Younge Guarde Weekende

As many of you know, I am actively stalking my alma mater, The College of William and Mary in Virginia. She and I have a special relationship. No one understands her like I do. *presses lock of hair to nose, inhales deeply* I will take any excuse to go back to campus - up to an including the glorified timeshare sales-pitch that was Young Guarde weekend.

I went into the weekend ready to be sold. There has been a lot of controversy surrounding The College recently - cross debates, sex worker fights, and questions about diversity programs - all culminating in the resignation of President Gene Nichol. Nichol was never president while I was a student, but I liked the cut of his jib - I wanted to be reassured that his progressive ideas hadn't been ousted with him. I was pleased that YGW started up with a Q&A with the interim president, W. Taylor Reveley, III .

Reveley: We want ... mo-ah mon-eh!
Me: More money? We're grad students and young professionals, dude. We haven't got any money!
Reveley: Other schools have lots of money! We want, we want some of that money. How about hedge funds? Hedge funds make lots of money.
Me: Er ... maybe you could outline how you plan to continue where President Nichol left off? You know, increasing diversity, tolerance and equality?
Reveley: Are you gonna give us mo-ah mon-eh, or what?


Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating just a bit.

Still, I can't imagine what Int. Pres. Reveley was hoping to achieve by informing us that W&M needs $2-5 million extra in the operating budget, and then waiting expectantly. Did he expect a few Young Guardes to pull out their wallets and mutter, 'well, I've got about half a million here...'? He even dropped the b-word (1) at one point, and half of us soiled ourselves.

But here's the thing ... the only way we can ensure that W&M stays on the right track is to give them the money. For all that W&M is a public school, it only gets about 20% of it's funding from the state - it really depends on donations from alumni. The older alums are so influential because they can threaten to pull their donations. It's the sad truth, children, that money makes the world go 'round.

What we need to do is to pool our efforts, donate in a block. If we have a lot of people giving a little bit we may have a shot of out-performing the older alumni. I have visions of the Young Guarde storming the Board of Visitors meeting to present them with a list of demands and a big, fat check.


Who's with me?


(1) B is for billion, and that's good enough for Reveley ... barely.

Quite a sticky wicket

Yesterday, Wistar and I went for a stroll in the park to complain about our love lives ... as one does.

Me: I hate the Indian matrimonial website. It feels so artificial! I don't want to screen potential partners based on a set of pre-determined criteria.
Wistar: Foolish girl, that's exactly what the dating scene is - you're just cutting out the middle man, i.e. well-meaning friends who set you up on dates. Er, sorry about that, by the way.
Me: Hmph. Still, the internet thing still creeps me out. Would it be so much to ask to have a large group of attractive young Indian men fall into my lap?

And then, a large group of attractive Indian men fell into our laps. We had stumbled upon a pick-up game of cricket. The Britannica Concise Encyclopedia describes cricket thusly:

Game played by two teams with a ball and bat on a large field centring on two wickets. Each wicket is two sets of three sticks. The teams have 11 players each. A bowler from the defending team throws the ball (with a straight-arm overhand delivery), attempting to hit the wicket, which is one of several ways the batsman may be put out. The team batting fields two batsman at a time, and the batsman being bowled to (the striker) tries to hit the ball away from the wicket. If the batsman hits the ball away from the wicket but has no time to run to the opposite wicket, he need not run; play will resume with another bowl. After a hit, when possible, the striker and the second batsman (the nonstriker) at the other wicket change places. Each time both batsmen can reach the opposite wicket, one run is scored. The batsmen may continue to cross back and forth between the wickets, earning an additional run for each time both reach the opposite side. Matches are divided into innings consisting of one turn at bat for each team; depending on pregame agreement, a match may consist of either one or two innings.

I included this description in case any of those young men read my blog - because clearly they had no idea how the game is played. Their confused milling-about made the baseball game going on in the next field over seem positively riveting. In their defense, cricket is not the most exciting sport to begin with. ABC announcer Tony Benneworth once commented, "It's been a very slow and dull day... It's been a good day's cricket." But Wistar and I stopped anyway, to leer at the young men and giggle behind our hands. Then I realized that they were probably all undergrads and became slightly sketched out. Oh, and one of them mooned us.

Indian boy: *drops trou*
Me: Oh my god, avert your eyes!
Wistar: He's just adjusting his jock strap. Why are you so upset?
Me: Why are you not averting your eyes?!?
Wistar: Hm, pink briefs were a bold choice.
Me: I think I'm going to be sick.

