When I was in elementary school, they had this contest called "Odyssey of the Mind."*

In fourth grade, the challenge was to build something that you put into motion and, as far as I can remember, set off a mousetrap, have a raw egg drop like ten feet without breaking and put out a candle. I remember racking my brain to try and figure this out and then having my dad hovering over me working with the candle while I made a mess and slapped together some contraption. My thing totally didn't work; it'd do the candle, but then the egg would break. Or the mousetrap would go off and then candle would stay bright. It was a mess. I don't have to tell you that I did not win.

This girl named Sarah F. won, and her stuff totally worked. I think she had a wooden board with a curvy groove in it that the egg rolled down, triggering the mousetrap and somehow putting out the candle. Not to be a hater--kids totally accused me of having help from my mom in first grade when we had to make a hat and I totally did that all by myself--but that matte-black paintjob looked awfully professional for a 9-year-old. I'm just saying.

In fifth grade, I was determined to at least place. As soon as I heard what the challenge was, I started trying to figure out the best way I could build a contraption that would be powered by a brick, travel 25 (or more?) feet and pop a balloon. I had all kinds of ideas, but none seemed good enough to beat Sarah F. I worried about this all week.

So the night before the competition, I still had nothing. And the hourglass was emptying fast. By 8 p.m. I had even frittered away any opportunity for my mom to take me to a hardware store. I was shaking in my boots.

I threw about 12 hissyfits, stomping up and down the stairs and whining about having no ideas. My parents tried to help, but that would just make me more frustrated. Finally I gave up. Sarah was going to win it again that year, I guessed. But I couldn't show up empty handed.

I started rummaging around the house. I found a brick in the backyard that was used to prop up the gutter drain. I took the blue skateboard that I begged and begged to get from Santa and would ride approximately six times throughout my entire life. I dismantled an old window-insulation frame in the basement and took two metal sides. And I got a fat but sharp needle from my nani's old sewing box.

It was really late at this point, but I took some duct tape, made a V with the window frame pieces, attached the needle to the front of the skateboard where the V came together, and I covered that muddy brick with some tinfoil. Honestly, I can't remember whether I even tested the contraption before taking it to school the next day.

I got there and everyone had their projects ready. Sarah's was so crazy! It was this big wooden thing with wheels and a pulley thing attached to the brick--she pushed down on the brick and it made the wheels go. And I think it was painted all kinds of red-white-and-blue stars and stripes or something. Some other people had elaborate stuff, too, but of course I can't remember them because I was so hell bent on beating Sarah and pretty sheepish about my own pathetic entry.

We lined all our contraptions behind the line (some way farther back because they needed momentum) and one by one, we gave them a go.

I went toward the end; I remember being in a panic that morning because everyone else's was so much more elaborate than what I had. So I drew on my tinfoil-wrapped brick to make it look like an chubby square astronaut. And when it was my turn, I made up a silly story about how the astronaut had to jump in his duct-tape ship and take off into the galaxy and defeat the balloon aliens. Or something. I stood about 5 feet behind my skateboard and tossed that brick onto the skateboard--it landed up in the V and propelled the whole thing across the line.

Wouldn't you know it, the duct-tape spaceship sailed across the room and popped a balloon. It was the only entry that actually completed the required tasks. Sarah's stars and stripes didn't even make it halfway.

My halfassed, slapped-together, madeup contraption won first place! They even said my name over the P.A. to the entire school!

It was so awesome, I remember it clearly 23 years later.

To tell you the truth, the only times in my life when I felt like I was doing well at my job have been when I have been put in a seemingly impossible situation with a limited amount of resources and I had to make the best of it to get the job done. It happened with deadlines in my main career and it happened with the insanity of a busy hospital in my last position. Having too much time to think seems to fog up my brain, I guess.

Maybe that's why I'm so frustrated these days. It seems like the logical, mathematical side of my brain has gone from hibernation to marathon running. There are days when I stare at my burgeoning to-do list and don't even know how to go about starting any of those tasks, which were all due last week. And then I waste time worrying about all that I have yet to do. It is a very big project, with thousands of tiny puzzle pieces that have to fit perfectly or big chunks won't work. But because the buzzer doesn't go off till next April, I haven't worked up enough frenetic energy to kick my brain into gear.

Or maybe I am just overwhelmed and having a bad week.


Speaking of fourth grade:
you just can't square dance on the beach
In which I realize that apparently NOT everyone has to learn square-dancing in school!





*Apparently this is a big thing with a lot of different categories. I never realized it was so complicated until I started researching it just now.

i looked and i said, "no ma'am"

I am OBSESSED with this. What's not to love? Cute kids, head-bopping beat and after-school snacks. I am not ashamed to say I first heard it on NPR.

our song

Thank God for email. I have such a faulty memory, which is probably why I like to document everything. Apparently, Jon and I decided "our song" was Paul Simon's "Something So Right," over one of our daily marathon emails--we would essentially be having a triple-thread instant-message-like correspondence via gmail. Those missives are hard to make sense of later, by anyone else. Within that same message (which was on April 6, 2006), we were also discussing the latest episodes of The Amazing Race and LOST, and how unhappy we were with Libby, Lori and Dave. And some fratboys, apparently. The only downside to living together is that we still have these awesome conversations, but no way of preserving them or looking back to resolve disagreements later.

