counting 'em down, SoCal style

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sweet sixteen of random

Both Stephanie and Jam tagged me to reveal eight random things about myself. So to be fair, I did 16. And now I must rest. But before I do, I tag Jon because he hasn't posted in a very long time. (I scoff at those of you who point out that he asked to be interviewed and hasn't done that yet either.) C'mon, Jon, we're counting on you. No pressure.

1) I will do whatever I can to avoid leaving the house on my day off.

2) I still haven't put together the photo album from my semester abroad EIGHT years ago.

3) I take guilty pleasure in a nap during an afternoon when the weather is sunny and gorgeous. It's like I'm mocking the opportunity to do something productive outside, so somehow the sleep is sweeter.

4) Oatmeal raisin is my favorite, but I am an equal-opportunity cookie consumer.

5) I hate all the crap I have to go through to get to the ocean, but once I'm in it, you're going to have a hard time getting me out-- unless a toothy water creature tastes my foot like that one time at Daytona Beach. In those cases, I can run through water surprisingly fast.

6) I attract mosquitoes. Quite well. Without even trying.

7) I can stay up all night if I'm procrastinating, but if I'm talking on the phone I can easily slip into a coma mid-sentence.

8) I find comfort in oldschool musicals.

9) When I was in fifth grade, I played Molly in the high school production of "Annie." I remember my solos and some of my lines, I still have my tap shoes, and I still keep jewelry in a musicbox that plays "Tomorrow," which I got as a gift on opening night.

10) The quality of my dancing is inversely proportional to the number of people in the room. It's too bad, really, because some of my cleaning-the-house moves are worthy of a Soul Train spotlight.

11) I've already made a mental list of home improvement projects for my house--one that i'm at least a decade away from even seeing.

12) There were entire weekends during college in which I did not see the sun.

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

14) I like my eggs runny and my toast crunchy.

15) I've never seen a James Bond movie. I enjoy hearing people's reaction to that statement so much that I've purposely avoided putting one on my Netflix queue so I can keep saying it.

16) I have 317 movies on said Netflix queue.

you just can't square dance on the beach

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

Secretly, I've always sort of enjoyed the Square Dance. There's a comfort in knowing what's supposed to come next, even if it's being coming at you from an LP of a livestock auctioneer. When you go to a nightclub, you're pretty much feeling the music and trying to move your body in such a way that other people won't feel the need to gather around you in mockery. You're constantly evaluating your own ridiculousness, holding back your real rhythmic impulses to make room for safe practices like the step-together, step-together. And you're covertly evaluating everyone else, too. That's a lot of work. Which is probably why it doesn't usually happen without professional training. Or alcohol.

But with Elementary School Square Dancing, the pressure is off. Five-hand Star? I think I remember the gym teacher explaining that one. Swing Your Partner 'Round and 'Round? His hand on my back? No way. Promenade Around the Square? Ok, I just have to get through holding his hand for exactly 3.5 seconds, and it'll be over until tomorrow.

Gym Class Square Dance isn't completely for the faint of heart. When I was in fifth grade I was partnered with this kid named Mike McCoy, who interpreted "Swing your partner" as "Fling your partner." I found it necessary to wear pants during that entire segment because the kid would spin me around so my body was parallel to the floor and I didn't want the entire class to see my Day Of the Week undies. Because attire is very important in the Square Dance. If you aspire to participate outside of class, you have to dress the part. I once barely gained entrance to the Girl Scouts' Father/Daughter Square Dance only because my navy-blue satin skirt with lace trim had more than three ruffles on it-- my dad must have used his boyish good looks to get in, because he has never owned anything remotely suitable for that kind of jamboree.

Don't get me wrong, I have all kinds of respect for actual Square Dancers. Once you get out of gym class, I understand the configurations can get quite complex and the announcer isn't just on some record the teacher slowed down so we could keep up. I saw a television segment on some serious Square Dancers once, and they meant some serious Square Dance business.

