i'll take everything but the hype. to go.

I've been an enthusiastic member of several failed book clubs. I'm not sure why they don't seem to work out, but I haven' t been to a single gathering at which every person has actually completed the reading. Maybe it's never meant to be for me. That's probably because The Universe knows that if there's one thing I love, it's to tell other people what I think.

So I've accepted that I'm alone in this reading thing. I just tell my notebook what I think instead. But I'm always trolling around for something new, trying to find something good and engaging that's either mostly undiscovered or old enough that I've missed out on all the hype. Because during that window in which everyone is all about it (I'm talking about you, Zadie Smith's White Teeth,) good books are like helium balloons with a slow leak: By the time you get around to them, they are doomed never to live up to all the rave reviews, and by that last page you're left with a limp piece of rubber and a resounding sense that you would've better spent that time watching a countdown on Vh1.

You'll see a little book on my sidebar from now on. It's linked to Shelfari, a new way for me to hunt around for something good to read. I've listed some titles that I've loved and if you're in the market for something to read, I recommend them (just click "next"). But that's all I'll say. I don't want to set you up for a letdown.

lifestyles of the rich and famous

"And then I was in the middle of telling him what Ruksana said, and he interrupted me."

"Why?"

"He said, 'Mom, why are you talking about all this other stuff when I called you for business reasons'? And I was like, "What business reasons?" And he said, "My Christmas List."

"SERIOUSLY? How old are we now?"

"That's what I said! I asked him, "You're 25 and you're still making Christmas Lists?!" And he just started telling me about how he needs a new golf jacket and some shoes and some other things."

"That kid's always had a lot of nerve."

"You didn't even hear all of it! He says to me, "Well, Mom, Cadiz is buying me a digital camera for Christmas."

"WHAT!? He just told me to ask H if he'd seen any good deals and that has somehow morphed into me buying him one for Christmas? I don't even have a job!"

"Be honest, Cadiz. You were already going to buy it, weren't you?"

"Yeah. But now I'm going to get him a pretend one from Toys 'R' Us, instead."


***UPDATE*** I asked my brother and he said he only told my mother "Cadiz is looking at digital cameras for me." But it wouldn't hurt to still check out the Fisher-Price/Barbie models as part of my research.

but what if i can't find it?

Highcontrast has suggested there should be a book called Soul Searching for Dummies, and that I should set out to try and write it. Unfortunately, I'm not really sure what soul searching actually is. Whenever I sit around and try to contemplate where my life is headed, the exercise turns into a mental review of what has happened followed by thorough self-bashing over every single thing that I've done wrong along the way. Doesn't really sound very pleasant nor productive to me.

lucky numbers

My phone rang this morning with a number I didn't recognize.

It turned out to be a really good family friend from back when I was in junior high, whom I'd lost touch with and hadn't heard from in a really long time. She said she found my number on a piece of paper among a whole bunch of old stuff and decided to see if it still worked.

It turns out that she just moved to a place about a mile and a half from me, works two buildings away from my old job and is pursuing her MBA across the street from my home. All without having any idea that I lived here.

She's having a party tonight, and though I have different plans, I'm really going to try and go. She's a great person, and I've missed having her in my life.

I feel like I just won the lottery. Not the kind of money to significantly change my life, but an amount that makes people feel like they're having a really lucky day.

up to the minute what i'm up to

Yesterday, I joined Twitter. Just in case my posting every day this month and assaulting the unsuspecting masses with commentary wasn't enough Cadiz for you, you can now track my movements, too.

Now all I have to do is come up with lots and lots of mundane activities to twitter about as a cover for all the secret government work I'm actually doing.

you're making it real hard to be supportive, people

I have been diligently trying to uphold my promise to leave witty, encouraging comments on as many Nablopomo blogs as I can. And it's been going pretty well. Until today when I stumbled upon an interesting blog, read the entire lengthy post and even formulated a funny comment. But when I tried to post it, the blog began strong-arming me to join Vox, its bloghost. What's up with that? Disgusted and dejected, I was turned off.