So what we would dance to during our first dance as husband and wife was a no-brainer:

The lyrics are so true of both of us. Which makes it even more amazing that we were able to find love from another person so different and so far away.

There was so much to pack into the reception. I wanted as much dancing as humanly possible, but I knew that neither Jon nor his mom cared for dancing. I would have loved to have dance to "Teri Pyari Pyari Surat" and then BROKEN IT DOWN halfway through, Mando-style with my dad, to "Galyan Sankli Sonya Chi" with the moves of his people. But that would take more time, and Jon's mom hadn't yet chosen what she wanted. In the end, we decided to combine the parent/child dance to one song that nearly everybody likes--we all danced out there at the same time. It's by a band that Jon's mom, my dad, and the two of us all love:

Of course it's the Beatles. I wish there were more bands out there that appease multiple generations at once. Our kids will definitely be listening to them, too.

For kicks, there's "Teri Pyari Pyari Surat." My dad loves that song, it's my nani's all-time favorite song, from her favorite movie, Sasural, and it plays every time my father calls my cell phone. I love it because it makes me think of him.

It loosely translates to "let your lovely lovely face never attract someone's evil eye," which sounds sort of silly, but some people believe that jealousy toward a successful/beautiful person/baby will end up causing some kind of harm to that person. The lyrics are both a compliment and a protective statement. Hindi just doesn't translate sometimes.

And bonus, here's a Bollywood-ized version of the Konkani classic "Galyan Saankli."

This is totally a Bolly-sampling of the original folk song trying to mimic the oldschool village-style dancing and outfits. The main phrase, "Galyan sankli sonya chi, ee poori kona chi" roughly--and I could be wrong, my dad is sleeping--means, "that girl with the gold chain around her neck, whose daughter/girl is she?" It's a CLASSIC.

It was the right decision: Jon and Mrs. M didn't have too much on the dancefloor, while my dad and I still danced our socks off the entire night anyway. Everybody wins!

now wouldn't that be something to talk about while we cut the cake?

My parents are from India. And one thing Indians know how to do are MUSICALS. As luck would have it, my parents enjoy Hindi music, and my father in particular loves him some Bollywood jams*. So the stuff was always on at my house growing up. And LOUD.

Ever since I can remember, on the weekends my parents would play (read: my dad would blast) Hindi music videos while making breakfast. If you want to give me a perfect Saturday morning, wake me up with the smell of fresh parathas and the sound of "the Indian show." Then follow it up with an episode of "Saved By The Bell." I'll be your best friend. For life.

One of my favorite songs of ALL TIME is this 1980 gem from Qurbani, sang by 15-year-old Nazia Hassan:

Dude, this was NINETEEN-EIGHTY. Before the Internet. And 1980 India was more like 1973 in the states. 

I distinctly remember being about three and singing this song ad nauseam at the top of the stairs with a hairbrush. A lot. In 1995, I taught my friend Kai how to sing it, even though she's Taiwanese and doesn't know more than a few Hindi words. She can still sing it to this day, but I'm pretty sure she's forgotten that it loosely translates to "If someone like you were to come into my life, that would be something to talk about/make news." Hindi never translates well. Which just adds another layer of entertainment when you stop to read the subtitles.

I wasn't sure how to go about asking Jon if we can have this cheeseball Indian Disco jam play as we'd cut the cake. I mean, in all the episodes of "Namaste America" I've made him sit through these last six years, I'm pretty sure "Aap jaisa koi" was not featured (though it REALLY SHOULD BE. Are you reading this Obaid?). I finally managed to make my request and Jon says, "Ok, but on one condition, okay?" [Dramatic pause.] That this is the final answer and we WILL NOT BE SECONDGUESSING THIS DECISION."

We didn't. And I was happy.

People came up to me later professing their love for the song, too. You like it? Maybe you'll also enjoy this:

The part that anyone can ever remember starts at about 0:55. And ends at about 1:10. I didn't even bother watching the rest.

the playlist

Most every time I go to a place where there's a deejay I make a request. And I am often disappointed. About 95% of the time I will ask for anything by A Tribe Called Quest just to see if s/he has it or will actually play it, knowing that most partygoers these days have no idea who that group is. Once, at a wedding when I saw the dj was in his mid-50s I requested Al Green's "Let's Stay Together." He said he had NEVER HEARD OF AL GREEN. I don't even know what to say about that.

When the dj seems to have special something, I will ask for Musto and Bones' "Dangerous on the Dancefloor,"* It's a treat if they know it, better if they have it and then amazing if they actually play it. I can only count the number of times that's happened on two fingers.

I didn't want that to happen to our guests, so we let them make requests ahead of time, on our postcard RSVPs:

 

 Despite the "dancefloor will ROCK" language, for some reason a fair number of people thought we were only looking for slow songs. But the ones who got it requested some awesome jams, including my mom's friend, who asked for Salt N Pepa's "Push It." I've got a newfound respect for her.

We submitted a MONSTER list of songs, so I wasn't surprised our djs couldn't get to them all. In fact, people were breaking it down so much that I only heard one slow song the entire evening; I cried the entire time it was on. But I'll save that for another post.

