and i'm sure i'm not the only one who feels this way

When celebrities die, I feel sorry for their families. But when I heard Michael Jackson passed away, I truly felt a sadness though I'm not nearly his biggest fan. I was trying to explain this to H--who enjoys his music but doesn't feel much of a connection--and I wasn't able to put it into words.

But this afternoon as I sat and watched coverage of Michael Jackson's memorial service, I realized what it is: The guy is a big part of my personal soundtrack. Thriller and Bad were some of my first beloved cassette tapes, and I'm pretty sure my brother and I could still re-enact the choreography (and the dialogue) of Smooth Criminal. It's probably why my first impulse when I heard of Michael's death was to send him a text message.

During those long summer days after The Dukes of Hazzard was over and my mother had threatened bodily harm if my brother called her at work ONE MORE TIME to say how bored he was, there wasn't much to do but pop a movie into the old Betamax machine. Soap operas are hardly entertaining for a fifth-grader and a first-grader stuck inside without cable until 2:45. Especially when the first grader a) didn't like to read b) could only tolerate one board game a day c) ALWAYS decided on the film/entertainment even when pretending it was my turn and d) had an Approved Watching List of just three movies: Home Alone, Troop Beverly Hills and Moonwalker.

We watched Moonwalker a lot.

It didn't end there. He made me cut off the fingertips on one of my white gloves and put sequins on it to go with the white sock/black shoe ensemble required for video dancealongs. And though I was always reading a book, it was cute to look up and see his little legs imitating the steps. I smile just thinking about it.

My brother has been home visiting for about a week, and he's coming to stay at my place to hang out and catch up. It was a treasure last Christmas to find Troop Beverly Hills in the dvd bin at (of all places) the hardware store, but it made a phenomenal stocking stuffer. It'd be great to get Moonwalker and watch it with my brother one more time. Though I doubt he'll dust off any of those old moves. Well, maybe the spin, if I'm lucky.

The only example I can think of to put the passing of Michael Jackson into perspective for H is that it's a little like how it'll feel for him when longtime baseball announcer Vin Scully dies. H grew up listening to Vin call the games for his favorite team and says it's just not the same with anyone else at the mic. We've never actually met these people, but experiencing what they do best has become like a delicious, familiar smell: One whiff, and you're right back in your 1989 living room, laughing as your brother shuffles his feet, hoots and grabs his crotch in time to the television. It's not like the new music Michael Jackson might have made would be the same by any means, but acknowledging that he will never sing another song just solidifies the fact that those lazy summer days of dancing around are truly gone forever.

all we've got to give is love and hard labor

When my parents bought this house 21 years ago, one of the draws was the raised garden in the back. In the southeast corner, it gets plenty of sun and it's regularly yielded delicious veggies from zucchini as big as my thigh to sweet cherry tomatoes. It's just not summer without hanging out in the back yard, working on the garden.

But this patch was in need of a major rehab. For one, my parents have cobbled scrap wood onto the sides to keep it together, and their efforts to keep out THE BUNNIES haven't always been successful. The entire corner is on a slope, and heavy rains wash a good chunk of the dirt away; they ended up putting about ten bags of high-quality soil onto it every year. Plus, the rocks and gravel from the bottom have slowly risen through the ranks due to years of frost heave.

H and I thought it'd be a nice project to build a sturdier, more level garden for my mom, even though our gardening knowledge tops out at how much we like to eat what grows there. But with a little Internet research and several trips to the hardware store, we began.


WEEK 1:

We hadn't banked on the four corner posts being buried deep and rooted in cement. We also did not estimate there would be THAT much dirt packed so tightly.


We had to buy a bigger, sturdier wheelbarrow. This was by far our best investment; it paid for itself about tenfold. This is about a quarter of the way dug out.

This was the FIRST dirt pile. It is difficult to describe how big it was. I am 5'3" and the peak of this came up to my shoulder. But H's youth spent building bike-riding dirt ramps came in mighty handy. Our method was to fill the wheelbarrow, push it into the center of the yard, take a running start up a ramp in the dirt and dump it without getting flipped over or dragged down.

It took us all weekend just to dig out the hole (taking breaks for the rain, of course). This is a little more than halfway done. We had to start another pile when it became too hard to get the wheelbarrow to the top of this one.

One major goal was for the new garden to be level instead of sloping with the hill. We weren't sure how far down to dig, but we knew it'd have to be deeper on the right side. It ended up being about 12-15 inches deep on the right and 6 or 7 inches on the left. H dug out the left side a little farther because my mom wanted the garden to be bigger.


WEEK 2:

It rained. We spent the whole weekend at the garden center coming up with a game plan. We ordered the bricks, which would be delivered the next week.


WEEK 3:

If we'd started building the garden at the depth we'd dug to, the brick wall wouldn't even show over the edge of the hole and it'd be less effective at keeping out THE BUNNIES. So we had to fill back in. Sigh. This was slightly less difficult as digging out--only because the dirt was no longer packed so tight. But after the rain it got packed anyway. This is the view from the top of the pile to the ground.

There were A TON of rocks in the dirt. So we built this "sifter" to pick them out, which was extremely time-consuming. My mom kept trying to help with the shoveling, but I was worried about her back so we gave her this job. It was just as hard, but didn't have as much heavy lifting. When it became apparent we wouldn't have time to sift it all, this dirt was designated to be "topsoil."

This is about a quarter of the way into filling the hole with the first pile. To put this in perspective, we calculated that (with two half-trucks of topsoil, plus the ten bags a year of peat moss my parents have added over the years) H and I had dug out FOUR THOUSAND POUNDS of dirt. And then we had to put most of it back into the hole.

