Somebody let the Auntie Patrol into Ogilvy & Mather

Check out this commercial*, Kabhi Kabhi Pyar Mein, for Pond's "whitening" cream featuring Indian actors Priyanka Chopra, Saif Ali Khan and Neha Dhupia. It's the first of a several-part "novella." Here is the entire commercial series (as configured for another region in Asia).

I remember Aunties suggesting we use Fair and Lovely "fairness" cream in junior high so we wouldn't get "too dark" from hanging out in the pool. That stuff is just jasmine-scented sunscreen/moisturizer, but I bought into the hype back then. I feel lame about being shamed into using it. 

Sadly, this prejudice is still going so strong that they have entire soap opera about how much harder life is for the "darker" girl and how unfair it is. My mom watches it. While it's good that people in India are being shown how backwards and archaic these stereotypes are in mainstream soaps, it's sad that this kind of stuff is taking place in present tense.

*via the comments to a post about something even more ridiculous on sepiamutiny.com.

nothing says "Good Luck" like Underoos

As you may recall, a month ago my brother came home for a visit. He's decided to stay in Alabama, and he started his first *real* job last week. (Kiss those long school holidays goodbye, kid!)

While he was in town, my parents threw him a graduation dinner at a local pizza joint. To be perfectly honest, I think it was more of a party for them; the guest list was severely tipped in their favor. However, my brother got to choose the invitations, which he picked up at the party outlet store, that read COME TO MY LINGERIE PARTY!

I didn't make that up.

We had about 50 people on the list, most of whom are colleagues and friends of our parents (and some of whom are on the Auntie Patrol) and they each received a hand-written pink invite in the shape of a lacy camisole. My brother is the only person I know in real life who can get away with shenanigans like that. He will shrug his shoulders, smirk and hand you a card that says HAPPY BAR MITZVAH for your birthday or one with LA ABUELA MÁS FABULOSA on Father's Day. Somehow it works for him; people find it absolutely hilarious. I couldn't get away with it. I guess that charm gene must have skipped over me and given him a double dose.

So what did the guests do when they got those invites besides laugh? Poetic justice: They brought him skivvies.

There were Jockey shorts, lacy panties and even a sparkly thong with rhinestones that spelled out "Fabulous." And my mom's friend made a delicious half-chocolate/half–vanilla-and-strawberry cake in the shape of a bra and panties in my brother's school colors. But the best gift of all was from his long-time nurse, who has seen him through various surgery recoveries since he was in junior high. She made a long trip to be there and brought her four-year-old son. And she presented the new grad with a tiny pair of Underoos and a card estimating they're probably pretty close to my brother's size with a post script apologizing because they are used.

My mom gave a sweet speech in which she named nearly everyone in the room individually and thanked them for being there for us all these years: canceling work meetings to come and donate blood for my brother's surgeries, bringing food and hugs and prayers to the hospital, picking up slack for her so she could stay with him in the hospital for weeks at a time and letting her cry on their shoulders. She had nearly everyone in the room wiping their eyes.

It was a lovely party. We all felt pretty proud of the kid and I think all the guests had a good chuckle watching him open package after package of ridiculous underwear. But don't feel too bad for the little brat—along with all the undies, he got a fancy used car from my parents.

catching up with cadiz: wrigley field

For those of you wondering where the heck I've been, I apologize. Things have been mighty busy, and there have been dozens of posts that have been drafted and dumped because they didn't get posted in a timely manner. Here is one I thought I could salvage, even though I don't remember a lot of the details now. More posts to come, hopefully soon.

When my brother was in town (at the end of May, which feels like a million years ago), H and I took him and his roommate, Mark, to Wrigley Field for a tour.

The marquee (I remember it best from that flashback in Sleepless in Seattle).

The view from Waveland, near where everyone stands around in hopes of catching a ball.

The Chicago Bears played at Wrigley until 1970 and it's been used for soccer (Chicago Sting), concerts and they even had a ski-jump competition.

Originally it housed 14,000 fans and now can seat up to 41,000. We were a little mesmerized about how weird it looked all empty like this.

The place was the first to have an organ (the original is now in the Hall of Fame).

