i think i'm in the wrong business

I've been tagged for the Wikihistory meme. Contrary to popular belief, I love memes. Thanks, Jam!

1. Go to Wikipedia and enter your birthday without the year: August 14

2. List three events that occurred that day:

• 1908 - First beauty contest held in Folkestone, England.
• 1936 - Rainey Bethea is hanged in Owensboro, Kentucky in the last public execution in the United States.
  
• 2004 - Sales tax holiday in Massachusetts. All sales taxes are suspended on purchases of $2500 or less.

3. List two important birthdays:

• 1945 - Steve Martin, American comedian and cousin of my math teacher
  
• 1959 - Magic Johnson, American basketball player and all-around nice guy (so I've heard)

4. List one death:

• 1951 -William Randolph Hearst, American newspaper magnate (b. 1863) and a guy who built one hell of a castle.

5. List one holiday or observance:

• Pakistan - Independence Day (From the Indian Empire and from the British colonialist and imperialists under the foreign control of the United Kingdom, 1947) It's too bad people are still fighting today.

Ok, I know it's not really part of the rules, but I have to say that the list of people born on August 14 seems to follow a pattern. They're mostly entertainers. I'm talking actors, musicians, athletes. Even back in the day it was painters and novelists. If you don't believe me, take a gander at the list. And several other athletes and actors didn't even make Wikipedia, such as Halle Berry and oldschool Chicago Bear Vestee Jackson. (even though I'm pretty sure only my brother knows that one). Hey, maybe if the traditional job doesn't work out for me, I should get together some kind of show and hit the road. At least then I'd be staying true to the legacy of my birthday.

Even though I hate putting pressure on anyone, I'm a stickler for playing by the rules. So I tag Ale, Beenzzz and Jazz (however, if being tagged makes you not want to do it, jas, then consider yourself un-tagged.)

back from the beach

When I got off the plane in Chicago Sunday, I looked around, let my bag slide off my shoulder and finally allowed myself to relax. Five days of little sleep, nonstop hustling and nearly every form of transport but donkey--though sometimes I felt like a pack mule myself-- and I was home.

Then I slept for 16 hours.

Thank you all for your good wishes and tips; H read them to me over the phone while I waited for a connection. When I got to the conference I smiled at everyone and introduced myself to anyone whose attention I could retain for thirty seconds. It was extremely awkward and uncomfortable, but got a little easier with practice. And so did the being alone part. I managed to use the city's counterintuitive unmanned masstransit, even though I kept thinking about that scene in Total Recall where the automated taxi crashes and continues to say "Have a nice day! Have a nice day!" I approached people whose lofty reputations and fancy titles intimidated me. And I even ate a few meals on my own (although it was in my room with CNN; sitting alone at a restaurant's going to take some time).

I was very unsure about talking to people. Seriously, what the heck can I contribute in a conversation with veterans in the business for decades? So I stuck to subjects I knew I could hold my own in: The overuse of air conditioning in seminar rooms, Thanking Goodness they offered free coffee and asking if my fellow attendees had yet dared to risk their knickers out on South Beach.

And what did I discover? That superduper bigshots are just like regular people. Especially during a lengthy discussion about the exhorbitant price of children's ice skating costumes and the perils of bidding for them on eBay with the one person the association awarded for his overall excellence this year. That's no easy feat. And the eBay trick wasn't a simple task, either.

Two of the coolest people I met do what I do, but for the government. Say what you will about the people at the very top, but Joe and Christine are smart, decent and fun to hang out with. Now I'll think of "Central Intelligence" in a whole new way.

I had to do my sightseeing when it was convenient:

Somewhere over Tampa

What IS that stuff?


The only time I actually saw the beach, though I was a lot closer to it on the ground.


The view from my hotel room, of Miami's Biscayne Bay and the causeway that leads to South Beach.


Not as impressive a skyline as Chicago, but very lovely indeed.


The main difference between a conference and a vacay? Getting up at the crack of dawn.


It's hard to see, but I could only get about half of my foot out onto the "balcony."


The view was just as lovely at night.


And they had cool ships!


Sunrise over the clouds and the city, as I left for home.

I'm really glad I ignored my fears and went on this trip. You really can do things you never thought you could, as long as you don't spend too much time thinking about it.

my own personal hell

Tomorrow I will embark on a treacherous journey.

I will board a commuter train to walk to the Orange Line to ride to the Airport to fly to Tampa Bay to connect to Ft. Lauderdale to take a shuttlebus to Miami. There, I hope to learn a thing or two about my industry and my career path. I will likely have to eat by myself. I'm sure I'll do a lot of standing around awkwardly. And I will definitely be spending quality time in the room with premium cable channels I do not have at home.

This situation looms dire because I am the girl whose tiny dungeon office seemed so much like a torture chamber that her blog posts were cries for rescue; the college student who couldn't sleep until she heard her roommate's key jangling in the lock; the girl who feels sorry for those who go to movies by themselves, because poor things, they have no one with whom to make snide commentary. And unfortunately my go-to partner in crime for these work-type conferences, cc, has a family thing keeping her from tearing up the palm-tree scene with me. Oh, the fun we would have had!