Making it level was H's personal mission, so even though I'm in this photo I can't take much credit for all the work (it took forever) to get it all even. At this point, we had filled in most of the hole and started to tamp down the part on which the bricks would lie. We called my mom's friend's husband who is a bricklayer and he said that would be a good idea, as well putting down a layer of pea gravel and sand under the bricks.

The person who helped us at the garden center had said we didn't need the gravel or sand, but at that point we'd rather have been safe than sorry if the whole thing sank or collapsed after a few seasons of hard rain. Plus we trusted the bricklayer more than the clerk at the store.

After the project was finished, it came to light that the bricklayer thought we were building a patio, not a garden wall. We could have just laid the bricks down on the grass because "it's not like people were going to walk on it." Lesson learned. But we would have sat down and cried if the whole thing fell apart later, so we don't regret the extra work to get it right. Hundreds of measurements have confirmed that it is indeed perfectly level.

We originally ordered enough bricks for a three-tiered wall. As we started industrial-strength-glueing the stones, we thought it would look better/be harder on THE BUNNIES if we made it four layers. And when we went back to the garden store, our bricks were on sale! So we purchased enough for the last layer and got back the difference in price on the ones we had bought earlier, a savings of nearly $200!

Finishing the wall (it was nearly dark, but we got it done) made me jump for joy. Kudos to H who was able to pull off this action shot with very little ambient light.


WEEK 4:

Raining. Again. We bought more seedlings because the original ones were starting to wilt in their containers. This project was taking longer than expected.


WEEK 5:

We finally filled the garden back up with dirt, then topped it with "sifted" dirt. If we were going to do this again, we would have stopped and thought longer before grabbing the shovels--the highest-quality dirt actually ended up at the BOTTOM of our new garden. But because my parents had added so much soil over the years, we hope that it will still be good.

We spent a lot of time thinking about how we were going to protect the garden from THE BUNNIES. In estimating the amount of bricks, we miscalculated just a little and ended up two bricks short. This became the "doorway" (we didn't want my mom to have to climb in and out over the poultry netting). We fashioned this "gate" out of heavy-duty steel shelf-mounting rails and a screen-door protector. It's going to take some damn intrepid THE BUNNIES to get into this garden.

After the netting and stakes (we piled more dirt against the netting so THE BUNNIES can't climb up and under it) were in place, it was time to plant! We placed plastic stepping stones in strategic places for kneeling and walking.

Let's hope it grows.

m.i.a. for a little bit longer

Okay so I have to make this one quick; my dad's niece, her husband and 1-year-old are taking their first States-side tour from Dubai. They will be the first and only blood relatives we've had for a visit since my Nani lived with us for a year in the mid-'80s, so I've been in suburbia for the last several days overseeing the completion of home improvements that have been languishing unfinished for decades. (Seriously, if you want to finally get that box of tiles in the basement up onto the kitchen backsplash, just tell your dad that some long-lost relatives are flying in and you'll be amazed how fast it gets done.)

As for Citibank, I finally realized that they don't give a flying monkey dung about helping me; why would they lower my payments when they can pile on the late fees instead? I took out a loan from the only reliable bank in town, Mom & Dad LLC, got current and as soon as the family visit is over I'm going to try and get into one of those programs some other way. And find myself any kind of job with health insurance (those of you who are covered but have been putting off going to the doctor, get your heads out of your behinds and TAKE CARE OF YOURSELVES). I've promised my dad that I will never speak to a Citibank representative ever again. I have thirty days, starting next week.

But I have about thirty seconds left to be on the computer--my childhood bedroom is not going to clean itself.

meet me at the flagpole after school

To all of you who emailed me privately, thanks so much for the support. And those of you who thought I didn't properly convey the utter WTF-ness of the firey hoop-jumping spectacle I've been put through the last few months by Citibank, I'm sorry. It was a lot longer and had more curses in it, but toward the end I started thinking about people out there who have it so much worse and dialed down the bitchfest a little.

I've logged in another three hours on the phone with them today, starting at 8 a.m. when they called. The first person spent 15 minutes describing this program I can get into and what I need to do to get into it and then at the very end realized it only applies to people who have regained employment and need a break to catch up.

I was transferred around, found out my credit score actually IS in the toilet now and then was told I need to re-fax my proof of unemployment AGAIN. Then the number was rejected by the fax machine. Good times. Also that woman who said paying that money would clear my account of delinquency? No one seems to know who she is, and if I try to get them to rectify the situation, it's going to be a She said/She said thing resulting in me being screwed.

I have a bunch of of other, much more sunny things to post about (the hole in my mom's back yard, EB's wedding) coming up, but they'll have to wait until I get away from the dialup. In the meantime I'm thinking of writing the president a letter about how this bailed-out behemoth is using the billions it got. And for an extra-curricular activity to my full-time job of being on hold with them, I'm gathering a posse to kick Citibank's collective ass. Who's with me?

we may all be in the same boat now, but the irresponsible people had a lot more fun

The facts are these:

I purchased a property in 2005 that was near the top of my affordability range for three main reasons:

a) It's across the street from dungeon headquarters--saving me hundreds of dollars on gas, rolls of quarters, parking tickets and commute time.

b) It's in an up-and-coming tony area; research predicted a very favorable return in a few years.

c) I had lived with my parents in suburbia for several years while my friends all partied in the city just so I could have enough money for a place of my own.

Unfortunately:

a) My field of business started to slump, and a hiring freeze shut me out of permanent employment there.

b) It was hard to find another full-time gig, so I rented the place out for only 3/4 of what I had to pay every month.

c) I landed a great job--only to be laid off exactly two months later, on my birthday.

d) H was laid off the very next day. It had to be a sign.

However:

a) I got in on a startup company with a solid client and a lot of potential for success.

b) H moved out here to be with me and I could actually live in the place I owned.