And then the same thing happened to me with a WordPress user. This is really annoying, because his blog was very funny and I had a moment of genius-comment clarity, but was faced with having to register with WordPress to leave it. Seriously people, WHAT GIVES? I totally understand the thing about not wanting spam in anonymous comments and even just needing to know who it is commenting. I'm down with word verification and even submitting my email address. But registering? This kind of exclusivity is especially irritating. Dude, if you want to be so limiting on who can participate, why throw your hat into such an open and welcoming arena as NaBloPoMo in the first place?

I haven't had much luck with the randomizer, which seems clunky and not really random, so I've been clicking on interesting-sounding links from the list to some success. Granted, I have a little more time on my hands these days, but I'm working on DIALUP, people. One homepage can take up to 2 minutes to load if it's got enough bells and whistles and after I've read the post and crafted a comment, to not be able to share it is sort of a slap in the face.

I'm on a very strict schedule of sleeping, cooking, eating, not doing dishes and watching bad '80s movies on tv (yesterday I watched War of the Roses). I do not have time for this.

boo-rthday surprise

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kaiya showed up dressed like Marilyn Monroe with a new guy we had yet to meet. And what a welcome that must have been for him, especially with the 20-minute nostalgic slideshow and body-less photos of her head taped up all over the place. And poor Highcon--who had told Kaiya he wouldn't be able to make it--he spent most of the party concealed in a stuffy Grim Reaper costume disguising his voice and introducing himself to everybody as "Fareed." That worked until someone whose actual name was Fareed showed up, and no one bought the story that Highcon's name had suddenly changed to Julio. But Kaiya was pleasantly surprised.

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

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

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

Unemployed: Day Two

"What are you doing?"

"Working."

"On what, your blog?"

"Yeah, so? I sent out some resumes, too."

"You spend so much time looking at that thing."

"It makes me happy. And what if one day I somehow get famous and I buy you a present and say, 'mom, THE BLOG paid for this present.'?"

"Oh, by that time I'll be dead, so it'll have to be flowers you can put on my grave. But I'm going to be cremated, so I won't even have a grave, so you'll just have to put them on the table and think of your poor, dead mother."

"Is all this continued death talk some sick and twisted way of encouraging me to hurry up and have children?"

"...Maybe."

Behold, the beauty in my tank

When I got the job for which I had my final day last week, my mom bought me a fish to keep on my desk, with the most adorable office-type setting in its tank. It's a Beta fish, with a reddish body and teal fins.

I took one look at the thing and groaned.

You can't really see it, but the red photo frame has a picture of two creatures hugging and behind the cabinet is a fine piece of plastic potted plantage.

It's not what you think. I happen to find the little fish so cute and lively. He responds to my mom's voice--and, by default, mine too because if it weren't for the accent, people wouldn't be able to tell who's speaking--and he flits around all day being all happy and not bored. What's not to love? But that's just the problem. I don't think I could handle coming home to find him unresponsive. I shudder at the thought. But of course I started preparing the speech I'd give while flushing the little cutiepie down the toilet the day I first laid eyes on him.

I didn't take him to work. Which was a good thing, because I got word of the layoff about two months after I was hired.

But despite my resistance, I did get hooked. This little fish just makes me smile. When there aren't people around, he snuggles up inside that green file cabinet and when I come up to talk to him or feed him, he pokes his face out to say hello.

Yes, I realize this is a horribly out-of-focus photo. But he's not very cooperative, so you get the gist.

I realize that this is likely one of those times where the owner/mother/caregiver thinks her charge is the most beautiful specimen of life on this earth and shamelessly subjects everyone around her to mundane stories and photos of him, but I don't care. This fish is frigging awesome. How often have you seen a non-legged animal rest his weary non-booty on a chair and give you the most sincere May I Help You look ever? There's a reason you come here, people.

No PhotoShop, I swear.

