Deep down, in the darkest recesses of my soul, I'm a math nerd. I blame my mother - as a mathematician herself, she didn't care about the readin' or the writin' so much as the 'rithmetic. She was giving my brother and me algebra lessons when we were nine and seven, respectively. When I was in elementary school, my teachers were shocked and appalled to find that I actually enjoyed long division. You could have taken my calculator when you pried it from my cold, dead fingers.
Mathematics was just so comforting. I always knew where I stood with numbers - none of this 'I before E except after C' crap. And numbers could be just as miraculous as words. The Fibonacci sequence reflects the structures of atoms, the distance between the planets in our solar system, and the seed scales of pine cones. To communicate with aliens, we beamed e into space - because 2.71828 is the same if you speak English, Japanese, or Klingon.
Sadly, in high school my interest in mathematics waned in favor of what my mother considered 'loser' subjects - English and psychology. When I entered college with dreams of becoming a counselor and writing a novel, a little bit of her died inside. After my freshman calculus class (in which I was named Most Promising New Student by Professor Ilya "The Thrill-ya" Spitkovsky, largely due to the fact that I was the one student who didn't run afoul of his thick Ukrainian accent), I dropped the study of mathematics altogether. When I took biostatistics and population genetics in grad school, math had become something of a chore. I still expected to do well, but most of the thrill was gone.
My love of liberal (read: hippie-dippie) arts notwithstanding, I do let my Inner Math Nerd out to play every once in a while. And there's no law saying I can't enjoy both poetry and pi...
Pi
by Wislawa Szymborska (Nobel Laureate in Literature)
The admirable number pi:
three point one four one.
All the following digits are also initial,
five nine two because it never ends.
It can’t be comprehended six five three five at a glance.
eight nine by calculation,
seven nine or imagination,
not even three two three eight by wit, that is, by comparison
four six to anything else
two six four three in the world.
Click for the rest of the poem.
Mar 14, 2008
Mar 13, 2008
Parking Rot
On my way to pick up lunch at Bodo's Bagels on Tuesday, I saw that someone in an Izusu Ascender had double-parked. This huge SUV was sprawled diagonally across two perfectly good spots. I was a bit miffed - anyone who has been to Bodo's knows how crowded that parking lot gets. Just then, I saw a short woman in a black business suit and teased-up hair leave the restaurant and head straight for the Ascender. Well, I suppose that's alright, I reasoned calmly, she's about to leave, after all. So I pulled up behind her, waiting to take one of the two spots she was straddling.
I waited. And waited. Aaaand waited.
It took me a few minutes to realize ... she was eating in her car. She had doubled-parked in a crowded lot and she was in for the duration. I was mad enough to spit. All in a huff, I pulled around and began searching for another spot. I made sure to give her the ol' hairy eyeball as I passed.
Then I remembered the one and only time I ate in my car, all alone. It was during grad school, and I was visiting a clinic in northern Virginia. Everything had been going well until I was asked to assist on a chorionic villus sampling. The doctor kept telling me to angle the lamp I was holding to better illuminate the external os.
I passed out cold.
So there I was, forced to eat my chicken sandwich in the fast food restaurant's parking lot because I was too ashamed to face the other genetic counselors. Of course I eventually gathered up the tatters of my dignity and returned to finish out the rest of clinic. But I count that lunch hour as one of the most miserable in my life.
I forgave Ascender Lady - maybe she was having a day like that.
I waited. And waited. Aaaand waited.
It took me a few minutes to realize ... she was eating in her car. She had doubled-parked in a crowded lot and she was in for the duration. I was mad enough to spit. All in a huff, I pulled around and began searching for another spot. I made sure to give her the ol' hairy eyeball as I passed.
Then I remembered the one and only time I ate in my car, all alone. It was during grad school, and I was visiting a clinic in northern Virginia. Everything had been going well until I was asked to assist on a chorionic villus sampling. The doctor kept telling me to angle the lamp I was holding to better illuminate the external os.
I passed out cold.
So there I was, forced to eat my chicken sandwich in the fast food restaurant's parking lot because I was too ashamed to face the other genetic counselors. Of course I eventually gathered up the tatters of my dignity and returned to finish out the rest of clinic. But I count that lunch hour as one of the most miserable in my life.
I forgave Ascender Lady - maybe she was having a day like that.
Mar 10, 2008
And now for something completely different
Untitled Prose Poem
It's a change in the weather, a new itchiness to my skin. My body is certain, knows in its bones, that it is time to go. This doesn't make any sense - this time was permanent, the beginning of my stationary lifestyle. I bought a house, registered to vote. I didn't plan to leave.
The mother of wanderlust is dissatisfaction. There's nothing wrong but there's something missing - but there's always something missing. And I'm not going to find it somewhere new. I should stop roving, be still and look inside myself. If I knew what I wanted from life I could finally settle down.
This realization comes too late, I'm sick of this place. My eyes are playing tricks, making me think I see what I want over the horizon. Clarity. Purpose. The singular truth. I could get there if I just -
Left.
It's a change in the weather, a new itchiness to my skin. My body is certain, knows in its bones, that it is time to go. This doesn't make any sense - this time was permanent, the beginning of my stationary lifestyle. I bought a house, registered to vote. I didn't plan to leave.
The mother of wanderlust is dissatisfaction. There's nothing wrong but there's something missing - but there's always something missing. And I'm not going to find it somewhere new. I should stop roving, be still and look inside myself. If I knew what I wanted from life I could finally settle down.
This realization comes too late, I'm sick of this place. My eyes are playing tricks, making me think I see what I want over the horizon. Clarity. Purpose. The singular truth. I could get there if I just -
Left.
Mar 5, 2008
Super Boos-day ... oh yeah, I went there
Everyone knows that a convincing win on "Super Tuesday" is a one-way ticket to a balloon drop at the Democratic National Convention (DNC). Personally, I was more than ready for a clear winner of the primaries. I've been biting my fingernails over this race for too long - I want to know what bumper sticker to buy.
Unfortunately for my cuticles, neither Clinton nor Obama 'won' the day. And neither really 'lost.' This is aggravating, but not entirely unexpected. Maybe, I hoped, the close race will inspire the candidates to even greater feats of derring-do in an effort to win my vote. I do so love being wooed.
Then I found out about "super delegates," and their key role in the DNC. And now I'm pissed.
Just in case you weren't aware, we do not live in a democracy. We live in a republic, meaning we elect representatives to make our decisions. While this does save us the time and effort of voting on every little thing (we would not get the budget passed ever again), in some areas it makes us incredibly vulnerable to misrepresentation. We don't actually choose our party's nominee, any more than we elect a president. We put our votes and trust with a group of delegates (or the electoral college during the election itself), who purportedly vote our way at the national convention. These people are under no stronger compulsion than their own 'pledge.' And if they break that pledge there are no ramifications whatsoever.
If that wasn't bad enough, there are almost 800 political insiders who act as unelected super delegates. And now, with the race so close, candidates are focusing more and more attention on them. Because it's so much easier to win over one person than it is to win over a whole bunch of people you would be representing. *sigh*
Dad assures me that the nominee has always been hand-picked by a small group of political insiders, and that it's the elected delegates that are new. The conventions also moved out of the smoke-filled rooms into brightly-lit stadiums, ditched the brandy and added confetti. I think he was trying to be comforting ... or maybe he wanted to nip my idealism in the bud, before it had a chance to become dangerous.
Okay, I'm done ranting. I've got to keep the bigger picture in mind. Where's a "Insert Democrat Here 2008" bumper sticker when you need one?
--
Update: Apparently, I am like Stephen Colbert on Wikipedia ... I think it, and it becomes true! Erin is my heroin. Without an 'e' because I am addicted to her.
Unfortunately for my cuticles, neither Clinton nor Obama 'won' the day. And neither really 'lost.' This is aggravating, but not entirely unexpected. Maybe, I hoped, the close race will inspire the candidates to even greater feats of derring-do in an effort to win my vote. I do so love being wooed.
Then I found out about "super delegates," and their key role in the DNC. And now I'm pissed.
Just in case you weren't aware, we do not live in a democracy. We live in a republic, meaning we elect representatives to make our decisions. While this does save us the time and effort of voting on every little thing (we would not get the budget passed ever again), in some areas it makes us incredibly vulnerable to misrepresentation. We don't actually choose our party's nominee, any more than we elect a president. We put our votes and trust with a group of delegates (or the electoral college during the election itself), who purportedly vote our way at the national convention. These people are under no stronger compulsion than their own 'pledge.' And if they break that pledge there are no ramifications whatsoever.
If that wasn't bad enough, there are almost 800 political insiders who act as unelected super delegates. And now, with the race so close, candidates are focusing more and more attention on them. Because it's so much easier to win over one person than it is to win over a whole bunch of people you would be representing. *sigh*
Dad assures me that the nominee has always been hand-picked by a small group of political insiders, and that it's the elected delegates that are new. The conventions also moved out of the smoke-filled rooms into brightly-lit stadiums, ditched the brandy and added confetti. I think he was trying to be comforting ... or maybe he wanted to nip my idealism in the bud, before it had a chance to become dangerous.
Okay, I'm done ranting. I've got to keep the bigger picture in mind. Where's a "Insert Democrat Here 2008" bumper sticker when you need one?
--
Update: Apparently, I am like Stephen Colbert on Wikipedia ... I think it, and it becomes true! Erin is my heroin. Without an 'e' because I am addicted to her.
Mar 4, 2008
Internal Pep Talk
C'mon, Sri. You can do it. Just keep typing that letter. Family history of bilateral polydactyly? No sweat, you wrote a paragraph about that just last week - copy, paste, done! What next, what next?
Do not look at that clock.
Results. Call out some results. Ring ring ring, uh-oh you got voice mail. Don't forget to sound upbeat or the patient will freak out ... very good. Well done, you.
I'm warning you, Sri. Eyes on the charts.
Here's that article you've been meaning to read. Read, not skim. You're going to have a patient with a thrombophilia any day - don't you want to be ready?
DO NOT LOOK. You'll be going home any minute now, but if you keep looking you'll be here forever. A watched clock never tolls ... or something like that.
What? A nap? Well, that would be ni- No! NO! Stay at your desk! I know that you're sleepy, that your head hurts, that you'd rather be anywhere but at work right now, that ... that...
F*ck it. I'm going home.
Do not look at that clock.
Results. Call out some results. Ring ring ring, uh-oh you got voice mail. Don't forget to sound upbeat or the patient will freak out ... very good. Well done, you.
I'm warning you, Sri. Eyes on the charts.
Here's that article you've been meaning to read. Read, not skim. You're going to have a patient with a thrombophilia any day - don't you want to be ready?
DO NOT LOOK. You'll be going home any minute now, but if you keep looking you'll be here forever. A watched clock never tolls ... or something like that.
What? A nap? Well, that would be ni- No! NO! Stay at your desk! I know that you're sleepy, that your head hurts, that you'd rather be anywhere but at work right now, that ... that...
F*ck it. I'm going home.
Mar 2, 2008
TV Blog Updates
Here are the links to my February entries in TV Sluts.
Happy Birthday, Maggie Cats! (2/3/08) - Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. It'll make sense once you read the entry.
Strike Watch, Episode VI (2/7/08) - Angels in America. Given that the WGA strike resolved, this will be the last episode of Strike Watch.
News to me ... (2/19/08) - End of the strike and how to find out when your show is coming back.
High Def War OVER (2/28/08) - How Blu-ray kicked HD-DVD's butt.
Happy Birthday, Maggie Cats! (2/3/08) - Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. It'll make sense once you read the entry.
Strike Watch, Episode VI (2/7/08) - Angels in America. Given that the WGA strike resolved, this will be the last episode of Strike Watch.
News to me ... (2/19/08) - End of the strike and how to find out when your show is coming back.
High Def War OVER (2/28/08) - How Blu-ray kicked HD-DVD's butt.
Feb 28, 2008
He ain't heavy, he's my brother
As you have probably gathered from the banner of my page, I have a brother. But I rarely talk about him. It's not because I don't love him, it's because a lot of the time I don't understand him. When asked what he does, I will promptly reply "he works with computers." When asked what his undergrad major was, "he studied computers." When asked what he's made out of, "... computers?" He's kind of too good to be human true.
He works hard, he saves his money. He practices martial arts for the discipline and exercise. He goes home to eat dinner with our parents on a regular basis. My brother is a gentleman and a scholar. So what do I call him? Monster.
