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.