Happy 26th, brother

Two days ago, you texted me a photo of your brand-new Alabama license. And I was thrilled—I'm always one for candid shots: especially the birthday-cake one of you and Dad that so perfectly captures the mischievous twinkle in his eye because he knows you're annoyed and your expression of Oh-my-God-DAD-I-am-not-five-years-old-anymore. That is one of my most treasured photos.

But the work of art the Department of Motor Vehicles has put onto plastic for all time is truly awesome. At first glance I thought you looked like a criminal, perhaps someone picked up for swiping a powdered munchkin from Dunkin' Donuts or loitering in a K-Mart parking lot, but after a moment I realized that this is the exact expression that comes over your face when you have had quite enough and decide to check out of the listening portion of a sermon by Mom, Dad or myself. It's precisely the face you make 2.5 seconds before you take an enormously long pause, say "Ok, I gotta go" and get the hell out of the house. I can even hear the sullenness of your making that face when I lecture you over the telephone.

Those people at the DMV must have really hassled you that day.

But you're a big boy, now. All grown up with your own life in your own region of the United States. It saddens me that I can no longer predict what you might be doing at any time of the day like I used to. Now I can only guess: 6 pm on a Tuesday? He's sitting on the couch with his cherry-flavored Sonic whateveritis and watching the Cubs game on MLB-dot-com. 8:30 am Sunday morning? Still sleeping with his eyes open and would be cranky as all hell if you try and call. 5:45 Friday evening? Probably playing bags and knocking back a beer with his friends.

Now that you're working full-time and taking care of business, there's little time for idle chit chat. I'm swamped, too. So opportunities to sit around and shoot the shit are rare. We're overscheduled and live nearly a thousand miles away from each other. And long gone are the boring summer days when you'd say, Wanna watch a movie? and tell me I could choose, and then proceed to veto everything I'd suggest. Yeah, THAT was the most frustrating thing about my day back then.

The other night, H was in the bedroom and I was on the couch and we were throwing a baseball-shaped stress ball back and forth through the doorway. I was terrible, hitting the doorjamb or the ceiling often, and I kept telling him how awesome my aim and catching skills were back in the day when you and I would toss that mini football around for hours in the family room so often that it became misshapen, looking more like a squat, rounded rectangle than a football. It got so bad that we finally had to retire it when too much stuffing came poking out of a seam that was falling apart.

I don't even know what you tell people your favorite movie is anymore (but we both know it really still is Home Alone). All these years, you've had little to do with the Indian stuff that I hold so dear, but you called Mom the other day to ask how to make tea, and I laughed. It's only a matter of time before the call about how to make dal. I wonder if you still hold your mug around the barrel instead of by the handle, like you do at home to keep your hands warm on chilly mornings. Or if you ever hover over the floor vent like you did every time the central heat would kick in. But I guess those habits are probably not necessary in a land where it never snows.

I'm immensely proud of you and all that you've accomplished so far. I'm happy that you're steady on your own two feet and I know you'll continue to make us proud. But I miss you, brother. And I wish I could say Happy Birthday to you in person with a hug. Because no matter how grown-up and successful you get, this is how you'll always look to me:

Sometime in late 1983 or early 1984, at our 316 house with the long gravel driveway, before it had that crazy neon green siding. You were a tiny one-year-old (look how big that pacifier is in comparison!), running past the rosebush toward the camera and holding something you probably weren't supposed to have.

seeing a rainbow through the downpour

Last Thursday, as my boss was packing up her stuff, helping interview candidates for her position and saying goodbye, our biggest client called to say that it's canceling its use of our product. This is devastating news for a now-three-person startup that relies on that client for nearly 100% of its overhead costs. There are some other avenues that can still be pursued, but in the worst-case scenario, I'll need a new job by November.

It's last year, all over again, except without the cushion of savings to fall back on.

This morning I read a post by Anne, who's going through a very rough time in her life right now and could easily despair. But instead, she took 15 minutes to list the things that she's grateful for. It was a good reminder that losing a job is one thing, but I shouldn't lose sight of the wonderful things I do have:

My brother is healthy; his leg surgery seems to have healed well, and he's turning 26 on Friday!

My parents have their health, they are safe, secure and would do anything for me. I pray that I will never be forced to ask.

H has been reassuring, even physically shaking me out of believing this is some kind of karmic retaliation I had coming. His family even called in concern when they saw my twitter about the bad news.

My friends have been incredibly wonderful and supportive. My freak-out email was met with concerned phone calls, job-opening recommendations and requests for my resume.

I am in good health.

I have a roof over my head and food to eat and a lot of modern luxuries in daily life. I don't have a car payment, and can walk pretty much wherever I need to go.

Even if I must switch careers, I have worked in several facets of my industry, including a place I visited during school and said, "I'm going to work here someday." So I can leave with no regrets.

I don't have any poisonous relationships, and have done my best to reduce the baggage I carry from those I've had in the past.

I'm grateful for all of you, who have offered up so much support over the years. You're the best.

There are many more, but unfortunately we won't be hiring another person, so I have more work to do and it's not going anywhere. If posting here is sporadic, forgive me, but it's likely to be more frequent: This is where I like to come and complain. So forgive me for that, too.

be nice: that intern could have a say in hiring you someday

I'm no stranger to working holidays. The dungeon never sleeps, so I spent nearly every holiday of the two years I worked there at the office. That was especially hard on Christmas Eve, but people do what they have to do to pay the mortgage. I can't say that I miss that schedule, but I do sort of miss being able to get sympathy over it.

At my first job out of college, we worked Tuesdays through Saturdays. On a holiday weekend, there was twice as much to do for the Saturday crew because we'd be working ahead, doing Monday's work so no one would have to come into the office on the holiday. And Cc and I sometimes found ourselves—through a twist of politics and bad luck—stuck there on those Saturdays-before-a-holiday with a skeleton staff, trying to do twice as much work with half as many people.