Here's the back of the postcard:

 

That's a drawing done by both Jon and myself. We were just doodling one day and thought it'd be a nice touch, plus it carried the whole stick figure theme on our invites. He did the faces and I did the bodies. Some of you know may already be familiar with Jon's drawings. If not, check out last November, when a lot of his 30 posts were sketches.

This is a bit of a spoiler, as way too many of our guests have yet to receive theirs, but we also used the drawing on the thank-you cards. We're hoping we get them all out before the requisite year of forgiveness is up.

*I searched for lyrics to this song for YEARS, and someone posted them on this blog. Even after six-some years, that is one of the most popular reasons people stumble onto this web site. I am not kidding. 

snapshot

Sometimes when I'm out and about in life, I wish I could freeze time and have a photograph of whatever is in front of me, because it so completely captures the essence of the moment.


Yesterday, Jon and I went to the wedding of a friend of mine from college. The ceremony and reception were beautiful, and the bride looked stunning in her white gown. The skirt was pinned up on itself all over with little decorative details, and it swayed so gracefully when she was walking. At the party, she traded the veil for a white feather fascinator and just looked like an all-around princess. Her man didn't look too shabby either.

The bride has a 9-year-old from a previous relationship, and it was so obvious that her new husband and her son get along like lifelong pals. It was clear that the three of them have already been acting like a family for quite some time now. I got teary during the Unity Candle lighting, when instead of joining two flames, the couple and the son joined three.

We didn't see too much of the son at the reception, however. When introduced, he sprinted across the room and to his seat at the head table to avoid as many cameras as possible and shielded his face as if he were going to jail. I don't even know where he was for the majority of the evening while we all broke it down--even getting up as a table to shout out the lyrics to "Ice Ice Baby" to get the newlymarrieds to kiss (glass clinking was strictly forbidden).

But somewhere toward the end of the evening, after many guests were heading out, the girls yelled along to "I Wanna Dance With Somebody" (someone didn't know who sang that song and was reprimanded accordingly), Michael Jackson's "Beat It" video was haphazardly recreated, and we twirled around to a merengue or two. Somewhere in the middle of all that, a few groomsmen were evidently coaxing my friend's son back toward the dancefloor by getting him to do the moonwalk. He was attempting it, in slow, deliberate motion.  And soon enough he was in the middle of the crowd, moonwalking back and forth in his own world. Suddenly, without even looking up from the floor, he began to do the robot.

The crowd, who'd formed a circle around him, exploded in cheers. He was the center of attention for the rest of the night. He even hit the floor a few times, attempting to do the worm.

At one point, the gorgeous bride, the dapper groom and their son were surrounded by a dance circle of their friends and family, bouncing to the groove. The lights were flashing. The beat was bumping. And the bride took a second. She knelt down, her fancy skirt spread out in a fan around her, and tied her little boy's shoes.

If only my camera battery hadn't died.

and i'm sure i'm not the only one who feels this way

When celebrities die, I feel sorry for their families. But when I heard Michael Jackson passed away, I truly felt a sadness though I'm not nearly his biggest fan. I was trying to explain this to H--who enjoys his music but doesn't feel much of a connection--and I wasn't able to put it into words.

But this afternoon as I sat and watched coverage of Michael Jackson's memorial service, I realized what it is: The guy is a big part of my personal soundtrack. Thriller and Bad were some of my first beloved cassette tapes, and I'm pretty sure my brother and I could still re-enact the choreography (and the dialogue) of Smooth Criminal. It's probably why my first impulse when I heard of Michael's death was to send him a text message.

During those long summer days after The Dukes of Hazzard was over and my mother had threatened bodily harm if my brother called her at work ONE MORE TIME to say how bored he was, there wasn't much to do but pop a movie into the old Betamax machine. Soap operas are hardly entertaining for a fifth-grader and a first-grader stuck inside without cable until 2:45. Especially when the first grader a) didn't like to read b) could only tolerate one board game a day c) ALWAYS decided on the film/entertainment even when pretending it was my turn and d) had an Approved Watching List of just three movies: Home Alone, Troop Beverly Hills and Moonwalker.

We watched Moonwalker a lot.

It didn't end there. He made me cut off the fingertips on one of my white gloves and put sequins on it to go with the white sock/black shoe ensemble required for video dancealongs. And though I was always reading a book, it was cute to look up and see his little legs imitating the steps. I smile just thinking about it.

My brother has been home visiting for about a week, and he's coming to stay at my place to hang out and catch up. It was a treasure last Christmas to find Troop Beverly Hills in the dvd bin at (of all places) the hardware store, but it made a phenomenal stocking stuffer. It'd be great to get Moonwalker and watch it with my brother one more time. Though I doubt he'll dust off any of those old moves. Well, maybe the spin, if I'm lucky.

The only example I can think of to put the passing of Michael Jackson into perspective for H is that it's a little like how it'll feel for him when longtime baseball announcer Vin Scully dies. H grew up listening to Vin call the games for his favorite team and says it's just not the same with anyone else at the mic. We've never actually met these people, but experiencing what they do best has become like a delicious, familiar smell: One whiff, and you're right back in your 1989 living room, laughing as your brother shuffles his feet, hoots and grabs his crotch in time to the television. It's not like the new music Michael Jackson might have made would be the same by any means, but acknowledging that he will never sing another song just solidifies the fact that those lazy summer days of dancing around are truly gone forever.