We were forced to learn it for at least one segment every year, from fourth grade until freshman year of high school, right when the idea of holding some boy's hand entirely stops being life-threatening, but long enough to teach you about keeping up appearances, hand-eye-foot--musical beat coordination and working with The Enemy. Looking back, I can't help but feel bad for H because he never got the chance to fling anyone around in the name of Physical Education. I've been asking around, and it seems they didn't teach kids Square Dance in Florida, either. What gives? Coastal people, what did you learn instead? Surfing? Because then I'd have to trade my feeling of superiority for jealousy, because a wet suit seems much cooler than bandannas and leather fringe.

there goes my career as an advice columnist

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

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

But you weren't out of the picture.

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

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

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

Thoughts?

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Describe yourself in one word.
Savory.

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

pushing my buttons

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

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

just keep sending me flowers 'just because'

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

"Sure thing, what's up?"

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

"Of course not. Why?"

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

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

"Okay, I can see that."

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

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

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

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

my thoughts exactly

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


It made my day.

niharika, queen of the screen

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

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

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

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

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

the jury's back

Downtown Detroit makes Chicago seem like freaking Paris.

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

or maybe i'll just wait for her boutique

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

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

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

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

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


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

all in the palm of my hand

The year was 1994. I was trying to stay awake in darkened biology class while Mr. Lay was showing slides about Down Syndrome. This, the "class half" of the room (other half being the "laboratory side") was crammed tight with desks whose attached tabletops were only slightly bigger than a piece of notebook paper, so it was precarious finishing my Spanish homework under a bio-binder coverup.

Lay flipped through the slides, describing some of the physical characteristics of people who have Down's: almond-shaped eyes, an enlarged tongue and a very distinct palm pattern-- one that consists of only two major lines instead of the more common three-line pattern. I'd never heard that last one before, so I looked up.

Then I looked at my own palm.

Then my books went crashing to the floor.

To my knowledge, I was not born with the chromosomal combination that causes Down Syndrome. I don't exhibit the other physical characteristics of it, either. However, my palm pattern is identical to the one projected on the biology room wall. I'd always wondered why my lines never matched up with the "palmistry" features in beauty magazines: Do I not have a brain? Will I never find love? What, dear heavens, did it mean?

"Palm reader" seems to be slapped onto characters in all levels of savory. I've never shown my hand to one--you just don't know if you can trust it. And as superstitious as I am, it's not impossible to imagine me signing up for the Convent after hearing that I indeed have no heart line. But that didn't stop me from turning to my trusty pal, The Internet, who said I have what's called a "Simian Line," characteristic of people with "base" intelligence and a propensity toward either perfectionism or criminality. Awesome!

I had forgotten about all that until last weekend, when someone at the conference mentioned he dabbled in palm reading and tarot cards. Of course I asked him all kinds of general questions and he said that there are plenty of shysters out there, but it's a very real art. He said it's easy to consult a book and make a completely wrong reading if you don't know what you're doing. And while he was learning, he looked at thousands of palms and cards--often for coworkers-- and even predicted real situations. I was still very skeptical, but after three days of hanging out with him, I really liked the guy; he seemed like a cynic himself and didn't have anything to gain from lying.

He said the "death" card doesn't mean you're going to die, just that a phase or element in your life is coming to and end. And that he never told anyone the bad stuff, but tried to phrase it in a constructive way, such as "you'll be going through a difficult time, but you'll get through it." However there was one reading for a coworker when all the bad cards came out in the ominous order for death. He tried to focus on the positive by telling her she'd have to face a very rough situation, but that she was surrounded by a lot of people who loved and supported her.

The next week, the girl wasn't in the office and he found out her mother had been struck by a car and killed. He called to offer his condolences and she said, "You were right! I have so many people to lean on and help me. It has been terrible to lose my mom, but I never realized what a great support system I have." He hasn't read too many cards since then.