Despite all that:

a) I wasn't making nearly as much money and H had a hard time finding something here, so I put the place on the market.

b) My realtor talked me into making a lot of expensive upgrades, such as stainless steel appliances, hardwood floors, etc. to help the place sell more quickly.

c) I had to furnish the place from scratch to make it show-ready.

d) The housing market bubble burst.

Then things really started going downhill at the end of last year:

a) H's industry tanked and he is underemployed.

b) Our big client's investors took a hit in the stock market and it canceled our contract--decimating (literally) our company. I was laid off and apparently the boss is continuing on with our smaller clients by working 24 hours a day with unpaid interns.

c) My industry is imploding I am competing with the best and the brightest in my field for few jobs, and haven't secured anything better than short-term projects.

d) H and I do not have health insurance.

e) But what we do have is a FAT mortgage, which unemployment does not begin to cover, let alone living expenses.

f) Everything I managed to save while living with my parents has drained away.

g) The condo association raised our hefty assessments by 10%.

h) So many people are hassling us to get married, even though we barely have enough cash to purchase enough Betty Crocker for a cupcake tower.

i) My place has been on the market for 13 months, and while we show it at least twice a week, we haven't even had a ridiculously lowball offer since the fall.

j) I am 30 years old and my parents are up at night worrying about my future as though I were still 18. My mom refuses to give up her double shifts despite the detrimental eye strain because they're constantly helping us out. Knowing that they are still trying to take care of me at a time when I should be helping them ease into retirement makes me die a little inside every time I think about it.

k) Sitting at home alone all day, sending resumes into a black hole of no/negative responses makes me feel more worthless by the hour.

l) And then there's Citimortgage. Let me just say that I have been filling out forms and sitting on hold for at least ten hours a week since January. I am convinced they are transferring me around and putting me off (such as making me do a lot of work to get into a programs that apparently do not apply to the unemployed, but not finding out that fact until THE END of the three-month application process). All the while I receive three to four calls a day from their automated machine asking me to call them. And I must repeat my history to every new person I talk to.

Something broke on Wednesday, when I finally got a hold of the Citibank representative assigned to my account, a "Ms. Golden," extension 1809501, who the day before had left me a message that it was imperative I call her by the end of the day, then left the office at about 1 p.m.

Ms. Golden informed me (in a fake-sincere tone) that while I had been "pre-approved" by Heather for the Obama-backed program and Citibank cashed that first discounted check to get it started three weeks ago, I was not actually approved. Oh, and I am now thousands of dollars delinquent on payments that Heather told me would be pushed back to the end of my loan if I made that payment that day (May 10, Mother's Day, when I should have been spending time with my mother instead of being on hold with the damn bank).

Golden said that "this is a very large company and all of these programs are rolled out by the government. These things take weeks to be approved. Some of them are discontinued and new ones are rolled out all the time." Heather had also given me a phone number to the MAU department (no one seems to know what that stands for), which I had been trying to call to determine if I was indeed qualified or not, and was told someone would call me back in week. Golden told me it had been my responsibility to call and find out if I was in fact approved. When I brought up the MAU department, she snapped, "The MAU department does NOT take outside calls. And the MAU department DOES NOT CALL ANYONE."

I lost it. Here was the third time in five months I had been told I was "pre-approved" for a program that turned out to be bogus. Another problem is that the mortgage I was given looks like a second mortgage, but it is actually in first lien position. Most Citibank representatives blow me off when they see "second mortgage" and dismiss my appeal without looking at it carefully enough to see that I only have the one.

I got a little irate. Golden was prattling on about how she was "trying to work with me, help me," but I was at the end of my rope. Everything they've been telling me for months has turned out to be a sham. So I likely did interrupt her. (To be fair, my phone connection was wavering in and out that day, so there was a delay--any of you who talk to me when I'm there know what I'm saying. So when I heard silence I would begin to speak and she'd think I was interrupting her again.) Each time our call was disconnected, it would take upwards of 20 minutes of being transferred around (even though I had her extension) for me to get a hold of her again, if at all.

"Miss," Ms. Golden said, "When you are ready to LISTEN TO ME and stop INTERRUPTING, then you can call me back." Click.

I cried for the rest of the day.

another beautiful day in this neighborhood

H and I are off to suburbia for the holiday weekend. It's been absolutely gorgeous here in Illinois the past few days. And we have to make the most of it before the weather gets spiked with humidity. Our plan? Hang out in a huge hole in my parents' back yard for the next few days.

If all goes well, there will be a lovely garden plot where the hole is and we will return triumphant to the city to show off our rock-hard muscles--just in time for summer. Let's hope it doesn't rain.

Cadiz and H, you are the last team to arrive. I'm sorry to tell you that you have both been eliminated from the Race

Way back in March, Angel07 celebrated her birthday in style--Amazing Race style. She and her man, Mark, did a fantastic job thinking up challenges and putting together a very fun day for all of us.

You long-term readers know how much I love CBS's The Amazing Race. In fact there has been much talk in the comments over the years about getting teams together and how well we'd all do against one another. H and I were so convinced we'd be a perfect team that we even filmed and submitted an application video a few years ago. However when we watch it now, it's easy to see why we never got a call. Regardless, he's great with directions and I'm an excellent driver (I know everyone says that, but my dad's training and years of weaving through traffic at high speed combined with constantly having to turn around has made me quite effective under pressure).

That gorgeous afternoon--60 degrees in Mid-March!--we got to Mark's house about 30 seconds before the final check-in time. Phew! However one half of the Wonder Twins (dressed in matching green-and-white stripedy shirts and black winter vests) kept us waiting anyway; apparently there are a few exits off the highway with the same name and she had taken the wrong one.

We received a RACE INFO packet containing maps, instructions that explained the CLUES, ROAD BLOCKS (for one team member) and DETOURS (for both team members), and a pen.