"Hiya, Monster!" My voice on the phone is all innocence and little-sisterly love.
"Hello. What do you need?"
"Monster, I am shocked. Shocked. What makes you think I need something?"
"Um. Because you called me?"
*guilty silence*
"If you don't have a question, I should get back to work..."
"Wait! Tell me of this thing you call Blu-ray, and how I can make it my own!"
"Okay, do you have a pen and paper?"
"Um, yes." I don't mention that I'm driving whilst juggling pen, paper and cell phone. That sort of thing just makes Monster worry.
I should try to be a better sister to him, I just can't figure out how. There's nothing Monster needs that he doesn't accomplish himself. I'm not saying he's perfect - just so close to perfect that sometimes their mail gets mixed up.
The one and only time I was able to be of any help to him was when we were children. Even at eight years old, Monster was full of moral rectitude. On the playground he took turns, was always humble in victory and gracious in defeat. This, as you can imagine, did not endear him overmuch to the other boys. One of his cohorts took to calling him an unimaginative yet mean-spirited nickname. Monster merely turned the other cheek. He wanted to set a good example for his baby sister.
Then I arrived on the scene and kicked that little boy's teeth in.
Some of you are appreciating the irony - I've given my brother this ridiculous nickname, yet if any one else attempts the same I open up a can of whoop-ass. Others of you have stopped hoping for consistency, and therefore have much more realistic expectations of me. And that's why Monster and I get along so well - he knows I'm a sarcastic weirdo with anger management issues, and loves me anyway. So thanks, big brother! And happy belated birthday.
He works hard, he saves his money. He practices martial arts for the discipline and exercise. He goes home to eat dinner with our parents on a regular basis. My brother is a gentleman and a scholar. So what do I call him? Monster.
"Hiya, Monster!" My voice on the phone is all innocence and little-sisterly love.
"Hello. What do you need?"
"Monster, I am shocked. Shocked. What makes you think I need something?"
"Um. Because you called me?"
*guilty silence*
"If you don't have a question, I should get back to work..."
"Wait! Tell me of this thing you call Blu-ray, and how I can make it my own!"
"Okay, do you have a pen and paper?"
"Um, yes." I don't mention that I'm driving whilst juggling pen, paper and cell phone. That sort of thing just makes Monster worry.
I should try to be a better sister to him, I just can't figure out how. There's nothing Monster needs that he doesn't accomplish himself. I'm not saying he's perfect - just so close to perfect that sometimes their mail gets mixed up.
The one and only time I was able to be of any help to him was when we were children. Even at eight years old, Monster was full of moral rectitude. On the playground he took turns, was always humble in victory and gracious in defeat. This, as you can imagine, did not endear him overmuch to the other boys. One of his cohorts took to calling him an unimaginative yet mean-spirited nickname. Monster merely turned the other cheek. He wanted to set a good example for his baby sister.
Then I arrived on the scene and kicked that little boy's teeth in.
Some of you are appreciating the irony - I've given my brother this ridiculous nickname, yet if any one else attempts the same I open up a can of whoop-ass. Others of you have stopped hoping for consistency, and therefore have much more realistic expectations of me. And that's why Monster and I get along so well - he knows I'm a sarcastic weirdo with anger management issues, and loves me anyway. So thanks, big brother! And happy belated birthday.
Feb 26, 2008
Why I Changed My Layout
me: wow, congrats
Wistar: the guy contacted me, and i sent him a link to your blog
guess he thought it sucked
guess he thought it sucked
2:13 PM me: um, thank you?
Wistar: they're starting small, so they only wanted really great blogs
i guess he saw me mentioned in the newspaper, or something
i guess he saw me mentioned in the newspaper, or something
me: well, congrats
your blog is very witty
2:14 PMWistar: thanks!
aww, and yours is too. but mine looks more professional, so it stood out
me: aha
Wistar: yeah, you need to do something with the layout
me: probably2:15 PMWistar: get Darren to install you with a wordpress theme
me: probably2:15 PMWistar: get Darren to install you with a wordpress theme
me: but i've not been on blogspot a year, i don't want to change now
Wistar: wordpress is the best! and we can probably get your posts transferred
if not, no big loss
if not, no big loss
me: ...
do i have to have my own domain, though?
do i have to have my own domain, though?
Wistar: don't be so cheap
any blog worth its salt has its own domain anyway
2:16 PM me: uh ... huh
well, thanks for the advice
i have to get back to work, now
Wistar: okay
i'm going to go eat a pint of ice cream and pass out on the couch
laters!
well, thanks for the advice
i have to get back to work, now
Wistar: okay
i'm going to go eat a pint of ice cream and pass out on the couch
laters!
Please note that the above is only loosely based in reality. That is to say, Wistar and I did have a conversation via Gmail chat this afternoon which may or may not have included the word "blog." What do you think of the new look?
Feb 22, 2008
Cowboy up, Sri
Thanks to everyone who called/emailed/messaged me with kind words. To everyone else: screw you, jerkwads. Heh, just kidding. Maybe.
On a much-needed lighter note, I have been traveling again. No, this is not the much-anticipated Adventures in India (With Pictures!) post. I am referring to my recent trip (read: two weeks ago) to North Carolina ... which is almost like a foreign country, right?
I started my trip to the Vale of Humility by driving to Wake Forest University (which, incidentally, is no longer located in Wake Forest, NC) to visit my freshman roommate, Erin. She and I had a tumultuous relationship while living together. To wit, we would get into physical fights which invariably ended in me dragging her battered carcass into the hallway and locking her out. I also had a private joke (with myself) about her pet dachshund, about which I would laugh for hours on end. Oddly enough she did not want to room with me the next year.
Somehow, we are still good enough friends for me to invite myself over on my NC trip. Freshman hallmates are like that - they stick with you like the smells from the underclassman cafeteria, and no matter how many times you wash your hair or change zip codes you can't get rid of them. Erin and I spent a merry evening catching up, bemoaning our love lives, and making fools of ourselves trying to imitate the dancing from Hairspray (which I highly recommend as a movie and a workout video). My secondary theme song, after "Invincible" by OK Go, is now "Run And Tell That!"
Seaweed is my personal hero.
The next stop on my NC tour was the house of Harp Lady and BPH, married friends from undergrad. They are what you'd call Crunchy Granola, and are constantly filled with delight at the various everyday joys life has to offer. Despite how it sounds, this does not make you want to throw up and die. I always have fun with Harp Lady and BPH, mostly because they take me to the most interesting places. This time we visited the Carnivore Preservation Trust: no lions, but tigers and bearcats, oh my!
I so want a stuffed bearcat! Wait, that came out wrong.
The best part of my trip was that, because I was feeling under the weather, Harp Lady and BPH drove me to the grocery store, fed me orange juice and let me have a nap. Maybe getting married instantly makes you a responsible adult. I sure hope so, because at this rate it's the only thing that's going to help me.
Next time, Reliving the Glory Days: Sri "does" Richmond.
On a much-needed lighter note, I have been traveling again. No, this is not the much-anticipated Adventures in India (With Pictures!) post. I am referring to my recent trip (read: two weeks ago) to North Carolina ... which is almost like a foreign country, right?
I started my trip to the Vale of Humility by driving to Wake Forest University (which, incidentally, is no longer located in Wake Forest, NC) to visit my freshman roommate, Erin. She and I had a tumultuous relationship while living together. To wit, we would get into physical fights which invariably ended in me dragging her battered carcass into the hallway and locking her out. I also had a private joke (with myself) about her pet dachshund, about which I would laugh for hours on end. Oddly enough she did not want to room with me the next year.
Somehow, we are still good enough friends for me to invite myself over on my NC trip. Freshman hallmates are like that - they stick with you like the smells from the underclassman cafeteria, and no matter how many times you wash your hair or change zip codes you can't get rid of them. Erin and I spent a merry evening catching up, bemoaning our love lives, and making fools of ourselves trying to imitate the dancing from Hairspray (which I highly recommend as a movie and a workout video). My secondary theme song, after "Invincible" by OK Go, is now "Run And Tell That!"
Seaweed is my personal hero.
The next stop on my NC tour was the house of Harp Lady and BPH, married friends from undergrad. They are what you'd call Crunchy Granola, and are constantly filled with delight at the various everyday joys life has to offer. Despite how it sounds, this does not make you want to throw up and die. I always have fun with Harp Lady and BPH, mostly because they take me to the most interesting places. This time we visited the Carnivore Preservation Trust: no lions, but tigers and bearcats, oh my!
I so want a stuffed bearcat! Wait, that came out wrong.
The best part of my trip was that, because I was feeling under the weather, Harp Lady and BPH drove me to the grocery store, fed me orange juice and let me have a nap. Maybe getting married instantly makes you a responsible adult. I sure hope so, because at this rate it's the only thing that's going to help me.
Next time, Reliving the Glory Days: Sri "does" Richmond.
Feb 19, 2008
In Memoriam
January 13, 2008My grandmother died yesterday.
Vijayanagar, Bangalore
'Do you recognize me?'
I am sitting at my grandmother's bedside. She barely seems aware of her surroundings, much less of me. It is possible (likely) she will never again look on my face and know who I am. When she does find the strength to lift her head her watery gaze passes right through me. But what did I expect? Our lives have only intersected at a handful of points in time. My grandfather did not acknowledge me, towards the end. Why should she be any different?
My tears are unnecessary and unwelcome. She is ninety-one years old. Her strength is gone - it flowed out of her and into her children, her grandchildren. I am part of her living legacy, foreign and strange as I am. Rangana's daughter.
When someone finally remembers to introduces me as such, her almost-blue eyes fix on me. Slowly, one wrinkled hand emerges from the rumpled bedclothes. I take it tenderly, hyper-aware of her fragile bones. My hand feels healthy and too heavy in comparison. She mumbles something even my mother, who speaks Tamil (her native language), can't decipher.
She pulls her hand from mine, and then extends one gnarled finger towards my chest. Shakily, she traces the embroidered pattern on my kurtha. I lean forward and allow her to do it. After a moment, her hands drops and her eyes close.
Everyone tells me that she is healthy for her age. I've caught her at a bad time. But part of me thinks this will be the last time we see each other. And there is not enough time; there will never be enough time for us to know one another.
Feb 14, 2008
Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!
Yes, everyone - not just sickening couples whispering sweet nothings to each other over candlelit dinners. This day o' luuuuuuuuuve is for all of us! And to help you celebrate, I'm sharing an amazing (and, incidentally, vegan!) chocolate cupcake recipe I found.
I don't know, you may be muttering. I'm not much of a cook.
Baking from scratch is not hard, people. Do not be afraid if you don't get things exactly right. Keep in mind my baking motto, YCMAE: You Can't Measure An Egg. This means that the people who write recipes have no way of knowing the exact volume of everything you need - every recipe has wiggle room. So let's begin!
Sweet Chocolate Cuppin' Cakes a la Sri
Phase One - Cupcakes
Ingredients:
1 3/4 cups flour
1 cup sugar (OR 1/2 cup Splenda for baking, with half the calories!)
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1/3 cup cocoa powder
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 cup water
1 tsp vinegar
Vinegar? you ask, understandably confused. Yes, vinegar. Don't panic, mama knows what she's doing.
1. My very favorite thing about this recipe is that it has one mixing step, which is this: combine all ingredients and blend with electric mixer until smooth. Though, I do like to stir the dry ingredients before adding the wet to ensure an even distribution.
2. Fill cupcake cups 2/3 of the way - 1/2 is not enough, 3/4 is too much. But Sri, you might frown and say, what about YCMAE? Look, if you wanted coherence go ... uh, somewhere. Else.
3. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes. This will give you plenty of time to whip up some frosting!
Phase Two - Frosting
Ingredients:
1/2 cup shortening (vegetable shortening works just as well, with no trans fat!)
1 tsp vanilla extract (note - any other extract, like lemon, would work just as well)
2 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons soy milk (or regular milk, if you're not married to the whole vegan thing)
Red food coloring (optional)
1. Beat together the shortening and vanilla.
2. Add one cup of sugar while beating.
3. Add one tablespoon milk. And beat again. If you don't have an electric mixer, your arm is going to fall off right about ... now.
4. Alternate sugar and milk slowly until desired thickness is achieved.
5. Add two or three drops of red food coloring and tah-dah! Pink equals love.
Phase Three - Decoration
Let the cupcakes cool during one whole intro from Veronica Mars (didn't I mention Weevil Navarro was a key ingredient?), or about ten minutes. My frosting came out so fluffy that I had to apply it with a spoon ... mmm, delicious. Now, use some hideously dark purple gel icing from the store to write "VD" on all the cupcakes and coat generously with red sprinkles. The idea is to evoke the image of, without actually depicting, oozing sores.
