cut to the chase, people

Ever notice that when someone opens a conversation with, "Hey, you got a minute?" they don't really care whether you actually have a minute?

like finding out they used a dance double for Flashdance

Hollywood is making an American version of this German movie I've been recommending for months-- Bella Martha or Mostly Martha-- starring Catherine Zeta-Jones, the guy from Thank You for Smoking and the kid from Little Miss Sunshine. And while that's a lovely cast, I liked the original just fine, even if I had to read the dialogue. They're also supposedly making an English version of the French movie I enjoyed-- Le Dîner de cons or The Dinner Game-- to be called Dinner for Schmucks.

I'm sure you've heard this before, but what IS up with all the remakes? Not only are they biting off films from other countries (The Last Kiss, Vanilla Sky, Shall We Dance?), they're remaking some of their own that aren't even that old and were good to begin with (Texas Chainsaw Massacre, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Bad News Bears). There's even been talk about remaking Casablanca.

I understand that coming up with creative and appealing ideas all the time is really challenging. There's a reason that people who work in advertising have a surprisingly high rate of heart attack and that the divorce rate for journalists is sky-high. But I'm guessing all those people who move out to L.A. to try and "make it" probably have an idea or two that came to mind on the long bus ride in from Kansas or wherever. How about we give some of them a shot?

Okay, even if we do continue ripping off others, how about giving them a little mainstream credit? I found this list, and while I don't know how credible it is, I was surprised to learn some old-time faves were remakes, some of which I had thought seemed really very American. Twelve Monkeys? The Departed? Three Men and a Baby?!?

I feel a little cheated about that last one.

i can get back to inhaling now

Ri once described my appetite for books not in terms of reading, but "inhaling." It's always been that way, ever since I sounded out the adventures of The Poky Little Puppy for myself. Recently she asked me for a recommendation and I consulted my notebook (I list ones I've heard about and then when I've read them, I give each a two-line review and a grade. Shut up.), only to realize I hadn't read anything new since last October. That's a really long time for me, especially if you consider how many precious commuting hours I've saved by working from home this year. Unfortunately, I've spent most of that extra time on the world's worst hobby: worrying.

Approaching the end of year two on the dungeon contract, it became very clear that I didn't really want to work erratic night hours much longer. What with the fact that I interacted with my boyfriend more than I would have if he lived in my own time zone and my mother breathing down my neck to procreate, it seemed the grandchildren of her dreams just might stay there if I didn't join the land of the living. But I didn't know what I wanted: another great opportunity with night hours or a less interesting gig with a schedule that allowed me to see the sun?

For months I freelanced, working from home and paying out-of-pocket health insurance. I transitioned back to being awake during the day, talked to people in other states and different industries and tried to figure out where I belonged. And all that time I worried. So much that I didn't sleep well, wasn't productive, didn't follow through as thoroughly as I should have. And I rarely did anything fun because I couldn't allow myself to relax.

I went to Miami. Then Detroit. I courted people in New York. I e-mailed companies all over the place and called people who knew people. And suddenly some big-time decisions had to be made. I obsessed. I asked for more time. I obsessed some more. I ran it by my friends and family. Repeatedly. Some told me I'd be stupid if I did one thing. Some said I'd be nuts to go with another. I was paralyzed with indecision.

Right around then, Rolling Stone published its 40th anniversary issue. It was shiny and red and I read it cover to cover. I don't know if the discussion of the turbulent Sixties resonated with my turbulent state of mind, but I couldn't put that thing down. And then, on page 132, I got my answer. In an interview with Rolling Stone's Keith Richards, Kurt Loder asks, Any life lessons you'd like to pass on to that younger generation?

"First off, don't do anything if there's not joy in it, a sense of exhilaration. A day is a day, and each one is going bye-bye, and you've only got so many more in front of you. Friendship is probably one of the most important things in life. Apart from your immediate family, it's about friends -- the ability to make friends, the ability to forgive friends. And their ability to forgive you. It's just the ability to enjoy other people's company, really. Then you've got it all, man. The rest of it's gravy."

Right then I knew I'd have to turn down a wonderful job opportunity because if I had to work odd hours in a strange city where I didn't know anyone, at this point in my life it wouldn't matter how great the gig was. I decided to take my chances in limbo a little longer rather than be stuck and unhappy far away. And it worked out for me: A few days later I got an offer from one of the places I've been freelancing. They created a permanent position for me. Working during the day! Not on weekends! Not on HOLIDAYS, either! And I can take the train, which means no more parking!

