinach. I got my brother on the phone to give her a good scolding and she sat back down. Then I went to finish chopping the spinach and hadn't been in the kitchen two minutes before she was out in the driveway dragging in the empty garbage cans from the curb. 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?

I'm delighted that my mom is feeling better. Every four hours when she takes off the eye patch for drops, she can see a tiny bit more. She says it's more like a curtain opening from the top down. We see the doctor again on Thursday. Hopefully we can say goodbye to the chair very soon.

In the meantime, we've been flooded with so many good vibes, cards, flowers and presents that the living room looks like a gift shop. It's wonderful to see just how many people love my mom almost as much as we do. I won't attempt to post photos of all the flowers, but I had to include this, which is so huge I put my mom's iPod in the shot to show just how ginormous it is.

I'm thinking they miss her back at the office.

patching up the hole

My mom's vitrectomy (eye surgery) is at 5:30 a.m. this morning. It is 1:05 a.m. and I'm bouncing off the walls because I made the mistake of inhaling a full-size Snickers bar at 9:45. Bad idea.

I've been at my parents' house for a few days and haven't been online. So now that there's little chance that someone will call my mother from other continents, I am attempting to check email, twitter and the blogs. On dialup. Dialup in general is very frustrating--Google Reader doesn't even register when you're checking gmail in basic HTML view--so I may just give up soon.

My mom's massage chair-like "Face-Down Recovery" apparatus arrived on Saturday. The delivery person adjusted it for her and showed her how they expected her to see anything when her face is planted into a pillow with a hole in it: A considerably warped "mirror" made of folded plastic that makes you feel like you're looking through your grandmother's bifocals. Horrid. H and I rigged up a much more effective one with a hand mirror, Velcro, electrical tape and my magnetic locker mirror from high school. Nothing's going to keep my momma from enjoying her Hindi soap operas in their full blingtastic-fashion glory.

Unfortunately, despite the badass viewing experience we created, the longest my mom could bear to sit in the chair was fifteen minutes. I even had to sit in it for half an hour to prove that it wasn't the most miserable activity in the universe, after which she accused me of "just saying that to make her feel better."

If you think it's insane that I can't watch tv without doing at least one other thing at the same time, you haven't seen my mother in action. 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.

This surgery is supposed to repair the macular hole in the central part of her retina, which could leave her blind if it goes unsuccessfully treated.

During the operation, the surgeon first gently removes the vitreous gel with a procedure called vitrectomy. This eliminates any traction on the macula. A gas bubble is injected in the eye to place gentle pressure on the macula and help the hole to seal. In many cases, patients enjoy functional vision after the bubble has dissipated and the eye has healed.

To keep gravitational pressure on her macula, she has to sit face-down for "23 and a half hours a day for 10-15 days." So it's going to be torture for her to be stuck in a chair/lying-down contraption at the mercy of slower and more incompetent family members like myself. As I've described before, my mom is a nurse who can be a terrible patient. I've compiled a list of people to call when (not if) she gets unruly and doesn't follow orders. Top of the list? My brother, who has more than earned the right to yell at her about these matters. In fact, he can probably employ some of the lines she's used on him during all those months of open-heart-surgery recovery when he was stubborn and rude and cranky and in pain and unable to eat or even drink a thing. I'm sure the reminder of what she's had to watch him go through will be enough to keep her in line.

But in case that doesn't faze her, I'll play my trump card: Reminding her that if she wants to see what those future grandchildren look like, she needs to suck it up and make a full recovery.

this hold music sounds like a perversion of the Knight Rider theme song

Yesterday I attended a lovely brunch with my college girls. It was raining like nobody's business, so I am very thankful that pp swung by to pick me up so I didn't have to take the El and the bus. On the way over there, she asked me what I had been up to and was as surprised as I am that I haven't completed as many projects as I had planned since being laid off.

So I've been paying attention to what I've done today to get a better idea.

Today I got out of bed a few minutes after H left for work (about 8:10 a.m.), brushed my teeth, ate some yogurt and granola and caught up on my google reader. I finished watching The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (which I had seen a few minutes of and recorded last week) and Noises Off (which I started watching last night when I couldn't fall asleep) while working on the calligraphy on EB's wedding invitation envelopes. And then I watched an episode of Monk (the one where he gets buried alive).