It's also the first baseball field where they allowed fans to keep foul balls as souvenirs.

No one has ever hit the scoreboard--with a baseball. Sam Snead hit it with a golf ball, teeing off from home plate.

If you look closely, home plate and the pitcher's mound don't line up with the "400" sign in center field. When they wanted to add seats, they cut left field and rolled it all back. The pitcher's mound now is where home plate used to be.

AC006299: "After Championship, it's been zero years since their last division championship, it's been 62 years since they won the pennant and it's been 99 years since they last won the World Series. The latin roughly translates to "Let's go Cubs."

People hang out on rooftops during games, too. Sometimes they light up that spinning Harry Caray wheel.

We got to sit in the pressbox. It's a real nice view.

Radio booth, where they might possibly sing "Take Me Out To The Ballgame" during the seventh-inning stretch. Or not. I don't remember.

We got to go into the locker rooms. This one's for visitors.

This is how you're supposed to wear the uniform.

Don't forget your bats, either.

Professional athletes need a LOT of products to look good on the field. And this was the visiting bathroom.

Squint and you'll see a wedding party. Apparently people like to have their photos taken at Wrigley. (Sounds like something my brother would want).

We went on the tour right before the Dodgers/Cubs series at the end of May, and we went to a couple of games. H got a bunch of shots of himself with this dodgers round identifier thingy. It's huge; this photo is from the pressbox. (And I've been informed that it's called the "on-deck circle.")

When we were at the game the next day, these cute old guys would entertain the crowd with their impromptu band.

H caught Derrek Lee's home run. (In fact, he took most of these photos--the good ones, at least.)

Personally, I go to ballgames for the hot dogs and beer. And the peoplewatching.

The Dodgers didn't fare too well in that series. They got swept, and Murphy's Bleachers rubbed it in. Sorry, H. But at least they made a grammatical mistake in their rush to gloat.

The famous ivy.

3!

Part of dinner the other night.

It's amazing that even after three years of talking for hours on the phone (and now in person) every single day, we still haven't run out of stuff to say.

speaking of gangsters

They're filming Public Enemies just outside our office. Those poor production assistants have been working overtime in the heat changing street and window signs and there are dozens of old-school cars lining the streets. Johnny Depp will be playing John Dillinger.

Here's the only wimpy photo I could get on Monday with my camera as I crossed the street trying not to look starstruck. Coincidentally that was Johnny's birthday (some people had signs).

On the left under the trees you can see a bunch of sweaty extras in heavy coats and fedoras sweating away in the heat.

But people.com had a way better shot of the shoot, including the man himself:

photo by Charles Sykes, Rex USA via people.com

Fake gangsters seem to plague my working life.

office supply closet

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

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

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

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

There isn't much room inside, either.

While we were still working there, we decided (based on no historical knowledge whatsoever) that gangsters used that safe to hide ungodly amounts of cash, guns or booze during Prohibition. Or bodies. It's over the top, I know, but any sort of intrigue makes sitting at a desk job seem a little more sexy.

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

what?

Even if you're not a Lost fan, there's something really entertaining about one word repeated over and over.

And if you are a Lost fan, you'll probably appreciate this.

Actual posting coming soon.

come and knock on our door

This weekend, my brother's roommate, Mark (the Wafflehouse Skanks' drummer) will be in for a visit. He's never been to Chicago, so he and my brother are going to crash at our place for a couple days and check out the city. It'll be a Wrigley weekend: a tour of the Friendly Confines on Saturday and two Cubs/Dodger series games on Monday and Tuesday. That means a lot of hot dogs and stadium beer for me. Plus I'm having the (in-state) high school crowd over on Sunday. That's a lot of people for a 685-square-foot place, but I'm sure it'll be a lot of fun.

I'd much rather have my home packed with loved ones than what's been going on—not that I have any problems with people coming to see the place—the more prospective buyers, the better! But H told me that yesterday after a showing when he got back into our unit, it looked as though someone had been sitting on our bed. For some reason that really creeped me out. Strangers walking around and touching our things, sitting on the couch where I fall asleep every night at 10 pm, fondling my pillow, opening my fridge and seeing my stockpiles of string cheese. It's a little too much to think about. 