What? You recoil, bewildered. Wait ... what?
Shhhhh, I told you. This recipe is for everyone. Refrigerate the cupcakes overnight to let the outside of the frosting get a little crusty. Serve them to your friends and coworkers with a smile. And have a very happy Valentine's Day.
I don't know, you may be muttering. I'm not much of a cook.
Baking from scratch is not hard, people. Do not be afraid if you don't get things exactly right. Keep in mind my baking motto, YCMAE: You Can't Measure An Egg. This means that the people who write recipes have no way of knowing the exact volume of everything you need - every recipe has wiggle room. So let's begin!
Sweet Chocolate Cuppin' Cakes a la Sri
Phase One - Cupcakes
Ingredients:
1 3/4 cups flour
1 cup sugar (OR 1/2 cup Splenda for baking, with half the calories!)
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1/3 cup cocoa powder
1/2 cup vegetable oil
1 cup water
1 tsp vinegar
Vinegar? you ask, understandably confused. Yes, vinegar. Don't panic, mama knows what she's doing.
1. My very favorite thing about this recipe is that it has one mixing step, which is this: combine all ingredients and blend with electric mixer until smooth. Though, I do like to stir the dry ingredients before adding the wet to ensure an even distribution.
2. Fill cupcake cups 2/3 of the way - 1/2 is not enough, 3/4 is too much. But Sri, you might frown and say, what about YCMAE? Look, if you wanted coherence go ... uh, somewhere. Else.
3. Bake at 350 for 25 minutes. This will give you plenty of time to whip up some frosting!
Phase Two - Frosting
Ingredients:
1/2 cup shortening (vegetable shortening works just as well, with no trans fat!)
1 tsp vanilla extract (note - any other extract, like lemon, would work just as well)
2 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons soy milk (or regular milk, if you're not married to the whole vegan thing)
Red food coloring (optional)
1. Beat together the shortening and vanilla.
2. Add one cup of sugar while beating.
3. Add one tablespoon milk. And beat again. If you don't have an electric mixer, your arm is going to fall off right about ... now.
4. Alternate sugar and milk slowly until desired thickness is achieved.
5. Add two or three drops of red food coloring and tah-dah! Pink equals love.
Phase Three - Decoration
Let the cupcakes cool during one whole intro from Veronica Mars (didn't I mention Weevil Navarro was a key ingredient?), or about ten minutes. My frosting came out so fluffy that I had to apply it with a spoon ... mmm, delicious. Now, use some hideously dark purple gel icing from the store to write "VD" on all the cupcakes and coat generously with red sprinkles. The idea is to evoke the image of, without actually depicting, oozing sores.
What? You recoil, bewildered. Wait ... what?
Shhhhh, I told you. This recipe is for everyone. Refrigerate the cupcakes overnight to let the outside of the frosting get a little crusty. Serve them to your friends and coworkers with a smile. And have a very happy Valentine's Day.
Feb 12, 2008
I participated in the Democratic primary, and all I got was this lousy sticker
Sorry for not updating sooner, I've been out of town and under the weather. But adventures from India are coming soon! In the meantime, allow me to remind my fellow Virginians to vote in the primary by 7pm today. It's quite easy - you just have to go to your usual polling place and let them know which ticket (Democratic or Republican) you wish to vote on. Once you get in the booth, you'll have the chance of vote amongst any of your party's "major" candidates - but keep in mind that only Dems Clinton, Obama, and Gravel (who?) and GOPhers McCain, Huckabee, Paul and (randomly) Keyes are still in the race. Point of interest - according to Project Vote Smart, there are over 300 announced/potential presidential candidates.
I vote at my local Elk's Lodge, along with the senior citizens from a nearby retirement community. There are always some amusing characters in lines at my polling place. This morning, I held the door for a tiny foreign woman in a fur coat.
Tiny Foreign Woman: [noticing my youth and skin tone] Obama?
Me: Um...
TFW: Yes! Obama!
Bald Man: No, Hillary!
TFW: Hillary's okay, but Obama is the best!
Me: (small voice) Can I just vote now?
If you're still undecided, try this presidential match game from USA Today. Take your results with a grain of salt - I consistently got matched with Dennis Kucinich. Even though his appearance on the Colbert Report was nothing short of awesome, I only like him as a friend. I actually got matched with Gravel over Clinton and Obama, but I couldn't conscience throwing my vote away like that... sorry, Mikey. Call me when you don't have to take the bus to your campaign rallies.
Feb 6, 2008
Primary Primer
If you're like me, you're writhing in indecision over who to vote for in the Democratic primary: Hillary Clinton or Barak Obama. This question keeps you up at nights and you view February 12th, the date of the Virginia primary, with a mixture of giddy anticipation and gut-churning dread. Some may laugh, but I think they'd be surprised at how many people are like me.
The problem isn't that the candidates are so different on the issues. Take this quiz from MSNBC - out of the nineteen issues, Clinton and Obama only differed of four (though one could argue that the fault lies with MSNBC). This article in the New York Magazine is one of the best I've found highlighting the differences between Clinton and Obama. It comes down to how they view the climate of Washington, D.C.
Clinton is, for lack of a better term, a "beltway insider." She's seen the worst that D.C. has to offer in regards to partisan politics. If elected, she'll duke it out with the Republicans for four (to eight) years. We may see a return to the no-holds-barred politicking of the late 90s. On the bright side, she'll be damn good at it.
Obama is a uniter, not a divider. He has a great vision for our nation, to transcend petty politics and bring us all together under the common flag of progress. He is change. He is idealism. And he may fail. Utterly. We'd love another JFK ... but can we afford another Jimmy Carter?
But beyond the "realism vs. romance" debate, it's important to keep in mind the bigger question: Who Is More Electable? With McCain as the Republican front runner, we've got to keep an eye on more conservative Dems(1). Whether Clinton's pragmatism or Obama's promise has the best chance of derailing McCain's Straight Talk Express remains, at least for me, to be seen.
Honestly, I'll be happy if 2008 sees a Democrat, any Democrat, in the White House. If either a woman or a black man gains the Highest Office, I'll be thrilled (And who knows? - maybe we'll see a female minority president in my lifetime. *cough*Sri2020*cough*). But if the Dems can't get it together and score a win after the two-term nightmare that has been Bush Jr's presidency, I'm moving to Canada(2).
(1) If you're reading this, Dad, I'm on to you. I've found the McCain press clippings under the mattress. Don't try to deny it.
(2) No, not really. I will continue to resist the siren song of socialized medicine for a while yet, my chickadees. Never fear.
The problem isn't that the candidates are so different on the issues. Take this quiz from MSNBC - out of the nineteen issues, Clinton and Obama only differed of four (though one could argue that the fault lies with MSNBC). This article in the New York Magazine is one of the best I've found highlighting the differences between Clinton and Obama. It comes down to how they view the climate of Washington, D.C.
Clinton is, for lack of a better term, a "beltway insider." She's seen the worst that D.C. has to offer in regards to partisan politics. If elected, she'll duke it out with the Republicans for four (to eight) years. We may see a return to the no-holds-barred politicking of the late 90s. On the bright side, she'll be damn good at it.
Obama is a uniter, not a divider. He has a great vision for our nation, to transcend petty politics and bring us all together under the common flag of progress. He is change. He is idealism. And he may fail. Utterly. We'd love another JFK ... but can we afford another Jimmy Carter?
But beyond the "realism vs. romance" debate, it's important to keep in mind the bigger question: Who Is More Electable? With McCain as the Republican front runner, we've got to keep an eye on more conservative Dems(1). Whether Clinton's pragmatism or Obama's promise has the best chance of derailing McCain's Straight Talk Express remains, at least for me, to be seen.
Honestly, I'll be happy if 2008 sees a Democrat, any Democrat, in the White House. If either a woman or a black man gains the Highest Office, I'll be thrilled (And who knows? - maybe we'll see a female minority president in my lifetime. *cough*Sri2020*cough*). But if the Dems can't get it together and score a win after the two-term nightmare that has been Bush Jr's presidency, I'm moving to Canada(2).
(1) If you're reading this, Dad, I'm on to you. I've found the McCain press clippings under the mattress. Don't try to deny it.
(2) No, not really. I will continue to resist the siren song of socialized medicine for a while yet, my chickadees. Never fear.
Feb 1, 2008
TV Blog Update
Links to my January entries in the collaborative TV blog, TV Sluts. No, I didn't help pick the title.
Strike Watch, Episode V (1/2/08) Freaks and Geeks
From India, With Love (1/21/08) Indian singing competition
... and that is why I love him (1/24/08) Jerry O'Connell spoof of Tom Cruise Scientology video
I'm A Supermodel Apologist (1/29/08) Make Me A Supermodel
Enjoy!
Strike Watch, Episode V (1/2/08) Freaks and Geeks
From India, With Love (1/21/08) Indian singing competition
... and that is why I love him (1/24/08) Jerry O'Connell spoof of Tom Cruise Scientology video
I'm A Supermodel Apologist (1/29/08) Make Me A Supermodel
Enjoy!
Jan 26, 2008
Blogging from my deathbed
At least, that's what it feels like. I've come down with a cold and today, joy of joys, it has settled into my chest. The worst part of living alone is having to get your own glass of OJ when you're sick. Or having to go to the store for OJ, because you've just come home from a long trip and have nothing in the fridge except some pity curry your mother sent along. Which, incidentally, cannot be eaten on toast for breakfast. Mostly because I don't have any bread.**
Still, I solider on. Wrapped in a fleece blanket, surrounded by used tissues, and hacking up a lung, I blog. Not for my own sake, of course not. For yours. I hope you appreciate it. Below you will find a transcript from my little red moleskin journal, which I so dutifully carted around India. Editorial comments can be found in {brackets}, since I never get a chance to use those otherwise. Parentheses pale in comparison.
Pretty depressing, huh? Well, the next post will be more interesting, if only for the fact that it mentions people other than me. Now I shall leave you with my Lost Luggage haiku:
Doha Airport crew,
You said it would be here.
Why did you lie? Jerks.
**Mom, if you are reading this, it is nothing but filthy, attention-seeking lies. I am in the pink of health and certainly not starving to death. Put down your car keys and go back to bed.
Still, I solider on. Wrapped in a fleece blanket, surrounded by used tissues, and hacking up a lung, I blog. Not for my own sake, of course not. For yours. I hope you appreciate it. Below you will find a transcript from my little red moleskin journal, which I so dutifully carted around India. Editorial comments can be found in {brackets}, since I never get a chance to use those otherwise. Parentheses pale in comparison.
January 6th, almost 7 AM
Qatar Airways Flight 240 (approaching Trivandrum)
Final descent finds me at the window, pressing my nose to the glass {plastic, whatever}. I don't want to miss the first moment when land, The Motherland, comes into view. I fancy I can see the splashing of dolphins off the coast. {At this point it becomes obvious that twelve hours trapped in a flying metal box have gone to my head - I was seeing the crests of waves. Honestly, I can be so melodramatic.}
When I can see the shoreline, it looks almost impossibly straight. No bays or coves, here {what did I expect, fjords?}. This time of year in Virginia, deciduous trees color the overhead view brown with their naked branches. Here, true "evergreens" - palm trees - dominate {*barf*}. The blanket of treetops is interrupted less frequently and in no regular pattern. You are as likely to see a river or quarry cutting into the landscape as human habitation. What buildings there are are {?!?} nestled among the trees, seeming to have grown from the ground themselves.
It's not until we've almost landed that I can see the pollution, the dinginess, the piles of rubbish in unlikely places. It's enough to make Virginia look antiseptically clean in comparison. It is easier to love India from the sky, from a distance. It's only once I land that the difficulties begin. {*eye roll*}
Pretty depressing, huh? Well, the next post will be more interesting, if only for the fact that it mentions people other than me. Now I shall leave you with my Lost Luggage haiku:
Doha Airport crew,
You said it would be here.
Why did you lie? Jerks.
**Mom, if you are reading this, it is nothing but filthy, attention-seeking lies. I am in the pink of health and certainly not starving to death. Put down your car keys and go back to bed.