I've come to the conclusion that my dissatisfaction with Indian matrimonial searches has nothing to do with the website itself. The simple fact of the matter is, boys are icky. I think I'll become a hermit. Or a cricket commentator.

Brian Johnston, BBC: The bowler's Holding, the batsman's Willey. *helpless giggles*

CLAWing our way to the top

Last night Wistar got all gussied up and arm-wrestled a banana. She was wearing a cocktail dress, pearls, and a ski-mask. The rowdy audience members were throwing money around, trying to bribe the referee and judges.

I was there as her manager.

Okay, let me back up. A friend of ours has organized a hilarious fundraising group called C.L.A.W. - C'ville Lady Arm Wrestlers. They meet twice a month, one organizational meeting and one arm-wrestling tournament. At the main event the audience buys ClawBucks, which are used in betting on the matches (and bribing the officials). The proceeds go to different "women-initiated" causes every month. As you can imagine, feel-good fun is had by all.


I really want one of these t-shirts.

A big part of the fun is dressing for the occasion. Each arm wrestler has a stage persona - Wistar is Debbie "The Débutante" Danger. There was a woman dressed in a snake skin vest and hat, a woman in bunny ears and a skeleton t-shirt, and the aforementioned banana. But you know who got the most stares, who stood out the most? Me. I was wearing a powder-blue W&M sweatshirt - I had been all day - with a complete lack of irony.

The way I hovered around Wistar probably drew a lot of attention as well. But we had a whole plan worked out. She ascended the stage and put on her ski mask. I reached up and reapplied her lip gloss. After her first loss, she took off the mask and I dabbed her forehead. She then pulled a pair of pantyhose over her head and I drew pointy eyebrows on for her. The banana was very intimidated ... at least, I assume she was based on her hysterical nervous laughter.


Scary, no?

Unfortunately, Wistar has the upper-body strength of a two week old chihuahua. Next time, I'm going to wrestle and she can be my manager. What should my persona be ... The Dominant Gene? Python-tamer Sri? The Mad Blogger? Seriously, I'm asking - any suggestions?

Miracle Cure for the Blues ... PUPPY!

I had a shitty day at work yesterday, so Wistar took me dog-sitting to cheer me up. Her little sister just got a bernese mountain dog, who needs to be walked every three hours or so. This hearty Swiss breed is used to herd cattle and pull carts. Also, as puppies they are so adorable they make you want to puke.


Actual dog, not a toy!

So we went trolling for single dog-owners at the local park. Nothing breaks the ice with potential suitors like a clumsy puppy attack. Picture the scenario...

Eligible Young Man: Here I am, walking my puppy. Oh wait, the little fellow seems to be rough-housing with a scrappy burnese mountain dog!
Me: Hey, Wistar's sister's dog, come back here - oh, hello.
EYM: Hello, yourself. Is that yours?
Me: For the next hour or so, anyway.
EYM: It makes sense that such an enchanting creature would have an equally enchanting owner. Perhaps we could meet again for a puppy play-date?
Me: *sotto voce* Excellent, my evil plan has come to fruition. Bwaahahahahahahahah!
EYM: Um, I beg your pardon?
Me: Nothing. How's next Thursday sound?

TV Blog Updates

March was a busy month over at TV Sluts! You can find all my entries here, but I tried to provide direct links where I could.

Rags to "Riches": Not Quite a Cinderella Story (3/4/08)
Monkey Sri's Cartoon Round-Up (3/6/08)
An Open (Angry) Letter (3/10/08)
MSCR: The Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy(3/12/08)
If Oprah were the head of the Catholic Church, she'd be the Pope-rah (3/13/08)
MSCR: Back to the Futurama (3/19/08)
"It will rot your brain!" (3/26/08)
After watching the "Supermodel" Reunion (3/28/08)
Cartoons for kids! What will they think of next? (3/30/08)

So cute! Sooooo ka-yute!

OMG, you guys! I have met the most amazing boy. I think he may be The One.

His name is Eli and he lives in California - we met on the internet. He works at a small liberal arts college. Don't worry mom, he's not a professor of Poetry or something lame like that - he's a custodial engineer. I know he's going to go far, because of his excellent leadership skills. When he was in high school, he was the leader of an entire motorcycle gang! He just oozes machismo, but I know he has a softer side, too. The first time we ever chatted, I could tell we had a deeper connection.

PCHer01: Sometimes the girls get put off by this whole motorcycle jacket. Do you think something in suede might make me seem more ... accessible?
monkey_sri: I love the leather. Do you really care what other girls think?
PCHer01: Sister, the only time I care what a woman has to say is when she's riding my big old hog.
monkey_sri: Oh, Eli.
PCHer01: But even then, it's not so much words - just a bunch of 'oohs' and 'aahs,' you know?
monkey_sri: *blushes*

Here's a picture of my sweetie-honey-baby-sugarcakes.