The race took place in a suburban area with which H and I had zero familiarity. Other teams knew it well, but we were confident we'd win handily anyway. We rarely miss an episode of the show and know all the pitfalls. This may have worked against us.

Mark gathered us all in his driveway and gave us the first clue which led to the big mailbox in the center of the cul-de-sac. Everybody took off running for that red-and-yellow envelope.

H and I sprinted toward the car, where we got in and opened the clue: "Make your way on FOOT..."

It was a number-to-letter puzzle. Other racers just ran to the park to sit down and figure it out, but H and I were already behind, so we solved it while we ran. Splitting the paper and doing it together was a pretty quick method.


Mark was at the first location, a children's park with picnic tables, a jungle gym and some really confused kids. We whispered the solution in Mark's ear. He gave us our next clue:

All of the envelopes, boxes and clues were clearly marked with TAR colors. These guys were not playing around.

We were the second team to get this 60-piece kids' puzzle. Apparently in our haste, we didn't see the pile of scotch tape dispensers on the other table. Only after we heard other teams using it did we get some, which really helped. But that put us in second-to-last place. On the back of the completed puzzle was the next clue:

We ran back to the car. I am much more out of shape than I thought; H got to the car while I caught my breath and picked me up on our way to Wendy's, where we got our first DETOUR, "Eat it or Play it."

In "Eat it" each team member had to gulp down a small Wendy's Frosty. That was out because H has lactose issues. "Play it" was a simplified game of war, conducted by A07 and the Kind Dentist. We got very lucky and won right away, putting ourselves ahead of several teams who were already there. A07 handed us the next clue:

We took off to the train station. The thing that sucks about scavenger hunts and the like is that the first team to get there wastes a bunch of time determining the exact location while subsequent teams just look for the cars and follow.

No matter, I had Eagle Eye H with me, who found a plastic Easter egg right away.

Luckily ours had keys in it; decoy eggs contained paper clips.

The next clue was in an out-of-the-way-place. Next to the station was the stadium for a local minor-league baseball team. There were several lots, which were pretty much empty, but spot #15 was off to the side. We had learned our lesson about showing other people the way and parked out of sight. There was a yellow-and-red box under a spruce tree that contained the next clue, a ROADBLOCK, and Mark was chilling on a lawn chair behind the tree.

H has definitely seen more American movies than I have, so he did the challenge. But they were tricky questions, such as "Which singer/songwriter composed the music for Princess Bride and Wag the Dog?" another neither of us can remember, and the one H got correct, "Name the actors who played the aliens in Earth Girls Are Easy," even though he hasn't seen the film. Mark gave us the next clue, which ended up being the root of our demise:

"Keep your eyes open for the "light" at the end of the tunnel."

I mentioned that there were several parking lots at the Flyers' stadium, right? Some of them were cordoned off; more specifically the west-end lots were chained off. We headed to the west pell-mell and spent an UNGODLY amount of time driving/walking around lots that happened to be situated near an overpass, under which we could see the sun setting. I guess we overinterpreted the clue and were looking at the outside edge of the lots and near drainage pipes that could have been "tunnels." This took forever because we had to park the car and search on foot.

Unable to find the clue, we drove around again in a panic and almost hit an SUV coming around the corner who probably didn't expect anyone to be there. When we finally stumbled onto the next clue, it was (of course) at the first place we had stopped--and apparently walked right past somehow. A small plastic treasure box sitting at the base of the lightposts in the middle of the parking lot. There were several left, so we knew we were among the first to find it (this clue threw off a bunch of teams). We used the keys from the Easter egg to open it and get the next clue:

We headed back to Mark's house for what would be our final test. We were hot on the heels of the Wonder Twins, who at the last second changed from the left-hand turning lane to the right and took the other direction on the highway back to Mark's place. We continued to the left and went in what was the WRONG direction. This proved to be a big mistake, because traffic was building and we had to go all the way around before nearing the house.

When we did get there, we discovered the Wonder Twins arrived about 15 minutes before us and ultimately took first place. A few other teams had also finished the last challenge--a ROADBLOCK that I would do. However, pp and her boyfriend were still out there, so it wasn't over yet. My task? Match the country with its flag, a challenge often featured on the television program to see if racers could remember where they had been. This proved to be more difficult than I had imagined, especially because the last time I'd looked at an Almanac list of flags was probably in 1998. And there were eight more flags than spaces, some with only slight changes (like two for New Zealand with different-colored stars).

Kind Dentist was holding the answer key and telling us how many we each had wrong. I was hung up on Croatia, Kenya and Egypt. I should have changed them one at a time, strategically. D'Oh! As you can see, I had New Zealand (wrong-colored stars), Poland (the red is on the bottom), Belarus (not even close), England (much different than the U.K. flag) and Croatia (that's actually the Belarus flag) incorrect.

We came in last. It was a humbling moment for H and I, who thought we had this race in the bag. When I asked the Wonder Twin who completed that last challenge, I realized I never had a chance; she had been playing some sort of Facebook flag application game and locked it down in a matter of seconds. Who says Facebook is just a time waster?

Later we heard that two teams bypassed certain challenges altogether and just followed other teams. So technically we came in third to last. But it was a great experience. All that running around, navigating unfamiliar territory, putting our heads and hands together (however four adult hands are too many with a puzzle that small), there were plenty of opportunities to yell, but we kept cool and worked together despite the frustration. Which was comforting. Plus, we were able to redeem ourselves later with a couple rounds of Taboo.

One thing's for sure, though. I will never again look at Amazing Race contestants with disdain. Luck plays a much bigger part than I thought, and it's way more challenging than it looks on tv.

back, back from Cali, Cali

I had such a fabulous time in California. The first week, with cc and her family, made me feel as though I had just left the spa without even getting a massage (however we did get pedicures; I even splurged on the little flower design). Cc had such a bounty of delightful things to show me around San Diego, from her neighborhood (big ups to North Park/Hillcrest!) to Balboa Park and the world-famous zoo. Plus there was a lot of hanging out, a little WWE Monday Night Raw with b, shopping, and so much good food--not to mention the margaritas!