I don't have to be able to see cc to know she's reading this and rolling her eyes that I got inspiration from a man who allegedly snorted his father's ashes, but someone who's been rocking as hard and as long as he has must know a thing or two about a thing or two.

Even though it's not a book, I decided that because of its heft, the front-to-back way I tackled it and what it did for me, Rolling Stone's The Fortieth Anniversary deserves an entry in my notebook right under the scathing review of Atonement:

5/07

The Fortieth Anniversary
Rolling Stone

Interview issue; what the greats went through in the Sixties is still relevant. Eye opening.

A

what hurts more than the pain

is knowing that I'm old.

I strained or pulled a muscle in my back this morning. This incident is beyond ridiculous, because it didn't happen climbing trees, roto-tilling, digging holes in the back yard or sleeping in an awkward position. I just leaned over in my office chair and reached for my purse. Now I can barely move and the drugs aren't working.

This does not bode well for my first day at the new gig tomorrow.

difficulty rating of 5/5 on first attempt? it's the cadiz way

"If I can't figure this out, I'm going to die."

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

"Money? Since when do parents tally up the money?"

"Cadiz, nobody does anything without expecting a return."

"And that is?"

"To see you grow up and get your life established."

"You mean get some children."

"Mmmhmmm."

*I'm sure I should have made my first try with Sudoku with an easier puzzle. And yes, the fact that the paper said a Seventh Grader completed it in NINE MINUTES has nothing to do with why I tried it.

Okay, not really.

-------------------------------------------------------

6 3 _ | _ 8 _ | _ _ _
_ _ 9 | _ _ 7 | 3 _ _
_ 2 _ | 6 1 _ | _ 4 _
----------------------------------
_ 9 _ | _ _ 5 | _ _ _
4 _ _ | _ _ _ | _ _ 8
_ _ _ | 4 _ _ | _ 3 _
----------------------------------
_ 7 _ | _ 6 4 | _ 1 _
_ _ 3 | 7 _ _ | 6 _ _
_ _ _ | _ 9 _ | _ 8 5
----------------------------------

the juiciest fruit: some hooking required

The cherry tree has worked overtime this year. In the last two decades, we have been able to gather fruit only a handful of times. That is mostly because the tree doubles as a meeting space for the local branch of the squawky bird club, whose members congregate every year at cherry time for a convention of gorging themselves and catching up on gossip. They often clean out the place before we even realize it’s that time of year, and by the time we get out there all that’s left are a bunch of hanging pits.

Fortunately, they must have found a better spot this year, or maybe our “Shut-up-and-get-the-hell-out-of-here” vibes actually worked, because it's quieter and they actually left a decent amount of fruit on the tree. Of course just to spite us, it’s all at the top, tauntingly out of reach. I’m talking 40 feet up and on the flimsy extremities, where even I won't venture for fear of falling with enough force to halve myself on the fence.

Never fear, the Cadiz clan is smarter than those birdbrains. My parents rigged a system with a hooked 13-foot pole, some kind of basket and a ladder, and have been winning friends and influencing people with fruit all week. My mom actually heard the curmudgeon across the street speak and got the teenagers (my how they’ve grown!) in the corner house to stop and chat. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the neighbor next door will bring over a pie as a thank-you for our acrobatic efforts to procure the filling.

Of course, I took some for the road. Ri, Kaiya and I chilled at the Chicago Blues Fest, listening to music and spitting pits at each other. For the record, covering your mouth and making it look like you shot a cherry pit out your nose is still funny, even if you’re turning 30 soon. Or maybe it's especially funny because you’re turning 30 soon. I can’t decide.

It's only a matter of time before the cherry craze is over. It's been a tasty bonding experience, no doubt, but the end will probably be for the best. Sadly, it'll be a long while before I can fully enjoy the taste of artificial cherry flavoring again.

just wait one cherry-picking second

Today I received a message on my cellphone that consisted of something to the effect of:

CADIZ! PICK. UP. YOUR. PHONE. PICK UP YOUR PHONE WHEN WE CALL YOU. PICK IT UP. PICK IT UP! PICK UP YOUR PHONE!

While this person is a close friend whom I love very much, I couldn't help but bristle. Sure, it was the third in a series of unanswered calls about making plans for meeting up tomorrow night, but DUDE

a) While most of those calls were placed, I was in my parents' back yard about 16 feet up in a tree picking cherries with my father
b) I was incapable of hearing the phone
c) Even if i did hear it, I wasn't about to climb down to answer it
d) I had already planned to return the earlier call I missed, you know, when I got down out of the tree and washed the cherry juice off my hands.