In case you haven't figured it out, April Fool's! I'm talking about Eli "Weevil" Navarro from Veronica Mars. He would be The One ... if he wasn't fictional.

Somebody get me a vicodin

When I tell you I strained my back in bed and my throat is raw from screaming, try not to get too excited.

The other day I noticed that though I had made a nice little dent for myself on one side of my double bed, the other side still needed breaking-in. I decided to sleep on the other side of my very firm mattress for a couple of nights. HUGE mistake. I can sit and stand with no problem - but any sort of transition between these two states causes me to groan like I'm giving birth. Congratulations, it's an idiot!

I'm sure I didn't help matters by spending all of yesterday either in the car or on a roller coaster. C, K & P and I had planned to spend all day at the amusement park and go camping afterwards, but a sudden cold snap scuppered any ideas of sleeping under the stars. Not to mention that laying on the ground this weekend would probably have caused my untimely death. I had enough trouble clambering in and out of roller coaster harnesses. Fortunately, I wasn't in too much pain to yell at the top of my lungs during each and every turn.

As a result, at the end of the day, I had the hunched posture and croaking voice of a ninety year-old. Not so sexy now, eh? It was well worth the pain to spend time with my fellow band geeks. Low reeds represent! I will be very sad when C & K graduate in May, and I have two fewer reasons to visit the old alma mater.

American Identity

Last night I attended a book festival presentation entitled Wayward Sons - it featured two authors whose latests books explore the parent/child relationship. One of them was a young Israeli with a head full of political commentary and a terrible reading voice. One was an older Irishman who, during the Q&A, mentioned to a suddenly-silent audience that he was gay. I was having a good time and laughing at inappropriate moments (as I do) when a bald man in last year's festival t-shirt stood up to say,

"We Americans come from nothing, we inherit nothing. What influence do your cultures have on your writing?"

The Israeli, the Irishman, and I were shocked into silence.

I'm sure the man thought he was being clever and complimentary. But the question itself was what sociologists call "otherizing." Inherent within it is the idea that America is the baseline, the norm, and all other cultures are different. It put both of these authors, brilliant men with important things to say, on a shelf labeled Ethnic Writers*... a shelf tucked into the back corner of the book shop, between Alternative Medicine and Self Help.

Ethnocentrism is not a uniquely American vice; if anything, we inherited it from the British. But nowadays we have a reputation for it all over the world. Among the Indian community I grew up in, 'American' is synonymous with 'ignorant.' I had to fight - I still have to fight - to be proud of being American (without sounding like a mindless sycophant of the current regime).

The answer to the problem of ethnocentrism is not to make tokens out of other cultures and wear them around our necks like badges of honor. Instead we must take a hard look at ourselves, recognize our own unique cultural perspective, and then see the world with new eyes. Not as anthropologists, dissecting and documenting, but as neighbors getting to know the people next door.

Needless to say I wanted to punch the bald man in the face. Luckily, the authors handled it well - their tactful answers covered much of what I just said, only kinder and with less violence. This is why when I am a famous author I can never do book signings. Somebody is liable to get hurt.

--

*I wonder if I'm putting myself on the same shelf with Desi Kids. Thoughts?

Do you want to be a polyester bride?

In the past I have scorned any and all internet dating services. I know several couples who have found each other via the world wide web, but it seemed so artificial to me. Like trying to Google your soul mate. I'd much rather meet someone through friends, spend some time together, go to the malt shop and be asked to 'go steady.' Unfortunately, I don't live in Leave it to Beaver reruns. So when my mother asked if she could create a profile for me on an Indian Matrimonial website, I reluctantly agreed.

That's right, I said "matrimonial." Scares the shit out of me, too. My major problem is that I don't want to lie ... but telling the truth doesn't really work for me, either. Here's what my profile blurb would read if I were being completely honest:

I'm a 25 year-old who doesn't know what she wants out of life. When I spill something (ice cream, salad dressing, what have you) on the table, I spend the next two minutes talking myself out of licking it up. On the floor, one minute. Still, I probably think I'm smarter than you. I'm a complete prude with a powerful right hook - try anything and I may well break your jaw. I harbor irrational hatred for many things, including semicolons and popped collars. Shorties and non-citizens need not apply.