It's going to be a sad sad day when I lose this little guy, but one thing's for sure: he'll have a kickass obituary.

the abcs of cadiz

Velocibadgergirl tagged me with an alphabet meme. Here's an alphabetical list of words that describe me:

affable (most times of the day)

bristly (when someone rubs me the wrong way)

competitive (I like to win)

devoted (don't mess with my peeps)

earthy (I'm down with worms, just not mosquitoes)

festive (I loves me a party!)

gullible (but I've heard that dictionary thing already)

heavy-footed (only when it comes to driving)

irascible (but I calm down pretty quickly)

judicious (but sometimes it's hard to be fair)

keeper (i.e. packrat)

lamenter (I wish I could think faster on my feet)

madcap (only in certain, oldschool company)

nimble (it'd surprise you how quickly I can get across the room to the snooze button and back)

obstinate (this was suggested by my boyfriend. what does that say about me?)

precise (I'm not always right, but I try to be correct)

quirky (a quality I look for in any good friend)

rollicking (just put on some bumping music)

sleepy (I've managed to hold onto that childhood habit of passing out midsentence)

tyrant (mostly when it comes to wielding the remote control)

unruly (don't you go telling me what to do--unless you're my mom)

voracious (when it comes to gobbling up a good book)

warm (you probably want me at a party where you don't know anyone)

xenophile (I'm obsessed with my own and other cultures. Okay, I looked that one up, but it's true)

yowly (things always seem to go wrong, and I just can't keep quiet about it)

zesty (but that may have something to do with my soap)

sweet home--for now--alabama

As part of my whirlwind October, I paid a visit to my darling brother in Mobile, Alabama a few weeks ago. Things have finally slowed down enough for me to post about it, but to be perfectly honest, I kind of enjoyed my bro continually checking for a post. The best part of being an older sister is toying with the little brats, isn't it?

Because I had a free voucher for United Airlines, I flew into New Orleans (they don't fly into Mobile) and my brother rented a car to come and pick me up with his roommate, Mark. We spent some time hanging out at the Riverwalk and I was thoroughly chastised for stopping to read historical placards around town. For the rest of the weekend, they made sure someone was always walking between me and any reading materials. And this behavior was coming from two people supposedly completing college degrees. They claim they don't read, which baffles me because I did an immense amount of reading to avoid math when I was in school. But if all goes well, University of South Alabama will give them diplomas, so maybe that's how it works these days.

They live in a lovely house Mark bought from his grandparents with a woodsy back yard and a kitchen three times the size of ours (my mother would be so jealous). It's so nice and peaceful. And so many trees!

The "Avenue of the Oaks" at Spring Hill College, where graduates get to parade after they've received their diplomas. Mobile has plenty of tree-lined streets, but this was by far the loveliest.


I can't say the skyline is much to brag about, however.

They took me on a tour of the area, then capped it off by playing touchscreen video games at McDonald's. I have to say, the concept of eating all Chicken McNuggets and then touching a screen 10,000 other people have touched with their licked fingers is kind of gross (and when the screen goes black between games, you can see all the grease on it, too). I used my knuckle, which is the excuse I'm sticking to for why I was so badly trounced by the boys at touchscreen minigolf. Besides, of course, the fact that those boys devote a considerable part of every day honing their video-game skills while the rest of us are wasting our days working.

On "College Football Day" (Saturday, to those of you who don't bleed the colors of your team) it was more fun to watch the boys scream and throw things than the actual players on one of their three tvs. My brother's ex and I had to practically tear him away to go to dinner, at Felix's Fish Camp, a place I've been hearing about for years.

Gorgeous location, right on the ocean. Even the underside of the restaurant was lovely.
And the food was just as good.

That happened to be the night when LSU and Kentucky went into triple-overtime, so my brother stayed in the bar area watching the game for an extra forty minutes. His ex and I spent the time sharing a plate of oysters and some great conversation. And I've got to say, she spoke more on that one day than I heard her say during the entire four years they had been together, and I liked her so much more than I ever did before.

After dinner, we picked up Mark and headed to Biloxi. Both Mark and my brother's ex had spent quite a bit of time there before Hurricane Katrina, and as we drove around they pointed out places they used to go to that are now piles of rubble or nothing at all. The gas station the ex filled up at every time she went to visit her grandmother was reduced to two poles sticking out of the ground, and her grandmother's house on Ocean Drive is now nothing but an empty lot. It was really sad.

And when we went to the Hard Rock Casino, they had a whole display of destroyed memorabilia. The first time they opened the place was on the day that Hurricane Katrina struck, and only a handful of items could be salvaged. But they've rebuilt, and it's a pretty flashy place.