Jan 22, 2008
Breaking my "one post per day" rule ... for an important cause
Discontinuation of pregnancy. Termination. Abortion. It's part of my job to talk about this option, to counsel women and families trying to make one of the most difficult decisions of their lives. One of the many reasons I hear for voting pro-life is, "I don't support abortion as birth control. It's not right." That's fine, that's a valid opinion. But realize that the laws being imposed apply to all women. Including my patients.
I had one family come to me after an abnormal ultrasound finding. Their chances of having a healthy child were ... not good. They had done everything right, and there was nothing in the family history. Understandably, they were extremely upset during our session. And I had to tell them that, due to the gestational age, they may not have a choice about whether to carry their pregnancy to term.
Can any of us comprehend what kind of position this couple is in? That the laws of our society have put them in? Just for a moment ... try. It is a position any of us could easily find ourselves in, someday.
So, vote pro-choice. Support candidates who are pro-choice. Because my patients' pregnancy options should be informed by medical information, careful thought and faith. Not someone else's opinion about what is "right."
Never fly Qatar Airways
Because chronological order is for the weak of will, I'll start by blogging about my flights to and from India. On the way there, I flew from Roanoke to Dulles to Doha (Qatar) to my final destination, Trivandrum (located in the state of Kerala, India). I was told in Roanoke that I could only check my baggage as far as Qatar, and that I would have to address this with the Qatari ground crew. If only I knew ahead of time that the Qatar Airways personnel do nothing but lie.
Surprise, surprise - despite the reassurances of the Qatari ground crew in Doha, my baggage did not make it to India. I took this in stride and made do with what I had packed in my carry-on. Eventually, most of my bag was located. I say 'most' because my jewelry bag, hair dryer and (randomly) skein of yarn were permanently misplaced. On the way back home, I tried to file a complaint. I was told that since I had left the airport with my bag that Qatar Airways was no longer liable. In other words, they didn't give a shit.
But in the end it's just stuff, right? Stuff can be replaced. I forced myself into a zen-like state where I no longer felt the need to hit people. My mother and I settled in to wait for our flight, having dutifully arrived three hours ahead of schedule. We passed the time playing twenty questions.
Mom: Human, vegetable, or mineral?
Me: (thinking of a kangaroo) Um ... none.
Mom: How can it be none?!?
Me: Hoo, boy.
Then, our flight got delayed ... for a day and a half. And hour delay in Trivandrum meant we missed our connection from Doha to Dulles, and couldn't leave until the same time the next day. Qatar Airways put us up in a nice hotel, nobody is faulting them there. But when we got back to the airport the next day, we were told that the flight would be delayed until that evening due to engine trouble, and that we (and 200 other passengers) should go back to the hotel. Instead of arriving in Roanoke on Wednesday evening, we had only made it as far as Dulles by Friday morning.
We were then told Qatar Airways would not be arranging a connection for us, and frankly we were glad. Good riddance to bad rubbish. But when we got to the United desk, we were informed that we were booked on a flight to Roanoke that wouldn't leave until the afternoon. So we had to wait around to tell Qatar Airways thanks, but no thanks - we'll rent a car. We asked them if they would refund the money. They told us to call the airline. We asked them if they would pay for our car rental. They laughed.
I had plenty of time while waiting in line for airport shuttles, baggage searches, security and passport checks to consider why this whole situation pissed me off so very much. It wasn't that there were some hiccups - for international travel, you have to expect that. It wasn't even that I found their rules and policies to be completely asinine - regardless, people have jobs to do. It was that everyone I encountered was bound and determined to do their job ... and nothing else.
This is why Americans are hated abroad (besides our resource-hogging and utter disregard for others' sovereignty). We expect service. Here at home, it's "the customer is always right." Overseas, it's "the customer is always some jerk who wants to waste my time." Needless to say, this particular jerk plans to write an angry letter to Qatar Airways. If I'm very very lucky, maybe someone will even read it.
*sigh*
Surprise, surprise - despite the reassurances of the Qatari ground crew in Doha, my baggage did not make it to India. I took this in stride and made do with what I had packed in my carry-on. Eventually, most of my bag was located. I say 'most' because my jewelry bag, hair dryer and (randomly) skein of yarn were permanently misplaced. On the way back home, I tried to file a complaint. I was told that since I had left the airport with my bag that Qatar Airways was no longer liable. In other words, they didn't give a shit.
But in the end it's just stuff, right? Stuff can be replaced. I forced myself into a zen-like state where I no longer felt the need to hit people. My mother and I settled in to wait for our flight, having dutifully arrived three hours ahead of schedule. We passed the time playing twenty questions.
Mom: Human, vegetable, or mineral?
Me: (thinking of a kangaroo) Um ... none.
Mom: How can it be none?!?
Me: Hoo, boy.
Then, our flight got delayed ... for a day and a half. And hour delay in Trivandrum meant we missed our connection from Doha to Dulles, and couldn't leave until the same time the next day. Qatar Airways put us up in a nice hotel, nobody is faulting them there. But when we got back to the airport the next day, we were told that the flight would be delayed until that evening due to engine trouble, and that we (and 200 other passengers) should go back to the hotel. Instead of arriving in Roanoke on Wednesday evening, we had only made it as far as Dulles by Friday morning.
We were then told Qatar Airways would not be arranging a connection for us, and frankly we were glad. Good riddance to bad rubbish. But when we got to the United desk, we were informed that we were booked on a flight to Roanoke that wouldn't leave until the afternoon. So we had to wait around to tell Qatar Airways thanks, but no thanks - we'll rent a car. We asked them if they would refund the money. They told us to call the airline. We asked them if they would pay for our car rental. They laughed.
I had plenty of time while waiting in line for airport shuttles, baggage searches, security and passport checks to consider why this whole situation pissed me off so very much. It wasn't that there were some hiccups - for international travel, you have to expect that. It wasn't even that I found their rules and policies to be completely asinine - regardless, people have jobs to do. It was that everyone I encountered was bound and determined to do their job ... and nothing else.
This is why Americans are hated abroad (besides our resource-hogging and utter disregard for others' sovereignty). We expect service. Here at home, it's "the customer is always right." Overseas, it's "the customer is always some jerk who wants to waste my time." Needless to say, this particular jerk plans to write an angry letter to Qatar Airways. If I'm very very lucky, maybe someone will even read it.
*sigh*
Jan 18, 2008
Dec 31, 2007
2007 In Review
I envy young married couples and families at this time of year. Not for their domestic bliss or tax write-offs, but for the simple fact that they are allowed to send out Holiday Letters. Usually printed on some inane red and green trimmed stationary and/or decorated with pictures of the children in matching sweaters, the sole purpose of these little notes is to boast about the family's achievements. Last February, little Billy got the lead in the school play! Susie earned her orange belt in karate this summer! Janet won a blue ribbon for her rhubarb pie at the county fair! Bob managed one more year of choking down his bitter disappointment over unrealized ambitions and dying dreams. Hang in there, Bob!
Why should families have all the fun? Why am I not allowed to send everyone I've met a picture of myself posing adorably in front of a fake holiday backdrop? As we all know, I could make even a reindeer jumper look good.
She's right, you know!
On the other hand, I suppose this blog acts as a year-round Holiday Letter ... only more amusingly and with less waste of paper. And I'm saving a ton in postage (let's politely ignore my loss of productivity at work). So let the families have their letters, which will be tossed in the recycling by guilty recipients as soon as decency and waning holiday cheer allow. My words will haunt the internet long after I'm dead and gone, or a least several months after I've lost interest. Blogs are forever.
Speaking of young marrieds, this weekend was packed full of fun and catching up with friends thanks to one of my favorite couples, Kristin and Kevin. They were gracious enough toput up with me put me up for the weekend in a well-appointed guest room. On Friday, Kristin and I met with Ducks and Chris for dessert at the Cheesecake Factory. Ducks works in publishing, and makes gifts of the latest releases.
Ducks: Monkey! Long time no see.
Me: *patting her down* I know you have it - hand it over!
Kristin and Chris: *edging away*
Me: You brought me a book, didn't you? Where is it?
Ducks: Awww, aren't you cute?
Me: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOK!
And so I am the proud owner of Un Lun Dun by China Mieville. I could barely restrain myself from opening it at the table. Yes, it is a children's fantasy novel. No, I am not ashamed. It will travel afar with me, and excerpts may be read to unsuspecting Indian cousins.
On Saturday morning Kristin, Kevin and I had brunch with Sarah and Brendan on their way through DC. We had an excellent time and came *this close* to being forcibly evicted from The Corner Bakery. Which, for all it's folksy title and atmosphere, is actually a mega-chain staffed by immigrants. Mmmm, just like madre used to make.
Then, much to my delight, there was bridge! Kristin and I always have a good time, because we are compulsive gigglers. This can be slightly unnerving for our opponents.
Kristin: Hee.
Me: Hah.
Kristin: *twitter*
Me: *snort*
Both: *gales of laughter*
Maggie: What's so funny?
Kristin: *blank look*
Me: I ... don't know.
Chris: Can we just play? Please?
But the highlight of the weekend, the proverbial cherry on top, was watching Sense And Sensibility.
Me: Professor Trelawney and Madam Pompfrey, huzzah! If only this movie included Professor Snape, my life would be complete!
Kristin: Wait for it ...
Alan Rickman: *enters*
Me: OMG! I can die happy, now.
It was weird to see him smile.
This post kind of got away from me... Though you may be glad of this rambling during the dearth that will follow. Miss me while I'm gone, my chickadees!
Why should families have all the fun? Why am I not allowed to send everyone I've met a picture of myself posing adorably in front of a fake holiday backdrop? As we all know, I could make even a reindeer jumper look good.
She's right, you know!
On the other hand, I suppose this blog acts as a year-round Holiday Letter ... only more amusingly and with less waste of paper. And I'm saving a ton in postage (let's politely ignore my loss of productivity at work). So let the families have their letters, which will be tossed in the recycling by guilty recipients as soon as decency and waning holiday cheer allow. My words will haunt the internet long after I'm dead and gone, or a least several months after I've lost interest. Blogs are forever.
Speaking of young marrieds, this weekend was packed full of fun and catching up with friends thanks to one of my favorite couples, Kristin and Kevin. They were gracious enough to
Ducks: Monkey! Long time no see.
Me: *patting her down* I know you have it - hand it over!
Kristin and Chris: *edging away*
Me: You brought me a book, didn't you? Where is it?
Ducks: Awww, aren't you cute?
Me: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOK!
And so I am the proud owner of Un Lun Dun by China Mieville. I could barely restrain myself from opening it at the table. Yes, it is a children's fantasy novel. No, I am not ashamed. It will travel afar with me, and excerpts may be read to unsuspecting Indian cousins.
On Saturday morning Kristin, Kevin and I had brunch with Sarah and Brendan on their way through DC. We had an excellent time and came *this close* to being forcibly evicted from The Corner Bakery. Which, for all it's folksy title and atmosphere, is actually a mega-chain staffed by immigrants. Mmmm, just like madre used to make.
Then, much to my delight, there was bridge! Kristin and I always have a good time, because we are compulsive gigglers. This can be slightly unnerving for our opponents.
Kristin: Hee.
Me: Hah.
Kristin: *twitter*
Me: *snort*
Both: *gales of laughter*
Maggie: What's so funny?
Kristin: *blank look*
Me: I ... don't know.
Chris: Can we just play? Please?
But the highlight of the weekend, the proverbial cherry on top, was watching Sense And Sensibility.
Me: Professor Trelawney and Madam Pompfrey, huzzah! If only this movie included Professor Snape, my life would be complete!
Kristin: Wait for it ...
Alan Rickman: *enters*
Me: OMG! I can die happy, now.
It was weird to see him smile.
This post kind of got away from me... Though you may be glad of this rambling during the dearth that will follow. Miss me while I'm gone, my chickadees!
Dec 26, 2007
She's on to me...
Lesson Three from the Family Sri - Censorship
Mom: {something hilarious}
Me: Um ... {correction}?
Both: *hysterical laughter*
Mom: Don't put that in your blog.
Me: {expletive}
Today my mother leaves for India, and I will be joining her after New Year's. From the sound of things I will be spending most of my time in transit - be it by plane, train, rickshaw or elephant. I'm kidding, we don't ride elephants ... we worship them as gods. See, now you don't know what to believe.
I'm really hoping she lets me post it all when I get back. Visiting my relatives is like hanging out with my parents, times twenty. And if you think I'm awkward here in the States, can you imagine me in India? Blog-worthy misadventures will undoubtedly ensue. I may have to record them in my long-neglected journal, on actual paper in actual ink. Freaky.