But for the same reason I force myself to precariously look down from high places, I will force myself to smile and go through with the trip. But it's a good thing I'll have my trusty Wonder Woman luggage tag along for the ride:

Luggage tag, inspired from an article in Bust Magazine, made by me.

A little rough around the edges, hiding complete terror with a healthy sense of feisty. Yep, that's how I roll.

just as soon as i find those brass knuckles

Just when I find an opportunity to get back to the business of whining about the problems in my life, somebody pulls a stunt that forces me to focus my idiot-seeking hate lasers elsewhere.

And don't get me started about what I have planned for the jackasses who have been making my friends cry lately.

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.

his favorite octogenarian

"By the way, I've been emailing my sister back and forth today. She told me to tell you that moving down there would be the best idea you've had since deciding to be my girlfriend. And if you don't move there, she won't like you anymore (she thinks this will be a very compelling reason). You can do with that what you want :) "


"well, you tell her that it would be my pleasure to take up residence in her fair city, and as soon as she can find me a job there, i'll pack my bags!"


"She said she can get you a job at Mimi's Cafe. She said she usually makes anywhere from $XX to $XX an hour. Pack your bags!!!"


"did you mention that i move with the swift agility of an 85-year-old woman [i'm extremely sore from monday's dance class] and can't remember what you've said to me 2 minutes before? do those sound like the traits of a successful waitress?"


"Actually, I think you're a little over-qualified. Try not to remember stuff for so long, ok?"


"i'll do my best, but it's hard to let go of some of the stuff that pisses me off."


"Hmmm... Yeah, maybe food service isn't the best industry for you."

it may as well be raining

I am a big proponent of delayed gratification. Because of this, I tend to invest in things to save For a Rainy Day. Unfortunately, I often forget I have them and buy another when it's actually raining. This makes for a lot of extra stuff in my closet.

Take this lovely address book carefully saved in the original bag.





I bought it in Barcelona when I was studying abroad. I was impressed that a reknown architect could make buildings without using math. Gaudí, my hero! My rationale for not filling it out right away was that nearly everyone I knew was graduating and moving around all over the place. I was going to wait until people were more stable in their addresses so as not to mar the beautiful pages by crossing/white-ing out entries.

Parque Guell, Barcelona

View of La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona

Guess what? It's eight years later and my friends are STILL moving all over the place.

Ale, be sure to give me your new address; I'll send you postcards from suburbia. You know, just in case you forget what it's like out in the middle of the United States.

project throw'way

It's spring, people.

Birds are twittering, grass is sprouting and I'm itching to throw things away. I admit it's the first time in my life that I've actually felt the need to "spring clean," but you know me: When I take on a project, I go ALL OUT.

For the past week and a half, any moment I have not been working, cooking, eating or sleeping has been devoted to sorting my junk and to get rid of what I do not need. Or at least thinking about it. Because defining "need" takes some thought. I cannot describe how hard it has been for me, a classic packrat, to part with such sentimental treasures as my fourth grade catechism report card-- on which Mrs. Schmeider rated me Excellent at "Prepares Homework and Projects" and "Participates in Class," but only Very Good at "Shows Christian Values in Behavior" and "Shows Knowledge of Doctrine." She probably saw me doing my homework before class started every week. Sure it got done, but I guess that wasn't a very "Christian" way to go about it. Whatever. At least I wasn't copying.

However ridiculous, the report card is staying. But only because it fits in the one small box I am allowing myself for school memorabilia after I got rid of every last lame book report, math packet and science experiment lab note. Besides, it makes me chuckle.

After months of watching home organization shows, mainly Neat and Mission:Organization, I felt I had observed long enough.

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.

For her birthday, I reorganized my mother's closet. She is extremely easygoing and doesn't hold on to much, which is probably why she allowed my father to overtake 94% of their wall-to-wall closet with neckties from 1984 and brand-new packages of tube socks, along with every piece of clothing he has ever owned*. The poor woman was keeping her clothes downstairs in the guest room, where she had to trudge every cold winter morning. Dad wasn't excited about having to clear out half of the closet, but he held up his end of the bargain. I got a closet rod doubler, two sets of hanging shelves, some nice wooden hangers, and threw in a lot of time and effort. Unfortunately, I don’t think I solved any of the problem, as my father now keeps his overflow in the guest room closet, but my mother's, "So i don't have to go downstairs anymore?!" was well worth it.

In my quest to declutter my life, I basically emptied out my room, section by section, got rid of a good portion of what was there and put it back in such a way that everything has an easy-to-reach, designated spot. Here are some tricks I learned from months of show-watching:

1) See-through boxes. My junk starts to breed when I can't see it.

2) Labels. Guessing is damn annoying, especially when you have to move a bunch of crap just to find out you're wrong.

3) Bed risers. An extra six inches of space allows for more stuff, like empty luggage, making more room in the closet. Plus I feel like a queen sleeping so high.

4) Putting hangers on the rod backwards and flipping as I wear stuff. After about six months, I’ll really be able to see what can go.

5) Clip and file. I have about 200 magazines I’ve saved for God Knows What. I went through them, ripped out articles I might need again and filed by category in an expandable folder, which takes up 1/100 of the space.