A whole wall of famous guitars, costumes and other memorabilia from hard rockers through the ages.

New Orleans was devastated very badly, but it seems like the rest of the affected areas don't get nearly as much attention. I used to joke around with people who continually asked me what I was going to do about finding a job by saying that H and I would move to Biloxi and join the circus. But after I saw how hard it's been on the place even this long after the hurricane, I feel like I need to choose a new place to joke about. As of right now, I'm thinking Poughkeepsie. Is that a big circus town?

The next day, my bro and I headed back to New Orleans. He and I hung around the French Quarter and had beignets and special-blend coffee at Cafe du Monde and caught some awesome street performers. Then we headed out and shared a meal at the airport.

I've gotta say, it was a great weekend. My brother has come such a long way from the whiny tag-along he once was, and I genuinely enjoy his company (but don't tell him I said so). It was certainly nice to be waited on by him, and I really liked his friends. In the time since I've been home, I've caught myself counting down the months until he comes home after graduation. There's something I can't explain that makes me feel happy and safe whenever he's around.

But ask me again when he's been home for a couple months and you just might get a different answer.

fraternizing with the enemy

"Oh my god I HATE CLIENTS! The deadline was this morning and now they're like oh, btw, we absolutely can't have this in there and you definitely have to change that about things they themselves approved WEEKS AGO!"

"Omg I do that all the time lol."

"You're going to hell with the rest of them."

"Ruuuude."

"But so truuuuue."

pack it up, pack it in, let me begin

The last few days have been somber, with me packing up my files into faceless cardboard boxes, dismantling furniture and watching cabinets empty themselves out onto the floor. I had my last meal at Brett's Kitchen and shed a tear or two at the timing that our office was closing right after The Onion headquarters moved in next door. So little time for witty banter at the elevator, but I did manage to squeeze some in, even though I didn't always get their jokes.

As for the job front, there isn't much to report but I fear jinxing myself as much as your average third grader, so hopefully there will be some good news soon. In the meantime, I'm struggling to keep my patience with this dialup connection at home and I'm embarking on the joy that is Nablopomo. Many other lovely bloggers (some 3813) have joined up, including some of my favorite peeps. You can check out my profile page or just browse around--you may just find your new favorite blog. Posting every day of November is tricky business, so every comment is even more appreciated than usual. I'm promising to leave a few comments every day at places I've never been. Good luck to everyone!

swiper, don't swipe!

Last night I got a call from my credit card company, saying that there were some fraudulent charges on my card. I was pretty impressed they figured it out after only three fake charges. And while I am very careful about where I use it, I have been throwing around that piece of plastic quite a bit lately in many different parts of the country. However, it seems that someone had memory on their machine and made a counterfeit card that s/he's been able to swipe and charge to my account.

I'm guessing they figured it out because I was making charges here in Chicago at the same time they were living it up at Von's and Albertson's in Redondo Beach and Torrence, California. They also made an $8 charge online, which is baffling not only because it was so small, but they certainly wouldn't be sending it to my house. I'm so relieved my company caught it in time, but hearing about this has made me feel violated and extremely paranoid. Not that I needed any more encouragement on that last part.

Watch your wallets, people.

you're so not invited

Dear H’s friend,

You are now officially on my LIST.

When I met you two years ago at the Christmas party for your and H’s company, I got a cold reception; barely a hello even though we were all sitting at the same table. But I didn't think much of it. For all you knew, it may not have worked out between me and him, and there’s no use getting to know someone who lives 2,000 miles away if you never see her again.

Then at the next year’s Christmas party, you didn’t even address me when we were all standing around in a circle under a plane. H was talking to someone and I didn't really know anyone else. I was baffled and kept wondering if you didn't like me for some reason. Sure, my clothes sometimes carry the faint aroma of samosas and I probably smile a little too much, but still. H told me not to worry about it, but I'm just not the let-it-go type, especially if I feel like I haven't done anything wrong.