Then Citibank crank-called me again. I've been trying to talk to them about the mortgage for weeks and get transferred into their automated telephone system until I want to throw the phone out the window. Seriously, the time ratio of being on hold:talking to a live person is about 12,000,000,000,000 minutes to 1. Every time I have to explain my situation and give all my info, then they give me the "direct number" and "transfer" me--which usually means hold music for awhile and then a few rings before it hangs up on me. Or else I'll be on hold for several minutes and suddenly get a busy signal. It's no different when they call me, either.

Today I talked to--each in a separate call with a separate amount of hold time--Raman, Manisha, Brittany, Ron and now Nick. I've been on hold with the last one for about 1 hour, 4 minutes and 17 seconds now. However, he seems to actually care about helping me and actually said he'd hang with me until I get some help. That right there was worth the wait.

I'm shocked I forgot to tell pp that being on hold takes up a big chunk of my day. Are there any jobs that require listening to a loop of recorded messages backed up by annoying music? Because I'm starting to feel like a pro.

***update***
4:20 p.m. I've been on hold 1 hour, 34 minutes and 38 seconds. Now I'm working with someone named Melinda, who is looking into my situation. I've now found out that there's a chance my account has been misclassified all these years. Great. Kudos to Nick, who stayed with me, checking in every few minutes until I got to Melinda.

Sadly, this is the most productive call I've had in nearly a month.

***update 2****
So I'm working with Melinda, who puts me on hold while she goes to check on how my account has been misfiled and I'm waiting. Suddenly some Indian-sounding lady (I normally wouldn't categorize, but I happen to be intimately familiar with how they sound and have recently been talking with dozens of call-center people) gets on the line, says "You're welcome" as if she were in the middle of talking to someone else, and HANGS UP ON ME.

Then I spent about thirty minutes trying to get back to Melinda, dialing through the maze of all the automated menus and the numbers various people have given me. To no avail. I talk to Cindy, Felicia, Clint and then finally Eric, who seems nice. He asks me all my information and then comments on how I must be living downtown because of my mortgage. That jokester. He shut up after I told him I'd been talking to Citibank since 2 p.m. Maybe if I hadn't already spent several HOURS ON HOLD I could have laughed along with him. He says he'll try to get me back to the department where Melinda works and gave me a direct number. He said because it's an internal transfer, I'd be bumped up to the next available person, but he's not sure if Melinda is gone for the day. Then he transfers me.

It rings, then a message says they are CLOSED FOR THE DAY. Then it hangs up on me.

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.

The worst part is that there are people out there with much bigger problems than I have. I pray they're getting better treatment than I am. EFF YOU CITIBANK. Because I'm going to become the nightmare that keeps coming and coming and coming UNTIL YOU TALK TO ME.

Because, you know, I don't have anything better to do.

when your elbows are throbbing, it's time to put down the knitting needles

For someone without a job, you'd think I'd have a ton of time to post. Especially when I have spent entire stretches from 8 a.m. until 5 p.m. sitting at the computer without even realizing I'd forgotten to eat lunch. But for some reason, I can't seem to find much to say that can't be summed up by what I've already said in this post. Which would get old pretty quickly.

Aside from looking for a new gig, 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. And you know I can't watch tv unless I'm doing something else at the same time. Like knitting. Here are a few of my latest projects, which took SO much longer to complete than I had anticipated:

"Spiderweb" crochet afghan

"February Lady Sweater" for my mom's birthday (shh, don't tell her)

Baby booties on the fly for an impromptu shower that unfortunately didn't happen.

I'm also doing a few other projects that are either a) not completely finished yet b) going to be received by someone who reads this blog c) already given away without my having taken a picture.

I think I need to take a break because my arms really have been hurting lately. So perhaps there will be more posts up here soon. Stay tuned!

all of this has happened before...and it will happen again

Many moons ago during the heyday of my procrastination, whenever I had a big deadline--after all the socks had been rearranged by wool content and the bathtub tiles got a good scrubbing--I would suck down some coffee, pack up my stuff and sit at a computer in the most quiet, lonely, boring place I could find. The plan was that I wouldn't allow myself to get up from that spot until I'd at least made a dent in the big project. Which was nearly always due the next morning.