One Saturday before Labor Day, cc and I were in for a doozy: There was only one other person besides the two of us, and although the workload had been reduced, we still had to finish Monday's stuff before we could go home. We usually would leave around 3 p.m., but this day it looked like we were going to be in the office until at least 8. On top of that, some system that we had no idea how to use but relied upon crapped out and we had to call in the boss.

The boss, who had taken over for my other, awesome boss when she got another position, reluctantly came in because he was the only one who knew that system. He wasn't happy about it, but we weren't ecstatic about three people having to do the work of 12, either. He headed straight for a back corner of the mothership, fixed the program and passed our desks on his way out, pausing to ask how it was going. As if the harried looks on our faces and the piles of paper on our desks weren't obvious, I answered that we were extremely behind and it looked as though we'd be there till about 8 p.m. that night.

He responded, "Oh. Well, would you like some wood to knock on?" and sailed out the door.

We were completely stunned. Then outraged. Our old boss would never have let that happen, let alone leave us like that. But after awhile it became clear that he was useless to us and that the work on our desks wasn't going anywhere, so we grumbled and finished up. I don't remember how late we ended up staying.

That was only one of the spirit-stomping comments that boss made to me during my time there with him. I was a bit of an envelope-pusher when it came to creativity, and I don't think he liked that very much. Another senior person pulled me aside a few months into that boss's tenure and asked why he didn't see that sparkle in my eye when we were discussing ideas anymore and if I'd like, he could talk to my boss. That was very kind, but I didn't take him up on it. I wasn't at that job too much longer, and neither was cc.

Last week, we got a whole lot of responses for my current boss's soon-to-be vacant position, including the knock-on-wood guy's resume. He wouldn't be a good fit for the job anyway, but needless to say, he didn't get my recommendation.

even if i don't always agree with his thumbs

This is why I love Roger Ebert.

You cannot put a price on loyalty, especially when the chips are down.

not a dry eye in the treehouse

When last we left our heroes, High Contrast was obsessing about his best-man speech and the bride was losing sleep over the fit of her dress. I was trying to lay down the calm without yelling, because H was asleep. But what did the trick was when I mentioned a phrase from Highcon's speech to Kai about getting ready to bust out her signature laugh during his toast—it broke the tension for her and gave him a taste of her approval. Then everyone could finally go to bed.

Kaiya is a graphic designer and Lee is an artist, so there was no question that their wedding would be beautiful. They wanted a very intimate celebration that would include all of the people they loved best, so the guest list was a VIP affair (I believe there were only twenty or so people, total, in attendance). It had to be small; the entire thing was going to take place in a treehouse, albeit a very special treehouse. It's the only one of its kind in the state.

As we approached, it didn't take long to see a very Kaiya-like touch to the decor.

When we got to the first landing (where the people are standing in the first photo), there was an assortment of glass vases and jars assembled on a table. In each one was a stem of astilbe in various shades of pink and white, and around the vessels were notes attached with a ribbon, each addressed to a separate guest. We were to take our stems and our notes and gather in the gazebo area of the treehouse, where there was a Brazilian guitarist from Kaiya's samba-dancing days playing "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." I adore that song, and the way he played it sounded as beautiful as a harp.

There was something for everyone on this table.

So we followed the ramp and took our places around the railings of the gazebo. There were bouquets and soft tulle draped here and there, but the place really didn't need too much in terms of added decoration. The treehouse is up 12 feet in the air, and it is built around the oak and ash trees that had already been growing in the park. It was really lovely. And with the music and the hushed murmuring, it really did feel like a spiritual place.

The ceiling of the gazebo had plenty of skylights to let the sunshine in.

Everyone was milling around, smiling at each other. H and I were standing behind two little Chinese women who looked so adorable in their floral dresses and hats. And then someone said, "Here they come!" and we watched as the car came into the parking lot, pulled up to the beginning of the ramp and Kaiya and her father came up the "aisle." I got teary, but looking around, I noticed that everyone else was misty, too. Last week when I dropped the gift off at her parents' house, I asked Kai's mom if she was going to cry at the ceremony. "No way!" she had said, "Why would I cry? I'm happy!" But of course she did. And it's rumored that her tough-guy little brother was wiping his eyes, too.

And she was wearing the "Plan A" dress. I knew Lee's mom would save the day.

Kaiya was carrying a single stem exactly like the rest of ours, and when her father presented her to Lee, the bride and groom (who had a stem, too) placed them into an empty vase on a table in the center of the gazebo.

This was the "unity" vase.

She had said she wanted a ceremony that everyone they loved could be an active part of, so at this point, the officiant asked all of us to come and add our respective stems to Kaiya and Lee's in the vase. Then she asked the two mothers to come and tie the whole bunch together and make Kaiya's bouquet. I got tearier.

The moms sealed everyone's blessings together with a bow. Then Kaiya and Lee sealed the deal with a kiss.

I thought the mirror on the tabletop was an awesome touch.

And then there was the food. Kaiya's mom and friends set up a Chinese buffet with shrimp rolls, crab rangoon, barbecue ribs, lettuce wraps, chicken wings, puff pastries with yummy stuff inside, big shrimps, little shrimps, rice, salad, fruits and all kinds of other deliciousness. I am sad I didn't take any photos of the spread, but I was too busy chowing down (I have never been able to resist homemade Chinese food since my childhood babysitter got me hooked on the real deal right from the start).

High Contrast only had a few cherry tomatoes and a piece of lettuce on his plate, and he was fidgeting nonstop. He was clearly still nervous about his toast, and couldn't wait until it was over and done with so he could finally relax. I kept reassuring him that all would be well* and joked that should he falter, he could have his cousin on speakerphone to prompt him (she practically memorized the thing, he had practiced so many times in front of her). He laughed his nervous laugh and kept shifting around. And then he was up.