So instead I'll focus on what to recommend Mark sees while he's here. Any suggestions?

can't never catch up

Last week I admitted on twitter that I was having a Jessie Spano "I'm so excited" moment, and some of you expressed your concern (Thanks for the "no hope with dope" reminder, Omar).

It's not that things are bad, or even really terribly hectic, but for some reason, I feel like I'm behind, like there are eleventeen hundred things that would better serve me to do than sitting around watching last season's So You Think You Can Dance all in one long Cat-Deely-narrated marathon. Yet there was nothing I could do to remove myself from its tractor beam.

Or maybe it's the waiting. Patiently anticipating has never been my strong suit; I always feel more productive walking twenty blocks than waiting twenty minutes for the bus, even though it takes a lot longer. The waiting—for things we've worked for to fall into place so I can finally relax—is killing me. So much so that the acid reflux/ulcer/monster in my stomach is coming back. I really hope I don't have to sleep sitting up again.

So in relaxation exercise, I share some of these shots of my trip to my brother's graduation:

I don't know too many people who can say they've been on a Jumbo Tron.

Mobile Bay, just behind the restaurant we went to for a celebratory dinner after the ceremony. There was a dock back there from which people were giving pontoon and airboat rides. We had to wait about two and a half hours for a table, and I was mighty tempted to hop on one and search for alligators.

*

But it was worth the wait: This was the view from our table. That was also where I tried alligator (small bites and a nice spicy sauce). It also had some killer Key Lime Pie.

Driving 14 hours in a Chrysler Sebring (the backseat is like a vortex—so close to the ground that adults can barely see out the windows) with my parents and H wasn't nearly as bad as it could be. Even though we were stuck on a bridge the bayou for three hours in the dark with hundreds of other cars because of a fatal accident, with no idea when we'd be able to see the inside of a bathroom. I had the through-the-night driving shift both on the way there and back, and couldn't help myself but cheer as we passed through a little town in Kentucky:

H was awake on the way back so I pulled over and made him take some pictures. I was in some of them, but after six hours of middle-of-the-night driving (on top of the three-hour bayou delay) I was looking disheveled at the very best and probably a lot more like a psychotic demon because of the way my hair got so very frizzy and frazzled down there in the humidity. So I'll spare you that nightmarish image. I'm dying to know how they pronounce it down there, but I'm pretty sure I'd have some shoes thrown at me if I tried to stop and find out at 3 am.

***UPDATE***

Sorry it's not more exciting. No actual woodmen were spotted, however there was a lovely (retention) pond by the side of the turn off.

* All photos were taken by H, except for the one of the airboat, which was courtesy of Cadiz.

the things we give up for love

"Did you see that girl we just passed? I really liked her dress."

"Eh, it was okay. But did you see how much makeup she had on?"

"I thought she looked nice!"

"Maybe from far away, but as she got closer you could see it was really caked on. Gross."

"You're totally the reason I don't wear makeup. Not because I'm lazy or anything."

"I never said Don't wear it. I just don't like when you leave that menthol or minty or whatever-it-is stuff on my Gatorade bottle."

"I stopped wearing that Burt's Bees stuff because you said that."

"We all make sacrifices. Like when I started dating you, I had to come to terms with saying goodbye to my liver-flavored chapstick."

"I appreciate that. You're a pal."

you'll never get those 3 hours back, but you won't get another shot, either

On Saturday we watched as my brother graduated from college.

A few months ago, he told us that he didn't want to walk in the ceremony, that it wasn't a big deal and it's not like he'll get anything other than the empty certificate holder anyway. Plus, it'd be an all-school graduation and likely last several hours. After a lot of persuading, I convinced him to suck it up and get fitted for that cap and gown because my parents deserved to see him up there. And though he grumbled the entire way and took his cap off as soon as he sat back down, he went through with it. 

We made the drive and got dressed up and filed into the auditorium. Most people sitting around us were leafing through the pamphlets and chattering (however there was an extremely frazzled mom with no grasp on her loud children, who rested their feet on our shoulders, drowned out the speakers and repeatedly hurled shredded programs at H's head). I was looking around at everything from the jumbotron to the blond-wood bass in the band and suddenly I was crying. 