6) Photos. I put all the old ones in photosafe boxes and one day when I have a lot of energy, I’ll get them into nonmagnetic albums. Maybe.

7) One in, one out rule. I gave myself a limit on fabric. Now that I've got it down to just the one big storage box, I can’t buy more until I use some. Even if it's on sale.

Sadly, I have accumulated so much junk over the years that this process will probably not be complete until partway through 2013. By which time I hope to be living elsewhere and accumulating a whole new housefull of crap.

But at least this exercise will make the move a little easier.


* I tried to be slick and get rid of seven (ONLY SEVEN!) of the bazillions of clothes my father moved to the guest room closet. Apparently, one of those raggedy items was "lucky." Let's just say the tearing through the house for it and the admonishment that ensued was not a terribly enjoyable experience.

proof that i'm not insane

Thank you, Omar, for pointing out that seeing a wild animal trotting around downtown Chicago is not, in fact, a sign that you're hallucinating.

Yesterday, a coyote wandered into a Loop sandwich shop and planted his booty down on some Diet Pepsi in the beverage cooler. Here is the Chicago Sun-Times story on the incident, of which I found this to be the best part:

There were four customers in the shop when the coyote wandered in. Two left, but two stuck around to finish their chicken sandwiches. They took photos until a police officer shooed them away, Patel said. The officer didn't have far to go; he was at the Dunkin' Donuts next door.

missing the chains

One of my big complaints back when I was in the dungeon was that I was in the dungeon. And now that I am not in the dungeon but working in snippety bursts all over the place, I am longing for a routine I can lean on like a tired old lady with her cane at the bus stop.

And this capitals thing is driving me batty.

cadiz goes legit

Few of you may know it, but "Do They Read Obituaries in Hell," has been following an evolving grammar and punctuation stylebook for more than two years, a code that employs lowercase sentence starts and closed words, freeing up the hyphen for such heavy lifting as the freight-train-length-descriptive-thought-that-doesn't-break-well and the doubled up Em Dash substitute. However, 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 know it's going to be a tough adjustment for all of us. Hang in there.

i'm uptight, but everything is all right

H was helping one of his colleagues with her new Blackberry Pearl. she is fairly young and didn't want to do much more with the thing than put some songs on it. so H figured she'd be bound to like at least a few things from the Rolling Stone greatest songs of all time list he had on his laptop. however, she apparently wasn't familiar with most of the artists.

i was a little surprised. granted, i can accept that today's teenagers don't know about the Cobra Kai, but she hadn't even HEARD of any of them.

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. and even without the influence of a radio-savvy older person, i managed to listen past Kenny Rogers' "Lady." today, i am proud to say i can identify more than 48% of the music on Rolling Stone's list.

but H said she's not even a little bit country. in fact, she requested hip hop. to which i responded with a big, fat "JIGGAWHAT?!"

i guess there's no real reason for dismay. i understand stevie wonder's music is not hip hop. however, i find it appalling that somebody who purports to like the latter doesn't have a clue who the former is. good gravy, haven't they gotten around to having a stevie wonder round on American Idol yet?!

i suggested that H give her some stevie, some diana and some jackson five because of her request. and for the sake of my sanity, i requested he ask who she considers a "hip hop" artist, adding that if she said something like Akon, i would proceed to shoot myself in the head.

lucky for me, work got extremely busy for them and he never had the chance to ask. i don't think i really want to know anymore.

side effects may include tone deafness

it has become abundantly clear that in the months since i have traded commuting 2 hours each way alone in my car for 2 hours each way surrounded by others on the train, the quality of my singing voice has deteriorated significantly. these days i am only able to carry a tune if i am singing along with the radio or if i have put it into a backpack.

i cannot describe just how much that disturbs me.

dot com bust

some of you may have noticed something wacky about this blog in the last few days, namely that it was redirecting to a blogless site where cadiz was nowhere to be found outside the generic ads and address. my apologies.

you see dear readers, back at the turn of the century i was in the loop. i could program myself out of a box and was fairly in touch with the rigors of HTML and the like. unfortunately, the cutting edge of that technology was galloping ahead at light speed and i was left behind because i turned away for a second. you know, to focus on my career.

to make a long story short, this weekend i followed the too-simple-to-be-true instructions provided by blogger.com for pointing my blogspot address to a custom domain. they even provided a list of places to get a domain and said that blogger could continue to host, redirect to your new address as well as keep the blogspot.com address. all links would still work and, except for a day or two while the domain people's servers would be updated, people would always be able to access your blog.

granted, i openly admit there's a chance i did something wrong in this process. so i called technical support at the custom domain company and a man named nico told me that what i was trying to do was impossible. highly annoyed, i canceled with them and now i have a vomit-like taste in my mouth.

today the cutting edge of programming is galaxies beyond my comprehension and the idea of trying to catch up is daunting and unappetizing. the only reason i wanted to change was to have something easy to remember that is relevant to the blog for people in my life who find it too taxing to remember the address and/or use that as an excuse for why they don't care to look at it, while at the same time moaning that they have no idea what is going on with me.

i do not want to start over. i do not want to lose my archives. i want this to be a relatively painless and inexpensive process. but i'd like to make it a reality.

earlier this year, i spent an ungodly amount of time labeling all my posts. however, if i cannot find recourse, i may have to suck it up and start over somewhere else, blogger. i've heard lovely things about WordPress, Vox and Moveable Type. and the tips some of you have shared are making me really consider it.

suggestions would be highly appreciated.