Obviously in this situation, discretion is the better part of valor. I'm still building my profile, but I've gotten two "expressions of interest" already ... both from men living outside the US. Poop.

C-SPAN can be interesting, too

From the President's speech to the Economic Club of New York:

I want to remind you, this is not the first time since I've been the President that we have faced economic challenges. We inherited a recession. And then there was the attacks of September the 11th, 2001, which many of you saw firsthand, and you know full well how that affected our economy. And then we had corporate scandals. And I made the difficult decisions to confront the terrorists and extremists in two major fronts, Afghanistan and Iraq. And then we had devastating natural disasters.

Thanks for the reminder. I had almost forgotten what a terrible president you were. Are. Whatever.

*waits impatiently for Inauguration Day*

Full transcript can be found here. Warning: reading this speech will force you to realize that the man with his finger on the big red button is completely disconnected from reality. Heaven help us.

"I have a sort of ... distinctive dance style."

This weekend, I once again attended the medical school's End of Basic Sciences Party. This is a formal event hosted by the 2nd Years, in order to celebrate their move from the classroom to the clinic. You might expect, from this description and the fact that the word "science" is in the title, that this would be a decorous meeting of young minds in which a perfectly appropriate amount of steam is let off in a perfectly appropriate manner.

You couldn't be further from the truth if it were Opposite Day.

Similar to an undergraduate "formal" event, EBSP is just another excuse for horny twenty-somethings to dress to the nines and rub up against each other. Cultural anthropologist that I am, I could not resist the opportunity to observe this species in its natural habitat. Also, I was told there would be an open bar. What I saw would shock the more blasé of bloggers. Please note that the following is not appropriate for small children, people with heart conditions, or my mother.

First of all, there was the blatant grinding. I was minding my own business at a table well off the dance floor, when I witnessed one young lady bend over in front of her dance partner and start shoving her buttocks into his crotch. I tried not to stare at her bosoms (put on display by her gaping neckline), but they were about a foot away from me and very jiggly. Then, to my mounting dismay, she braced her hands on the table, evidently to gain leverage. This caused the table to vibrate rhythmically, something that will haunt me to the end of my days. There was another young lady who was making the rounds, humping any and all available men. Seriously. I saw her grinding with guys who weren't even dancing, and one who was sitting down.

Secondly, there was the public drunkenness. Now, I am no stranger to 'tying one on,' as they say. The key is moderation (alternatively, close-lipped friends and a safe way home). When you are falling down drunk and security comes to escort you out, that is a signal that you have gone too far. Do not argue or ignore the security officer. And if you go to a place that offers an open bar but soon switches to cash, you grumble and pay up. You do not, under any circumstances, steal liquor. Before last night, I would have thought that these things were obvious. Obviously, I was wrong.

The most mortifying part of the night for me, however, happened on the dance floor. I have a sort of ... distinctive dance style. It is exuberant. It is uninhibited. It involves a lot of pantomime, flailing elbows, and stomping around in heavy boots. When I dance, I dance alone, with a wide space all around me. So it took me completely by surprise when someone braved my blast radius to tap me on the shoulder.

Me: *singing along* My out-fit's ri-di-cu-lous, in the club lookin' so con-spi-cu-ous! And ROWL -
Girl: *tap tap tap*
Me: Wha-? Oh, hello.
Girl: Hi! You're Sri, right?
Me: Um. Maybe...
Girl: I'm the student who will be shadowing you this summer!
Me: Well, isn't this awkward.

I fear this means I won't be able to inspire in her the same amount of hero-worship and awe with my mad counseling skillz. Which is too bad, because my skillz is fierce. Word.

So I suppose I shouldn't judge the poor little med students for letting down their hair (and probably, underwear) a bit. No one, not even me, escaped EBSP without egg on his or her face. Years from now, when they are respected neurosurgeons and dermatologists, they will look back on last night and have a laugh at their youthful med school indiscretions. And then they will call up their classmates to remind them that if they ever tell anyone how they made out with Dr. Greenblatt before he had his rhinoplasty, they will be very sorry.

Happy Pi Day!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Why I Changed My Layout

2:12 PM Wistar: i got chosen as a featured blogger for the Festival of the Book!

me: wow, congrats

Wistar: the guy contacted me, and i sent him a link to your blog
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

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: 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

me: ...
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!

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?

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.

In Memoriam

January 13, 2008
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.

My grandmother died yesterday.

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 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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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*

For those waiting with bated breath ...

I am home.

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 to put 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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 is money love.

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 how bad ass fascinating your ancestry can be!

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.

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 and Satan Melanie for your kind comments!

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.

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.

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!

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.