The situation was pretty straightforward: No music, no cable, no interesting friends to distract from their own work, not even any cute boys around to wonder about. I should have been able to sit down, pound out the project and still have time for a couple re-runs, eight hours of sleep and a balanced breakfast. Right?

Not even once.

So I'd sit there in the lonely place rattling my imaginary chains and try to concentrate. And without fail, I'd start writing rambling, off-topic letters. First came the obligatory journal entry detailing just how screwed I was, how YET AGAIN I'd waited until the last moment to even begin figuring out the requirements of the assignment, how I'd once again banished myself to the depths of Grainger (the beautiful library full of studious engineering types, very few of whom I knew well enough to conversate with) and how this time, yes this time for sure, I was in a mess from which not even an all-nighter could extricate me.

My journals from 1996-2000 are bursting with taped-in looseleaf sheets documenting the struggle between what I knew I should be doing versus the sheer agony of actually taking a step in the right direction. But regurgitating the same impending doom at least once a week got old. So I decided to channel my pain into a warning to others: Do your homework in a timely fashion or you could find yourself wishing you were watching the latest episode of your favorite dramedy instead of staring at the inside of a carrel wondering how you let time get away from you. Again.

The notes detailed how doing this paper/project/assignment/take-home exam was the equivalent of being repeatedly hanged, drawn and quartered. I'd suggest all kinds of things I'd rather be doing, such as sweating in a desert filing camel hooves or hanging outside the 93rd-floor window of the Sears Tower washing windows. And somehow I always found someone around me in the computer lab area to describe. 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.

But I needed that venting--nothing gets you primed for productivity like the sleeve-rolling-up exercise of describing how much the impending job makes you want to throw yourself off a balcony. And apparently people enjoyed reading them. When I graduated, several people told me how much they'd miss the frenetic warnings against waiting until the night before the exam to start the assigned readings or stories of how a computer-lab stranger can really do you a solid by banging on the table when he noticed you drooling on your psychology book. Some friends even mention those 3 a.m.-emails when I see them now, all these years later. It's almost as if those missives were the precursor to this blog. Especially because this isn't the first post I've written about my tendency to procrastinate.

Two weeks ago I got a small assignment. It's due tomorrow. And while it really should NOT be a big deal, I have been completely unable to even get started. The ideas are whirling around in my head, but I have not been able to get more than a sentence down in eight full days.

So here I am, sequestered in the lonely, silent conference room of my building. There's a menacing-looking med student taking up the big table with books, each thicker than my thigh, and some people watching what looks like an awards show in the enclosure with the bigscreen tv (I'm glad I'm not aware enough to realize what I'm missing). I have been sitting on this couch with my laptop since 3:30 p.m.

It is now 9:30.

I made some headway after a peptalk from cc, but I'm nowhere near getting the job done. I told H I wasn't coming back until I had made some serious progress, and I'm pretty sure he expected me back hours ago. This sucks because he has the day off tomorrow and we have plans to catch a matinee. I'm sure he'll worry about my falling asleep in the theater if I pull an all-nighter, but I don't usually get tired until two days after staying up all night. He didn't know me in college, but it won't take him long to figure out how this cycle of insanity works.

Writing this post got the juices flowing. Now I feel like I can get down to business for real. Unfortunately, that's not all that feels like flowing; I hope H comes down here to check on me soon, because I really have to pee.

apparently it's not about a ring or a piece of paper

"Thanks for taking me out to dinner, mom and dad."

"No problem, beta. But you barely even ate anything, just the side of rice."

"I know, but I couldn't totally enjoy it because I know H is at home eating leftovers and he doesn't get to eat out very often."

"Ah, I feel that way when I go out with my girlfriends and your father is at home."

"It's crazy, right?"

"No. That's what's called being married."

which is why i have an eye appointment this afternoon

Last night EB called to say her dad needs to have surgery next week to repair the hole in his heart. I attempted to reassure her by saying my brother has about four or five foreign objects tacked onto his ticker, including some GORE-TEX to make up for his lack of left ventricle, and he's as much of a smartass as ever. But I know there's little you can say to put someone at ease when a person they love is going to have his ribcage sawed open. I'm sending them good vibes.