H and C hit the ice

H says Illinois Governor Rod Blagojevich ought to pay him. because every time he comes to visit, chicago is hit with the most spectacular weather. i can't explain it, but the evidence is on his side: at the end of a bitter november, we strolled around Navy Pier without coats because a) being from southern cali, he doesn't have one, and b) it was 60 degrees F. at the beginning of january, he was able to troll the shops on michigan avenue with me in search of a coat because it was so very lovely. and a couple weeks ago, after a long bout of below freezing, windy, icy conditions, it was suddenly 70F the weekend he was in town. of course, the boy takes the good stuff with him; as soon as he gets back to his own zip code, around here the temperature drops and the inclement weather sets in.

one thing i had wanted to do all winter was ice skate at the outdoor rink set up in front of the bean at Millennium Park. i had a vision of us reflected in the sculpture's distorted shiny surface-- rosy-cheeked and smiling with long stripedy scarves fluttering behind us, gliding around holding hands and chuckling about how many marshmallows we could fit into our mugs of hot chocolate afterward. you know, just like those oldschool Currier & Ives christmas cards.

photos courtesy of H

"Cloud's Gate," by Anish Kapoor

view from under the arch

the reality, however, was quite a bit different.

we finally made it out to the park the last time he was here, a few days before they shut down the rink until fall. unfortunately, it was also 70 degrees and sparkling outside, which made for a gigantic puddle of water in varying depths on top of the entire rink.


we hobbled onto the ice, confessing that neither one of us has been skating in more than a decade: me, who hadn't really been since i quit lessons in frustration of the backwards swizzle in junior high and he, whose ice-rink experience mostly consists of broomball, which doesn't require skates at all.

it was slow going at first. there was no holding of hands, only small bursts of gliding and there was definitely no chuckling. we were on a mission, dammit, to make it around more than several times without falling, bumping into one of the zigzagging little kids or being knocked over by one of the showoffs gliding around with smirks on their faces.

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. he was okay, and he played it off very cool despite the bastard who laughed. the watery ice made for some serious Slip 'n Slide action and probably kept him from getting injured. but H knows how to put on a show. i'm sure everyone at home enjoyed it that night.

regardless, we had a good time. though far from what i had expected, downtown skating was pretty cool; there were even people in suits there on their lunch breaks. i was just glad we made it before the season was over and had a decent time, even if the experience had us looking into ankle-strengthening exercises and H changing out of his soggy clothes. but the best part of the day was seeing the perfectly appropriate tags we happened to get on our rental skates:

just begin the list with b

i flew up the steps in stockinged feet. needless to mention, three into it my foot slipped. i slid down the steps, with only my left pinkie finger to hold up the weight of my body. it still hurts, but it's not too swollen. splinted, i'm fine. i might still knit, but typing is now less fun. the injured is mostly responsible for typing the first of the vowels. omitting this letter relieves the throbbing while conserving delete-key strokes, but you never fully notice how much you use some vowels until your finger is hindered. i've gotten up to here without it, but i'm terrified i'll find myself cornered with my wrists tied if i continue to blog without the first letter on the list. so i'll close here.

i'm sure it is obvious, but no, i did not consult collections of synonyms for this post.

just the man for the job

"what are you doing in there?"

"oh i'm just looking up some stuff online."

"hmm. hey, you know what's a real boy thing to do? take out the trash."

"you know, the great thing about you is that you don't let yourself fall into those gender stereotypes."

"good point. ok then, can you open this jar for me?"

sweaters, puppydog tails and all things nice

awhile back i asked your advice about a baby sweater i had made. thank you all for the compliments and opinions, even those who responded privately. i will be sending that sweater to my cousin in india, who just gave birth to a baby girl and made me a "Badi Mummy" (big mom/older mother) or technically, a Masi (mother's sister). yay for nieces!

yesterday, cc, ray and i put on the baby shower we had planned for our dance instructor, boogie (i didn't make that up), whose baby boy is due to arrive in april. food was flowing, presents were piling up and we all had a great time. this woman is more than just a teacher; she brings a lot of joy to so many people and makes everybody she comes in contact with feel great about themselves. i'm sure she'll be just as loving to her son as she has been to us all of these years. yay for baby b-boys!

i made another sweater for boogie's baby in a very manly square pattern, you know, as manly as you can be in supersoft pale blue. unfortuately i don't have a picture, but it was pretty well-received and i think she will likely put it on her son. that's good enough for me! hooray for me realizing that the hood was sewn on backwards before i gave it to the mom!

there's nothing like the idea of brand-new people, who haven't yet taken the knocks of life, to make you seek out the blessings in your own.

karma is spelled D-U-K-E

"i noticed that i didn't get an invite to your final four pool. you invited my boyfriend and my ex-boyfriend but you failed to extend an invitation to THE ONLY OTHER PERSON ON THE PLANET THAT COMES FROM THE SAME SET OF DNA?!?"