On the last day of the conference, I caved. I really needed an "authority" to tell me I wasn't a freak, so I asked if he'd ever seen a palm with only two lines. He said it's not common but yes, and the Simian gobbledygook is more of an old wives' tale because modern palmistry considers it a good sign. He took a look at my palm and said I was not a weirdo, but in fact an old soul in touch with both the heart and the mind (I actually have both lines, but they're on top of each other). And he was dead on about other stuff, like the perfectionism, stubbornness and that I'm better at writing than verbalizing. He also said I'm very analytical and my decisions are usually sound, which is interesting because my natural state is one of perpetual decision-making agony.

True to form, there was no bad news. He even said I have a brilliant streak, but by then aw shucks, he was already my pal. I'm not going to dwell on the reading, but I'm sure the idea that I'm slated for a career change in my late 30s and that I'll be most successful later on in life will be in the back of my mind. (If it comes true, you heard it here first, folks.) For now, I'm just glad I'm not a criminal or worse, a loveless mindless freak.

When I got home, I told my mother what happened.

"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?"

reason 532 why i love my brother

He calls me when there's a choice episode of Cosby on Nick at Nite and we watch it together, laughing hysterically at the same parts. Most recently: The Gordon Gartrelle episode, where Denise makes Theo a hideous yellow shirt.

from IMDB.com:

In one of the earlier episodes, Theo buys a shirt by designer Gordon Gartrelle. Throughout the series, the real-life Gordon Gartrelle worked in various jobs for the series and is listed as a producer of the show during the last few seasons.

first step to celebrity status

Because I'm determined to make it onto Wiki as something other than a "vanity" listing, I've asked to be interviewed-- which is more like buying google keywords than being *discovered* for my innate talents. But hey, everyone who gets chased by the paparazzi had to get the ball rolling somehow.

Here are the five questions Lia asked:

1. If you had to flee the city, where would you go?

Suburbia. It's highly underrated.


2. Do you prefer your drinks with or without ice?

Without. People think I'm a freak, but it's mighty convenient when I'm visiting countries where it's not safe to drink unbottled water.


3. Summer's coming: sneakers or flip-flops?

If it weren't for snow, my toes would be free 365.



4. Tell us about a turning point in your life.

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.



5. What's your favorite book that no one else has ever heard of?

Someone to Run With by David Grossman

It's about some crazy street kids in Israel (fiction), but their struggles really resonated with me. And although it was hard to get the pacing at first, I finished it all in one sitting and actually read it again (highly unusual). Someone went to great lengths to find it for me after I had mentioned reading a review on it, so I'm sad that my mother left it in a doctor's office waiting room. But hopefully somebody else is enjoying it now.

I'm sure the tabloids are going to station someone outside my house the moment this post is published. At the very least, I'm expecting some offers for ice-less drinks. If you want to be as famous as I will be:

Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
I will email you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
Update your blog with the answers to the questions.
Include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.

i think i'm in the wrong business

I've been tagged for the Wikihistory meme. Contrary to popular belief, I love memes. Thanks, Jam!

1. Go to Wikipedia and enter your birthday without the year: August 14

2. List three events that occurred that day:

• 1908 - First beauty contest held in Folkestone, England.
• 1936 - Rainey Bethea is hanged in Owensboro, Kentucky in the last public execution in the United States.
  
• 2004 - Sales tax holiday in Massachusetts. All sales taxes are suspended on purchases of $2500 or less.

3. List two important birthdays:

• 1945 - Steve Martin, American comedian and cousin of my math teacher
  
• 1959 - Magic Johnson, American basketball player and all-around nice guy (so I've heard)

4. List one death:

• 1951 -William Randolph Hearst, American newspaper magnate (b. 1863) and a guy who built one hell of a castle.

5. List one holiday or observance:

• Pakistan - Independence Day (From the Indian Empire and from the British colonialist and imperialists under the foreign control of the United Kingdom, 1947) It's too bad people are still fighting today.