While I was home for the holidays I came across my journal from sixth grade, which included my... third(?) visit to India. Anyway, it was the first time I was old enough to be fully cognizant of my surroundings. My initial impression of the motherland was, "this place stinks to high heaven."
*sigh* I promise to not be quite so plebeian in the future.
Mom: {something hilarious}
Me: Um ... {correction}?
Both: *hysterical laughter*
Mom: Don't put that in your blog.
Me: {expletive}
Today my mother leaves for India, and I will be joining her after New Year's. From the sound of things I will be spending most of my time in transit - be it by plane, train, rickshaw or elephant. I'm kidding, we don't ride elephants ... we worship them as gods. See, now you don't know what to believe.
I'm really hoping she lets me post it all when I get back. Visiting my relatives is like hanging out with my parents, times twenty. And if you think I'm awkward here in the States, can you imagine me in India? Blog-worthy misadventures will undoubtedly ensue. I may have to record them in my long-neglected journal, on actual paper in actual ink. Freaky.
While I was home for the holidays I came across my journal from sixth grade, which included my... third(?) visit to India. Anyway, it was the first time I was old enough to be fully cognizant of my surroundings. My initial impression of the motherland was, "this place stinks to high heaven."
*sigh* I promise to not be quite so plebeian in the future.
Dec 17, 2007
I'm kind of a gamer
... in that I enjoy video/computer games that do not require too much commitment or hand-eye coordination. My love of gaming started with Battle Toads for old-school Nintendo. My specialty was hitting "Forward" and "Punch" frantically while verbally abusing my digital opponents. As a strategy, I recommend it highly. An homage to the original game can be found here.
Zitz, Pimple and Rash. I think The Professor was a chicken, or something.
Now that I'm adult, my taste has matured... Super Smash Bros, Guitar Hero, that sort of thing. And recently I discovered the games on Adult Swim. More specifically, Viva Caligula.
Oh. My. God. This game makes Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas look like The Sims: Holiday Edition. Game play consists of maneuvering a tiny Caligula around, killing Roman citizens and collecting new weapons. Citizens include civilians, whores, drunks, priests and bathhouse attendants (who die pretty easily) as well as soldiers, tribesmen, gladiators and skeletons (who put up more of a fight). At first you are limited to stabbing people with your dagger until they collapse into a pile of dismembered body parts. But as you gather weapons, you can kill your subjects in new and exciting ways. Once you gather all 26 weapons (each one corresponds to a letter on the keyboard), you unlock the palace and ... well, I won't spoil the surprise.
Basically, this game is messed up.
I'll admit that this game is not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach. But since I don't mind a bit of digital depravity, I enjoyed Viva Caligula. It's simple and easy and lots of fun. Just like (in the overall spirit of letting out my 13 year-old gamer boy persona) "your mom." Ha.
Zitz, Pimple and Rash. I think The Professor was a chicken, or something.
Now that I'm adult, my taste has matured... Super Smash Bros, Guitar Hero, that sort of thing. And recently I discovered the games on Adult Swim. More specifically, Viva Caligula.
Oh. My. God. This game makes Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas look like The Sims: Holiday Edition. Game play consists of maneuvering a tiny Caligula around, killing Roman citizens and collecting new weapons. Citizens include civilians, whores, drunks, priests and bathhouse attendants (who die pretty easily) as well as soldiers, tribesmen, gladiators and skeletons (who put up more of a fight). At first you are limited to stabbing people with your dagger until they collapse into a pile of dismembered body parts. But as you gather weapons, you can kill your subjects in new and exciting ways. Once you gather all 26 weapons (each one corresponds to a letter on the keyboard), you unlock the palace and ... well, I won't spoil the surprise.
Basically, this game is messed up.
I'll admit that this game is not for the faint of heart or weak of stomach. But since I don't mind a bit of digital depravity, I enjoyed Viva Caligula. It's simple and easy and lots of fun. Just like (in the overall spirit of letting out my 13 year-old gamer boy persona) "your mom." Ha.
Dec 12, 2007
Lessons from the Family Sri
Let's be honest, okay? Most of you read this blog solely for the amusing quotes from my adorable parents. I've come to accept my role as nothing but a scribe, a conduit for their genius. And so I bring you the first of many Lessons from the Family Sri.
Lesson One - Microbiology
Me (about the chicken curry): Mmmm, smells good!
Mom: Don't! It is only half-cooked.
Me: Can I half-taste it?
Mom: OK, you'll get half-sick.
Lesson Two - Philosophy
Dad: What is the word embedded in 'independence?'
Me: Don't you dare say 'depend.'
Dad: The point is, law is blind.
Me: First of all, no. Justice is blind. Second of all, no. Just ... no.
Lesson One - Microbiology
Me (about the chicken curry): Mmmm, smells good!
Mom: Don't! It is only half-cooked.
Me: Can I half-taste it?
Mom: OK, you'll get half-sick.
Lesson Two - Philosophy
Dad: What is the word embedded in 'independence?'
Me: Don't you dare say 'depend.'
Dad: The point is, law is blind.
Me: First of all, no. Justice is blind. Second of all, no. Just ... no.
Dec 5, 2007
Not Dead Yet
My birthday came and went, overshadowed by one of my infamous Black Moods. You know that I am usually a woman of infinite jest and most excellent fancy. But even I am susceptible to the occasional funk, especially during the holidays. So I spent most of the anniversary of my blessed natal event curled up on the couch, contemplating the grim prospect of growing older. Yes, I realize that I'm too young to be having a midlife crisis. But when I went to bed at 12:34 AM on December 4th, it suddenly occurred to me - in a few years I will turn Thirty.
Prior to this late night revelation, Thirty had always been a distant and largely insignificant milestone. I had some vague ideas about family and career goals for Thirty, but no real plan. Part of me still expects the things I want to manifest out of thin air (like when I thought I'd get a boyfriend when I turned 16, or my skin would completely clear up at age 20). Turning 25 made me wonder, what if none of that ever happens? What if this is it - working at the same job, coming "home" to an empty condo, dreaming about a permanently deferred writing career?
Maybe it's all part of the process of growing up. When you're a kid your parents tell you, "you can be anything you want to be." As you get older, however, you start to make important decisions (science versus humanities, career versus family, &c. &c.) and some opportunities are naturally lost. You become a real adult person. Going back or starting over would be exhausting. If you don't like the person you've become, tough. You have responsibilities now, people depend on you. You have car insurance payments and a mortgage, birthdays to remember and office Christmas parties to attend.
And I've decided ... I'm not having it. As soon as I let myself settle on what I've "grown up to be," it means that I'm no longer growing. And that way lies madness, not to mention stagnation. So to hell with all of this maturity nonsense! I absolutely refuse to grow older gracefully - I'm going down kicking and screaming.
Who's with me?
P.S. Many thanks to my folks, Maggie and Ruby (and family) for the ah-mazing gifts, to Wistar for taking me out and letting me whine, to FV for you know what, to Liz, Laura, Jojo and my cousin Priyanka (and family) for the lovely cards and to Kelli, Emily, Kara, Mariam, Erin, Sandra, Matt, Andi, Amola, Mike, Davina, Rachel, Danielle, Sarah B. and Sarah Z. for the birthday wishes! Personalized thank-you's will follow, but please let me know if I've neglected to mention anyone. Also, if my brother is reading this he should know that a belated, two-sentence email will not excuse him if he fails to come home safely, bearing Belgian chocolates.
Prior to this late night revelation, Thirty had always been a distant and largely insignificant milestone. I had some vague ideas about family and career goals for Thirty, but no real plan. Part of me still expects the things I want to manifest out of thin air (like when I thought I'd get a boyfriend when I turned 16, or my skin would completely clear up at age 20). Turning 25 made me wonder, what if none of that ever happens? What if this is it - working at the same job, coming "home" to an empty condo, dreaming about a permanently deferred writing career?
Maybe it's all part of the process of growing up. When you're a kid your parents tell you, "you can be anything you want to be." As you get older, however, you start to make important decisions (science versus humanities, career versus family, &c. &c.) and some opportunities are naturally lost. You become a real adult person. Going back or starting over would be exhausting. If you don't like the person you've become, tough. You have responsibilities now, people depend on you. You have car insurance payments and a mortgage, birthdays to remember and office Christmas parties to attend.
And I've decided ... I'm not having it. As soon as I let myself settle on what I've "grown up to be," it means that I'm no longer growing. And that way lies madness, not to mention stagnation. So to hell with all of this maturity nonsense! I absolutely refuse to grow older gracefully - I'm going down kicking and screaming.
Who's with me?
P.S. Many thanks to my folks, Maggie and Ruby (and family) for the ah-mazing gifts, to Wistar for taking me out and letting me whine, to FV for you know what, to Liz, Laura, Jojo and my cousin Priyanka (and family) for the lovely cards and to Kelli, Emily, Kara, Mariam, Erin, Sandra, Matt, Andi, Amola, Mike, Davina, Rachel, Danielle, Sarah B. and Sarah Z. for the birthday wishes! Personalized thank-you's will follow, but please let me know if I've neglected to mention anyone. Also, if my brother is reading this he should know that a belated, two-sentence email will not excuse him if he fails to come home safely, bearing Belgian chocolates.
Nov 27, 2007
Shameless Self-Promotion
My 25th birthday is in one week, and I know you all are tortured with worries about your gifts for me. Is this diamond tennis bracelet too flashy, or not flashy enough? Did I remember to get a receipt for World Peace? Where is the appropriate place for a bow on a slave boy? That sort of thing. Let me clear up the confusion.
Might I suggest that you do good works in my name? You could donate a giant novelty check to a reputable local or national charity. Bonus points for handing it over to a tow-headed orphan, stoic cancer survivor or weeping disaster victim in a televised public ceremony. Planting a tree is also acceptable, as long as you include a commemorative plaque bearing my likeness. For the poor, cheap and/or lazy, why don't you tell one friend about my blog? Seeing that little hit counter tick over (along with comments of any kind) is what gives me the motivation to keep writing. That's assuming, of course, that you wish for me to continue.
I suppose after such a vain declaration I should blog something amusing. And so I bring you, My Family's Thoughts On Their Youngest Reaching The Quarter-Century Mark.
Mom: Oh god, I'll never get her married at this rate. *logs onto indiamatch.com*
Dad: Hm, old enough for House but she should hold out for Senate. *wanders off to make campaign posters*
Brother: What? Is it some one's birthday? *goes back to work*
Just kidding! Mostly. Anyway, all I really want ismoney love.
Might I suggest that you do good works in my name? You could donate a giant novelty check to a reputable local or national charity. Bonus points for handing it over to a tow-headed orphan, stoic cancer survivor or weeping disaster victim in a televised public ceremony. Planting a tree is also acceptable, as long as you include a commemorative plaque bearing my likeness. For the poor, cheap and/or lazy, why don't you tell one friend about my blog? Seeing that little hit counter tick over (along with comments of any kind) is what gives me the motivation to keep writing. That's assuming, of course, that you wish for me to continue.
I suppose after such a vain declaration I should blog something amusing. And so I bring you, My Family's Thoughts On Their Youngest Reaching The Quarter-Century Mark.
Mom: Oh god, I'll never get her married at this rate. *logs onto indiamatch.com*
Dad: Hm, old enough for House but she should hold out for Senate. *wanders off to make campaign posters*
Brother: What? Is it some one's birthday? *goes back to work*
Just kidding! Mostly. Anyway, all I really want is
Nov 21, 2007
National Family History Day
You may be under the impression that Thanksgiving is all about stuffing your face and passing out on the couch in front of football games/parades/Christmas movies (come earlier every year, don't they?). And while I don't wish to detract from the true spirit of this most American of holidays, I'd like to remind you that tomorrow is also National Family History Day. Huzzah! Get out your pedigree stencil and medical records release form, this is gonna be fun.
Don't know what I'm talking about? Check it out on the Surgeon General's website. Getting more information on your family's medical history is not only a great way to annoy grandma while she's trying to enjoy her tryptophan-induced stupor, it could save your life. Right now you're thinking, 'is she being serious?' The answer is YES. As serious as the heart attack you could avoid by knowing about your predisposition to cardiovascular disease and consulting your physician (for example).