"you don't even follow college basketball!"

"um, I DO DURING MARCH. and you know it."

"well, it's just freaking annoying that you don't know anything about it and still win."

"WHAT?!? you're excluding me because i consistently kick your ass? shameless."

"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."

"you are freaking ridiculous. fine, forget you. i don't want to be in your stinky pool anyway. and you know what? i'm going to help H with his brackets!"

"NO! as commissioner, i'm going to have to administer some rules here: THERE WILL BE NO TAG-TEAM TEAMS!"

"you're full of it. you should have thought about that when you did not include your own sister. hmph!"

"fine. i just sent you an invitation."

"i don't want it anymore. not if had to twist your arm."

"no, really. i'm inviting you."

"took you long enough."

"but on one condition: you can't use your real name."

"why, because you don't want to be a laughing stock when i clean the floor with you?"

"something like that. PROMISE. not your real name!"

"fine. but now that you've made such a big deal about it, i'm not even going to win anymore."

"that's what i'm counting on."


*******
i never did get that invite. the excuse was that he sent it to cadiz12[at]gmail[dot]com, not the CORRECT address, cadiztwelve[at]gmail[dot]com. whatever.

i do not regret laughing uproariously after hearing one of his favorite teams, Duke University, was eliminated in the very first round. and for the record, i honored his wishes and did not help H, however he's STILL in first place in the pool.

ha! that's what you get for keeping me out, baby brother.

i, moron

i like to think i'm original, creative and attentive to detail. and i loathe people who bite off other people's ideas, especially without attribution. so imagine my surprise when, after staying up all night on a project that i deemed ingenious-- you know, except for the little smudge in the corner, i realize i somehow missed an example in the instructions that was intestine-twistingly similar. (hint: it was not good surprise.)

i will now be forced to revile myself for the rest of the week and cringe about this debacle for years to come.

can't wait to hear your oscar speech

last weekend ri, kaiya and i ordered takeout costa rican and watched The Departed. after having seen the oscars and hearing the theme music time and time again as the movie's nominations were called, i noticed every time it was used in the film. and while the series of events in the movie kept me constantly nervous (i felt like i was cracking up as much as the protagonist), i could focus on the score to take my mind off of worrying who the *actual* bad guy was.

you never really think about soundtracks to movies, until The Academy reminds you that you should. i still remember realizing that i actually like the sound of the accordion after seeing Amelie or that a score could be listened to like an album when croc would have Braveheart playing on repeat while we studied for our college psychology exam.

H has been out to visit for the last several days, and on saturday we attended a cd release party for my friend's album, Y. it's very much like a movie soundtrack, and listening to it you get the feeling that this guy could do some great work with peter jackson or steven spielberg. i've been following the treacherous journey he has had-- five years of creative sweat, love and probably tears. he wrote it, sings, plays a lot of the instruments and painstakingly produced the entire thing. i'm amazed by what he's been able to put together, and can't even fathom what it must have taken to do so.

so congrats on your cd release, c. don't forget the little people when you make it big.

milestone: year 2

today marks two years of "do they read obituaries in hell?" and like last year, i put together a "highlight reel" of what was said in the last 12 months. if you manage to get through the whole thing, you may just catch a refrain of Green Day's Time of Your Life or some other nostalgic-montage song lingering in the air. however, i make no promises.

thanks for reading!

'he was in Chi a few months ago, and he went out to lunch with me and my girl. i noticed he was wearing a ring, and i said jokingly, what, you're married now? he said, yeah man. i was like, yo, how come you didn't invite me to the wedding? he said, oh, cause i got married on my lunch break.


she's gotten me gifts i forgot that i wanted, items so perfectly suited to my needs that it's as though there's truth to that threat she made when i was in junior high that no matter how far i go or what i do she can always see me and will always find out. (and she always did somehow! but with age, i've realized it was poor deception skills on my part, not omniscience on hers, that did me in.)


8:35 a.m.: completely awake and starting to worry someone i care about might be lying in the street bleeding to death or something-- which would be an appropriate reason to necessitate three phone calls at my equivalent of THE DEAD MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. unable to fall back asleep for fear i'm a horrible friend for not answering.


the road into town had an industrial feel. like any other suburb, there were gas stations, fast-food joints and a kmart. but there were also dilapidated warehouses and factories, remnants of an old steel plant. and churches, lots of churches. there was probably a house of worship on every block, if not two, and one across the street for good measure. now, i'm all for having choices, especially when it comes to something as personal as prayer, but the reason the abundance of them seemed so odd was because there were no people.


'whatever. i'll bet you got your ear pierced with the secret hope that one day, you too could have a magical earring turn you into a superstar.'


i don't smoke and this may sound nasty, but that's an instance where i wished lighting up was still allowed inside. one errant glowing red tip and that puffyass bouncing bird's nest would have gone up like a stack of matches.