And these are the *condensed* notes. He didn't really look at them, but they probably offered a sense of security.

Highcon did a great job (of course) giving Lee some tips on what to expect from his lifetime ahead with Kaiya. She asked, "Is this a roast or a toast?" but ended up laughing, just as I'd promised.

We had sparkling grape juice; no alcohol allowed in the park. But Kai's and Lee's look suspiciously bubbly...

After Highcon, Lee's big brother gave a speech that included advice for Kaiya in her future life with Lee. Both of the toasts went together well. We mingled around and caught up, as we don't see each other very often. And then it was time to hit the road. But before we left, Kai wanted to show us a sketch that My Favorite Mami had drawn up about what Kaiya had envisioned for her wedding gown:

Lee's mom did a fabulous job, and it was just what the bride had wanted.

The fitting issue had come from the flowy fabric being stretchy and the ribbon at the bodice being taut; a tricky situation that was probably much trickier when the model was living 135 miles away. I think Lee's mom handled it like a pro.

We said our goodbyes and the happy couple were off to a swanky hotel for a massage and some much-needed rest. They will continue the celebration with a reception next month and a honeymoon in Taiwan next year. But I doubt those will top such a sweet ceremony. As we left, I noticed a mark someone left on a railing in the gazebo:

Not all graffiti is an eyesore.

*I kept telling Highcon to "relax, like I did when I gave Ri and C's wedding toast" two years ago, until H gently reminded me that I was full of crap: I had been a nervous wreck, agonizing about that speech for months (even asking you guys for advice on the blog) and barely slept the night before their wedding. And when I got up in front of all those people to deliver it, I was so nervous that I held the Champagne glass against my side to keep it from violently shaking and spilling all over the place. How soon we forget.

jumbled

I don't usually talk about work, and I won't go into specifics, but my boss abruptly gave two weeks' notice. I don't know what that's going to mean for the rest of us (especially me) in this four-person-outfit-that-will-become-three, but I'm still a little stunned right now.

So I went on wordle.net and made this:



Basically you put in your URL and it comes up with a graphic interpretation of the stuff it finds on there.

Apparently, I use the words "going," "just," and "Highcon" quite a bit.

Tomorrow I will have a recap of Kaiya's wedding.

the night before--multi-tasking

Kaiya is getting married tomorrow. And I have never seen such a calm bride. All summer, despite the hiccups, she'd say everything was going well with a big smile. As of last weekend, she wasn't even sure what flowers she'd have and she was very breezy about the plan in case it rains (the forecast isn't so good, and she's getting married in a treehouse). But tonight, she's starting to crack. Just a teensy bit.

It's 11:52 p.m. I've been coaching Highcon on his best-man speech over the phone all day. Now High Contrast is totally the type to freak out. Royally. He will leave things to the last possible hour, and then squander 55 minutes of that hour hysterically pacing and complaining about how he has no time left and so much pressure. And then in those last five minutes, he will come up with something brilliant and shrug it off as no big deal when he's patted on the back about it. That's just how he rolls. But it's one hell of a rollercoaster if you're along for the ride.

Currently, he is transposing the speech he'd written out, word for word, into outline form so that he doesn't get up there in front of the guests and read from a paper. No, wait--he just accidentally saved over all that word-for-word so now he HAS to write the outline. While he's working, I checked my gmail-chat and see that Kaiya's online. It's a little late for someone who needs her rest for the big day, so I wish her luck and ask how everything is going.

Apparently the dress the mother of her husband-to-be hand made for her doesn't fit quite right. So she's freaking out, saying she had a plan B for everything, but not the dress. And bemoaning the tragedy that it would be if she had to walk down the aisle in anything other than THE dress.

I try and try to calm her down, but after awhile I realize she needs this freak-out release because she's been so very placid this whole time. I'm positive that the dress will fit tomorrow; that Lee's mom wasn't going to have spent all these months making it just to have it not go down the aisle to meet her son.

11:58 a.m: I am simultaneously reassuring Highcon that his speech is both appropriately funny and touching, and that he should watch how many times he uses "You know" instead of "um" (but that's a much better word than "um" anyway), and at the same time gmail-chatting to Kaiya that there is no way in hell she won't have a dress to wear tomorrow for the ceremony.

12:02 a.m.: Kaiya has apparently checked out. I hope she gets some sleep tonight. Highcon is going strong, on his third speech rehearsal. It sounds good. He is still worried about it.

12:36 a.m.: I'm worried about having to get up at the bootycrack of dawn tomorrow to catch a train to southwest suburbia to get my car to drive to northwest suburbia. Yet I continue to talk with Highcon.

1:02 a.m.: Reminiscing about high school with Highcon, how we procrastinated on our Cry, The Beloved Country papers in Essay Writing. Both of us stayed home "sick" to work on them, but spent the entire day on the phone talking about nonsense like '70s Hindi Disco songs and what Strawberry Shortcake albums his sister and I both had. We didn't turn in our papers until two weeks after the deadline (senioritis) and I was so angry because he nonchalantly slipped it into Mrs. Dabrowski's pile while I handed it to her sheepisly in person. But I was vindicated because Mrs. Dabrowski wasn't stupid and we both got the same amount of points knocked off. We're wondering how the heck we passed after pulling that kind of crap and where we found the gall to try a stunt like that in the first place.

1:20 a.m.: REALLY thinking I'm not going to be freshfaced tomorrow. Highcon and I are discussing Obama/Biden and who McCain might choose as Vice President runningmate. Highcon cannot figure out how to set the alarm at his parents' house. I just remembered I forgot to put away the leftovers from dinner.