Then my mother called. She's been having some eye issues for months (big black floaters, flashes of light, sometimes a sharp pain), but because someone told her she "really didn't need it," she opted out of eye insurance coverage for 2008 and couldn't see a doctor until January. Upon seeing her, the eye doctor freaked out, yelled at her and immediately sent her to a specialist.

The specialist did an eye angiogram (!) and referred her to another specialist. He was not happy she had waited, said that she has a "macular hole" in her right eye and should have surgery ASAP. She downplayed the severity of the situation and even told H she'd be angry with him if he told me what was going on. So while my mom was getting injected with dye, I spent the day beating myself up over a coverletter that somehow disqualified me for what would have been a perfect job instead of worrying about something way more important. I guess that's why she didn't want me to know.

This is just the latest in a long history of my mother being a great nurse but a horrid patient. She was supposed to have some other procedure for months, but has put it off for some ridiculous reason. Even though this is the perfect time: Unemployment means I can come home, drive her to appointments, pick up medicines--and most importantly--smack her around if she doesn't comply.

But it doesn't matter what I have to say. I think what got her in gear was the specialist telling her with certainty that this eye thing could render her completely blind. She ran home and made an appointment for the very next day. Because for as much as she likes to whine about not being alive to see her grandchildren, being alive but not being able to SEE her grandchildren may very well kill her on the spot.

me, Gandhi, Darwin, Clinton...and Duff

Yesterday Ri was telling me about a segment on Good Morning America about this book Why Him? Why Her?, and she said there was an online quiz that would reveal your personality type. So I took the little test.

Apparently, my primary traits are of a "Negotiator" and my secondary traits are of a "Builder." Normally on these quiz-type things there are one or two bullet points that I disagree with, but I had zero beef with this one. Aside from the generic "friendly," "sweet," "empathetic," "trusting" types of adjectives, it picked up on the more specific "you almost always seek consensus and harmony, and are willing to give up some of your pleasures to build an orderly, harmonious home and family life," and even "when you feel betrayed you can be unforgiving and hold a grudge too long." Yep. But I'm trying to work on that last one.

At the end, the assessment told me that I naturally gravitate toward Director/Builders. So of course I asked H take the quiz when he got home. I'd say it targeted him pretty dang well, too, with the "analytical," "logical" and the "You are also calm, efficient, quick to make decisions and remarkably self-disciplined." Naturally, he is a Director/Builder.

None of this revealed anything I didn't know before--while we do our fair share of bickering, H never makes me feel like yelling until my throat feels torn or hurling inanimate objects at his head; we usually just talk it out. But when you've been feeling frustrated and useless, it's a nice consolation for an unbiased third party to confirm that something you did actually works.


Here are some celebrities who share our personality profiles:

Oprah Winfrey

Leo Tolstoy

Katie Holmes

Bill Clinton

• Hillary Duff
• Mohandas Gandhi
• Charles Darwin

Albert Einstein

Hillary Clinton

Bill Gates

Nicole Kidman

It's a pretty impressive list. However I must not be caught up on all the stuff Hillary Duff is doing lately that makes her especially noteworthy.

back then the street edition was 20 cents

"We're not in it to make money," says the David Cole from the San Francisco Examiner.



via Romenesko

last link in the chain

It's no secret that I love that I'm Indian. I can't get enough of the food, the cheesy movies and the sometimes inexplicable superstitions, and the culture has really shaped who I've grown to be. In recent years I've tried to absorb as much as I can, from learning Devanagari script to unlocking the secret of making a killer gujiya.

But is it all for nothing? Am I going to be the annoying person whose children roll their eyes whenever she tries to get them interested in some music or a movie? Does it make a difference that I can cook all this stuff if nobody wants to eat it? My own brother has never taken a liking to our culture--while we'd dine on dal and chawal or chicken curry and fresh roti, my mom would make him a separate meal of pizza, spaghetti or a hamburger. He's just not into it, and I can accept that, but I hope he'll be more interested when he's older. Because we don't have any family here; he's all I will have beyond my parents. And there won't be many family-friend get-togethers with long folding tables of aluminum vats full of food like those we had during our formative years; even the after-church tea receptions are rarer as time goes on. Besides, our family friends have their own extended networks with whom to share spicy Thanksgiving turkey and four different kinds of bhaji among the plates of mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. Everyone has moved on, and the preferred path is the one of least resistance. One of my friends even says the reason she doesn't cook Indian food is because her parents do such a good job she just lets them do it.