'i doubt i'm important enough to make the paper unless i get gunned down by a psycho soccer mom or something. but i guess they'd have to say something like "Cadiz Twelve: That Girl Really Loved her Television." '


Doris,
Hope that prosthetic eye is treating you well!
get well soon.
Maude


when someone is reading while walking, aimlessly, bobbing and weaving about the office hallway. it makes it increasingly difficult for me stop myself from taking off my pointy highheel and sticking it between his shoulderblades to get him to watch where he's going because he's blocking my path to the printer for a report that's already ten minutes late to begin with BEFORE i ever get to it.


"now THERE'S my girl. all this while i had been wondering where my little pessimist had gone."


before the wedding, i had written out a speech, then folded it up and written crib notes during the day as things came to me. but i didn't look at it because as i gripped the mic and the glass, i had no free hand. besides, as the video will later show, even though my mind was pretty calm, the glass-holding hand was shaking so violently that i had to hold it against my body to keep from spilling. thank God they don't fill those things more than halfway.


being the bigger person that i am, i will still hold the elevator should i see you, but god help me if you don't say thank you, it will be as though you never existed in my mind.


at her grammar school in florida they only offered stringed instruments and if you took orchestra you got to miss math class a couple times a week. damn, if we had that system in my hometown, maybe i'd have actually practiced my cello and given yo yo ma a run for his money.


come to think of it, stealth has always been your modus operandi. like after you left for school and the alarms you'd secretly set on my cellphone went off 2 hours after i'd finally fallen asleep? yeah, thank the good Lord i couldn't reach through the telephone and yank out every last scraggly hair of your poor excuse for a goatee, pal. and at that ungodly hour, i think i would have ripped out the hair on your head, too.


first half of America's Next Top Model marathon? enjoyed (although i've never really been into that program, when they show them all in a row, i just cannot find the courage to turn off the tv.)


the beasts we really had to watch for zipped along streets and sidewalks, spewing exhaust and tooting their little horns. it seemed everyone and their mamma was driving a golf cart.


i have no idea how i remembered this -- probably because someone i knew in jr. high was obsessed with him -- but i replied, "why, it's kirk cameron's birthday!" and that's exactly what she had been thinking.


"na na nah, I GOT IT! now get this: India. N, with the little swirly thing, d, y, i, a. India. now that's strong AND sexy! ... nah, N with that thing on top, d, y, i, a. i'm telling you, girl! that's a GREAT name!"


besides, this morning when i got off the plane in chicago to find that it was SEVENTY degrees here, i realized that i definitely needed to lighten up. that and learn to hobble around town with my foot in my mouth.


i'm still feebly fighting off the idea that i traded my life for my television when i agreed to take on this job two years ago.


"geez! i mean, we all know that every year when he buys the candy he gets twice as much and then hoards some for himself. but he wasted NO TIME in snatching up all the leftovers, too! that man needs help."


it's no secret that my mom would gladly trade two legs and a duodenum to have somebody of her very own to call her grandma. and that i've been taught, as oldest and as daughter, that it's my cultural obligation to have given her one like five years ago. but i haven't. because in some twisted form of logic, i believe that one should only produce grandchildren when one has found a suitable partner and only then if both parties are good and ready. but that doesn't stop my mom from hinting at how jealous she is of her friends who have them and it certainly hasn't put a damper on the one-woman babyblanket knitting factory she's running out of the living room.


"cadiz! you cannot be telling me that your first drink is your last drink of the night. oh, grow some tits and suck it down."


in the middle of the night at home i know there are breathing bodies in the other rooms. i know that if i choke on a wheat thin and start to asphyxiate, i can run over and collapse onto one of their doors and they'd wake up and call 911. here, i'm surrounded by hundreds of people on dozens of floors, but somehow i think they'd be dialing different digits at 3 a.m. if i tried that maneuver.


walking around that hall was a little surreal. faces and nametags jumped out at me like dead bodies at a wake sitting straight up in their coffins. it was creepy, but familiar. i'm good with names and faces, but not necessarily together. so i'd catch a glimpse of someone and then spend 20 minutes trying to figure out if it was that cool girl in my gym class or that annoying cheerleader who would keep one leg on top of her desk in class so pretty much anyone would take note of the orange underthing she had on under the uniform.


it's like the last two years i've been incubating in the dungeon and waiting for my real life to start. and now that i'm properly cooked, i think i might be ready for it. unfortunately, everything is up in the air and i don't know where to begin.


4. when i was little i was terrified of cats. my parents used this to keep me in line, threatening me when i was behaving badly by saying "the mau is coming! you better get your shoes on right this minute! i think i hear the mau!" the same tactic was used to keep me from wriggling out of my carseat, but instead of the mau it was that the police would come if i didn't stay put. i still have a lingering mistrust of law authorities as well as cats. i take each on a case-by-case basis.