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.

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.

look at me, look at me, look at me, i'm a winner

A long time ago, H and my boss discovered they have similar musical tastes and they sort of bonded over it. Ever since, they talk about who's coming to town and my boss gave me the heads up for when Rancid was here (I got H tickets for our anniversary and the boss let us move into his front-row balcony seats).

They both like The Aquabats, so when the boss found out they were coming to Chicago, he went ahead and got tickets for both of us to go. H had been looking forward to it for months, because apparently the band knows how to put on one hell of a show.

Described as a "zany ska unit" from California, I knew this would be right up H's alley. And I was very curious as to what they'd do. I've been pretty stressed from overbooking myself on work projects, so this was a much-needed break.

I haven't been to the Metro since the bouncing bird's nest I encountered with cc at the Lupe Fiasco show two years ago.

When we got inside, I immediately realized I was way overdressed with my sweater and peacoat--everyone there was in comfy T-shirts, jeans and stretchy clothes. Evidently they were prepared for some heavy-duty skanking (dancing, not that other kind). I got a drink.


This girl was in front of us before people really showed up. I was sort of sheepish about taking her photo, which is why I didn't get more of her man's super-pointy hair (you can see part of him in front/left of her in the black; his hair stuck out at least six inches in fat spikes). While we were waiting, I worked out a whole soap opera about them: She is atypical late-teen/early twenties trying to figure out her identity. She kept glomming onto her guy from the back and he seemed indifferent. There was another guy to her right who kept trying to put his arm around her--this one I pegged as the one who liked her before she got all edgy and tatted up, and he could see her for the beauty she had in the inside. There was a THIRD guy (this one very small and nerdy-looking) in green, to her left (maybe her little brother?). She kept bumping him to the music, which he seemed to be enjoying but was too self-conscious to even bop his head. I would have taken this story farther, but then they started jumping around hard-core to The Rikters (Chicago band!) and H suggested we move unless we wanted to be splattered against the wall we were leaning against.


Then Suburban Legends, from California, came out. They had a lot of energy, and I especially liked the way they had choreographed moves between the lead singer, trombonist and trumpeter. Smooth. Apparently somewhere up the line they had played a lot at Disney, so they busted out "Under the Sea." I was shocked that I still knew all the words, even though the last time I sang it was at a sixth-grade chorus concert. They were fun.


When the headliners came out, people went ABSOLUTELY EFFING CRAZY. They were throwing up the non-gang sign that looks a lot like The Aquabats' icon (couldn't get a good shot of it). These guys are all about fun. A few of them are the creators of the children's show, Yo Gabba Gabba!, because they weren't happy with the programs that their kids had to choose from to watch. It's a pretty successful show. I was amazed at how dedicated their fans are, and the wide range of ages they were, too. I notice quite a few people came dressed in their signature teal tight-fitting shirts and goggles, and there were several small kids there, too.


Everyone was really into it, especially when they played "Pizza Day" and "Pool Party*," which were the only two songs I really knew, aside from the title of this post, which is played during the credits of my very favorite indie film of all time.

There was a lot going on stage; small video vignettes, montages of oldschool film clips on the screen, a huge person dressed as a chicken, you know, the usual. But I was entertained. Also, the energy level stayed cranked up to 11 for the entire show. The lead singer, "The MC Bat Commander," had total control of the crowd.

The Commander had so much crowd control, in fact, that toward the end of their performance he announced that there was a small man in the audience, and pointed to a boy sitting on his dad's shoulders whom we had seen jumping up and down to the music earlier. He proceeded to call the kid, Alex, up to the stage, where everyone cheered for him uproariously. The Commander took the kid (who can't be older than six) in his arms and asked him if he'd ever been on a stage before: "Alex has never been on stage before!" Then The Commander asked if he'd ever been to a punk rock show before: "It's his first show!" And then there were a couple more questions before he asked if Alex had ever surfed on an ocean of people before: "Hear that ocean?!?"

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.

I will have that image--the look of pure joy on that kid's face, his arms and legs splayed out and how his orange T-shirt caught the light--burned into my memory forever. The crowd went ballistic, and it "waved" him all the way back to his father.

At first I was outraged. To be honest, I was already mentally chastising all the parents who brought kids and didn't give them headphones or earplugs (like my boss does with his kids). I'm a silent scolder like that. But after seeing that The Aquabats checked with the parent, I've decided that this is probably one of THE coolest things that could ever happen for any six-year-old--he's probably a concertgoer for life, now. Just seeing it gave me the kind of fuzzy, twinkly feeling I get when I watch a little kid open a present she really wanted for Christmas. I think everyone in that place channeled some of that excitement. That alone made it a fantastic show, but the rest was good too.

He's not as open-minded as I am when it comes to music, but I wonder if H would have this much fun accompanying me to a Missy Elliott show.



*If you only click on one link in this post, make it this one. How can you go wrong with Charlie Brown and the Peanuts gang?

office supply closet

At my old office in the River North neighborhood of downtown Chicago, we were near a lot of interesting things: a Brown-line El stop, Brett's Kitchen, Batman, The Onion, lots of art galleries and a Starbucks where people often got pickpocketed.