This is the type of incident--very similar to situations when I'm in the bathroom taking care of business and hear the phone ring, hear the house phone ring directly afterward, and then hear my cell phone ring again, all within two minutes--when one thing is abundantly clear:

I AM NOT GOING TO ANSWER THE PHONE RIGHT THEN NO MATTER HOW MANY TIMES YOU CALL ME.

Back in the day, I was the first to have a cellphone. However, it was one I was not allowed to use outside of emergencies or to inform my mother that I didn't end up in a three-car pileup on I-57 on the way back to college (yet somehow I still forgot and constantly got in big trouble). It was also one that took up almost half of my automobile's glove compartment. In terms of getting a minute-racking cellphone I could use to actually converse with my friends, I was the last to get one of those. And even though I withstood a lot of exasperated pleas to get myself into the new century, making that leap gave me great pause. Because frankly, I do not like to be trackable.

This mentality probably stems from Mickey Mouse Tie giving me a hot-pink pager in high school and demanding to know why it took me 20 minutes to call back when I was in class. His homing tactics went on to include driving three hours to sit outside my college dormitory and interrogate my friends, who feigned ignorance about how I was sneaking into the building through the the back basement laundry room as they spoke. I believe that pager ended up at the bottom of a lake, to be joined by the relationship shortly thereafter.

Maybe this is why I don't risk neck breakage to answer the phone. And often when I get non-message calls, I assume they are shooting-the shit type timefillers and don't always call back. (Btw, I do not buy into the b.s. reason, "you should see 'missed call' and call me back." Also, the house phone is strictly reserved for telemarketers or blood banks seeking donations.) Nope. Today's lesson kids, is: Leave a message and maybe I'll call you back.

If you want some sweet cherries, that is.

The bounty. This, largest mixing bowl has a 13-inch diameter and a 6-inch depth. (sorry a little blurry)

The artsy shot.

catching up with my queue

H has seen a lot of movies. Seriously, a lot. One night when I admitted I hadn’t seen any of the Terminator movies or (at that time) any of the Die Hards or Rockys, either, he seemed to be infected with a touch of cinematic superiority. He’ll deny it, but I could hear it in his voice. However, that was strictly Hollywood. As soon as we compared our numbers to incorporate Bollywood, my cumulative digits became a whole lot more competitive.

When I got a subscription to a mail-in DVD service, I felt like I could finally begin to keep up with everyone else in my demographic. Also, the "magic" mailbox in the lobby of my dungeon office made for a very fast turnaround. Back when I worked those crazy night hours, there were weeks where I'd put away a movie a day. As the statistics below show, I have used Netflix to regain the street cred I missed out on during all those formative years when I was forced to live without cable-- all the movies I'd only heard about. But really, those little red envelopes kept me sane while I couldn't hang out with any friends or family. Here’s the breakdown:

Movies that have come to my house, were seen and returned since December 6, 2004: 184

Movies to which I have awarded five stars (out of five): 20

Movies to which I have awarded 1 star: 12

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

Sets of DVDS of television shows on this list (at least one season): 5

Movies that were actually released between December 6, 2004 and June 1, 2007 that I watched within that time period via Netflix: 12

Movies I watched not in English: 24

Movies I watched not in color: 16

Movies I watched that were musicals: 21

Movies I watched that were musicals not in English or in color: 6

I would sit there in the dungeon, browsing movies, rating ones I'd seen (currently at 836) and adding interesting recommendations to the queue to be sent to my house. I spent a lot of downtime doing this, which is probably why there are so many. But looking at the list, I felt guilty about having 317. So I vowed to keep it to no more than 3oo and I have culled the queue down to 294 upcoming and six that are saved for when they will be released on DVD.

I gladly work days now, but that means that my free time isn't all mine. Don't get me wrong, I love being able to pick up the phone and talk to people when they are actually awake, but it also means I have to share the remote control and must watch such interesting-but-not-what-I-would-have-chosen treats like a National Geographic's Dangerous World episode on lethal roads. Or cricket. Plus, with my hefty nightly Hindi soap-opera schedule, these days those little envelopes collect quite a bit of dust before I get to them.

But I'm not worried. Watching movies that have been out for a really long time puts distance between myself and the hype and often I've forgotten what I'd heard about them when they came out. Several old movies with twists have been killed by people because they assume everybody's already in the know. Citizen Kane is a fine example, but the worst was Chinatown, which I had to take off the list hoping that in ten years I'll have forgotten what I couldn't help but read on accident. (Putting SPOILER ALERT at the top of a list in small type isn't enough of a warning, Wired Magazine.)