1:44 a.m.: Can't. Break. Away. From. This. Conversation. It's always been this way with this kid.

1:48 a.m.: Talking about how one of our nicknames for Kaiya is not going to apply anymore, as she's going to change her last name. Sad. What's sadder is that I'm going to be SO TIRED. Perhaps we can get a ride with Ri and C tomorrow? Yes, I really hope so. Because otherwise I am screwed. Highcon is starting to fall asleep. I'm finally able to hang up.

All this counseling, and I'm wired instead of tired. And all the while, H has been sleeping like a baby.

he must have seen the SUCKER sign over my head

I was hustling to work today, late to our weekly status call (normally it's on Thursdays, when I take the train in from suburbia and am in the office early. But without fail, whenever it's rescheduled I am late or miss it.) This is troubling because a major part of my job is managing the flow of information between parties, and there are some questions for the client that only I have details about. Plus it's just bad form.

Of course, I didn't realize today was status until I had already lollygagged around at home, chewing my Crispix while watching the episode of NewsRadio that I fell asleep to last night. So I rushed out and was about 200 yards from the front door to the building when a group of beefy Euro/club looking guys with spiky hair walked past, taking up nearly all of the sidewalk. I flattened myself against the brick walk and squeezed past. But then one of them called to me.

UGH, I wish I had kept going! While I looked at my watch every 30 seconds, the guy pitched me some really *awesome* deal at a shi-shi salon in the Gold Coast, and if I paid for this gift certificate, I'd get two visits of all kinds of luxurious blablablas for a FRACTION of the cost I'd normally pay.

If I were smarter/more alert/not so flustered I would have said Sorry, my mom still cuts my hair (what would he know, it was in a bun) and be on my way. But what did I do instead? Hemmed and hawed until he threw in two for a reduced price of one and wrote a check, thinking Hell, at least I have an excuse for being late to the status meeting.

When I got to work, not only did I look bad for missing the meeting entirely, I looked stupid for giving some random guy money for services at a salon I'd never even heard of. When I got to work I checked, and it's legitimate, but seriously, this is one of the dumbest things I've done in a really long time.

i've forgotten vocabulary, but the warm feelings remain the same

Studying in Granada, Spain, was one of the greatest adventures of my life.

Unfortunately, when I got home and tried to describe just what it was that made it so amazing, I couldn't find the words. But one thing I couldn't stop talking about in my newly acquired Andalusian accent was The Alhambra. It's what the town is known for all over the world and, in my opinion, it lives up to the hype. (When you live somewhere for nearly half a year, it's hard not to feel a small sense of ownership.) So I'm a little biased.

Basically, way back in the day when the Islamic Moors ruled what is now southern Spain, they built the intricate and elaborate fortress/gardens to serve as their palatial home base. But as Chris Columbus' pals King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella started gaining ground, they attacked and took over—in 1492, of course—and proceeded to build over some of the original work in their own style. The result is an intricate mix of styles at the top of a hill overlooking the city. We went there numerous times during the semester I was there, and I still feel like there was stuff I didn't get to see.

So this year, for my big 3-0, my peeps took me to Alhambra Palace restaurant in Chicago's West Loop. It is HUGE, and the intricate details reminded me a lot of the real thing. Plus there were flamenco performances, and the group's leader called me out and wished me a happy birthday in that accent I hadn't heard in such a long time. I just wish I had enough wits about me to bust out my own accent and thank him properly, but I just smiled and then for some reason I sort of curtsied.

Afterward, we went to a wine bar called The Tasting Room, where I spent the night catching up with friends I haven't seen in a long time instead of sampling vintages. But High Contrast fixed all that, right at the end. But let's start at the beginning:

A poor shot of what you see when you walk into the main dining area of the Alhambra Palace. (There's some sort of bollywoodish music video on the screens.)

The fountain at the foot of the stairs. The blue thing is a mini waterway that follows down the length of the stairs. My non-expert guess is that it's a shout out to the Alhambra's acequias (water conduit technology system the Arabs brought, making a lush garden with fountains like the Generalife at the top of the hill possible).

This guy was tearing it up, heeled shoes and all.

And the ladies (in red) on the floor had some cool costume changes.

Detail of our table; some of the same motifs you see all around in the real Alhambra.

I had chicken and couscous cooked in a tagine. So tender!

H had kebabs. We switched halfway through because I wanted some, too. Also delicious.

Our V.I.P. area at The Tasting room.

I guess it's never too late for shots. These are the three I took to close out the bar.

Just as we were walking out before the bar closed, someone asked me how many drinks I'd had (one glass of red wine) because I didn't look drunk enough. I said, jokingly, "Let's do shots!" Highcon ordered a round, then a second round, and then a third one just for me. As you can see, those are more like double shots, so essentially I had six Lemon Drops in a row. Fortunately for me, my stomach was full of absorbent rice and couscous, and directly after The Tasting Room we went somewhere for a thick, cheesy slice of pizza. And when I got home, H made sure I drank plenty of water and took an Advil. So no hangover!

It was a good day.

he's already changed my name in his phone to "Bev"

"Hello, this is Duuuaaane at AARP, calling to confirm your registration."

"Har har, brother. You couldn't even say that without a smile in your voice."

"Happy Birthday, old lady."

"Thanks, pal."

"I think you need a new, elderly-ish name to mark your entrance into your twilight years."

"What?!"

"Yeah, something like Ethel. Nah, Ethel's the name of Tony's dog."

"Something like Gertrude?"

"Nah, that's a little too old. If your name is Gertrude, you might as well be dead. Something not too oldish, that still has spunk... I got it! Beverly! Still youthful, but yet—you're old. Yeah, BEVERLY!"