The River North area is known for its interior design outlets, cathedrals and has the most galleries in the U.S. outside of Manhattan. Back in the day it had a lot of warehouses, too, and you can see the evidence in the exposed bricks and beams featured in a lot of the galleries and office buildings in the area. If you're real lucky, your office will come with a built-in man-size safe.

This is in a hallway of our old office between the two larger rooms of desks.

Nobody knew why there was a safe built into the wall. We wondered what the heck it could have been used for, especially because the combination lock wasn't particularly effective.

There isn't much room inside, either.

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.

Nowadays the "sexy" in our new office comes in the form of some muffled samba coming up through the floor. You've gotta take what you can get.

"lazy" Sunday

This weekend was all about lying around and doing NOTHING. Except somehow I got a lot done.

I woke up at 2:30 pm on Saturday afternoon, watched television and finished knitting a scarf. Then I ate and talked on the phone. That's it. And it was soooooo good.

Sunday, however, I got up at the bootycrack of dawn (which I consider 7 am for a Sunday) and drove to the city for breakfast with cc. It was bizarre to be up and about so early, and the place was a little like a ghost town. After a lovely brunch in her old 'hood, we walked around shocked that the cute little shops weren't going to be open till NOON. We hadn't really made plans, so we checked out the theater listings and weren't impressed. And we were already caffeinated from breakfast—the coffeeshop was sort of out of the question. So we did what any bored twenty-something does on a Sunday.* We hit The Crack House.

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.

Those of you who pay attention to my Twitter have seen that the keyboard-length chain of neon Post-Its is no substitute for a Rolodex, but I hate the options out there, so I'm attempting to make my own. And I'm being picky about it, because I have to refer to it about seven trillion times a day. I was telling cc about this quest and she offered to help, which was excellent because somehow I always find what I'm looking for when she's around.

So we spent the day roaming the aisles of The Crack House, Target, and were even considering the dollar store to find elements I thought I'll need to cobble together what I'm envisioning. We found them, (as well as a cable needle and gauge thingy I really didn't need). Now all I have to do is get cracking on it and hope for the best. Cc got a lot of her stuff done, too, and we returned to her place satisfied.

But the day was still young! So we watched Roll Bounce, then got sucked into Take The Lead. I've said before that I will sit through any movie with good dancing or good driving, no matter how terrible the acting/plot, and it's so much more fun to see them with likeminded people. (And that way I don't end up "owing" anyone for making him sit through a gem like Center Stage.)

It was a good day. Busier than I had anticipated, but a very good day.

*I am aware that this only applies to me.

boo-rthday surprise

It's only fair that, after I've subjected you to a long (and somewhat nasty) rant about surprise parties gone wrong, I tell you a little about a surprise party that went extremely well.

I've spoken at length about my high school friends, many of whom make regular appearances in my posts. And one thing we're known for are our birthday parties, which come close to being over the top. Kaiya's the old lady of the group, so parties for her tend to be a little more extravagant than the rest. There was a murder-mystery dinner where everyone dressed like someone from the '20s, there was an all-out luau with a six-foot fake palm tree and caribbean chicken skewers where Ri and I painted an oceanscape mural on the back of a refrigerator box (people posed in front of it for pictures), and countless other gatherings preceded by covertly procuring emails and phone numbers, staying up all night making Jell-O shots, frantically cooking and decorating, then yelling surprise.

You'd think that after awhile, people in the group would get wise to the not-so-"surprising" theme. You'd be right, but in the interest of fairness we've all been keeping up appearances (at least that's my theory) for years. This time being Kaiya's 30th, we figured it should be even more of a bang than usual.

Because Highcontrast lives in New York now, it's trickier to pick dates. Early on, we settled on November 10, and told Kaiya to keep it open. Ri asked her if she was in the mood for a big shindig with all the extended friends or a more intimate gathering with just the core group. Kai said intimate, and that was the last of her input on the matter. We had other plans.

While Kaiya was busy clearing her schedule for the 10th, Ri and her husband, C, announced that they were throwing a huge Halloween party in the multipurpose room of their condo, which has a kitchen and a sweet theater area. We spent an ungodly amount of time crafting a poem for a spooky yet birthday-ish evite, then mailed Kaiya a fake invitation. But getting many of her nonmutual friends on the list was proving to be really tricky. The party room has a max capacity of 45 people, and we were hoping to get somewhere in the comfy zone of 30-40 to make renting it worth the trouble. So all of us repeatedly hinted to Kai that we were inviting loads of extended friends and encouraged her to send a list of her own.

She sure did. Kaiya submitted a list of TWENTY-FIVE people, pushing the guest list very close to 60. Getting all those extra people past the doorman was going to be interesting.

We were convinced the jig was up: she must have figured out this party was for her and was sticking it to us for being so sneaky. Why else would she invite so many people? We thought the budget we had set would go totally out the window and began frantically looking for deals on liquor and decorations. But despite the new parameters (and a few glitches), somehow two kinds of punch got made, tiny appetizers got little toothpicks, cheese was cut into little triangles and arranged with crackers and pepperoni, fruit got cut up, pumpkin cookies were baked, ice chests were packed with booze, fake spiderwebbing (which smells like shit, btw) was draped around every immobile object, mini lanterns were lit, napkins were fanned out, banners were hung, the screaming doormat was functioning and in place, the Caution, Do Not Enter yellow tape was stretched across the room, and the music was pumping. AND, for which I am most proud, we only went $12 over the budget and had plenty of food and drink to spare.