I was determined to crack the mystery. I called you two months before H’s 30th birthday this year and asked if you’d like to help me do something nice for him. I figured it was a way to better get to know the people he hangs out with every weekend and it'd make him happy. I can’t say I was surprised you didn’t get back to me right away, but I was delighted a few weeks later when you called and offered to throw a party for him at your house. You said you’d get the word out and I suggested you send all the coworkers an evite; it’d be nice for H to see his pals from the office again. I was busy constructing a web of lies to get H to drive us three hours out of his way to go to your house when I came out to visit. And it was proving to be tricky.

About a week and a half before our agreed-upon date, I called to find out how the party planning was going and if I could do anything to help. I found out that you never sent any evite or told anyone at work, and the five-person guest list extended to the far-reaching corners of your living room (it consisted of your siblings, roommates and one friend who comes over all the time). I was baffled, especially because you work and play softball with so many of H's friends. And by that point, most people would have made commitments for that weekend and would likely not come, and I had already booked my tickets to fly out there.

H had told me that the weekend after I came to visit, you and your brother were throwing a Halloween party at your house. Everyone was coming as a rock star, and he was trying to think of what to wear. Just out of curiosity, I asked you about it. You said you invited 40 people from work and your brother invited 50 people from around town where you all grew up together. Granted, I've been told your brother probably had more to do with getting that shindig together—he's also the only one of you guys who came up to me at the Christmas party, said hello and asked me how my flight was. In fact, I'm kicking myself for not just contacting him about all this, because he's always been pretty cool and seems like someone who keeps promises.

You, on the other hand are NOT so cool. Believe me, I'm well aware that hosting parties is exhausting, and that you decided to have a big one the very next weekend. If it was too much work, I wish you had told me you wouldn't be able to do it instead of just sort of letting it fizzle out, or not even offered at all. And after seeing your lackluster enthusiasm and that limp guest list, I decided to cancel the party. It would have taken some fancy footwork to convince him to go all the way to your house from his sister's (whom we'd be visiting that weekend). And for a half-hearted evening, it just wouldn't be worth it. I was sad about canceling, but it turned out okay because nearly all of H's family decided to come down to his sister's place. We'd have our own little party for him. I wasn't going to tell him about the failed attempt because nothing sucks worse than no one doing anything for your birthday than no one doing anything for your birthday and then telling you about all the stuff they didn't do.

I figured what H didn't know couldn't hurt him. Then I found out that you told him about it. "We were going to throw you a party, but Cadiz canceled it," is what I believe he said. His reaction was pretty matter of fact, though, and he said it was no big deal. "When your birthday is on Halloween, Cadiz, you pretty much get used to everyone rather doing other things than celebrating it." That just broke my heart.

I was LIVID. Not only did you totally drop the ball on me, you disappointed a guy who has always gone out of his way to help you out, be it for rewiring your computer system and giving you advice on buying electronics or volunteering to do the annoying duties of a softball team manager when no one else wanted the hassle. And even though he blew it off, I don't think H would have told me what you said if it hadn't bothered him. And on top of all that, his sister said she bumped into you at a wedding, you asked her if you had to come all the way down to her house for H's birthday and she said, "No, but what you do have to do is offer your house for a party." That was the night you called me. So you didn't even come up with THAT on your own!

You may be one of his oldest friends, but from what I've seen, you're not a very good one. I'm pretty much over being mad at you, but I'm not in a hurry to hang out with you anytime soon. Or ever. I made an effort, but I've given up trying to figure out what your problem is. H has plenty of other friends who—even though they're far away—I'm sure would be delighted to do something nice for him. I plan on contacting them in the future.

When I found out you told him about the botched plan, I was so angry I said to my coworker, "I don't care who H is marrying, THIS GUY is not going to be invited." I'm sure he isn't getting married anytime soon, but that's lucky for you if he wants me to be his wedding planner. Because it'll take me a very long time to forget about this.

trial by fire

When she was first teaching me to prepare Indian food (read: making me stand near her but not allowing me to touch anything), my mother would often say it was imperative that I figure out this cooking thing or else my mother-in-law would ask why mom didn't teach me anything and throw me out into the street (in oldschool India, when a girl got married she went to live with the inlaws and often did all the housework). I quickly got bored of standing around and laughed it off. I told her I was only going to marry someone from America who would share in the household duties and who definitely would not still live with his mom, then went back downstairs to watch tv.