The Surgeon General's website has a great family history tool that makes organizing your family tree (or "pedigree," as we say in the biz) easy. And you can have fun with it. Get photos or draw pictures of your family members, and make a pedigree collage. If you're technically inclined, make a website so that all of your geographically distant relations can contribute. Shake any family tree hard enough and a genealogist or two will fall out - you'll be surprised at howbad ass fascinating your ancestry can be!
Don't know what I'm talking about? Check it out on the Surgeon General's website. Getting more information on your family's medical history is not only a great way to annoy grandma while she's trying to enjoy her tryptophan-induced stupor, it could save your life. Right now you're thinking, 'is she being serious?' The answer is YES. As serious as the heart attack you could avoid by knowing about your predisposition to cardiovascular disease and consulting your physician (for example).
The Surgeon General's website has a great family history tool that makes organizing your family tree (or "pedigree," as we say in the biz) easy. And you can have fun with it. Get photos or draw pictures of your family members, and make a pedigree collage. If you're technically inclined, make a website so that all of your geographically distant relations can contribute. Shake any family tree hard enough and a genealogist or two will fall out - you'll be surprised at how
Nov 20, 2007
Another excerpt from Desi Kids
"We're going to have a great time, okay? And make some awesome food, am I right?" The instructor, a petite blonde woman, beamed out over her captive audience. She wore a sturdy apron over her t-shirt and jeans, and as she spoke she whipped her long hair up into a ponytail. Planting her hands on her hips she continued, "Why don't we go around the room and say our names and favorite dishes?"
Sati tried to pay close attention as the men and women around her announced strange names and stranger meals. My English is terrible, she fretted. I cannot understand half of what they are saying. She was trying to puzzle out how to make a loaf out of meat when she realized everyone was staring at her.
"Oh! I am Sati Chandra," she strained to make her voice audible over the shuffling of feet and clearing of throats. "I like to make ..." Her mind blanked. "Ah. I like -"
"O.M.G., if you say 'chutney' you will totally steal my answer!" A long-legged beauty, who looked as if she had stepped straight off a Bollywood movie poster, dropped her bag beside Sati's workstation. "So sorry I'm late. I couldn't find a place to park, like, anywhere. Also, my name's Pooja Shertukde. Hi!" Her grin at once encompassed the entire class and singled each of them out as her particular friend.
Word count: ~25,000. Slowly but surely.
Nov 15, 2007
Progress report
Word count after three days off work: ~20,000. Not good, folks - I had hoped to be up to 25K, at least. Of course, if you count all the blog entries I've made so far this month ...
Personal blog:
11/2/07 - NaNoWriMo begins - 200 words
11/9/07 - Work sucks, I know - 260 words
11/13/07 - Let the wild rumpus begin! - 320 words
TV blog:
11/2/07 - I feel compelled to mention, THE END IS NEAR - 130 words
11/7/07 - Is it moral ambiguity or an epidemic of dissociative identity disorder? - 750 words
11/10/07 - Strike Watch, Episode I - 380 words
11/13/07 - Strike Watch, Episode II - 180 words
Total blog word count - 2200 words (give or take).
Still. Not. ENOUGH! Why did I think I could do this? It's insane - produce the first draft of a novel within a month? Ludicrous!
I once had a philosophy professor who said, "Man's reach should exceed his grasp ... that's why none of you will be able to earn an A in this course."
I've always hated that saying.
P.S. Thank you Rachel, Erin, Sarah, Kelli, Monica, Julie andSatan Melanie for your kind comments!
Personal blog:
11/2/07 - NaNoWriMo begins - 200 words
11/9/07 - Work sucks, I know - 260 words
11/13/07 - Let the wild rumpus begin! - 320 words
TV blog:
11/2/07 - I feel compelled to mention, THE END IS NEAR - 130 words
11/7/07 - Is it moral ambiguity or an epidemic of dissociative identity disorder? - 750 words
11/10/07 - Strike Watch, Episode I - 380 words
11/13/07 - Strike Watch, Episode II - 180 words
Total blog word count - 2200 words (give or take).
Still. Not. ENOUGH! Why did I think I could do this? It's insane - produce the first draft of a novel within a month? Ludicrous!
I once had a philosophy professor who said, "Man's reach should exceed his grasp ... that's why none of you will be able to earn an A in this course."
I've always hated that saying.
P.S. Thank you Rachel, Erin, Sarah, Kelli, Monica, Julie and
Nov 13, 2007
Let the wild rumpus begin!
Big news - I passed my certification exam! Not only that, but all of my classmates passed, as well. You go, girls! Now we get to add C.G.C. to our qualifications. As if I needed more letters at the end of my name.
I celebrated by taking three days off from work to write my novel. No, it doesn't make sense. But I'm OK with that. Wistar and I tried to do a mini-retreat in her parent's house, but ended up blogging and showing each other amusing websites all day. I did type up what I had previously written, and wrote about 500 words .... *sigh* I am so screwed with this whole NaNoWriMo thing. My only hope is to set a grueling pace for the next two days, with an eye to reach 25,000 words by Thursday.
Anyway, after an exhausting day of pretending to write, I needed a break. So Mike and I went out to South Street Brewery for grad student night. I'm not that into beer, but I'm definitely into grad students. I even saw a guy I had met at a party, and decided to be friendly.
Me: *waving like a fool*
Guy: *blink blink, walks on by*
Girl He Was With: *looks right at me, then away*
Me: Well, damn.
I didn't let it ruin my night. Mike and I had a great time. We only left when some sketchy guy in a baseball hat came over to talk to us and ask if we knew any good jokes. I waited until we got into the parking lot to tell Mike the one about four naughty nuns. Our laughter rang through the night like the sounding of joyous church bells, waking the neighborhood drunkards from their stupor at an ironically ungodly hour.
You know you've been writing too much when your prose is purple from asphyxiation.
Word count: ~15,000. Kill me now.
I celebrated by taking three days off from work to write my novel. No, it doesn't make sense. But I'm OK with that. Wistar and I tried to do a mini-retreat in her parent's house, but ended up blogging and showing each other amusing websites all day. I did type up what I had previously written, and wrote about 500 words .... *sigh* I am so screwed with this whole NaNoWriMo thing. My only hope is to set a grueling pace for the next two days, with an eye to reach 25,000 words by Thursday.
Anyway, after an exhausting day of pretending to write, I needed a break. So Mike and I went out to South Street Brewery for grad student night. I'm not that into beer, but I'm definitely into grad students. I even saw a guy I had met at a party, and decided to be friendly.
Me: *waving like a fool*
Guy: *blink blink, walks on by*
Girl He Was With: *looks right at me, then away*
Me: Well, damn.
I didn't let it ruin my night. Mike and I had a great time. We only left when some sketchy guy in a baseball hat came over to talk to us and ask if we knew any good jokes. I waited until we got into the parking lot to tell Mike the one about four naughty nuns. Our laughter rang through the night like the sounding of joyous church bells, waking the neighborhood drunkards from their stupor at an ironically ungodly hour.
You know you've been writing too much when your prose is purple from asphyxiation.
Word count: ~15,000. Kill me now.
Nov 9, 2007
Work sucks, I know
Work has really been getting me down lately (I won't get into the nightmare-inducing details). Plus, my former classmate Emily called to inform me that some lucky counselors have received their certification exam results. Combine the looming threat of failure with general job dissatisfaction, and you get a recipe for trouble. Don't worry, Mom. Regardless of my success with NaNoWriMo(a), I'm not going to quit my career. But I have half a mind to stop all efforts to disguise my gross incompetence. And so, I bring you ...
When I Am Fired, It Will Be For One Of These Reasons:
1. Lack of empathy
Me: So, did you follow-up on those issues we discussed?
Patient: *in a harassed tone* Yes! I did everything, alright? God!
Me: Um... suuuuuuure. Quick question - you realize that I'm just asking for your benefit, right? And that I don't actually care? Great.(b)
2. Poor clinic coordination skills
Me: Head Doc's coming down the hall with a patient who had an abnormal ultrasound.
FV: What?!? Why do they schedule things like this at 3pm on a Friday???
Me: Um. I was covering phones, and I scheduled it.
FV: *stony silence*
Me: The referring physician's office requested this time. They said she wouldn't need an amniocentesis, so --
FV: *stonier silence*
Me: I'll just ... go now.
3. Back-talk
Me: *cough cough*
Head Doc: Hm. Consumption.
FV: What?
Me: He's saying I have tuberculosis.
FV: I have never heard it called "consumption."
Me: Well, that's how they referred to it when Head Doc was training ... in the late 1800's. Ooh, burn!
(a) Word count: ~13,000.
(b) Please note, I did not say this out loud. Even I'm not that stupid.
When I Am Fired, It Will Be For One Of These Reasons:
1. Lack of empathy
Me: So, did you follow-up on those issues we discussed?
Patient: *in a harassed tone* Yes! I did everything, alright? God!
Me: Um... suuuuuuure. Quick question - you realize that I'm just asking for your benefit, right? And that I don't actually care? Great.(b)
2. Poor clinic coordination skills
Me: Head Doc's coming down the hall with a patient who had an abnormal ultrasound.
FV: What?!? Why do they schedule things like this at 3pm on a Friday???
Me: Um. I was covering phones, and I scheduled it.
FV: *stony silence*
Me: The referring physician's office requested this time. They said she wouldn't need an amniocentesis, so --
FV: *stonier silence*
Me: I'll just ... go now.
3. Back-talk
Me: *cough cough*
Head Doc: Hm. Consumption.
FV: What?
Me: He's saying I have tuberculosis.
FV: I have never heard it called "consumption."
Me: Well, that's how they referred to it when Head Doc was training ... in the late 1800's. Ooh, burn!
(a) Word count: ~13,000.
(b) Please note, I did not say this out loud. Even I'm not that stupid.
Nov 6, 2007
Excerpt from my novel, Desi Kids (working title)
The only light in the dim parking lot flickered feebly, like the ugliest strobe light imaginable. The smell of oil and urine was pervasive, occasionally dispelled by a tepid breeze off what must have been a nearby landfill. Though it was nearly midnight, the whole place was filled with a moist warmth that stuck to the back of Artie’s throat. The only sounds were the yowls of tomcats in the alley and the distant thrum of bass. Sirens would have provided an appropriate counterpoint, but Artie reasoned that even the police avoided this neighborhood at night.
Word count: ~ 10,000. I didn't quite meet my goal of 12,500 for the first week, but I think that's a pretty decent start. Go me!
Nov 2, 2007
NaNoWriMo begins
Last night marked the beginning of NaNoWriMo! Unfortunately, I wasn't really in The Mood when I got home. First of all, I had a headache and a slight fever. Secondly, my grammar usage had just been insulted at work (if you know my bosses you can guess who, how that went down, and how blatantly wrong he was).
Anyway, I was feeling pretty low. I know myself well enough that if I'm not feeling in the pink, I won't be productive without outside motivation. So I called my wing woman, Wistar, and begged an invitation to her house.
Of course, I ended up puttering around and distracting her and her boyfriend, Darren, from their work. I played music, I stole earrings, I smelled things, I asked annoying questions. And I ate a lot of leftover Halloween candy. But they took it all in stride, giving me Advil and a cold remedy, and not choking me to death (as they would have been well within their rights to do). So, thanks guys! You're in a good position to get a mention in my acknowledgments.
Word count: ~5000, almost all of which I had already written and was just revising. Poop.
Anyway, I was feeling pretty low. I know myself well enough that if I'm not feeling in the pink, I won't be productive without outside motivation. So I called my wing woman, Wistar, and begged an invitation to her house.
Of course, I ended up puttering around and distracting her and her boyfriend, Darren, from their work. I played music, I stole earrings, I smelled things, I asked annoying questions. And I ate a lot of leftover Halloween candy. But they took it all in stride, giving me Advil and a cold remedy, and not choking me to death (as they would have been well within their rights to do). So, thanks guys! You're in a good position to get a mention in my acknowledgments.
Word count: ~5000, almost all of which I had already written and was just revising. Poop.
Oct 29, 2007
W&M Homecoming
Thanks to Sandy for taking all the pics!
Ah, Homecoming. That magical time of year when we renew past acquaintances, revisit old stomping grounds, and relive our misspent youth. Also known as "every third Friday" for yours truly, The Creepy Alum. But this time there were Events! And a Schedule! And an honest-to-God Plan!
Here's the trouble I got into this weekend ...
Friday
Just In Time - I arrived in W'burg for the Wind Symphony concert. I passed the conductor, about to make his entrance, on the way in. The concert was fun, even if Dr. Feldman felt the need to preface each piece with a explanation.