"Ugh, isn't the name of that chipmunk-looking girl on Seventh Heaven that you thought was hot?"

"She was cute when she got older!"

"I cannot believe you're going to call me that."

"Now, Beverly, aging is a part of life. I just want to remind you that shuffleboard starts at 3..."

"Why, I never—"

"And it's Lights Out promptly at 6:30!"

"Shut it. What are you doing today, pretending to go to the office?"

"Nah, I worked the weekend, so I have today and Friday off."

"Lucky! What are you going to do?"

"We're driving to Atlanta to see the Cubs game."

"Sounds fun. Well, if you're drinking, have one for me."

"I'm pretty sure they don't sell prune juice at Turner Field."

"I was talking about ALCOHOL."

"You know, they might have milk, but I'm going to need a microwave."

30

Today I turn thirty. 

People keep asking how I feel about being the Big 3-0 and kissing my twenties goodbye. I'm at a loss. Most of my friends have been 30 for some time and I've honestly felt 30 for at least the last year or so. And I don't feel like there were xyz things I *needed* to accomplish by today, even smallish-ish feats like jumping out of a plane (which I did with H when he turned 30). Sure, there were things I've said I wanted to do, (and did) but there's nothing I feel the need to do to mark the occasion with fanfare.  

Don't get me wrong, my life is supremely different than how I'd imagined it would be when I was 10, 15 or even 20 years old. I had figured that by 30 I'd be married to a Nice Indian Boy with a couple of kids, living in suburbia, working at a job that "hasn't been invented yet" and serving as scout leader on Tuesday nights. If you had told me that instead I'd:

a) spend seven years living with mommy and daddy after college so I could take exotic vacations and save up to purchase a home 

b) discover my dream place of employment was actually a dungeon 

c) watch the industry I've slaved to be a part of implode so I no longer could afford the house I'd saved for 

d) find myself trying to unload a tiny piece of highrise real estate just in time for the housing market downslide

e) realize that a white guy from southern California understood me far better than any Indian Boy I'd ever met who wasn't gay

I'd never have believed you.

But I'm happy. Last night my mom and I got off work early and we hit the DMV (fastest service EVER!) then went for pedicures, got our eyebrows done and shopped. Today, H and I are going back to their house where I'm sure my parents will serve ice-cream cake, as they have every August 14 that I can remember. And I think my friends have planned something that I'm sure will be awesome this weekend. 

While it would be nice to have a couple kiddies crawling around, I'm pretty satisfied with my life the way it is right now, troubles and all. There are things I really should do, like set up a more solid system to save for retirement and find time for hobbies I love but haven't gotten to in years, like watercolor painting and pretending to breakdance. I'm also hoping to progress beyond the first-grade level of Hindi spelling/grammar at some point, and if we have to take the condo off the market I'll start making masala Indian food more than just once a week when I go back to my parents' house. (Hot sauce is a poor substitute, but it doesn't leave a lingering aroma that could turn off potential buyers.) Oh, and I've always wanted to see Iceland.

That's probably stuff I should put on a list to accomplish before I turn 40. Forty is the new 30, right? Maybe that's when this alleged sense of dread I'm supposed to be feeling will kick in. But if I'm to believe My Favorite Mami, I'll likely start feeling it tomorrow—like a nasty hangover. 

A wedding in technicolor

Last weekend, H, his family and I attended his cousin's wedding in Carmel, Indiana. I drove the cadizmobile, with H and his sisters along for entertainment. Little did we know that the destination was Pleasantville.

When we pulled into the subdivision/village/whatsit of West Clay and parked the car, it really seemed as though we had arrived in some back-lot movie set. Everything was idyllic in the way it only looks on Wisteria Lane. There was a lush park of green grass in the center with a gazebo, and all around were perfect little houses with perfect white picket fences; everything so gleamingly new (or so it seemed). I kept looking around for the Truman Show-cameras. Even the stores looked like modern-day market streets with perfect signage that all went together like an old-time movie.

The wedding was held at the gazebo; complete with kilted bag-pipe artist. (There was a family playing in the grass, way to the left of this shot, and I swear they were auditioning for a Juicy Juice commercial. Or dog food. I couldn't decide.)

Seriously, though, it was a lovely wedding. The bridal party walked up a long carpet of fluffy grass and the ceremony was sweet (and pretty short; thank goodness, because I could feel my skin cooking in the 90+ degree heat. Times like those I really wish wearing hats was still in fashion).

I should have taken more shots of Pleasantville/Truman Show.

The white building is where the festivities took place. If you look closely at the set of pastel storefronts on the left, you'll see what I mean about it looking like a movie lot—all the shops and restaurants were untarnished and uniform, give or take a paint shade.

But I have to say, the party planners had great taste. I really liked the colors—various greens and white—and while I felt bad for the bridal party having to be out in the heat, (they were wearing all black with different dress cuts), I felt worse for us; at least those guys were in the shade of the gazebo.

After the ceremony, there was a lovely cocktail hour with drinks/appetizers in the courtyard area (where all the people are gathered in the above photo). It was shady in certain areas and the wind was misting us all with the spray of the fountain.

Once inside, we found a lovely green/white/chocolate cake in the center of our table. It was a novel idea to me that dessert would be there to taunt us for the entire time we tried hard not to look at it and guess what kind of cake we had (each table had a different flavor).

Ours was Mint/chocolate. Yum!

The rest of the wedding was great. Dancing, chatting, meeting; you know, all that good stuff. They had a chocolate-covered-pretzel/nut/candy bar that you were supposed to fill bags with whatever you wanted as a takeaway, but you had to move fast, and I was too slow to snag any of the pretzels.

For the sendoff, they had everyone grab two industrial-strength sparklers from a bucket and a matchbook with the couple's names on it and line up along one of the staircases. Surprisingly, everyone pretty much cooperated, and the bride and groom ran for cover through a tunnel of sparkly sparklerness to their car and sped away.