Later, in the race against expiration, I got more of a wing-it-and-be-critiqued culinary education (it's much easier to cook when she's not physically in the kitchen telling you to "move your hands and feet faster"). After I'd mostly finished the dish du jour, she'd look into the pot and throw a pinch of this and a shake of that into the mix to fix it. When I'd ask what I'd done wrong, she'd quote her own mother with "all you have to do is look at uskii shakal (its face) to know if you did it right." Mrs. Leuken certainly did not make Baked Alaskas and Peach Cobbler this way in seventh grade Home Economics class; she gave out written recipes. On the other hand, my mother's idea of a recipe is to tell you to put a "fistful" of this and and a "little bit" of that and "don't forget to throw in some" of whatever else. Repeating it too many times or writing it down is too taxing, and she'd remind me that if I had stood around and watched when I was a kid, this wouldn't have been a problem. Then, for good measure, she'd tell me that my youngest aunt could cook ten-course meals around the time she was learning long division.

At some point I realized I can't keep running to mommy, and I'd need to at least learn how to prepare the things I enjoy the most--simple dishes that you can't really get at an Indian restaurant without gross bells and whistles. Things like kadhi, dal, parathas, rotis, egg curry, chicken curry, meat curry, bhindi, aloo bhaji, methi, gawar phali, tindoora, rass malai, kulfi, etc. I also realized that I inherited my mother's discerning taste for North Indian food--when it's comes to our house specialties, neither of us find anything comparable to her own mother's cooking, including her own. (Dishes we don't usually make, however, are pretty well received.) I admit, this is snobby. But a lot of people ask my mom to cook for them or for her recipes, and my nani was known as Mummy to their entire town and often had drop-in guests for dinner. There's gotta be something to that.

All of this is pretty hilarious when you consider that my mother has four other sisters and was considered inept at cooking by my nani when she was a kid. Mom preferred reading about chemistry to watching the cooking process, and was often to blame if something burned even if she was in another room. So she was in quite a pickle when she found herself on the other side of the world, married and trying desperately to remember what snippets she did recall from passing through my nani's kitchen. She's often told me that she didn't really learn to cook until she got to the U.S., but she must have picked up something back then: All five sisters' cooking is remarkably similar to my nani's. Which means she did her job. And biases aside, my mom is a great cook, especially considering the late start.

So when I agreed to cook for H's family, my mother helped me distribute the haldi, garam masala, mirchi, dhaniya, jeera, adrak, laung and other assorted goodies into separate plastic baggies. She gave me some of the rice we use, (knowing it's my weak point) and explained the trick to this specific brand several times. She gave me a hug and said to call if I ran into any problems, because this was likely some sort of potential-daughter-in-law test.

H and I went to the local Indian grocery store and bought the rest of the ingredients. I wasn't about to handmake rotis without my trusty tawa, so we used frozen naan and parathas from the store and I made chicken curry, spinach with potato, dal, raita (yogurt with tomato, cucumber and spices), and my nemesis--rice. But of course, I couldn't just have it plain, but threw in some vegetables to make it a little more fancy.

The potatoes were a little overdone and the shakal of the dal didn't exactly look like my mom's (somehow it's always the simple dishes that prove the hardest for me to master), but it tasted all right. I was pleasantly surprised at the chicken, but more ecstatic that the rice was neither under nor overcooked (luckily, I'd transferred it to a ginormous stock pot when I realized that the one I had originally chosen would be too small). It probably didn't hurt that I got to cook in a dream kitchen with pretty much any and every cool gadget and pretty pot in the catalog.

When I panicked and called my mom, it was mostly for reassurance. She asked if I had remembered to turn on the stove, laughed and said I'd be just fine. I needed to hear that nod of approval, because whether or not it was actually true, I did see this dinner as a test. However, to me it wasn't a test of being worthy of H, but more to prove that I am fit to be called my mom's daughter and my nani's granddaughter.

There's plenty of room for improvement, but I think I passed.

the heat is on

I've been in California since thursday, and dreading today the last several weeks. You see, I agreed to cook an "authentic" Indian meal for H's family, and I've been freaking out ever since. Hopefully, I'll be able to keep my nerves at bay and not turn them off to the cuisine all together.