I wasn't always this keen on the traditions of my culture. When I was in junior high, our family started going to this evening Hindi church service on top of the morning mass we'd attend every Sunday. Mom and Dad wanted to give us a sense of the community they'd left behind. It was a whole lot of praying for a kid, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't think it was a drag. However those sermons boosted my Hindi vocabulary exponentially, and I saw people my age who were actually into the culture. I looked up to them, noticing their pretty outfits and that they already knew how to do all the cool dances and cook complex dishes by the time we were in high school. I wanted in on all that, and for once I felt lame because I didn't embrace my heritage, after all those years among my school friends when the opposite was true. And after a little while, I started appreciating that stuff for its own merit, not only to fit in.

But all of those people have moved on and away. Our family doesn't attend that church anymore. I have several closets full of gorgeous outfits, but noplace to wear them. I can't even cook Indian food in my condo for fear that any lingering aromas might turn off potential buyers. I used to feel so confident saying it doesn't matter--that I'm Indian enough for everyone--but the truth is that holding onto a minority culture is a whole lot of work. And if you're the only one interested in keeping up with it, just doing something you enjoy once in awhile can quickly make you feel like an unwanted proselytizer preaching to deaf ears, even if all you want is some company during a cheesy movie.

When I go back to my parents' house, I can indulge in comfort food, binge on some bad soap operas and catch up with my family in grammatically questionable Hindi. But I won't be able to do that forever. 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.

these pulsating lights make it really hard to knit

Last night H and I went out to the Hop Haus to celebrate Cool Cat's big 3-0. That place holds special memories for me: It was the sports bar/purveyor of exotic-meat burgers where my coworkers took me for a great birthday lunch--right before we got back to the office and were all laid off. But it does serve a mean cheeseburger.

I was expecting the same casual vibe from the place, so I was surprised to see the DJ bumping in a booth, laser-lightbeams bouncing off every surface, and that I could feel the bass in my sternum and on the bottoms of my feet (through heeled boots). H was even convinced individual hairs on his head were vibrating to the beat.

But it was a lovely get-together. The music took me back to the old days (especially the merengue and bachata they were playing toward the end). And it's always great to see my college girls, especially Cool Cat, who I discovered has been living pretty close to us all this time. Sadly, after a few hours the lights started to give us psychedelic hallucinations, so we moved to the bar area. The music was still plenty loud over there, but we didn't have to yell as loudly and were away from the throat-scratching fog machine and crazy lights.

Taken by H from his iPhone.

The light display was very cool. And seven years ago--when I could dance all night in four-inch heels and run around without a coat when it was below freezing--it would have been pretty freaking awesome. But you just can't turn back time. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to take my vitamins before shuffleboard starts.

he spoke to me

Yesterday I waited for H to come home so we could watch the Inauguration together. And despite seeing it eight hours after everyone else, the proceedings still felt momentous. Obama's speech isn't being lauded as "memorable," but a few points seemed to speak to me directly--my parents certainly packed up their few worldly possessions and traveled across oceans so that we might live a better life. Even the fact that he included the word "Hindu" hit home, and that's not even my religion.

Sepia Mutiny's Anna was there, and she captured some of what I felt:

You are what you look like. And to the vast majority of the world, I look Hindu. I’m not ashamed of that at all. Today, I felt celebrated for it. I felt included, even though my actual faith was mentioned first, in a group which was organized by a man magnanimous, courageous and heedful enough to include “non-believers”.

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.

hurts so good

The great thing about one of your best friends studying to be a yoga instructor is that in her classes you get individual attention, can ask any stupid question you want, and you don't have to feel self-conscious about the fact that your legs have not been de-fuzzed in more than a month.

I had a great first session with Kaiya at her in-home studio--something about teetering around in the tree pose in a sun room surrounded by real trees is very very zen. And our little yogi-in-training is off to a fabulous start: I left there feeling refreshed, energized and content, and I woke up this morning with the best kind of sore muscles an out-of-shape cadiz could ask for.