I don't know what prompted it. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular, but the tears kept rolling and I couldn't do anything to stop them. All these years of my brother struggling just to make it through another day, let alone the rigors of earning a diploma—it really is quite an accomplishment. And it definitely wasn't easy. Several semesters were missed for surgery, recovery and complications, and dozens of credit units didn't transfer from school to school. A lesser man might have called it quits a long time ago. 

I looked over at my mom, who was in the same state. All she could do was smile through her tears. Later she said she had been picturing that first surgery, when my brother's tiny three-month-old body was covered in tubes and encased in an incubator, and how she hadn't known then if she should even hope to see this day. I held her hand; that's all I've ever really had to offer.
 

Five years ago, my then-boss' sister (who also worked at our company) had been diagnosed with lung cancer, despite never having smoked a cigarette in her life. The sister was one of those people who make your day better just by the way they say hello. My boss was just as wonderful: She was fair and kind and considerate and kicked ass at her job. And we worked hard because we didn't want to let her down. I loved that boss. She taught me so much, not just about our craft, but about what it really means to supervise people so they can grow. She gave me the feedback that pushed me toward a job I had hoped to snag someday but worried I wasn't good enough for. And she was a genuinely awesome person.

I knew my boss was having a really tough time seeing her sister in so much pain. And while there's not a lot that you can say to comfort people at times like that, I know a little about how it is. My boss said that hearing about my brother made her feel a little better—especially when I told her that the doctors had said we'd be lucky if he made it to age 20 and that we had just toasted his 21st birthday.

Unfortunately, my boss' sister didn't make it. Even more tragic, my boss herself was diagnosed with cancer last year. When I found out, I got her a card that just said "Shit." (She got a kick out of that.) When I was putting it into our office's Outgoing Mail pile, a senior person picked it up and approached me kind of menacingly. I thought I violated some policy about sending personal mail from the office, but it turned out that he was my boss' brother-in-law. He offered to hand-deliver the card because she'd been coming to his house to recover after every round of chemo.

Even though she had been doing really well, things took a turn for the worst and my boss passed away early Sunday morning, as we were getting done celebrating brother's graduation in Alabama. Losing her has hit everyone hard: I've gotten calls from people I haven't seen in years, and I will probably see more at the memorial on Thursday. It's terrible that it'll take a death to bring us all back together again. But it is a testament to how much this woman is loved and how I didn't have to go far before I bumped into someone else who is blessed to have known her. 

If I had gotten to see my boss before she died, I would have told her that not only did my brother finally graduate after seven years, but he'll be turning 26 in September and continues to raise hell every single day. I think it would have made her happy to hear. 

It pays to celebrate what you've got, while you still have it.

Leave it to the skanks

I have just been informed that one of the Wafflehouse Skanks has broken Rock Band. Granted, the way it was presented to me was with the phraseology "something shorted in the drums; we didn't do it on purpose" but I recognize that sentence for the flimsy coverup for alcohol-laden gaming that it is. 

I am upset. I was really looking forward to taking a crack at it because a) I've never played Rock Band b) I've never played w/ more than one other person c) I'd do WAY better at the singing than playing any instrument and d) Playing video games with my brother is really fun. 

I probably can still try out the other instruments and sing, but it just won't be the same without the drums. 

Maybe I can convince H to let us bring the extra guitar and Guitar Hero so any hard-core Cadiz rocking out will not be impeded in Alabama.

Stupid skanks.

p.s. When I googled "Wafflehouse Skanks" to get the link to my earlier post, it wasn't even the first one that came up! This blog came up third, and it wasn't even the band post that it linked to, but one about the people our office shares a building with. The first two links are to how Kid Rock got into trouble with the law at a Waffle House, and apparently there were skanks present. Who would have guessed? 

listed

We finally listed the place on Monday, about a month after the realtor was hoping we would. But I think all the improvements were worth the delay and now if it languishes on the market I'll have fewer woulda/shoulda/couldas to kick myself about.