The first day I arrived, the temperature was near 90 degrees, so we decided to go to the beach. However I was not prepared for how cold the water was, so I only got in up to my knees. A few days later the temperature was dipping into the 50s. Cc said I saw the full spectrum of year-round SD weather in the span of a week.

We met up with one of H's sisters and her husband for dinner, and while I was the only one without my honey, somehow I was the target of the mariachi serenade. And then there was dessert: If you're in San Diego, be sure to check out Extraordinary Desserts. I've already had at least one dream about their Roasted Coconut Cream Torte, with more to come until I can get back there and have another piece. H's sister mentioned something about a crazy man who shot someone there a few years ago, but I'm telling you, those cakes are totally worth the risk.

At the end of the week, I hopped on the Amtrak to Los Angeles (the train goes by about 20 feet from the ocean in some spots) where H and his sister picked me up. We had a few very relaxing days with his family, during which I got to see a lot of adorable baby photos, spend quality time with his grandparents and have a few more In and Out Burgers--another thing I will probably be thinking about until I can get back there again.

But the main reason we were out in the Golden State was because H's buddy's sister asked him to photograph her wedding. She flew us out there and accommodated my trip to San Diego. During the event, I backed him up with another camera and was so busy I didn't have time to think about how I didn't really know anyone there.

Combined, we took about 2,200 shots that day. This is one of my favorites.

no one's going to date you if you get frown lines

1950s-style Facebook etiquette!



via Eric Skiff at Social Media

I'll work on my belly-to-belly suplex and get back to you

Just a quick note to apologize for the exorbitant length of that last post. Skimming all that stuff was actually very tiring, so I'm hoping the California sunshine will inspire some good posts. From what I gather, cc is busy making all sorts of fun plans and b informed me that the WWE has added an extra night of wrestling just in time for my visit. Apparently the legacy of the "professional" wrestling my brother used to watch--Jake "the snake" Roberts, "Macho Man" Randy Savage, "Rowdy" Roddy Piper, Hulk Hogan and Ted "the million-dollar man" DiBiasi--continues through their children. This I've gotta see.

milestone: year 4, month 1, day 8

Apparently the four-year anniversary of this blog sailed by on March 7 and I didn't even notice.

On the first and second anniversaries of this blog, I compiled quotes from old blog posts for my own amusement. Like this and this. I didn't on the third, because that year was kind of busy what with the layoff on my birthday, the startup stuff and in March I was raising hell as a landlady (not doing that again).

So I'm going to indulge myself with a snippety roundup of the last two years because no matter how I try, I haven't felt like posting lately* and reading back over the old stuff might get the juices flowing again.

Also, next week H's best friend's sister is getting married and she's flying us out so H can photograph her wedding. I am taking a detour to San Diego, where I will hang out with cc and her son, b before taking the train back to L.A. for the wedding. So I might not be around and this could take you an entire week to read. (I will not be offended if you don't; it's mostly for me). Here goes:

2007

"whatever, i know your record; the less you know about the teams, the better you do. and i'm NOT going to be shown up by my sister in a pool with all my friends."


and it didn't help that there was a tv news camera crew at the wall, obviously capturing fodder for their let's-say-goodnight-on-a-bright-note shot. you know, because 55 minutes of murder and mayhem is perfectly canceled out by a 30-second segment featuring stickyfaced kids or furry baby animals. sadly for us, H lost his footing and wiped out on his back directly in front of the cameras while i spun around on my palms and skates.


fine, it could be that the girl's a lifelong country fan-- that's fair; they're sort of in their own musical universe. and besides, i myself couldn't find the cheese in a maze if all the clues were based on classic rock. somehow during my formative years, the only music available to me fell into two categories: sappy country and even sappier hindi movie music.


I think the time has come for me to trade the day-old pizza boxes and pajamas-as-streetclothes lazy college email style for the language of grownups. You, my dear readers, deserve the extra keystroke effort required for me to make use of capital letters.


I started with my parents because a) it's much easier to throw out other people's stuff and b) I inherited saving techniques from my father, Mr. Just In Case, who is gunning for some sort of keeping-stuff championship. Granted, junk he saves comes in handy once in awhile, but the useful-to-spacewaste ratio is severely skewed toward the latter.


When your parents come from a place like India, you have to take the good with the bad. I'm talking about a society that generally says "Do not even look in the direction of the opposite sex" for years, then suddenly one day: "Hurry up and get married so you can make as many grandchildren as possible. 1-2-3, GO!"


When I was little, I wanted to be a cardiac surgeon. I held onto that dream for a really long time (especially when my dad said he'd buy me a convertible when I got my MD). I realized somewhere in the middle of high school that if I couldn't watch fake doctors doing fake surgery with fake blood on tv without my stomach churning, medical school was probably not a realistic option.


"I could have told you that you're not retarded, silly girl," she said. "What I want to know is this: Did the guy say when you're going to get married?"


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


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


A recent conversation with H revealed that an integral part of my physical education--the Square Dance--was not a part of the curriculum where he went to school in California. I was appalled to hear that fourth-graders out there weren't forced to devise methods of partner dancing without actually touching their cootie-infested counterparts. How else do kids learn the complex techniques that make for the stilted, awkward interactions they call *relationships* in junior high? Maybe that's why people in California are so very laid back; they don't know how to Do-si-do.


13) I can't make rice. Please don't tell anybody.


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


His homing tactics went on to include driving three hours to sit outside my college dormitory and interrogate my friends, who feigned ignorance about how I was sneaking into the building through the the back basement laundry room as they spoke. I believe that pager ended up at the bottom of a lake, to be joined by the relationship shortly thereafter.