The party was supposed to start at 6:30 and some of Kai's less experienced-with-us friends actually showed up on time, as we were running around costumeless and twisting crepe paper from the ceiling. The rest started trickling in, and by the end of the night we counted a total of 54 guests. So much for the one-third-won't-show-up rule. And while The Lady of The Evening did not arrive until 9:30, we were too busy rocking out with the life of the party(cc and ray busting out their b-girl moves) to worry too much about it.

Kaiya showed up dressed like Marilyn Monroe with a new guy we had yet to meet. And what a welcome that must have been for him, especially with the 20-minute nostalgic slideshow and body-less photos of her head taped up all over the place. 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. But Kaiya was pleasantly surprised.

After the cleanup, sobering up, knocking out and breakfasting on cookies and birthday cake, Highcon, Ri and I deemed it the best party we've ever thrown. The guest of honor seemed delighted and even people we'd never met before said they were impressed. But the icing on the whole thing was when Ri told us how Kai pulled her side during the party and said something to the effect of:

"You know, when you asked me if I wanted a Big Deal birthday party or something small, I chose the more intimate gathering. But later, as you started talking about this Halloween party and I was compiling a list of people to invite, I regretted it. I kept wishing all those people were coming to my party, but I didn't want to ruin the fun of your Halloween thing by saying so. But then when I got here and realized this actually was my party, it just made my year. Thank you so much."

That made it all worthwhile. But seriously, the next time someone proposes a surprise party, that person's going to get smacked in the mouth.

a big long post about three little words

Last weekend was Super Awesome.

Even though he was red and peeling in a sunburntastic way that brown people usually only hear about and his tastebuds were still stunned, my brother happily carted his crap back to Alabama to start what will hopefully be his last year of college.

My high school peeps requested my presence at 5 pm Friday for a shindig in my honor, but they wouldn't divulge any details, except that Highcon wasn't going to be able to fly out from nyc that weekend after all. When asked about dress code, Ri told me to wear something casual "that doesn't snag easily." All day, my coworkers and I were trying to figure out what the hell it could be, but could only come up with that fad from a few years ago where people would jump on a trampoline and affix themselves to a Velcro wall. Don't laugh; I would totally get a kick out of that.

Unfortunately, there was a snag. Normally--except for those 14-hour days--I get to work around 8 am and leave around 4:30 pm. And it would have been the case that Friday too, but as you may remember, earlier in the week we discovered they're dissolving our jobs, which made it a little harder to concentrate and work ahead.

All of my colleagues had afterwork plans, so we were busting our collective hump to send the reports and get the hell out of there. Kaiya was supposed to pick me up at 5 in her cute new car and whisk me off to wherever, so by 5:30 the text messages started buzzing with growing urgency. We have far to go! We may lose out on our tickets! Sadly, it was two more hours before I finally emerged onto the street with an overnight bag, my seersucker dress flapping in the wind. I was searching around everywhere for the cute new car, until a less-new-but-still-cute car pulled up and Highcon leaned over and said, "It's ABOUT TIME, missy."

Ever since we could drive, I've known to hang on to my life when riding shotgun with Highcon. 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. I kept trying to guess where we were going and he kept making me promise to close my eyes as we approached signs.

One missed exit, fourteen phonecalls in code (I'm passing the "L.C." Do I keep going until I see the Big W?" Should we park by the "B.G"?) and a shuttlebus ride later, we arrived at Ravinia, an outdoor music/park venue with loads of lawn seating upon which people set up elaborate picnics with candles and mini-tables and blankets, and baskets of food and wine. It's a must-do summer pastime in the Chicago area. I was very excited because I hadn't been there since the college girls and I went to see Celia Cruz shortly before she passed away a few years ago. By the time we got to the gate, we'd missed about 45 minutes of the show. And I shook my fists at the work gods when I found out that the people on stage were The Gypsy Kings, whom I have loved since I was about 16 but have never seen live.

It was such a perfect Cadiz evening:

We were sitting under a canopy of tall, shady trees.

The stage was very close and sparkly.

The other kids had gotten there early, staked out an excellent spot to the right of the stage and had a delicious spread of MiddleEastern delights, handpicked by Kaiya. And everyone was there, including my favorite mami, whom I rarely get to see!

Even the brussel sprouts were good!

We rocked out on the lawn near the stage.

After plenty of dancing around barefoot in the grass, silly photo-ops and running around for ice-down-the-back tag, we lazily packed up our stuff and headed home. This part of the evening is kind of blurry, because I'm usually passed out by 11 pm and riding in the car has always made me fall asleep at the end of the night, so I have no recollection of the long road back to Ri and C's place. I'm sure all that wine probably helped, too. I knocked out on their couch.