Ok, I know it's not really part of the rules, but I have to say that the list of people born on August 14 seems to follow a pattern. They're mostly entertainers. I'm talking actors, musicians, athletes. Even back in the day it was painters and novelists. If you don't believe me, take a gander at the list. And several other athletes and actors didn't even make Wikipedia, such as Halle Berry and oldschool Chicago Bear Vestee Jackson. (even though I'm pretty sure only my brother knows that one). Hey, maybe if the traditional job doesn't work out for me, I should get together some kind of show and hit the road. At least then I'd be staying true to the legacy of my birthday.

Even though I hate putting pressure on anyone, I'm a stickler for playing by the rules. So I tag Ale, Beenzzz and Jazz (however, if being tagged makes you not want to do it, jas, then consider yourself un-tagged.)

back from the beach

When I got off the plane in Chicago Sunday, I looked around, let my bag slide off my shoulder and finally allowed myself to relax. Five days of little sleep, nonstop hustling and nearly every form of transport but donkey--though sometimes I felt like a pack mule myself-- and I was home.

Then I slept for 16 hours.

Thank you all for your good wishes and tips; H read them to me over the phone while I waited for a connection. When I got to the conference I smiled at everyone and introduced myself to anyone whose attention I could retain for thirty seconds. It was extremely awkward and uncomfortable, but got a little easier with practice. And so did the being alone part. I managed to use the city's counterintuitive unmanned masstransit, even though I kept thinking about that scene in Total Recall where the automated taxi crashes and continues to say "Have a nice day! Have a nice day!" I approached people whose lofty reputations and fancy titles intimidated me. And I even ate a few meals on my own (although it was in my room with CNN; sitting alone at a restaurant's going to take some time).

I was very unsure about talking to people. Seriously, what the heck can I contribute in a conversation with veterans in the business for decades? So I stuck to subjects I knew I could hold my own in: The overuse of air conditioning in seminar rooms, Thanking Goodness they offered free coffee and asking if my fellow attendees had yet dared to risk their knickers out on South Beach.

And what did I discover? That superduper bigshots are just like regular people. Especially during a lengthy discussion about the exhorbitant price of children's ice skating costumes and the perils of bidding for them on eBay with the one person the association awarded for his overall excellence this year. That's no easy feat. And the eBay trick wasn't a simple task, either.

Two of the coolest people I met do what I do, but for the government. Say what you will about the people at the very top, but Joe and Christine are smart, decent and fun to hang out with. Now I'll think of "Central Intelligence" in a whole new way.

I had to do my sightseeing when it was convenient:

Somewhere over Tampa

What IS that stuff?


The only time I actually saw the beach, though I was a lot closer to it on the ground.


The view from my hotel room, of Miami's Biscayne Bay and the causeway that leads to South Beach.


Not as impressive a skyline as Chicago, but very lovely indeed.


The main difference between a conference and a vacay? Getting up at the crack of dawn.


It's hard to see, but I could only get about half of my foot out onto the "balcony."


The view was just as lovely at night.


And they had cool ships!


Sunrise over the clouds and the city, as I left for home.

I'm really glad I ignored my fears and went on this trip. You really can do things you never thought you could, as long as you don't spend too much time thinking about it.

my own personal hell

Tomorrow I will embark on a treacherous journey.

I will board a commuter train to walk to the Orange Line to ride to the Airport to fly to Tampa Bay to connect to Ft. Lauderdale to take a shuttlebus to Miami. There, I hope to learn a thing or two about my industry and my career path. I will likely have to eat by myself. I'm sure I'll do a lot of standing around awkwardly. And I will definitely be spending quality time in the room with premium cable channels I do not have at home.

This situation looms dire because I am the girl whose tiny dungeon office seemed so much like a torture chamber that her blog posts were cries for rescue; the college student who couldn't sleep until she heard her roommate's key jangling in the lock; the girl who feels sorry for those who go to movies by themselves, because poor things, they have no one with whom to make snide commentary. And unfortunately my go-to partner in crime for these work-type conferences, cc, has a family thing keeping her from tearing up the palm-tree scene with me. Oh, the fun we would have had!