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


One definite downside to this whole working-days concept is that for years, my brain learned to shut itself off between the hours of five and nine in the morning, which is exactly when some key daily decisions need to be made. Mission Critical choices, such as what I'm going to wear.


And while that may be true, If you go through enough crap with people--no matter how much they make you want to tie them to a chair and duct tape their mouths closed so you can beat them about the head and explain just how wrong they are--one day you'll wake up and they're part of your family. And everybody knows, no matter what you do, it's not easy to break away from family.


"No kidding! Last week there was an eight-percent-visibility monsoon when I was driving to the airport to pick you up, and as soon as you got in the car it was gorgeous the whole time--right up until your plane took off again five days later, when it promptly started drizzling. You really are magical."


2) This girl, Amy "The Kisser," would smooch my brother every day in kindergarten. But when she started touching him with her tongue, the engagement was off.


2) He can't plan his life. This was supposed to be a pretty straightforward antibiotic annihilation (because that wound around his pacemaker had been open and covered with gauze for more than a year, they went in, took out the pacemaker, flushed the spot where it had been with the most powerful antibiotics, put in a new pacemaker generator, closed him up and put him on IV super-antibiotics for two weeks.) Now it's looking like healing may take longer, which will delay going back to school, which will drag out his already-six-year attempt to graduate even further.


People like to tell me they think I'm overly paranoid and to "just chill out," "let it go," or "don't worry so much." But honestly, if a reminder that you could lose the things you care about most in this world smacks you in the face at least once a day, you'd start to clutch onto everything just a little bit tighter, too.


Sure enough, it came. Swiftly, semi-unexpectedly and deadly-ly. We got back from that great lunch and had a meeting with the mother office to learn that our entire office is getting laid off, two months (and one day) since I started. Happy Birthday from The Man!


It's a good thing I grew up with a dad that accelerated at hairpin turns, so I was only slightly fazed when my chauffeur for the evening was texting, dancing and even reading me a Forward joke in a bad Indian accent from his Blackberry, all while zipping around cars on the highway.


"Well, there have been known to be ugly babies out there. You can’t just generalize."


There's a frigging LAMBORGHINI parked outside the office, for use in the new Christian Bale batman movie, The Dark Knight. They've blocked off all the streets on our block and on the way into the office this morning, my colleague almost got run over by Bale in a sleek black car flying up the street. When you see the movie, look for a bewildered dark-haired woman in white pants and a dark brown shirt, hopping onto the curb to save her life.


As we walked down the path, we saw a bunch of girls in hijabs carrying brightly-wrapped gifts into the meeting hall attached to the pool, which was obviously rented for the occasion. I wondered if those nasty people in the pool (and I say people because no one said anything to him, including the lifeguard) had seen the girls, made some assumptions and taken it out on us. I couldn't help but worry for those girls and their party.


Get your boobs checked. And your pipes. And the rest of yous. It's way less sucky than the alternative. This may be hard to accept, but you are not invincible, after all. As someone who's spent way too much time pacing around helplessly in hospital waiting rooms, trust me when I say that your loved ones will thank you for taking care of yourselves.


Don't get me wrong, it wasn't even close to the first time H had hung out with my parents; it was important to me that they all met each other straightaway, mostly because he lives so far away and I wanted them to know he wasn't a serial killer or someone who couldn't appreciate the virtues of a good chapati.


It took every ounce 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.


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


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.


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).


"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."


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.


"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."


I do not care WHO you think you are, it is NOT okay to clip your nails during a crowded and herkity-jerkity train ride.


Even all these years later, cc can make herself crack up just by thinking about my reaction to those flying tampons; it freaks people out on the train or in the elevator when she laughs to herself for no apparent reason.


When there are too many people in a revolving door, there's no room to move your legs and actually make it revolve. It took some fancy coordination and Fred-Flintstone-like quick babysteps, but we finally got out of there. I turned around and said to H, "What the HELL was that?" He was like, "What? That's not how you do it?"


The reason today is called Black Friday is because that is the color the tips of your toes and your nose turn after waiting in line outside in the middle of the night in 20-degree weather.


"Well, according to your blog, I'm too simple to operate a revolving door, so I wouldn't want to tackle something as complex as winter gloves."


a) The people downstairs give dance lessons. promptly at 3:15 yesterday, the lilting strains of "if you don't know me by now... you will nevereverever know me... OOOoooOOOO" started, then continued. On repeat.


"I never wanted Charles to be in charge of me."


"Boy, you have a very nice voice on the voicemail! Your mother must have taught you how to speak so well. Please give me a call and have a pleasant morning. Bye, I love you."


So sometimes, if he's been standing too long or taking too hot of a shower or if the wind blows the wrong way or if the cable goes out, a vein in his left leg will spontaneously burst, spurting blood everywhere. And I don't use the word "spurt" lightly.


All I want to do is curl up on the couch with my knitting and watch Roll, Bounce.


Let me clarify: I refer to Jo Ann Fabrics (or any craft store) as "The Crack House." Mostly because I get a rush out of going there and acquiring items that are probably not good for me. Like boxes and boxes of choice cuts, gadgets, pattern envelopes, balls of yarn, loose sheets of pretty paper and a whole mess of other stuff that will likely get crumpled in my closet for decades to come. And with every trip, I suddenly find my pockets empty and my home bursting with heaps of craftery. It's nothing like the tragedy of an actual crack habit, but it's an addiction nonetheless.


At 8:45, we started moving. Then we stopped. More groans. Leather Jacket was on his third piece of gum and in a jolly mood. He began to tell me that the last time a train he was on hit somebody, the person didn't make it and that the transit authority actually let people off during the cleanup. He said police were walking around, covering things up here and there. It took me a second to process that.