That's them: the groom's on the left. They moved pretty fast. Personally, I'd be worried somebody's AquaNet-ified hair would burst into flames, but everyone managed to escape un-singed.

Of course, the party wasn't really over once the guests of honor flew the coop. This groomsman looked hell-bent on kicking it hard core:

Yep, he's in the fountain. If the rest of the bridal party had joined them with umbrellas, it'd been a pretty sweet homage to Friends.

Sadly, things did start to wind down shortly after that. But one of H's sisters, his dad and myself didn't want to head back so soon, so we closed out the bar on Pleasantville row with some of their extended family. And even after that we didn't feel like going to sleep, so H's sister and I dipped our feet in the hotel pool and talked a lot of smack about H (just kidding). I had a good time.

On the way back to Chicago, I was telling H about the proselytizing billboards I used to see while driving through Indiana back in the day on Interstate 80, and how there weren't that many on I-65. But then we came up on the doozy we had passed on the way in:

Funny, it says "Jesus is Real" when you're going toward Chicago, and if you turn around and look behind you, it says "Hell is Real" on the way into Indiana. Coincidence?

she may not be a techie, but she's pretty adorable

This weekend, H's family came to the Midwest to hang out with us and attend his cousin's wedding in Indianapolis. On Friday night they had a casual dinner with my parents at Famous Dave's. 

I had met all three of H's sisters and both of his parents several times on my frequent trips to California, and both of my parents had met his dad when we was here on business last year, so I'm pretty sure nobody was nervous about meeting each other, but I think it went well; everyone seemed to be laughing, talking and enjoying themselves—we stayed for two and a half hours and closed out the place, and then had a lovely walking tour of my construction-addled downtown.

One thing I don't think my parents were expecting was just how much H's family already knew about all of us because they read this blog. His peeps initially checked it out to see if this random girl in Illinois was good enough for their only boy, but after three years they're some of my most loyal readers. And their Web savvy comes in handy sometimes, like when my twitter updates revealed we were trapped in the bayou of Alabama for hours in the dark. His parents started researching news updates to find out what the heck happened so we'd know how long we'd be stuck. Unfortunately, Alabama isn't quite as savvy, so there weren't any updates to be had (and oddly, the only news radio station that we could get was WBBM 780, in CHICAGO.)

My mom and dad don't really read the blog. I attribute that to their slower-than-molasses dialup and reluctance to come home and look at a screen. Plus, I talk to them at least once a day, so anything they'd read will already have been old news. But after finding out that other people were in on all the scoop because of it, my mom passed along the address to her tech-friendly pals. I had to remind her of what it was, letter by letter, over the phone. 

She calls back a few hours later because her friends are asking how they'd know it was really my blog* because neither my photo nor my real name is on it. I told her to tell them to look for all the green and the photo of the cornfield across from our subdivision. 

"Oh yeah, I remember that. And your name on there is Cod-zee, right?"

*Welcome, ladies! Feel free to look around and click the links on the right to see some of the old stuff. 

such great heights

Last week I was at a professional conference held at Chicago's McCormick Place. If you haven't heard of it, let me say that joint is flipping ginormous. For Oreos' sake, they also host the largest auto show in North America every year. It's BIG, people.

I haven't worn high heels in quite some time, but because everyone at the conference was decked out in their most dress-for-the-job-you-want finest (and beyond), I felt the least I could do is upgrade the usual flip-flops to something a little strappier to go with my jeans. Sadly, that meant trips from one session to the next involved escalators, overhead signs and a tremendous amount of increasingly painful walking.

I was pretty cranky after day three of trekking around, building blisters upon blisters. H wanted to go to the grocery store (we walk and carry back) that night, and he sort of pshawed my complaint that I had walked six miles that day. Okay, that figure was a bit of an exaggeration, but my days of dancing all night in stilettos are long gone, and I there wasn't even any alcohol to ease the pain. So to me, the foot-ache equivalent of "windchill factor" was about six miles to every one.

Later I reminded H that I was doing all that walking on high heels and he conceded that, indeed, the shoes probably made a big difference. I don't think boys really understand what it's like to traipse around on those deathtraps for any extended period of time. Frankly, I just don't do it anymore unless there's a good reason. But here's a glimpse for anyone who hasn't had the experience: This week Jezebel posted a video in its "What it feels like for a Girl" series showing a man (who's a big stiletto advocate, btw) attempting to walk a mile in three-inch heels. The results might surprise you. Be sure to take a look at Part 2 as well.

Somebody really should determine the distance-walked to distance-walked-in-heels ratio. You know, for the record.

Snoop hits Bollywood

Yep, you read that correctly. 

New York Magazine* has a clip of some Akshay Kumar medley performance in Bangkok that includes the title song from Singh Is Kinng (I'm not sure why they spelled it that way, looks stupid if you ask me), which features some Snoop rhymes (at 1:30). The rest of the medley includes some of Kumar's other hits, like "Mast Kalandar," "Hare Ram," etc. 

Snoop is getting in on the promo action, too. Another link in the nymag story goes to a YouTube clip of Mr. D-o-double-G dressed all Punjabi style, sitting in fancy chairs with Kumar and talking about "coming to take over Bollywood." (1:20)

It really is becoming a small world. Either that or Americans are just getting wise to how much money there is to be made in the Indian film industries.

*Thanks for the tip, Jas!

sure she can nag, but you really do want mom in on the 411

Awhile back, I wrote about my brother's sudden and scary issues with bursting veins.  As he's over the age of 18 and has decided to stay down in Alabama, doctors there don't consult with my mom about what's going on with his care like the ones here did all these years. I'm all for independence, but if your mom is a nurse who in the past has caught healthcare professionals in potential mistakes and alerted them to important factors that laypeople wouldn't know enough about to point out, I'd want that mom in the loop at all times. I'm just saying.