Wish me luck.

not conducive to the healing of the ulcer

I like to chat.
I am a bad liar.
Someone told me my face is louder than my mouth. And it's true.

And yet for some reason, I find myself compelled to plan Surprise Party after Surprise Party.

This year, all the planning is overlapping.
And there's quite a bit of stress.
Mostly because I can't keep my stories straight.
I have no idea what I've told to whom.
But in the end the recipients are happy, and so am I.

Unfortunately, being out of a job in a few weeks and having few viable leads is keeping me up at night, too.

And that stress is not quite as rewarding.

'tis the season...almost

Last year, I signed up for NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) started by the mastermind behind fussy.org. Basically, it's a commitment to post every day for the entire month of November. And from what I understand, there were some 2,000 participants and some lovely prizes. I fulfilled my obilgation, but it was rough going on some days to come up with anything to say every single day. Shocking, I know. But Jam did it, too. And so did Jon. And that immensely helped me keep going.

This year, they've created an entire social network. I signed up at the end of September and was the 198th person to join. As of this morning, there were exactly 1000 people registered and promising 30 days of nonstop blogging madness. And in the time it's taken me to write this, the number is up to 1007.

The sheer number of participants this early in the game seems to indicate that this thing has gone pretty Big Time. I've found several very cool blogs, and can already feel a little performance anxiety. So I've started to hunt around for some good topics to keep in my pocket for November, and stumbled upon this little idea. I'm toying with the idea of doing all thirty days about people I know.

Regardless, if there are things that you've been dying to know or questions you'd like me to address or topics in general that you'd like to see covered here, feel free to send me an email, carrier pigeon or telepathic message with your suggestions and recommendations. I appreciate your help and love to hear from you, as always.

it's a bad day if i awaken in a good mood

I woke up today in a good mood.

I even got out of the house on time and relished the lovely weather--unseasonably warm!

I managed to choose the perfect spot on the train platform to stand at because when the train stopped, the door lined up right in front of me, so i got on first and had my pick of the best seats.

I sat down, fished out my monthly pass and settled down with an excellent and captivating graphic novel, in which I was engrossed for several minutes.

And then I heard it.

It was low and gutteral and came at me in unexpected bursts from the seat directly behind me. The train is nearly silent in the a.m., so every time it tore through my tranquility with a rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip, I'd cringe and sit up straighter in annoyance. This woman had sat behind me before, destroying my peaceful morning ride with her just-when-you-thought-she-was-done-oh-wait-she's-not throat clearing. But I didn't know what she looked like to avoid her. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against throat clearing, sneezing or even repeated coughing. People need to do what they need to do. It's just hers that I cannot withstand: Quiet and painfully drawn out, not unlike the opening of candy wrappers reaaaaaallly sloooooowly in a darkened theater in hopes that no one will notice. And what's worse is that, to me, her particular throat-clearing sounds a lot like the noises very small children make when they're having difficulty trying to fill a diaper.

It took every atom of energy I had for nearly 35 minutes not to turn around and yell at the top of my lungs: LISTEN LADY, APPARENTLY YOU HAVE SOMETHING IN YOUR THROAT. WHY DON'T YOU PUT SOME EFFORT INTO COUGHING IT OUT AND DO SO IN AN ABRUPT, ALBEIT LOUD, MANNER? YOUR METHOD IS DRIVING ME FRICKING BALLISTIC! But instead I sat there, eyes glazed over, pretending to read but contemplating exactly how I'd word my bitter, hateful blog diatribe against her.

And then suddenly, it had been nearly ten minutes without a single rumble. I started to panic. What if throat lady could read minds and heard all the nasty things I was thinking about her? What if she's actually got an untreatable medical condition that causes her to annoy fellow human beings (the guy she was with was rocking some hugeass noise-canceling headphones)? What if this was the one incident that was pushed me completely into the Definitely Going To Hell category? I resumed full concentration on my book, and tried to think nice, apologetic thoughts.

But then she did it again. Just to piss me off. And the rest of my day hasn't been right since.