If this room could talk,
What do you think it would say?
"I pity the fool!"


as i started to walk away, everyone in the room began to applaud. i'm talking everybody-- my colleagues, the cleaning staff, people in the back who i had never even met and even the higherups. i had seen this happen a few times before, but the recipients had been important, high-ranking, long-term people and i know they don't do it for everybody. i had just assumed i'd sneak out of there without incident. i was shocked and overwhelmingly honored.


b) i am able to awaken at the agreed-upon hour, only to convince myself in a half-asleep state that i no longer need to get out of bed then, can spare a few more minutes "resting my eyes" or that i was certifiably insane when the hour was agreed upon.


we ate and chatted and then H was heartbroken that neither of us won the 42-inch flatscreen television they were raffling off. he wanted it so badly that for .025 of a second he considered dancing. yeah, they'd put on some ridiculous song when they called out the numbers and if you didn't dance to satisfaction, they wouldn't let you have it. that must have been some sweetass television, too, because this guy likes dancing as much as he'd like a root canal.


but i think H analyzed it best: when i confessed that in spite of the unnecessary frenzy, maybe i shouldn't have gotten so angry, he said not to dwell on it too much because karma will make sure i pay for it when i have my own children.


please get over yourselves, artsy-fartsies.


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


i know, i'm a freak. but this tendency poses a serious problem when it comes to sky's-the-limit situations. like right now, as i'm facing my ultimate personal nightmare: the opportunity to go pretty much anywhere.


i did come away from Cirque du Soleil with a realization, however: all this time i've been telling people that, if my current course of action doesn't work out as planned, i'd join the circus. yeah, i'm going to have to come up with another backup plan.

it's catching

so H has been infected with American Idol fever. which is fine, but he's doing his best to pull me onto the bandwagon, too, baiting me with facts such as the contestant who is not only one of my peeps (despite his scary hair) BUT HE ALSO sings Stevie Wonder-- two facts H knows very well will suck me in like a tractor beam. there's also a contestant who is from my hometown.

sorry, pal. ain't gonna happen. i've held out all these years and i'm going to continue staying strong. there are only so many hours in a day, and now that America's Next Top Model is on again, i need to prioritize. a lot of once-good, now-disappointing shows aren't safe, either. i'm talking to you, Lost. there are plenty of so-bad-they're-good indian soap operas vying to pick up your slack. and at the very least i can claim educational value on those, because everybody knows you can't say you've fully learned a language until you can call out your daughter-in-law as a backstabbing beeyatch.

if i slow my roll, i'll stop

dear people in real life who are wondering if i've fallen off the planet:

you know when you are on a mission and--even though it makes no kind of sense at all-- you feel as though allowing yourself any sort of funhaving will deplete the crucial reserves necessary to carry out said mission?

yeah, i'm in that vortex. please forgive me, those who have forgotten what my face looks like. i'll be up in your video like puff daddy sooner than you know. pass it on.

love, cadiz

ah, the beautiful people

George Gurley asks New York's Bungalow 8 patrons about their thoughts on Iraq for The New York Observer.

"Don't ever waste a moment in life. Fly to the moon and play amongst the stars, be happy, understand how lucky we are—and don't fight," she said. "I feel personally connected in one way—I'm a mother, and every day in Iraq somebody is losing their child. My little girl will never go to Iraq. I'm sorry, she'll go to Prada."

see the rest, here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sorry, my body doesn't stretch that way

last night, cc got tickets to Cirque du Soleil 's touring show, "Delirium," through her work and invited me to go. she had already seen one of their shows in vegas, as had a few of my other friends, so i've heard a lot about it and have wanted to see them for a long time. i was thrilled at the opportunity.

the show is a spectacle: there's a flurry of characters, music, flashing lights, screens, projected images, dancers, a guy on stilts who was really creepy, several people suspended from the ceiling, and all sorts of unbelieveable acrobatics. it was so busy, you almost don't know where to look. i understand that, for this tour, they're focusing more on the live musicians and have incorporated much more singing and dancing than in what cc had seen in the past. regardless, it was definitely a sight to see.

my only beef was that, as we were sitting nearly dead center up in the balcony, some of the footlights on the stage would point up directly in our eyes and make it painful and difficult to see every once in awhile. other than that, i'm looking forward to catching another of their more acrobatic shows.

i did come away from Cirque du Soleil with a realization, however: all this time i've been telling people that, if my current course of action doesn't work out as planned, i'd join the circus. yeah, i'm going to have to come up with another backup plan.

new look

i have a little extra time these days, so i'm trying out a little something new. this photo was taken last summer about four blocks from where i grew up, even though it's nowhere NEAR classified as "rural." it's actually a lot surrounded by a Walgreens, a pretty major road and a college football stadium, and for years area residents and lawmakers have been fighting about developers trying to build a Meijer Superstore there.

in no way am i saying it's a picture of "hell." on the contrary, it's a tiny glimpse of how things used to look in the rose-colored memories of my youth.

nothing says love like an empty megastore

valentine's day 2002: i pulled up to his house and put the car in park. the kid is terminally late. a song and a half later, he burst out the front door--jacket half on and hatless-- and got in. he threw a folded piece of printer paper in my lap, turned up the radio and began to slamdance in the passenger seat. the note was a cheesy valentine printout from some children's website, but a sweet gesture for a chill evening at IKEA because neither of us had a significant other with whom to get mushy.

if you hate crowds, valentine's day night is IDEAL for IKEA. not a soul was around to roll their eyes at us flopping on couches, spinning chairs, opening drawers, pulling back curtains. however an audience might have enjoyed the silly scenarios we enacted in the pretend-room displays. you know, if they weren't trying to shop for furniture or something ridiculous like that.

later, we went to a local pizzeria and shared a heart-shaped pizza pie. we felt right at home with all the families with kids jockeying for the cheesiest pieces and the curliest fries. we bitched and moaned over the state of our love lives, our jobs, our *plans,* and joked around in the usual way. a good time was had by all.

this year i'm disappointed that i can't be all sappy with H in person, but i did stumble upon this in my desk.


happy valentine's to you, highcon. don't be a stranger now that you've moved to the Big Apple.

and to the rest of you: you're special! wand-erful, even.