So we got a call on Thursday saying he'd be having surgery on his left leg veins on Friday. That's all the information we got: He was going in at 9 am, and he'd call when it was over. I guess it all happened really fast after the consultation, during which the doctor was like, That vein-popping thing with blood spewing all over the place? Yeah, I can fix that, no problem. So he signed up.

Of course my mother was sick with worry. She's been unfailingly at his side for every little test and procedure for nearly 26 years (with all of us often waiting on him, hand and foot). And even though a kind friend would be there with him and even take my brother to her home after he was discharged, going through surgery really isn't the same without your mom. So this was going to be hard. Especially on my mom. 

To make it worse, while my brother was home in May for his graduation party he had an appointment with a chiropractor about back pain he's had pretty much his whole life. They found that he has scoliosis (possibly aggravated from being sawed open and pinned that way for dozens of hours at a time). They also found some other situation with his left hip. My brother has never had good luck with that left leg; it's the one with the bursty vessels, and the one he has an especially hard time bending over—he can barely put on his left sock/shoe. (But God save you if you ever offer to help him.) We thought it was because they always enter the camera for cardiac catheterization into that big vessel where his leg meets his pelvis and the immobility was probably due to all the scar tissue, but apparently there was also something going on with the bone all this time. 

Initially they thought the head of his femur was too big for the socket, which is why he's had pain walking since he started walking (he says he's never really known any different), but then a CAT scan showed there's actually a tumor there; they weren't sure it was benign, and there was a chance he had bone cancer. Yeah, as if the kid needs any more issues. Those couple of days were kind of crazy. My mom was losing it, and didn't even tell us until she got more concrete information, so she was losing it practically by herself.

But again, because she is a nurse, my mother compartmentalized her breakdown to find out if results only came back like that because of his pre-existing condition. After the doctor took a look at his complete medical history, she concluded that it's probably not a malignant tumor after all, and that my brother should just be aware of any pain he feels in that hip when he's not moving it. If that starts, then we have to look at it again.

So that was in May. The surgery last Friday seemed to have gone well. My brother called while he was high as a kite on pain medication and said he told the nurses that he was a pimp, but that no one believed him. Someone called him out on it and he said, "You're right, I'm not a pimp. I don't believe in beating on women and treating them bad." When I asked if he hit on anyone who worked there this time, he said (in what he must have thought was a whisper) "No way! None of these nurses are very good-looking." And as usual, he had no recollection of this the next day. I guess what the surgeons did was tie off one of the leg vessels at the groin and laser some other ones. Hopefully that will stop the random bleeding. My brother has been in a lot of pain (none of the painkillers they gave him have been working; he's got a high tolerance by now) but is at work today. 

I've been calling/texting to check in on him all weekend, and it sounded like things were going all right, except for the pain. But this morning I got a call from my mom that he casually called, asking what he should take because his entire body has broken out in red, itchy hives, a lot like it did after last year's bad surgery recovery when he had a severe drug allergy. After that episode last year he got very sick and it took a very long time for him to get back to normal. Later, they thought he was allergic to the tape they used on his IVs and dressings. So this time they used paper tape, and the result is upsettingly similar. I just hope it doesn't get as bad. 

Of course, when I call to check on him he says everything is fine and that he's at the office. Stubborn kid. But I am happy to know that even though she worries, he's smart enough to tell my mom what's going on. She's been ready to get on a plane within the hour all week, but my brother has another proposition:

"Mom, what will you do if you come down here? You'll just be hanging out at my house while I'm at work. Why don't you do this: If the Cubs make it to the World Series, you can fly me back home for a game."

at least the dark knight has a sense of humor

Last night, H and I went to see The Dark Knight, which we'd been trying to get tickets for since the movie opened last Thursday. H grew up reading the comics and was trying his best to deflect any hype before he saw it, which was becoming increasingly hard because record–ticket sales stories are all over the news. But he managed, and really enjoyed the film. (If you're sensitive to that kind of hype, consider not reading the rest of this post, even though I don't really give anything away.)

As for me, I spent the movie cowering. Heath Ledger gave a fantastic performance, and leaving the theater I was pretty sure I'd be having nightmares of knives, pencils and maniacal makeup. There are some days when I'm easily scared and freak out when I see something violent (Pan's Labryinth) and other days when I turn to people around me and mock them for acting just the same way (The Ring). This was one of those scaredy times: I had my jacket over my arms and would hold it up to the bridge of my nose or higher whenever a villain had someone by the throat. This Joker is much more terrifying than anything I'd seen on the Adam West television program. And I was pretty sure he wouldn't be challenging Batman to any surfing contests.

Scary stuff aside, what I enjoyed about the movie above all else was the location. Months ago I spotted a lot of the shooting, including Lower Wacker , the old post office (on which H saw the sign GOTHAM CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT while he was on the Architectural River Tour, Franklin Street (near my old office, where they shot the Lamborghini scene), Marina City (where my boss lives), the Chicago Board of Trade building, which I walked past every day on the way to the train station (and saw several key shots in the movie, including one with dozens of bagpipers) and most of all, the ramp to Lake Shore Drive—where Batman had a very contemplative moment—which is practically outside our front door. 

Recently, a coworker told me that H looks like Christian Bale, something about the facial bone structure, etc. I brushed that off, because H just looks like H to me. He didn't see the resemblance, either. However, while we were watching the movie I sort of saw where she's coming from: there's a hint of the same longish face, the ridge of the eyebrow and the sharp cheekbones. And I can admit that the slope of the shoulders is pretty similar, too. So when we got home I was giving him crap about it. "Hey Batman, can  you do the dishes?"