The rest of the weekend, I crashed with Ri and C. They showed me the gorgeous albums from their wedding and forced me to watch myself give their toast on dvd. I'm glad they did, too, because even though I spent months preparing for it, I didn't know what I was going to say until the words were coming out of my mouth and all I had remembered was trying hard not to let the champagne spill out of my trembling glass. But the speech was actually very good. I sounded exactly how I would have written it as a blog post, and I was surprised at the details I came up with on the fly, like consoling Ri on the loss of River Phoenix and that we served a 12-layer tropical Jell-O mold at Kaiya's 25th birthday party, where we first met C. I was pretty proud of myself.

Saturday we were supposed to go to the Air & Water show, or perhaps Chicago SummerDance at Grant Park, but honestly I had a much better time eating blueberry pancakes and catching up with the two of them all day. I love that I don't feel like a third wheel hanging out with a married couple, and we rarely get a chance to sit around and shoot the shit for an entire weekend. Besides, they live in a highrise right off Lake Shore Drive, so we were able to see a lot of the planes swing around to make their next passes over the show. Unfortunately, the only ones I was able to capture on camera in semifocus were a sprightly group of tricksters in formation.

They can do some fancy tricks, too.

Later we dragged ourselves out of the house for a great All-American meal at McNamara's and then to see Superbad, which H was reluctant to recommend because he hadn't seen it yet, but I think it was actually because he knows he's dating SuperPrude. I admit, a few "oh my goodness"es escaped my lips during the movie, but I've decided that I liked it. (I've come a long way from having covered my face through most of There's Something About Mary.)

On Sunday, Highcon picked me up at the suburban train station and we went to this Chinese restaurant shaped like a pagoda that had mesmerized us as children, with its fake bridge over a koi pond and fancypants decor. Now all that stuff seems a little dated. We made the tragic mistake of overemphasizing how spicy we wanted our Ma Po Tofu and Garlic Chicken, and spent the entire meal dripping sweat and downing gallons of water. To add insult to injury, we both got the SAME fortune when we cracked the cookies: "Happiness is sitting right next to you."

I got home and called my brother to find out how his journey and moving in had gone. He insisted everything was great and warned me against getting HDtv because it would chain me to the house, but I suspect he was really tired. Then he described the sweet bachelor pad he has with his friend Mark, with a bigscreen, Xbox 360 and lots and lots of grilling. He sounded downright giddy when he said, "You know Cadiz, life is good."

That was the perfect thing to hear at the end of an excellent weekend. Yes, baby brother, life is good.

To steal an idea from Alexandra, a shot of the booty.

Oh and this, which was stowed away in the bag that I take on the train.

while the world plays

I am at the office.

H is in town and currently sailing down the Chicago River on an architectral tour.

I've finished up most of today's to-do already, so I had time to check this out:

Dance Dance Revolution

No, it's not the get-off-your-rump video game, it's about a traveling man and his happy dance.

It made me smile today.

sweet sixteen of random

Both Stephanie and Jam tagged me to reveal eight random things about myself. So to be fair, I did 16. And now I must rest. But before I do, I tag Jon because he hasn't posted in a very long time. (I scoff at those of you who point out that he asked to be interviewed and hasn't done that yet either.) C'mon, Jon, we're counting on you. No pressure.

1) I will do whatever I can to avoid leaving the house on my day off.

2) I still haven't put together the photo album from my semester abroad EIGHT years ago.

3) I take guilty pleasure in a nap during an afternoon when the weather is sunny and gorgeous. It's like I'm mocking the opportunity to do something productive outside, so somehow the sleep is sweeter.

4) Oatmeal raisin is my favorite, but I am an equal-opportunity cookie consumer.

5) I hate all the crap I have to go through to get to the ocean, but once I'm in it, you're going to have a hard time getting me out-- unless a toothy water creature tastes my foot like that one time at Daytona Beach. In those cases, I can run through water surprisingly fast.

6) I attract mosquitoes. Quite well. Without even trying.

7) I can stay up all night if I'm procrastinating, but if I'm talking on the phone I can easily slip into a coma mid-sentence.

8) I find comfort in oldschool musicals.

9) When I was in fifth grade, I played Molly in the high school production of "Annie." I remember my solos and some of my lines, I still have my tap shoes, and I still keep jewelry in a musicbox that plays "Tomorrow," which I got as a gift on opening night.

10) The quality of my dancing is inversely proportional to the number of people in the room. It's too bad, really, because some of my cleaning-the-house moves are worthy of a Soul Train spotlight.

11) I've already made a mental list of home improvement projects for my house--one that i'm at least a decade away from even seeing.

12) There were entire weekends during college in which I did not see the sun.

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

14) I like my eggs runny and my toast crunchy.

15) I've never seen a James Bond movie. I enjoy hearing people's reaction to that statement so much that I've purposely avoided putting one on my Netflix queue so I can keep saying it.

16) I have 317 movies on said Netflix queue.

you just can't square dance on the beach

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.

Secretly, I've always sort of enjoyed the Square Dance. There's a comfort in knowing what's supposed to come next, even if it's being coming at you from an LP of a livestock auctioneer. When you go to a nightclub, you're pretty much feeling the music and trying to move your body in such a way that other people won't feel the need to gather around you in mockery. You're constantly evaluating your own ridiculousness, holding back your real rhythmic impulses to make room for safe practices like the step-together, step-together. And you're covertly evaluating everyone else, too. That's a lot of work. Which is probably why it doesn't usually happen without professional training. Or alcohol.

