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.