But for the same reason I force myself to precariously look down from high places, I will force myself to smile and go through with the trip. But it's a good thing I'll have my trusty Wonder Woman luggage tag along for the ride:

Luggage tag, inspired from an article in Bust Magazine, made by me.

A little rough around the edges, hiding complete terror with a healthy sense of feisty. Yep, that's how I roll.

just as soon as i find those brass knuckles

Just when I find an opportunity to get back to the business of whining about the problems in my life, somebody pulls a stunt that forces me to focus my idiot-seeking hate lasers elsewhere.

And don't get me started about what I have planned for the jackasses who have been making my friends cry lately.

ode to a box of dust: part 2

The box full of corsages I found in my closet is now comfortably composting to fertilize a dumpster somewhere far away, but long ago its contents made me smile.


3) Freshman year of college, nice-ex was unsure if I would accept his invitation to the Indian Students Association semiformal and got third-party confirmation like highcon had for The Prom. I don't know what that's about. Perhaps all those years of fearing my parents' disappointment cultivated some kind of hell-no-don't-even-think-about-asking vibe I must put out to anyone even the slightest bit interested. The dance was our first plausible date because a week before when we went to see The English Patient, he had just come from competing in a track meet and slept through all three hours of the movie.


I wore my Prom dress (in fact, I wore that sucker about four times that year; talk about getting your money's worth. Thanks, dad!) He wore khakis, a white buttondown shirt, a tie and thin, navy blue suspenders. I have to say, he pulled it off pretty GQ and made a good impression. The flowers were scarlet with a scarlet ribbon. And aside from the fallout created by Mr. Mickey Mouse Tie's spy, who was in attendance and later reported all kinds of ridiculous untruths that Mickey Mouse used to destroy my reputation among my parents' friends, I had a lovely time. Despite our group being unable to locate the restaurant where we had reservations and ended up at Dairy Queen, eating ice cream at a Leg0-topped kids' table before the dance.


4) By Senior year, the semiformal was old hat to nice-ex and I (no corsage sophomore year and I was in Spain Junior year). I wore a navy satin floorlength halter dress that had this monochromatic embroidery all over the bodice and was cut to make my skinny arms look more toned. (I'm holding onto that dress for when it comes back in style. I pray I'll still be able to squeeze into it and actually have somewhere to wear it to.) He wore a gray suit. We went with a huge group of friends, most of whom were honorary Indian students, and the one corner of the dancefloor seemed to be our own personal party. Very fun.



5) I'm still trying to figure out what to call the one between nice-ex and H. To make an annoyingly long story short, it'd be as if Monica and Chandler were to go through a painfully messy breakup that made Monica start a blog and the other Friends resent them for a time, after which things would be fine but never quite the same. It's sickening how many parallels there are. You know, without the engagement, wedding, twins and move to suburbia.

I caught this bouquet at my friends Jacqueline and Ramon's lovely wedding. I was reluctant and stood toward the back, but the dang thing bounced off somebody else's eager hands and came right at my head. Chandler said he somehow had a *feeling* I was going to come back to the table with it, but sometimes it's better for everyone when superstitions don't come true. I wore a little black dress and he was in purplish gray.

6) Ri and C got married last July and asked me to stand up as their maid of honor. Ale was also in the wedding party and we had tropical bouquets inspired by the colors of Hawaii, where Ri and C would go on their honeymoon. When Ale went back to New York, she left her bouquet and her pair of those wretched shoes in my car, and I dried both bouquets in case she wanted hers later. But now that she's switched continents, I'm pretty sure she's not going to fly back to Chicago just to get it.

I think a two-part post does better justice to that stuff than leaving it in a closet shoebox to rot (saves more room, too). And because it took me a while to remember where the heck #5 was from, I'm glad I took some time to write it out. I've gotta do more documenting before the old memory slips even further.

ode to a box of dust: part 1

Part of my problem during Spring Cleaning is that, while digging through boxes that haven't seen UV in years, I stop and gingerly leaf through letters and ticket stubs reminiscing while the sun goes down around me and my makeshift fort made of piles of stuff.