But with Elementary School Square Dancing, the pressure is off. Five-hand Star? I think I remember the gym teacher explaining that one. Swing Your Partner 'Round and 'Round? His hand on my back? No way. Promenade Around the Square? Ok, I just have to get through holding his hand for exactly 3.5 seconds, and it'll be over until tomorrow.

Gym Class Square Dance isn't completely for the faint of heart. When I was in fifth grade I was partnered with this kid named Mike McCoy, who interpreted "Swing your partner" as "Fling your partner." I found it necessary to wear pants during that entire segment because the kid would spin me around so my body was parallel to the floor and I didn't want the entire class to see my Day Of the Week undies. Because attire is very important in the Square Dance. If you aspire to participate outside of class, you have to dress the part. I once barely gained entrance to the Girl Scouts' Father/Daughter Square Dance only because my navy-blue satin skirt with lace trim had more than three ruffles on it-- my dad must have used his boyish good looks to get in, because he has never owned anything remotely suitable for that kind of jamboree.

Don't get me wrong, I have all kinds of respect for actual Square Dancers. Once you get out of gym class, I understand the configurations can get quite complex and the announcer isn't just on some record the teacher slowed down so we could keep up. I saw a television segment on some serious Square Dancers once, and they meant some serious Square Dance business.

We were forced to learn it for at least one segment every year, from fourth grade until freshman year of high school, right when the idea of holding some boy's hand entirely stops being life-threatening, but long enough to teach you about keeping up appearances, hand-eye-foot--musical beat coordination and working with The Enemy. Looking back, I can't help but feel bad for H because he never got the chance to fling anyone around in the name of Physical Education. I've been asking around, and it seems they didn't teach kids Square Dance in Florida, either. What gives? Coastal people, what did you learn instead? Surfing? Because then I'd have to trade my feeling of superiority for jealousy, because a wet suit seems much cooler than bandannas and leather fringe.

ode to a box of dust: part 2

The box full of corsages I found in my closet is now comfortably composting to fertilize a dumpster somewhere far away, but long ago its contents made me smile.


3) Freshman year of college, nice-ex was unsure if I would accept his invitation to the Indian Students Association semiformal and got third-party confirmation like highcon had for The Prom. I don't know what that's about. Perhaps all those years of fearing my parents' disappointment cultivated some kind of hell-no-don't-even-think-about-asking vibe I must put out to anyone even the slightest bit interested. The dance was our first plausible date because a week before when we went to see The English Patient, he had just come from competing in a track meet and slept through all three hours of the movie.


I wore my Prom dress (in fact, I wore that sucker about four times that year; talk about getting your money's worth. Thanks, dad!) He wore khakis, a white buttondown shirt, a tie and thin, navy blue suspenders. I have to say, he pulled it off pretty GQ and made a good impression. The flowers were scarlet with a scarlet ribbon. And aside from the fallout created by Mr. Mickey Mouse Tie's spy, who was in attendance and later reported all kinds of ridiculous untruths that Mickey Mouse used to destroy my reputation among my parents' friends, I had a lovely time. Despite our group being unable to locate the restaurant where we had reservations and ended up at Dairy Queen, eating ice cream at a Leg0-topped kids' table before the dance.


4) By Senior year, the semiformal was old hat to nice-ex and I (no corsage sophomore year and I was in Spain Junior year). I wore a navy satin floorlength halter dress that had this monochromatic embroidery all over the bodice and was cut to make my skinny arms look more toned. (I'm holding onto that dress for when it comes back in style. I pray I'll still be able to squeeze into it and actually have somewhere to wear it to.) He wore a gray suit. We went with a huge group of friends, most of whom were honorary Indian students, and the one corner of the dancefloor seemed to be our own personal party. Very fun.



5) I'm still trying to figure out what to call the one between nice-ex and H. To make an annoyingly long story short, it'd be as if Monica and Chandler were to go through a painfully messy breakup that made Monica start a blog and the other Friends resent them for a time, after which things would be fine but never quite the same. It's sickening how many parallels there are. You know, without the engagement, wedding, twins and move to suburbia.

I caught this bouquet at my friends Jacqueline and Ramon's lovely wedding. I was reluctant and stood toward the back, but the dang thing bounced off somebody else's eager hands and came right at my head. Chandler said he somehow had a *feeling* I was going to come back to the table with it, but sometimes it's better for everyone when superstitions don't come true. I wore a little black dress and he was in purplish gray.

6) Ri and C got married last July and asked me to stand up as their maid of honor. Ale was also in the wedding party and we had tropical bouquets inspired by the colors of Hawaii, where Ri and C would go on their honeymoon. When Ale went back to New York, she left her bouquet and her pair of those wretched shoes in my car, and I dried both bouquets in case she wanted hers later. But now that she's switched continents, I'm pretty sure she's not going to fly back to Chicago just to get it.

I think a two-part post does better justice to that stuff than leaving it in a closet shoebox to rot (saves more room, too). And because it took me a while to remember where the heck #5 was from, I'm glad I took some time to write it out. I've gotta do more documenting before the old memory slips even further.

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.