His response? "What? No way. That's Robin's job."

i'm pretty sure he's messing with me, because if not, my brain will implode

"Yeah, I don't think I'll be coming over Friday night."

"Why? Are you going straight home to suburbia?"

"My flight gets in at 4:00 and Dad gets off at 4:30. He's coming to pick me up."

"You realize that Dad works in the far northwest suburbs and it will be like 6:30 before he gets anywhere near picking you up at that time of day, right? You should just take the blue line from O'Hare downtown and have dinner with me and H. It's not like you're going to have any luggage; you're just coming home to drive your car back to Alabama, right?"

"True, but I might have to check a bag."

"Why? You won't even be in town for 24 hours!"

"I'll be carrying liquids—shampoo and stuff."

"Okay. Let me get this straight, you're coming HOME for LESS THAN A DAY and you need to bring SHAMPOO? You're coming HOME! Not some cheap motel with no complimentary cleansing products! HOME!"

"I need it."

"Can't you just put some into a smaller less-than-3-ounce bottle and carry it on?"

"I don't have a little bottle."

"Can't you GET ONE?!"

"No."

"Okay,  you know what? Just sit at the airport and wait for Dad. You could be enjoying dinner and perhaps the new Batman movie with us, but whatever."

"I did want to see that movie... Let me get back to you. I might come downtown after all."

on a first date, it's probably not a good idea to say you get relationship advice from your sister

"Hey, I have a question. It's a girl question"

"Yes?"

"So I've been talking to this girl for awhile and we both like soccer. A few days back I had said we should catch a game sometime, and today she emails me to ask if I'm watching the Portugal vs. Germany* match. "

"And?"

"I said yeah, but I didn't know where and she said we should watch it at the bar for lunch, since she has to study all day. Is this a date?"

"You were there, what do you think?"

"I didn't think so, but Mark said 'Dude, you're going on a date!' So now I'm nervous."

"Well, you suggested hanging out for a game sometime and then she offered up a specific date and time. I'd say it's a date."

"Crap! So do I offer to pay or will that be weird?"

"Hang on, let me take a poll...My consultants say that you should offer, date or not. Why don't you just say 'I got this' when the check comes. It'll be casual, but nice."

"But what if the server asks at the beginning if it's one check or two?"

"Geez Louise, why are you THINKING SO MUCH? Just say one. You're going to screw it up if you overthink it. When is this non-date date, anyway?"

"I'm driving there now."

"Hang up with me and focus on driving!"

"Okay...So do you think I should pull her chair out for her?"

"Good Lord! I don't know about all that Southern Gentleman stuff. Guys don't really do that up here. I say don't. Keep it casual. Dude, it's not like you haven't been on a date in a decade or something."

"Well, it's been four years."

"You'll be fine. Let me know how it goes."

"Okay. Thanks."

[five minutes later]

"Oh man, I just screwed it all up."

"Why are you calling me? Aren't you supposed to be on your date?"

"Yeah, I got here and I wanted to send you a text asking if I should get a table or wait for her, and instead of you, I ACCIDENTALLY SENT IT TO HER."

"That's it. You are now banished to the Friend Zone. Maybe now you can actually enjoy the game?"

"Oh my god, are you serious? Now what do I do?!?"

"RELAX! And be yourself. But I'm warning you: if you call me from your date again, I'm going to tell Mom."

*Obviously I wrote this a while back and didn't have time to post. The non-date–date went well, he paid, she said she'd pay next time. I think they're still cool; I haven't heard any updates.

streamlining

As you may know, my condo is on the market. And while it's not exactly going excellently (still isn't sold), we've had pretty steady potential-buyer traffic and a few offers, ridiculous as they were (If a buyer can only afford to pay 93% of his/her cash offer up front and promises the last 7% in five years, why the hell wouldn't s/he try to buy a home that's the 7% cheaper outright instead of toying with us?). We love the place; it's small but cute, and located in the juiciest, most touristy section of downtown Chicago. It also happens to be across the river from my former employer. The reason we're selling is because it is no longer affordable—three layoffs between the two of us, working part-time, taking a less-lucrative chance on a startup that will hopefully pay better later, the craptastic job market, the even more craptastic housing market and starting over across the country has put a pretty ginormous crack in the old nest egg. And from what my realtor says, the reason it's having any trouble selling is because people could get more space for the same price if they're willing to travel about 2 miles out of the way. So much for that awesome return I was expecting on the prime location.

So we're biding our time. And streamlining. Cutting nonessential expenses, being extremely choosy about attending events and cooking every meal at home. It's going pretty well, but tricky when you don't have an extravagant lifestyle to trim from and are fussy with your spending habits to start with. Of course I'm sweating over it—worrying is my favorite pastime, after all—and obsessing about streamlining takes up all hours not spent concentrating on work or watching several episodes of The Office in a row (Thanks, Apple, for making Netflix's View Instantly unlimited). 

This streamlining business has spilled over to all other aspects of life: cleaning out the pantry, tearing out what's interesting and recycling old magazines, storing work files in a more efficient way and reorganizing email labels in my five accounts. That last one includes all the posts I had up before Blogger labeled posts/comments emails with the post title, so I have hundreds of them personally tagged with titles. Getting rid of them one by one is making my head spin, but it takes my mind off the worry. In the process, I get to look back over all the stuff I wrote back when my life was so completely different, consisting of searching for parking (don't even have my car anymore), commuting three hours a day (now it's a 15-minute walk), talking on the phone with H (now he's usually in the same room) and not having a social life (well, not everything has changed very much).

Looking back at two tons of comments over the years is a reminder of  how supportive you guys are and that you always give great advice. Got any tips for streamlining/putting my mind at ease? I found a gray hair last week, and I could really do without finding any more.