Perhaps one of these days I'll sit down and take off all the movies that aren't readily recognizable to really cut into my list. Actually, probably not. There will have been so much time between when I made the picks and when I get the films that each envelope becomes a lovely surprise-- sort of like flipping through the channels late at night and catching a cool movie I'd only heard about right at the beginning. You know, except without the threat of getting sucked into an infomercial.

by the flickering light of my teevee

I am not ashamed to say that I multitask. I've always done mindless tasks like paint my toenails or arrange my sock drawer while I'm on the phone and I'm sure I would have tried to do my homework while watching Duck Tales after school if my mother would have allowed it. But these days I knit while I watch primetime soap operas.

Unfortunately, I might have to rethink that system. I spent the last couple weeks making a baby-bag jumper (a one-piece hooded suit thing with no feet) for my mom's friend's daughter's baby shower this weekend, and it took considerably more yarn than I estimated along the way.




After the initial two skeins I had to go back for a third and then a fourth. I thought I was in the clear because I got the same brand and color, but I didn't think twice about the little serial number on each one referencing "dye lot." Meaning different batches are dyed at different times, so if you don't get ones within the same batch, the colors don't always match. I'm already disappointed with the colorscheme on this thing--the yarn seemed a whole lot prettier wrapped up in a ball than it does to me in the finished product. But now I have a much bigger problem: Because I didn't check the dye lots (and waited so long between buying different skeins), the left side is slightly darker than the majority of the right side.

I didn't notice until I sewed in the zipper at the very end. What to do? Go to the baby store and get something else to save face? Try to pass it off as a "now-you-know-it's-handmade" quirk? Keep it on my teddy bear (though mintgreen/pink/purple really doesn't suit his coloring and he most certainly won't grow into it). Give it to them anyway because it'll probably get washed until it's all the same shade of faded, which is the purpose after all? My mother says you can't really tell unless you know what you're looking for, but I have a feeling that's because she knows how long it took to complete.

I'd rather have the unbiased opinion of the Internet. Thoughts?

***UPDATE***

My mom told me to shut up and took it to the baby shower. I missed the unwrapping, but was told that everyone passed it around and tried the zipper, flipped around the tassels (added later) and complimented it without even noticing the color difference. Phew!

counting 'em down, SoCal style

I just got back from a very relaxing and fun holiday weekend visiting H in Southern California. And because we hadn't been able to see each other for three months, he planned a jam-packed agenda of events that included:

• seeing Wicked at the Pantages Theater (which had most of the original Broadway cast and was EXCELLENT all around)
  
• feasting on the juiciest dumplings at our favorite hidden gem (well not so hidden if you consider the 40 min wait every time we go), Din Tai Fung
  
• barely making into an Upright Citizen's Brigade Improv show (featuring MC Chris-- who knew Nerds could be so very dirty?!) because the line was so long
• catching glimpses of the HOLLYWOOD sign and the Walk of Fame in person (they look just like on tv, but less shiny)
  
• afterpartying in a sweet house in Hollywood
  
• playing a very close miniature golf game (I lost by one stroke, but have vowed to avenge my honor next time on my own turf)
• getting cheeseburgers at In N Out (I had to resist yelling "ANIMAL STYLE!" when we ordered, not because I wanted grilled onions but because I think that's hilarious.)
  
• hanging out with his folks and trying to come up with something new to talk about (they've already seen all my stories here)
  
• delaying departure because the original Planet of the Apes was on the History Channel, followed by discussion about Charleton Heston's actual vs. rumored acting prowess.

You may know that everything is very spread out in Los Angeles. So we spent a great deal of time cruising around the freeways in H's little red car listening to music. Even though he picked up a Tim Armstrong (punk ska) CD and I got a Bebel Gilberto (breezy bossa nova) at the magic music store, one thing he and I share is an appreciation for the Golden Oldie. I can only assume he got his from his parents. I cultivated mine during the heyday of Glam Rock: When everyone else in fifth grade was headbanging to "Welcome to the Jungle" or "Pour Some Sugar on Me", I was chillin' to "I Only Have Eyes For You" or "Hey Mr. Tambourine Man." And while I can appreciate the big-haired screaming a little more today, it's only in small doses. Stop judging me.