But if you've spent more than 2.5 seconds here, you've probably noticed that I live in the Land of Worst-Case Scenarios and I believe that if I spend some time hashing out every possible bad outcome, then maybe they won't come to fruition after all. I know this is not logical, but it helps me sleep at night.


"Like if I told you, 'Cadiz I just murdered someone,' I know you'd probably say something like 'That bitch probably deserved it.' "


I spent eight of my formative years learning to play the cello. I figured that having played an instrument where you have to know where to place your fingers without markers while swinging a bow would make holding down five colored buttons and strumming a flap on a plastic guitar incredibly easy on the very first try. I figured wrong.


2008

I plodded along. I didn't realize until it was too late that the flimsy cardboard pizza box was coming open at the side and after a thump, I saw my lunch face down on the concrete.

We were laughing so uproariously that we didn't even notice the door open. All heads swung around to face the giant girl who had come back upstairs, this time with a giant yellow Labrador tucked under her arm, and invited herself in.


He swears that if I make my kids call him "Mama" he will make his own children address me as "Dork."

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.


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.


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


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.


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.

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.

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.


"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!"


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.


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."


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


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


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.


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.


"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!"


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.


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.


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.


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.


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 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.


Today I've been making Very Important Decisions that my boss would have handled if she were still here. And I feel a little like a fraud telling people what to do. I mean, I get it, but I feel like a kid at the adult table—grabbing a turkey leg in my fist will get the job done, but it would destroy any credibility I have.


So while things become even more uncertain in the coming weeks, I'm going to lean on family, friends and food to stay afloat. But it'd be really nice if I can figure out how to use the remote controls.


"I'm a mess. And this morning when I called you on the walk to work and said I had to go back home because I forgot the bag with my files in it? Yeah, when I got into the house and looked around, I found it on my shoulder—it was flipped behind me and my purse was over it, so I hadn't realized it was there."


But the highlight of the evening for me was when The Boy told his mom he'd like a hug from me, and was too shy to ask. I was delighted to oblige.


It's just that we all have to take a hard look at just what we're honoring, decide if it's really something we can be proud of, and if it isn't, we should do something about it—no matter how long it's been a part of "the tradition."


I sincerely hope that after years of being in the same room with genius minds, I have managed to absorb some of the smarts it's going to take to pull off this little endeavor.


So the boss and I did what any self-respecting dynamic duo would when faced with shutting down and hitting the road. We knocked back a few drinks.


29. He says he doesn't dance, but I think I caught him—once.


"Holy crap, if we're both this touchy about age now, what's going to happen when we really ARE as old as mold?"


The line was out the door and people weren't bothering to wait for a booth. Instead we lined up and colored in our circles on the stage where I reprised the role of Calamity Jane and sang festive holiday songs on risers more than 20 years ago. Ah, the memories.


I left my brother a message saying that being on Michigan Avenue right then, with all those people so happy to just be there, felt as though all the sports teams in Chicago won the championship on the same night.


-You are legally guilty of first-degree murder if you take part in, well, any step involved in the events that led up to the crime. (Even if you weren’t the one holding the gun.) So if anyone ever asks you for help doing something shady, say NO!--angel07


"Nice, Dad. Your daughter is 30 and you're 28?"


Even then I have contemplated starting a new trend where he has his place across the street from mine, a la Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.--pp


To hell with the "loveable losers." It has been almost a full week since the nightmare, and I sat there and watched the BoSox win yet another series and get one step closer to the World Series.--my brother


I'd like to say a few things about what it's like to be a fan of the team that beats the most cursed team in all of sports—not counting the Washington Generals. First of all, it feels fantastic.--H


All these years when I've waited in pre-op with my brother before his procedures, I thought getting blankets out of a warmer must be so awesome. Yeah, not really.


So basically, in order to accomplish something good we actually have to take action and not just sit in the corner and pray and hope good stuff will happen and if it doesn't—feel guilty about it.--Alexandra


Working from home is rough—you can't turn it off and you feel guilty if you take time to watch The Colbert Report during nonmeal times when you could be working. On top of it, the laundry/housework is sitting there mocking you, and you need to remind yourself to take a shower.


And after he mentioned something about another Aquabat giving the dad some paper to sign, he asked Alex if he was ready, doublechecked with the dad, counted to three...and then The Commander HEAVED THAT SIX-YEAR-OLD HIGH INTO THE AIR AND INTO THE CROWD.


"Hang on, I'll ask...Yes, mother, he said his family dresses up in their finest Pilgrim-wear every year."


All I can think about are those people who were hurt and are still being held hostage in that hotel in Mumbai. This terrorism thing really blows.


I am still trying to figure out why it's got to be so black and white: I'm either working 24 hours a day or unemployed.


I'm not advocating the throwing of health and wellness out the door for work (it's not for everyone); but that extra cash gives me a tiny window of financial security during which I can hopefully find a job.


We decided to share some spiced apple cider wine, which came in a commemorative cup. That stuff was pretty rough going down, but I have to say it left me with a very warm belly. And a buzz.


She said I could air-dry and go, put a little gel to bring out the curl and go, roller-brush with a dryer and go or do a bunch of other things. I liked the "and go" parts the best.


It's so ridiculous because for three years H and I said goodbye for months at a time and he's only going to be gone for ten days this Christmas. The funny thing is all those times we'd wish for a snow day to cancel flights, but it never happened.


a) It's virtually impossible to demonstrate something while trying to keep only your arms in front of the camera.


Have I truly expressed how much the people who love and support me are appreciated? Do I really need to watch so much television? What needs to change to prevent my being taken advantage of in the future? Maybe that life-assessment I didn't go through when I turned 30 is catching up with me four months late, but I suddenly feel like a bomb is going to go off if I don't get my crap together as soon as possible.