Dr. F: It doesn't actually sound very good, but you will appreciate it on a purely esoteric level, now that I have described the intricacy of the composition.
Me: I see your lips moving but all I hear is a muted trombone, like in Charlie Brown. "Wah wah wah wah, wah wah wah wah." Less talk, more Bach!
Afterwards, Erin, the Low Reeds and I retired to the Daily Grind (W&M's student coffee shop), as is our wont. Candace introduced me to the newest bass clarinet player in the most flattering manner possible... "This is Sri. She's OLD." Pete and I played chess until they kicked us out, but since we both suck at it we only managed to make it through one game.
Saturday
Ass Early O'Clock - Parade ... oops, rained out. Luckily Erin is still young enough to have friends she can call about these things or we would have showed up with our umbrellas, looking hopeful. As it was, it was all I could do not to cry ... over missing that extra hour of sleep.
During The Game - Outlet shopping with Sandy and Wistar. I was resolved to only buy dress slacks and pumps, for work. Two hoodies, a couple t-shirts and a set of penguin pajama's later, I remembered my lack of impulse control and common sense.
Oh, yeah. I'm cool.
The Afternoon Sometime - APO alumni reception / meeting up with other APO alums. Sandy and I didn't spend too much time with the reception, as it was filled with Pledges who were in middle school when we joined. But lurking on the outskirts of all that brotherhood were the other Old Alums, including people who had graduated when we were still freshmen (freshwomyn?). Some of them are married. Some of them have babies! Age is purely relative.
Dinner - Having eaten all day (kettle corn at the outlets, grazing through free samples at the Peanut Shoppe, brownie bites at the reception), Sandy and I forgo food in favor of alcohol from the 9606 tent. We then retire to our hotel room to watch TV (my friend Sarah joined us as we watched Goosebumps and made snarky comments) and have a long nap.
Dessert - Trellis! We demolish a slice of Death By Chocolate ... which, sadly, is not as deadly as I remember it to be. You can never go home.
Probably should have taken a "before"...
Afterwards - We tried to make it to the Meridian, an indie off-campus coffee shop, for a concert but arrive too late. So we wandered around campus molesting statues and taking scandalous pictures. Good times.
Sandy and her boyfriend, Thomas Jefferson.
Sunday
While Others Were At Church - I snuck into Millington to leave random notes on my advisor's doors. Eh, it was a good way to kill 20 minutes until the Younge Guarde brunch, where I stuffed my face full of bacon and tried to pretend I was a Respectable Alumna.
Just Before I Left - After a brief nap in Ewell Lobby, I had lunch with the Low Reeds. Well, they had lunch. Still full of brunch, I opted to mainline Mountain Dew in an effort to stay awake on my drive home.
As always, lots of fun to be had at Homecoming. Plus, no one was arrested! Aren't you sad you stayed home?
Oct 22, 2007
On the Continent of Wild Endeavor
I've decided to tackle NaNoWriMo this year. For those of you who are woefully plebeian and don't know already, NaNoWriMo is a challenge to aspiring authors to complete their novels ... in 30 days or less. Anyone who pays attention to how frequently I update this blog is laughing her ass of right now.
But my whole writer's group is attempting it, and I figure that trying to keep up with those lovely ladies will help me stay on track. Also, because I have the attention span of a goldfish, I have decided to cut myself some slack and do a book of short stories rather than an actual novel. Maybe there will be a unifying theme like Hope, or Death, or Cheese. It will be completely by accident.
Of necessity, my blog entries for the month of November will be shorter. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I only have so many words in me and I will have to conserve them. It is possible that entries will be more frequent, as I will have something to report (i.e. my progress or lack thereof). I make no promises, though.
Wish me luck!
But my whole writer's group is attempting it, and I figure that trying to keep up with those lovely ladies will help me stay on track. Also, because I have the attention span of a goldfish, I have decided to cut myself some slack and do a book of short stories rather than an actual novel. Maybe there will be a unifying theme like Hope, or Death, or Cheese. It will be completely by accident.
Of necessity, my blog entries for the month of November will be shorter. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I only have so many words in me and I will have to conserve them. It is possible that entries will be more frequent, as I will have something to report (i.e. my progress or lack thereof). I make no promises, though.
Wish me luck!
Oct 15, 2007
Blog Action Day
Some of you may be puzzled by my blog's title: The Biological Imperative. This started as a joke amongst the neuroscience nerds at W&M - every living creature has four basic needs, or "biological imperatives": feed, fight, flee and reproduce. *nudge nudge, wink wink, gigglesnort*
But as human beings, we have other, higher needs that drive us more strongly than the F4. To continue the scientific gibberish (Eh. Why not?), I need only turn to Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. Beyond the simple act of maintaining our bodies, we need Safety, Love, Esteem and Actualization. In my mind, this is what separates People from Other Animals. This blog is an expression of my creativity, an aspect of self-actualization ... and of my need to be loved/praised/petted. But mostly the creativity thing. *shifty eyes*
Anyway, another important aspect of self-actualization is morality. Anyone who thinks a tiger or a sea urchin is as moral as a human being should probably seek professional help. Don't worry, I'm not about to get on my soapbox (I'm saving that for the 2008 Presidential Campaign). This has all been an elaborate lead-in to my contribution to Blog Action Day:
I'm going to take out my recycling.
Now, you may be thinking, so what? But when you consider that I've only taken out my recycling once since I've lived in my new apartment (I signed the lease in August of 2006), you may begin to understand the importance of this event. I may need to rent a U-Haul.
I have the best intentions when it comes to recycling, and try to reduce my garbage output. Sure I'm no Sarah McGaughey or Kyle Glover, but I do try. Whenever I am forced to throw away a glass bottle or newspaper, my soul writhes in agony. Well ... perhaps it fidgets with discomfort. So I hold back half my trash, tucked into the corners of my house, for the day I find time to make a trip to the recycling center.
As Gandhiji would say, "To believe in something, and not to live it, is dishonest." I realized that by keeping my recycling in my laundry room/shed/guest bedroom, I am turning my own home into a landfill. Disgusting, and only marginally better for the environment than actually chucking it all in the dumpster. So today I will sally forth, the trunk of my car filled to the brim, and divest myself of my recyclables.
I expect it will be extremely cathartic. Gandhiji would be proud.
Oct 11, 2007
Wedding Season
This year I had a much lighter wedding schedule - just Jojo's a few weeks ago and Andi's this weekend. Even so, I find my mind turning to nuptials much more often. Maybe it's because all my friends are doing it. Perhaps this is the chiming of my biological clock, being too old-fashioned to allow me a child out of wedlock. And by "biological clock" I mean, "my mother."
Mom: *SIGH!*
17 Year-Old Sri: What's up, mom?
Mom: I used to have two beautiful brown babies. Now they are all grown up.
17YOS: ...
Mom: I need new babies. Who will give me new babies??
17YOS: Um. I have to ... go, now. Bye.
You know what, though? It would all be worth it, just for the wedding reception. Huge party with great music and all my friends gathered around to dance like fools? Sign me up.
By the way, if you ever need a ringer to get people out on the dance floor, I'm your girl. Usually this is the job of bridesmaids, but your best friends and/or sisters will be too pretty and coordinated. People want to see someone like me flailing about before they feel confident enough to bust a move.
Of course, any reception has its low points (two words: Cha-Cha Slide .... *shudder*). And it has to end with that most mortifying of wedding customs, the Bouquet Toss. I make sure to stand in the back, behind some girl whose been dating her boyfriend for a decade or so.
Rabid Bouquet-Catchers: I got it, I got it!
Me: You got it, you got it! *ducks* Did you get it?
Catching the bouquet wouldn't be so bad if we could all agree to get rid of that trashiest of traditions, the Garter Toss. I understand the guys felt left out, not being allowed to jostle each other for a useless memento of someone else's special day. But what is the fun in having the winner put the garter on the leg of the bouquet-catcher, letting everyone watch some random guy grope a girl he has just met? There's a time and a place for that, people (dance clubs at 2:17 AM). Jojo had the good sense to omit it from her wedding, and I hope Andi will follow her example.
Mom: *SIGH!*
17 Year-Old Sri: What's up, mom?
Mom: I used to have two beautiful brown babies. Now they are all grown up.
17YOS: ...
Mom: I need new babies. Who will give me new babies??
17YOS: Um. I have to ... go, now. Bye.
You know what, though? It would all be worth it, just for the wedding reception. Huge party with great music and all my friends gathered around to dance like fools? Sign me up.
By the way, if you ever need a ringer to get people out on the dance floor, I'm your girl. Usually this is the job of bridesmaids, but your best friends and/or sisters will be too pretty and coordinated. People want to see someone like me flailing about before they feel confident enough to bust a move.
Of course, any reception has its low points (two words: Cha-Cha Slide .... *shudder*). And it has to end with that most mortifying of wedding customs, the Bouquet Toss. I make sure to stand in the back, behind some girl whose been dating her boyfriend for a decade or so.
Rabid Bouquet-Catchers: I got it, I got it!
Me: You got it, you got it! *ducks* Did you get it?
Catching the bouquet wouldn't be so bad if we could all agree to get rid of that trashiest of traditions, the Garter Toss. I understand the guys felt left out, not being allowed to jostle each other for a useless memento of someone else's special day. But what is the fun in having the winner put the garter on the leg of the bouquet-catcher, letting everyone watch some random guy grope a girl he has just met? There's a time and a place for that, people (dance clubs at 2:17 AM). Jojo had the good sense to omit it from her wedding, and I hope Andi will follow her example.
Oct 1, 2007
Wild Weekends, Part II
9/21: Davina's birthday in Richmond - Dallying with Desis.
My friend Davina hosted three birthday parties this year, all fund raisers for the American Heart Association. Since I was going to Williamsburg anyway for Jojo's wedding, I thought it would be fun to attend the function in Richmond, hang out with some of her old friends and spend the night there. Here's the best part: the friends in question are a bunch of Desi kids (Desi means "native" or "of the homeland" in several South Asian languages).
One thing you have to understand about me - I am absolutely terrified of other Desi girls (WARNING: blatant stereotyping ahead). They're slim, they're pretty, they watch Bollywood movies and speak Hindi. Basically they are everything that I will never be, and I know (I just know) they see me a tall, awkward freak.
Obviously, not all Desi girls are like this - my friend Davina being a notable example. But because of my certainty that I would be judged (ironic, no?), I've always stayed on the periphery of the Indian community. I pretend I'm just an observer, lambast them on my blog and show up for about half of the major holidays. This strategy that has worked well so far.
But I recently realized I may be missing out on some good times, as well as the opportunity to meet Nice Indian Boys. So I figured I'd take the plunge, and try to make up for a lifetime of non-involvement in the Indian community. I went out with Davina and her friends, determined to keep an open mind. I will embrace my Desi brothers and sisters without fear and without judgement. I will. I will!
I had no idea what I was getting in to.
The night was actually going well - while the others drink and gyrate, I order soda after soda and flail my way across the dance floor. That is, until someone decides around midnight that we don't need to go home (perish the thought), we need to move to a different bar! Tell me this - have you tried shepherding a gaggle of drunks from one venue to another? It's like trying to eat Jell-O with a fork. We make it to the next place at around 1 AM.
Me: A techno club? Seriously?
Everyone Else: Oooh, I love this song!
Me: Oooh, they have couches!
I promptly curl up and make myself a nest of cushions and purses. At around 2:30 AM, a surly bouncer wanders by to tell me, "You know, you cannot sleep there." It was so Bruce from Kids In The Hall*, I almost die of excitement. Soon after that, it's last call and the establishment has the bad manners to turn on all the lights. Like cockroaches, we little ravers scatter back into the night.
Me: Ugh, what time is it? I smell burning. My feet hurt.
Everyone Else: Let's get something to eat!
Me: *whimper*
The crazy thing is, we are not the only band of Desi kids on the loose - we run into a group of young men, known well by many in my party, who are clearly still in the midst of their revelry. Or possibly high. One boy (5'5" on a good day, smoky eyes and luscious lips like a made-up Bharatanatyam dancer) decides that he wants to pick fights. I decide that it is way past the time when we should be getting off the bloody streets. Yet, 3 AM finds us at the only Mexican restaurant that will still serve rowdy Indian kids at this time of night.
Me (adding extra tip to the check): I am so sorry about this.
Manager: We're used to it. I have the cops on speed-dial.
Me: We'll just ... go now.