The Oldies radio station in L.A., K-Earth, was celebrating 35 years on the air with a list of 350 top oldies of all time, and we caught snippets of it all weekend. Now, I've heard top-countdowns in this genre many times; they'd have number one songs like "Let it Be" by the Beatles, "Good Vibrations" by the Beach Boys, "American Pie" by Don McLean, "Respect" by Aretha Franklin or "Sittin on the Dock of the Bay" by Otis Redding. It's never clear who's responsible for compiling these lists, but K-Earth said this particular one was "as voted by YOU!" so I was even more curious as to how people in SoCal rated the greats.

During the countdown, H and I kept turning to each other in disbelief. Granted, back when I listened to them, "Oldies" consisted of music from the '50s and '60s. Today you'd have to listen a long long time before you'd hear "Earth Angel" or "My Boyfriend's Back" because "Oldies" are now mostly from the '60s and '70s. It doesn't bother me; these days Stevie Wonder gets airtime again.

We were surprised that neither the Beatles nor the Beach Boys (maybe Californians are tired of them?) made it higher than number ten and only two of the songs I had heard at number one on other lists even made it into the top 20. It was 2 a.m. (4 a.m. for me) when we caught the end of the countdown driving back from the party, and even though we were falling asleep we stayed in the car to finish out the list. I was disappointed. None of my guesses made it, but by that point I don't think I would have been happy with anything they had chosen.

Normally I'd be tempted to brush it off by saying something like Geez, Californians have messed up taste, but one of them has chosen me so of course we know that's not true. Maybe they're tired of all the same songs always getting top billing, or maybe the use of some of them in commercials or soundtracks boosted their street cred? Maybe the tally was flooded with bored disc jockey votes? It's anybody's guess. Issues about order aside, I got to hear a bunch of songs I forgot I liked while being driven around in good company. Who could ask for anything more?

Oh, in case you're wondering, here is the list.

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.

there goes my career as an advice columnist

Someone recently came to me for advice. I was stumped. Maybe my good Internet pals might be able to help?

Let's say you're Brown (for those of you who are not). Let's say four years ago you moved seven states away from everything that you knew for the love of somebody who is NotBrown, who is also away from everything, namely her parents. After you two were together a year, NotBrown's parents found out about you and NotBrown. And without ever meeting you or knowing anything else about you except for your Brownness (they are NOT down with brown in general and have only recently spent any time with the brown 2-year husband of their other daughter). They refused to meet you or get to know your sparkling personality, and seriously threatened to stop paying NotBrown's tuition and bills unless NotBrown dumped you. NotBrown lied to them and said you were out of the picture to keep from going home and attending community college under the watchful eye of the people paying the bills.

But you weren't out of the picture.

Now you're really irritated because for four years, NotBrown has been faking to them like you don't exist when they come to visit (increasingly often) or are on the phone. You really love NotBrown and think there's a chance for you to be with NotBrown forever, but you're afraid that NotBrown's parents could poison the love you guys have with their hatred, and also don't want to drop a bombshell in the event that you and NotBrown do decide to get married someday in the Future. You give NotBrown an ultimatum to tell the parents now or else it's over.

NotBrown is in a really tough spot. Cut ties with parents for a relationship? Lose a love because of parents' rigid attitude? What if NotBrown tells the parents and gets disowned and then the relationship doesn't work out? What if NotBrown lets you go just to keep nice with parents but regrets it forever? At this point you have broken up with NotBrown, but both of you are miserable without each other, and NotBrown's friends can't figure out why you did it and are hinting that you wanted to break up with her and are using the parents as an excuse, which is not true. It is unclear whether the parents will eventually give your charm a chance, but they have only extended themselves a millimeter toward NotBrown's brother-in-law, who has been around for almost five years.

Did you do the right thing? Should you get back together with NotBrown for the Here and Now (you both really miss and love each other, but aren't sure marriage is on the agenda right now) and worry about the parents later? Or do you stick to your ultimatum and ask her to risk being cut off financially?

Thoughts?

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Describe yourself in one word.
Savory.

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

pushing my buttons

Why is it that people feel the need to push buttons that are already lit? Was my pressing the "up" arrow obviously not good enough to actually summon the elevator? If I'm already going to floor 17, will it not actually stop there unless you ALSO hit the button? Do you arrive at or in the elevator anticipating the joy of touching that button, but find that since I've already hit it your day has no meaning, so you go ahead and redundantly press it again?

WHY IS MY BUTTON-PUSHING NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR YOU?!?

just keep sending me flowers 'just because'

"Hey, so there was this discussion at work-- can I ask you a question?"