These are the contents of a 10-year-old Nike shoebox I found in the back of my closet:



It's every corsage/bouquet of note I have been able to hang on to during the last 15 years, dried and preserved. Every time I opened that box, a flood of memories came rushing back, which is probably why I haven't gotten rid of these things. So, to convince myself that throwing these rotting skeletons of once-beautiful flowers away isn't a crime against all that is sentimental, I snapped some pictures and will share some of the memories with you:


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!" While my parents are a great deal more reasonable than that, I was deathly afraid of them finding out that I actually spoke with boys and even dared to "date" one (if you consider passing notes, talking on the phone, getting rides home from school and going to six movies in three years dating). Most of my fear was that my parents would have to dodge barbs or be ostracized from the Auntie Patrol for being so lenient if I did something stupid like be caught holding his hand in public. Or even worse, attend a school dances with a date. But I did it anyway. Very carefully.

1) When I was 15, I had a crush on a family friend and swooned to find out he liked me back. This corsage was from senior-year Homecoming two years later, the only dance at my school he was able to sneak away from his parents to attend. He wore a black suit and a Mickey Mouse tie and I wore a long-sleeved, floor-length, clingy evergreen dress (the top part was sparkly!). It was made of the kind of fabric that hugs every last curve, but back then I didn't have too many of those, good or bad. A few years ago I tried it on again before giving it to my modelesque cousin, and while I filled it out much better that time, I had to suck in my stomach because the four-pack is now a distant memory. If highschool girls only knew what was coming down the road, they'd be so much easier on themselves. And each other.

2) My father had once watched a Leeza (Gibbons' short-lived Oprahesque talkshow from the early '90s) episode about date rape at The Prom. And although I'm pretty sure he still doesn't fully understand what The Prom is to this day, he forbade me to attend under any circumstances.

I wasn't big into school dances anyway, but I didn't want to regret not going to my senior prom after it was too late. Mr. Mickey Mouse Tie declined my invitation, citing too many logistical problems with lying to our parents, but suggested I go with a friend. And after much debate with ri about the probability of my saying yes--even though, Duh--highcontrast called me up and asked, "so, do you wanna go or what?"

Years of sneaking around on dangerous reputation-destroying missions such as meeting my boyfriend for coffee when I said I'd be at the library taught me that you don't necessarily have to lie. I sweetly told my dad that the school was having a party at a hotel banquet hall for all the soon-to-be-graduates and that I'd need a formal dress. I also threw in that they'd be seating us boy-girl-boy-girl out of tradition, so I'd be sitting with kaiya and highcon, both of whom he already knew. Pops said cool, and handed over the money.

I leafed through the phonebook to help my date order the corsage while we procrastinated writing our English papers. It had tiny pink roses and baby's breath with grey ribbon and tulle. I wore a sleeveless gunmetal-colored satin floorlength dress and had sewn a ridiculous bolero jacket to wear over it so that my father would allow me out of the house. It came off as soon as I was out the door, but I put it back on for the pictures because my mother would want to see them (she knew nothing was going to happen with highcon and distracted my dad while i snuck out). I had my friends pick me up down the block and I put the corsage on myself in the parking lot as we walked in. It definitely wasn't romantic, but all the lame couples clinging to each other on the dancefloor were sneering at us all night out of envy. Afterward, we met up with the Prom Protesters and hung out in downtown Chicago. I had a fabulous time.

Years later, I was watching the Dawson's Creek prom episode where everyone was yelling, fighting and storming out on each other. My father happened to walk in just as I turned to my brother and said, "See? This is why I went to The Prom with highcon. Absolutely no drama."

"YOU WENT TO THE PROM!?!??!? I THOUGHT I HAD TOLD YOU NO PROM!"

It just goes to show that even the most careful of goody-two-shoes can't hide things forever.