Unfortunately for my mom, everybody and her momma wanted one, too, and the shelves were bare. To hear Mom describe it, getting a Cabbage Patch Kid that Christmas probably inspired that Schwarzenegger action flick Jingle All the Way.


3. When I'm home by myself, I often forget to eat. When other people are around, I'm constantly snacking and asking if they're hungry, too.



If every American could feel included, there's a much better chance we will work together to turn this ship around. And in these frightening times, the hope that things will get better is what I'm relying on to make it through.


And if enough time and resistance wears away at my enthusiasm, a big part of my identity will be relegated to the spice rack--busted out about as often as a non-Chinese family springs for dim sum or hot and sour soup. And that just makes me want to cry.


There was the bug-eyed kid who looked like he'd skipped fourth grade that I was sure figured out a way to access dirty pictures on school machines. The weird broody kind of guy who gave me the feeling he was hiding an uzi in his big backpack and waiting to take us all out for high crimes of procrastination. The girl with the twitch I kept catching in my peripheral vision. The sad-looking person who seemed a little too relaxed, like she had already finished all her work and was just in there for fun. Beeyatch.


I have been logging in some serious hours in front of the television--escaping into the drama of fictional people really takes the edge off of my real-life issues.


I do not know WHAT THIS EFFING BANK WANTS FROM ME! I AM TRYING TO BE A RESPONSIBLE HOME OWNER, BUT THEY SEEM TO THINK THAT THEY DON'T HAVE TO DEAL WITH ME UNTIL I'M ON THE BRINK OF HOMICIDE.


It takes me a full day to accomplish what she does in a few hours. And if you lend a hand in her kitchen and don't hear some form of "move your hands and feet faster," either she's not feeling well or you're not in the right kitchen.


All this is making me question my mothering capabilities; if I can't wrangle one grown woman, how the heck am I going to raise children?


For me, the best way to hone a skill is by playing for keeps. And this project slowed me down and steadied my hand--it's amazing how few envelopes you waste by actually stopping to think about what you're going to do before dipping the pen.


I can only describe the woman's accent as having had a terrible accident.

*Even though for a month I have promised a post about the AWESOME Amazing Race I participated in for Angel07's birthday--I took the photos on my mom's camera and saved them onto Blogger at my parents house when I was there for her recovery, but apparently part of dial-up is that it only pretends like it's uploading photos and they are no longer on here. So I have to go back and get them on a jump drive. Sorry ladies!

the weekend isn't complete without the Indian Show

For the last 20 years or so on local non-cable channels (in Chicago it's Class A stations that air Polvision, China Star TV and Greek, Filipino and other cultural shows)--before 24-hour Hindi programming was available via satellite dish--they've shown Bollywood music videos as well as entertainment gossip and news on Saturday and Sunday mid-mornings.

As a kid I'd wake up to my parents making brunch to these shows. And while the music videos are supercheesy (and nowadays a little sleazy), the weekend is simply not the same without them. The ones I catch most often are Namaste America, which has news and songs; Desi Jams, which is all about the music videos; Bollywood Now (?), which is celebrity gossip; and Desi Tunes, which is a local program that throws in some South Indian* videos once in awhile. I'm sure there are a bunch of other shows, too, but it all depends on what's available in your area.

The segues between videos often have newsy little tidbits.

The highlight of the entertainment gossip show, Bollywood Now, is its voiceover talent. I can only describe the woman's accent as having had a terrible accident (What's wrong with sticking to a regular Indian accent?). She incorporates as many American slang words as possible and, most of all, speaks with the lilting tone people often use when imitating a stereotypical "British mum." However the combination is pretty riveting. I couldn't find a clip, but here's an example of an interview done with a completely un-weird voiceover--it's from a show that aired on the west coast sometime in 2007.

Lovely, but it doesn't have quite the panache as the crazy lady who does the show that we get. The actor featured, Aishwariya Rai Bachchan, is in Steve Martin's latest Pink Panther movie.

My favorite part of the weekend programming is a feature on Namaste America called the Shout Outs. People write in their little messages and Obaid Kadwani, a serious-looking guy who sometimes does the news, reads them out.

I can't imagine anyone doing it better. One of these days I'm going to send one in. Probably to H, because as much as he pretends he's not paying attention, I like to think he secretly loves this stuff. But more likely, he just tolerates it because I love it.

How can I have a post about the Indian Show without a clip of what it's all about? I would have embedded it, but the best version of "Desi Girl" from the film Dostana with subtitles has embedding removed. The movie takes place in Miami, and these two guys pretend to be a gay couple in order to be roommates with the woman they both are interested in. Subtitles are often RIDICULOUS on these songs, but I chalk that up to translators whose English isn't as strong as their Hindi.

I should go back to school, learn Hindi properly, and do some of these lyric translations justice. It could be a totally new career path! However, it probably won't deter Bollywood from incorporating English phrases that don't make sense--whoever approved "Krazzy" as an alternate spelling for "Crazy" should be smacked around--but there's only so much one desi girl can do.

*It's important to note that Bollywood alone is not a fair representation of all things Indian. When you cross a state border in India, it's like going into another country with its own language, food, customs and dress. The movie industry puts out about three films a day, but that's across 18-some official languages, which each has its own "-wood." Not to mention the documentaries, theatrical productions, etc. And there's a lot I don't know about this stuff; my love for Hindi movies is tied up in the nostalgia of my childhood.

when you're on camera, be sure to sit tight

"I love the Indian show."

"That's obvious; we watch it every single weekend. But they really need to do something about the on-air talent."

"You know I only watch it for the songs and the news, not to see these people, right?"

"I know, but this guy needs to stop swaying when he talks. It's very distracting."

"So is his shirt. What's that say, 'Sit tight Babushka?' "

"I bet that's an inside joke from the wardrobe department."