"Sure thing, what's up?"

"If you were driving and needed gas, when you pulled up to the station would you expect me to automatically get out of the car and pump it for you?"

"Of course not. Why?"

"I know my girl! These two women were hassling a guy for not pumping gas for his fiancee."

"Well, actually... if it were in a scary neighborhood, I'd expect you to at least offer, which I would refuse, of course. Unless it was a really bad area."

"Okay, I can see that."

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

"I've never done that, have I?"

"No, but I thought you should be aware. You know, just in case."

Irises. Delivered to my doorstep before that conversation and for no apparent occasion.
Nevertheless much appreciated.

my thoughts exactly

Check out the cool T-shirt highcon sent me in the mail:


It made my day.

niharika, queen of the screen

It was a sad sad sad sad day last week when I flipped to MTV Desi (Indian-American music channel) and saw some odd programming. It seems MTV decided to do away with MTV World--which includes Chi (Chinese), K (Korean) and Desi--effective May 1.

As you know, I only procured entrance into the wild world of cable television last year. Since then, I have formed a lifelong bond with my DVR and made oh so many friends, like Mike Rowe from Dirty Jobs, Stacy London and Clinton Kelly from What Not to Wear and Parvati Aggarwal from Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki (that last one is purely for Hindi education, I swear). One of my biggest guilty pleasures was MTV Desi.

That channel actually(!) showed videos. Lineups included musicians I'd never otherwise have heard of, like Karmacy, Jay Sean, Goldspot, Mentor Kolektiv, plus the standard hoochie-filled Bollywood videos and Bhangra. It was nice to see my fellow brown peeps making it big at something other than medicine and engineering, and especially nice to fall asleep to when I'd get home from the dungeon at 4 a.m. But I guess there wasn't much of an audience; I wouldn't have even discovered it if it wasn't part of the DirecTV package the roommates get.

What I'll miss most is Niharika Desai, the VJ whose approach really grew on me. That's probably because if I'd had the opportunity, I would have tackled the job with much the same attitude. It was refreshing to see somebody who grew up like me being able to express our bi-cultural heritage in a fun way, explaining without being condescending. There's too much that divides people already and it's true, you don't have to be perfect at the language or run around with a long braid and anklets to be a considered a desi woman. Thanks, Nee-hAAr-eeka. You keep on truckin', girl.

You can see some of what's left at the online version. I guess I'll go back to watching subtitled Korean soap operas late at night, when I can't sleep.

the jury's back

Downtown Detroit makes Chicago seem like freaking Paris.

But the people have heart. Big ups to my Coolie High grads. You know who you are.

or maybe i'll just wait for her boutique

I went shopping with pp last weekend. As I have said before, I like nice clothes but for the most part, I hate shopping. Especially for myself. But if other people need help picking out stuff? I'm your girl.

This particular trip was one of my worst scenarios: I neededed something versatile to wear for a big client meeting (which will require my getting on a plane) with very little time to find it-- and as always--I was at a loss. Now pp is a marketing manager for a Big Time retailer and works with buyers. She's always ahead of the trends, what with planning the Holiday catalogue in April, knowing what seersucker is, and throwing around phrases like "aHm-peer waists" and "this fall is all about animal prints and movement."

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

While I ambled around the mall aimlessly, she asked what I'm looking for and what I'm working with. I said Professional-but-not-trying-too-hard, and Grey-striped-with-some-weird-color pants or Brown ladyshoes. Three hours later*, I got in my car with a lovely black pinstripe pencil skirt ("It's classic, you'll be able to wear it for years"? Music to my ears.) and a crisp white short-sleeved blouse that is enough of a wraparound to be interesting and enough of a buttonup not to be peek-a-boo. (Don't worry, I'm wearing a tank top anyway.) She said I could wear the red mules I already have and even suggested a game plan for the jewelry.

Not only was this accomplished in record time, but everything fits well and I did not break the bank. And somehow during our mission, pp managed to try on fifty pairs of jeans and purchase a cute pair of tailored capris, to boot. As we walked to the parking lot, I decided I'm going to have to make some serious Scrooge McDuck cash so she can quit the biz and pick out my clothes for a living instead. A good friend who can spot your favorites, hide your flaws and be fun to hang out with all the time? That's what I call a personal shopper.


*Of course, the day we were shopping was incrediby warm, so I purchase warm-weather clothes. And now the forecast says it's going to be about 20 degrees cooler in Detroit, so I'm going to have to improvise. Wish me luck!