Tuesday morning H had to get the place ready at the last minute for a showing. He showered, set up the bed and all the "show" towels, vacuumed, cleaned the electric stovetop, cleared all the clutter and took out the garbage in about 25 minutes. He opened the door with the trash in hand to the realtor and prospective buyers. What a trooper.

This weekend he will be joining the Cadiz clan on a drive to Alabama for my brother's graduation. Nothing like a 12-hour road trip to get to know your girlfriend's parents. Any suggestions for a good book on tape?

hey nonbelievers: this is how we did it

A few weeks ago we went to suburbia to wait for H's stuff that never came, and we made the most of being unable to leave my parents' house all day by using my dad's tools and all that room to fashion a headboard for our place.

After a trip to the hardware store and the crack house, we had the materials: foam, plywood, fabric, staplegun, household glue and random measuring equipment.


H's sister had suggested we hang three panels of varying colors for more interest, so we originally had a large piece of plywood cut into thirds. But after we settled on a very diagonally patterned and texture-y fabric, we decided it'd be easier to do a single color in one large piece instead of three separates that we'd have to match up over rounded edges.


So we had to attach them back together and cross our fingers that the divisions weren't too obvious under the fabric.


I'm not that into glitz, but we agreed that a little shine never killed anyone. Plus I like the fact that what's normally the "wrong side" (the stitching of all those pieces together) is what makes the "right side" look cool.


We put the boards together with brackets. At this point it would have been really smart to add a layer of batting, as H's sister had originally suggested, because a) the fabric is a hundred diamond-shapes of silk sewn together—if it ripped, it'd be a mess b) the edges of the board wouldn't feel so hard and c) it'd help hide the divisions between the three panels underneath. Unfortunately we forgot about the batting until we were done and attempting to transport the thing (which was not easy, by the way. Maybe panels would have been a better option after all).


Stapling was good for channeling our angst about waiting around all day with no word on when his stuff was going to show. Especially when it didn't even end up coming.


I was a little over-enthusiastic about pulling the fabric taut. If we do this again, I'll have to take more zen breaths and relax.



It's always a good idea to make sure everything is level and matches up. I let H do the math.

I'm happy with the way it turned out. Maybe in the next place we'll get to do more home-improvement projects. My inner Martha is constantly straining at the leash and H has proven himself to be more than handy. However, I'm starting to think he's acquired those skills to justify his constant daydreaming about the ridiculous power tools he'd someday like to own. 

let them do the walking

Hey peeps, I know there are a bazillion great causes out there, but two people I know (one of whom is the illustrious highcontrast) are putting on their walking shoes to raise a little cash for charity.

The first is someone I worked with years ago, right around her son's birth. Jackson is a great kid who's making a lot of progress. His parents* have participated in Walk Now For Autism for several years, and Team Action Jackson always has cool t-shirts.

Highcon** is walking in New York to help fight AIDS. This epidemic isn't going away, and many people are still getting infected every day.

And just because it has helped my brother so tremendously in his life—from making him confident and aware that he's not suffering alone, to offering him a whole network of people his age who understand the crap he's been through that goes way beyond the "camp" experience—I include a link to Camp Bon Coeur, a camp for kids with cardiac issues.

* Jackson's mom has an essay published in the local paper.
** Some of you may have noticed that I didn't include a link to highcon's donation site. If you'd like to contribute to his AIDS walk, please e-mail me at cadiztwelve[at]gmail[dot]com.

another seven years of bad luck? no thanks.

Every potential hole in the wall warrants a discussion about whether the safety/necessity of said hole is worth pissing off potential buyers or having to patch them later. 

In our redecorating we got a small table for the front hall, on which I put a fairly large and heavy mirror. I was content to leave it leaning on the table, but H was uneasy that someone might catch a table leg and the mirror would crash and break into shards. I told him not to be so uptight—it's not like Illinois is known for its earthquakes, and tornadoes rarely hit downtown—but I relented. He attached those safety straps people put on furniture so kids don't pull it down on top of themselves. 

It was a good thing he did it, too, because apparently there was an earthquake in the Chicago area at 4 am this morning. I don't believe there was too much damage or any injuries, but my boss woke up and blamed his wife for shaking the bed. And people even felt it in the dungeon.