THIS IS WINTER, BABY!

i always tell H that southern california is boring because weather is always the same. i tell him that to really feel alive i need snow-- and not just on some mountaintops in the distance. i have said many a time, "if it doesn't fall on the driveway, it doesn't count."

well today, even after spending an hour and a half shoveling almost a foot of the stuff off the driveway only to look back and see that the area where i started had another inch on it from all the blowing around, i still stand by what i said.

however, it would be nice if the feeling returned to my fingers and toes sometime soon.

even the fake green grass looks rotten

sometimes when people try and support you, they inadvertently make you feel like a pile of day old sushi--with the rice all crunchy and dry and the fish all stinking and slimy. it's best to throw it out at once, crispy ginger slices, blackened wasabi and all. they don't mean to do it; they're coming from a place of love. but the incessant berating meant to kickstart you into shape just cranks up the volume on the chorus of your shortcomings playing twentyfour hours a day in your head and keeping you up at night. it happens.

once in awhile it's nice to hear someone say, "how are you today?" and leave it at whatever you choose to answer.

graduating from old school

first, western union sent its final telegram last year.
and now the world's oldest newspaper goes digital.

i've never even sent a telegram and i can't read swedish, but stuff like that makes me sad.

what's the opposite of The Decider?

most people feel bound by guidelines, but i'm good at working within constraints. especially when cool higherups set the rules and say "go!" it worked for me in school Odyssey of the Mind competitions, which required inventing a device to accomplish a list of ridiculous things such as dropping an egg 10 feet without breaking it, putting out a candle flame, popping a balloon from 20 feet away, powering it with a brick, etc. why? because a) i'm very competitive b) i love a challenge and c) my creativity gets kickstarted by a) and b). also, the trickier the parameters the better my performance, and if there's a tight deadline, even better. it's insane, but it's how i roll.

for example, a couple of years ago cc asked me to be the maid of honor in her wedding. it was going to be a very intimate tropical affair and i would be the sole female attendant. normal people would be overjoyed: essentially, cc was awesome and said i could wear whatever the hell i wanted, in any color. perfect! however, i proceeded to freak out in every way, dragged the bride all over town for months trying on dresses and finally ended up sewing my own frock-- finishing the hem ten minutes before the ceremony while sitting in the beauty parlor with pins in my mouth and a needle in my hand as cc was having her hair done. it worked out all right, but the tranquil environment is probably the only thing that offset the ulcer growing in the pit of my stomach.

i know, i'm a freak. but this tendency poses a serious problem when it comes to sky's-the-limit situations. like right now, as i'm facing my ultimate personal nightmare: the opportunity to go pretty much anywhere.

it's been a little more than a month since i left the dungeon. now i'm half living downtown and half in suburbia, watching my savings slide down the drain called COBRA health insurance, but i'm looking into a private policy. i'm working part-time in a sector of my field that i might pursue; maybe having it on there will keep employers from throwing out my resume for lack of specific experience, but i don't often hear back from them. in the meantime, my boyfriend says he'd consider moving to wherever i find a job, my parents are being very supportive and my friends are sharing contact information.

anybody else would see this as an opportunity of a lifetime, but i'm chained to a fear that i'll get trapped in limbo and make a hasty decision to get out that will lead to decades of strife and misery. this sickness of uncertainty would probably dissolve if i sucked it up and made up my mind about what i wanted. but i'd rather crawl under the covers and not think about having to decide.

my hips certainly don't lie

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

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

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

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

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

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

except she forgot to call mine.

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

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

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

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

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

yeah, yeah, but what's in your portfolio?

the other day at the office, someone came in wearing red hotpants with black stockings, knee-high furry black boots and a clingy, semi-transparent, shiny gold leopard-print top.

i'm ashamed to admit it, but yes, i judged this woman. why? because she sits in the "design" section of the office. don't get me wrong; she seems like a nice enough person. and i accept that it was probably wrong of me to do so. but it's just that it reminded me of so many people out there who wear their artsiness on their sleeves, shoes, or hair, then walk around like everyone else ought to lay sheafs of fluffy watercolor paper in the path of such creative genius and as if every thing that comes out of their mouths is so very profound, all because of their look.

please get over yourselves, artsy-fartsies.

i am completely down with people expressing themselves outwardly through appearance, but the bottom line is this: dress however you want but let your work speak for itself. oh and leave your hoitytoity attitude at home in the crayon box.