We finally tumbled into bed (rather, into bedding strewn across the floor of an unfurnished apartment) at around 4 AM. There was no shower curtain. We might as well have been staying in a cave. I was seriously afraid that I would have to attend Jojo's wedding smelling of sweat and cigarette smoke, after having slept in my clothes. But that's a story for another blog.
You know, it sounds like I'm complaining (because that's kind of what I do). But really, it was an amazing experience. Spending time with Desi kids is halfway between meeting total strangers and visiting your family. We may know almost nothing about each other, but there's this body of common experience that we can all draw from and laugh about. So yes, it was crazy, exhausting, and possibly dangerous.
It was also tons of fun, and I can't wait to do it again.
*"I found no love in the hollowed-out belly of a dead elk. Just warmth, and quiet. But then the questions: 'Hey, why are you in the hollowed-out belly of a dead elk? Are you in there because of love?' And always, 'You know if you're homeless, man, you cannot sleep there.'"
My friend Davina hosted three birthday parties this year, all fund raisers for the American Heart Association. Since I was going to Williamsburg anyway for Jojo's wedding, I thought it would be fun to attend the function in Richmond, hang out with some of her old friends and spend the night there. Here's the best part: the friends in question are a bunch of Desi kids (Desi means "native" or "of the homeland" in several South Asian languages).
One thing you have to understand about me - I am absolutely terrified of other Desi girls (WARNING: blatant stereotyping ahead). They're slim, they're pretty, they watch Bollywood movies and speak Hindi. Basically they are everything that I will never be, and I know (I just know) they see me a tall, awkward freak.
Obviously, not all Desi girls are like this - my friend Davina being a notable example. But because of my certainty that I would be judged (ironic, no?), I've always stayed on the periphery of the Indian community. I pretend I'm just an observer, lambast them on my blog and show up for about half of the major holidays. This strategy that has worked well so far.
But I recently realized I may be missing out on some good times, as well as the opportunity to meet Nice Indian Boys. So I figured I'd take the plunge, and try to make up for a lifetime of non-involvement in the Indian community. I went out with Davina and her friends, determined to keep an open mind. I will embrace my Desi brothers and sisters without fear and without judgement. I will. I will!
I had no idea what I was getting in to.
The night was actually going well - while the others drink and gyrate, I order soda after soda and flail my way across the dance floor. That is, until someone decides around midnight that we don't need to go home (perish the thought), we need to move to a different bar! Tell me this - have you tried shepherding a gaggle of drunks from one venue to another? It's like trying to eat Jell-O with a fork. We make it to the next place at around 1 AM.
Me: A techno club? Seriously?
Everyone Else: Oooh, I love this song!
Me: Oooh, they have couches!
I promptly curl up and make myself a nest of cushions and purses. At around 2:30 AM, a surly bouncer wanders by to tell me, "You know, you cannot sleep there." It was so Bruce from Kids In The Hall*, I almost die of excitement. Soon after that, it's last call and the establishment has the bad manners to turn on all the lights. Like cockroaches, we little ravers scatter back into the night.
Me: Ugh, what time is it? I smell burning. My feet hurt.
Everyone Else: Let's get something to eat!
Me: *whimper*
The crazy thing is, we are not the only band of Desi kids on the loose - we run into a group of young men, known well by many in my party, who are clearly still in the midst of their revelry. Or possibly high. One boy (5'5" on a good day, smoky eyes and luscious lips like a made-up Bharatanatyam dancer) decides that he wants to pick fights. I decide that it is way past the time when we should be getting off the bloody streets. Yet, 3 AM finds us at the only Mexican restaurant that will still serve rowdy Indian kids at this time of night.
Me (adding extra tip to the check): I am so sorry about this.
Manager: We're used to it. I have the cops on speed-dial.
Me: We'll just ... go now.
We finally tumbled into bed (rather, into bedding strewn across the floor of an unfurnished apartment) at around 4 AM. There was no shower curtain. We might as well have been staying in a cave. I was seriously afraid that I would have to attend Jojo's wedding smelling of sweat and cigarette smoke, after having slept in my clothes. But that's a story for another blog.
You know, it sounds like I'm complaining (because that's kind of what I do). But really, it was an amazing experience. Spending time with Desi kids is halfway between meeting total strangers and visiting your family. We may know almost nothing about each other, but there's this body of common experience that we can all draw from and laugh about. So yes, it was crazy, exhausting, and possibly dangerous.
It was also tons of fun, and I can't wait to do it again.
*"I found no love in the hollowed-out belly of a dead elk. Just warmth, and quiet. But then the questions: 'Hey, why are you in the hollowed-out belly of a dead elk? Are you in there because of love?' And always, 'You know if you're homeless, man, you cannot sleep there.'"
Sep 30, 2007
And now, a poem
English words interspersed with Tamil, overheard in an increasingly alarming telephone conversation between my mother and her best friend (who lives in India)
vit-amins. calcium, because of the menopause.
gene. gene. genetics.
not a love-match sort of thing. arranged.
five-fifty. three thousand.
hello? hello?
private college. doctor. engineering
dowry. donation.
three thousand.
ooh, four hundred. hmmm.
hello? hello? hello? hello? hello?
*click*
Sep 17, 2007
Wild Weekends, Part I
9/15: Renaissance Fair or, "Excuse for Plump Girls to Show Off their Bosoms."
And I can say that, because I'm ... of a certain size, and I was seriously considering attending the Maryland Renaissance Festival in a Lusty Wench costume.
How did she convince herself that this was acceptable? How???
Sadly for my fans (Kristin, Doug) and blackmailers (Maggie) alike, reason won out and I stuck to street clothes. I did buy a crown of flowers and it is my dearest wish to be able to wear it again to go Christmas caroling. Yes, I love Christmas carols. Yes, I realize I am Hindu. No, I do not care if people point and laugh at me.
The best part of the festival was a juggling team called London Broil. If you like throwing things, humor, or men in tight pants (check, check, double check!) this show is for you. And they definitely appreciated our unique form of audience participation.
Me (after the show): That was great!
Louie: Thanks for coming! And thanks for ... giggling so much.
Me: By 'giggling' do you mean 'cackling?'
Louie: ... maybe.
Me: You're welcome.
The London Broil boys ... clearly, juggling is Serious Business.
In faith, we didst carouse most merrily at yon fairgrounds. Mayhap I will attend again next year!
Coming soon: Davina's Birthday Celebration ("The Lonely Little Desi: Why Indian People Don't Like Me") and Johanna's Wedding ("Dancing The Night Away: Why White People Don't Like Me, Either").
And I can say that, because I'm ... of a certain size, and I was seriously considering attending the Maryland Renaissance Festival in a Lusty Wench costume.
How did she convince herself that this was acceptable? How???
Sadly for my fans (Kristin, Doug) and blackmailers (Maggie) alike, reason won out and I stuck to street clothes. I did buy a crown of flowers and it is my dearest wish to be able to wear it again to go Christmas caroling. Yes, I love Christmas carols. Yes, I realize I am Hindu. No, I do not care if people point and laugh at me.
The best part of the festival was a juggling team called London Broil. If you like throwing things, humor, or men in tight pants (check, check, double check!) this show is for you. And they definitely appreciated our unique form of audience participation.
Me (after the show): That was great!
Louie: Thanks for coming! And thanks for ... giggling so much.
Me: By 'giggling' do you mean 'cackling?'
Louie: ... maybe.
Me: You're welcome.
The London Broil boys ... clearly, juggling is Serious Business.
In faith, we didst carouse most merrily at yon fairgrounds. Mayhap I will attend again next year!
Coming soon: Davina's Birthday Celebration ("The Lonely Little Desi: Why Indian People Don't Like Me") and Johanna's Wedding ("Dancing The Night Away: Why White People Don't Like Me, Either").
Sep 10, 2007
Interesting smells
Over the Labor Day weekend, I went home and colored my hair with henna. I don't know what possessed me. While my hair aspires to be a dark brown, it is actually black and therefore immutable. But on the other hand, what did I have to lose?
I had forgotten (somehow) that henna smells ... less than pleasant. Kind of like grass or hay, but also kind of like dirt. Really fresh dirt from some verdant, misty Himalayan hillside - but dirt nonetheless. That's OK, I thought to myself. It'll go away once I wash my hair again.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Instead, I find myself with still-black hair and the persistent smell of henna, which refreshes itself every time I shower. This is what comes of trying to be more Indian.
In other odoriferous news, Wistar went on a trip north and came back with her own horror stories.
Wistar: *pointing to the drain in the stairwell of a parking garage* This is what all of New York smells like. Urine.
Me: Thank you, that was ... vivid.
And just because I can't leave a list at just two, I'll throw in the kitchen sink.
Mike: *sniff, sniff* When be the last times you did your dishes, mofo?
Me: *in a chilly tone* That's ... really none of your business, Michael.
Mike: Nast!
I had forgotten (somehow) that henna smells ... less than pleasant. Kind of like grass or hay, but also kind of like dirt. Really fresh dirt from some verdant, misty Himalayan hillside - but dirt nonetheless. That's OK, I thought to myself. It'll go away once I wash my hair again.
Ha. Ha. Ha. Instead, I find myself with still-black hair and the persistent smell of henna, which refreshes itself every time I shower. This is what comes of trying to be more Indian.
In other odoriferous news, Wistar went on a trip north and came back with her own horror stories.
Wistar: *pointing to the drain in the stairwell of a parking garage* This is what all of New York smells like. Urine.
Me: Thank you, that was ... vivid.
And just because I can't leave a list at just two, I'll throw in the kitchen sink.
Mike: *sniff, sniff* When be the last times you did your dishes, mofo?
Me: *in a chilly tone* That's ... really none of your business, Michael.
Mike: Nast!
Sep 4, 2007
WTF?
How is it that the internet, information superhighway and answer to all of life's problems, is actually lowering the level of discourse? Search engines have cataloged the entirety of human existence. There is no need to memorize information, to "know" anything.
Person A: What's the state capital?
Person B: Don't ask me - just f*cking Google it!
Beyond that, the internet has developed a language all its own, completely incomprehensible to the uninitiated and the initiated alike. The anonymity of chat rooms allow us to relax our standards of grammar, punctuation, and spelling to that of particularly dense five year-olds. Capable and intelligent human beings end up sounding like this ...
Computer A: OMG i wuz liek STFU!!
Computer B: o rly???
Computer C: ROTFLMAO!!!11!!1!*
The fact is that having all the world's information at our disposal has made it eminently disposable - no one goes to the library anymore. The same goes for communication. Personal letters are laughably old-fashioned. Why bother spell-checking your email, when the recipient it just going to delete it anyway?
And I'll be the first to admit, I am the worst transgressor against Mother Knowledge. I write a blog with absolutely no real content. If I spoke out on political issues or shared recipes or reviewed books I'd at least be contributing to the the vast body of misinformation that makes up the World Wide Web. Instead, all I can offer is psuedo-intellectual whining about something that is inevitable and irreversible.
To be plain: we're getting stupider, people, and there's nothing we can do about it.
*Who am I kidding? I love internet slang. I'm one of those annoying people who will say "OMFG" aloud during normal conversation ("Your dog got run over by a car? OMFG, that is teh suxors!").
Person A: What's the state capital?
Person B: Don't ask me - just f*cking Google it!
Beyond that, the internet has developed a language all its own, completely incomprehensible to the uninitiated and the initiated alike. The anonymity of chat rooms allow us to relax our standards of grammar, punctuation, and spelling to that of particularly dense five year-olds. Capable and intelligent human beings end up sounding like this ...
Computer A: OMG i wuz liek STFU!!
Computer B: o rly???
Computer C: ROTFLMAO!!!11!!1!*
The fact is that having all the world's information at our disposal has made it eminently disposable - no one goes to the library anymore. The same goes for communication. Personal letters are laughably old-fashioned. Why bother spell-checking your email, when the recipient it just going to delete it anyway?
And I'll be the first to admit, I am the worst transgressor against Mother Knowledge. I write a blog with absolutely no real content. If I spoke out on political issues or shared recipes or reviewed books I'd at least be contributing to the the vast body of misinformation that makes up the World Wide Web. Instead, all I can offer is psuedo-intellectual whining about something that is inevitable and irreversible.
To be plain: we're getting stupider, people, and there's nothing we can do about it.
*Who am I kidding? I love internet slang. I'm one of those annoying people who will say "OMFG" aloud during normal conversation ("Your dog got run over by a car? OMFG, that is teh suxors!").
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