I sort of remember waking up in the middle of the night, but I doubt it was because I felt the tremor. When my family and I visited my  mom's godmother in California in 1987, there was a 6-point-some earthquake while I slept in a bed on wheels. The next morning I woke up clear across the room, having been tossed around quite a bit without noticing a thing. 

Thank God H went with his instincts and protected that mirror, because these last few years I've had just about all the bad luck I can handle.

edged out and showing up

Long ago, I reported seeing some kind of jackal tearing through the streets of Chicago.

A little less long ago, there was a coyote who parked himself in a cooler of a Quizno's in the Loop (downtown).

And now it seems a cougar has wandered into the city from maybe as far as The Badlands.

Perhaps this is a sign that people should stop putting concrete on every parcel of land not covered in water?

that white speck is the light at the end of the tunnel—or just an errant piece of drywall

H and I have been furiously working to get the condo ready to be listed since he got off the plane on March 24. This has included new appliances, a new wood floor, new furniture, making a headboard, and scouring every home-type store, student art gallery, hardware store and Target within 30 miles. We have made more trips to IKEA in the last three weeks than trips made in the combined lifetimes of all members of both of our families, and the condo's front-desk people are wondering if we're building an emporium in our unit because of the frequent requests for freight elevators and luggage carts to haul all this stuff up there. 

We even contacted artist friends to see if we might borrow a few pieces for a few months, but unfortunately the logistics didn't work out (however, I really liked a piece featuring a Rabbit that was painted by Kaiya's fiance, and was disappointed that we needed more of a vertical). It even got to the point where I bought a ginormous canvas and dug up my own oil paints in an attempt to come up with something useable. But then I remembered that any piece of art I've made has taken weeks or months, and we just don't have that kind of time (and I can't stand to look at my own stuff anyway). So we hung a mirror instead.

Our realtor came by last night and said things looked good. The only thing left to do is hang six framed photos in the hall—a 30-minute job that will likely take 4 hours with all the scooching and adjusting and laser-leveling.  We've been been procrastinating on it, probably because after that I'll have nothing to do but lose sleep over how long it will take the place to sell.

We had the good luck of finding an all-purpose contractor guy who happens to be married to my mom's coworker, and he finished all of our projects in record speed (it also really helped that the weather was craptastic all last week so he wasn't able to go to his 9-5 job and could work with us). So if anyone is looking to make home improvements in the Chicago area, e-mail me.

What's hilarious about this whole thing is that it's a TINY place with only four rooms. I have no idea how people with full-out houses complete with backyards and chimneys and shutters and all that other jazz do what it takes to get things moving in this kind of market. All I know is that we're going to think long and hard about the next place we get because renovating is not as fast and simple and cheap as it seemed when we started. But I do like the way it looks, even though it feels a little impersonal.

As a reward, I have been on a Guitar Hero fast since the Wii was delivered. H has already rocked it, and he even bought me my own guitar-controller, but I have stuck to my policy of delayed gratification and won't plug in until that last damn picture is hanging on the wall and our place is listed. Because, as we all know, once I get the fever, I'm not going to want to sleep, eat or work until I have conquered it. So I may as well get everything done first.

But once it's on, it's ON.

nothing says "I'm sorry" like rows and rows of gadgets

"Sorry I didn't call you earlier to say I couldn't come home early and you had to sit around all afternoon."

"Take me to Fry's Electronics, and I'll forgive you."

"Ok, we'll make time for Fry's tonight in between the paint store and the hardware store."

"I can be bought—I forgive you."

"I guess every man has a price."

let's hope i don't have to re-knit sweaters

For years, I've said that I lived at my parents' house because I had to stockpile money for the impending Depression, and that all my years spent learning to make clothes, knit and generally be crafty were preparation for the hard times I was sure are coming. I was mostly kidding, of course.

Salon has an opinion piece today about just how close we are to falling off the edge of the cliff and into another economic depression. And while this is one person's take on the current situation that I don't even completely understand, there's some interesting discussion in the comments that sort of freaks me out.

Nobody knows what will happen, but I'm going to try and educate myself a little better about what's going on. And I sure as hell will think twice about joking about it again.