a promise kept.

Way back when ... I promised that I would put up a picture of the perm that shall go down in history on my blog.

Well readers, Happy Freakin New Year.



Oh, the horror. The horror! Look at the perm! Look at the laser background. Look at MY SLEEVES THAT MATCH THE LASER BACKGROUND! How did I make it out of fifth grade without uppers? Mother, seriously, I love you. But this may qualify as child abuse. Or at least child endangerment. Fashion endangerment, that is.

I would like to balance out this picture with evidence of cuteness at some point in my childhood.



Oh the cuteness. The no-front-toothed, chotli sporting cuteness.

Chotlis! Hee! Chotlis mean braids, by the way, my lovely culturally-sensitive non-North Indian readers. And check out those hairy arms. Man oh man, imagine the teasing. No wonder my skin is thicker than a cut of meat at a steakhouse in Nebraska.

Happy Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night!

Sophia and Guddi (my cousin) on Santa's Lap, circa 1982ish.

Also, please note the rockin' thermal underwear *with flowers* that I'm sportin.

Merry Christmas everyone!

Love,
Sophia

happy holidays ... from wal-mart.

I secretly love the Wal-Mart holiday commercials. You know, the ones with Beyonce and her family, and also with Queen Latifah and her mom ... and that blonde kid who looks like a mini-Backstreet Boy. Yeah. I kinda like them. They make me want to put on a chenille robe and sip egg nog by the hearth.

We don't celebrate Christmas or give gifts in my family. Actually, I'm not a big gift person all around. I dislike birthday gifts. I know it sounds weird but it bothers me that someone went out of their way to buy me something. I get the spirit of giving, etc. etc ... but then I always feel bad that I don't have a present for the gift-giver.

The real secret to my heart? Handwritten cards. They hit me RIGHT THERE. Just like the Wal-Mart commercials. I will be your best friend forever if you write me a card that actually contains thoughts and full sentences.

On that note, Happy Holidays everyone! I hope you all have safe, wonderful holidays and a happy new year.

*~*~

It has been pointed out to me by several people that I'm way behind the times on the Curry-N-Rice video thing. By like 4 or 5 months. Well so-ree! I don't hunt around for these video things. If someone sends me something funny, I pass it along for everyone's amusement. So in reality, it's my friends who are behind the times. Because nobody clued me in.

i will be the eccentric old lady.

I'm on a path of self-enrichment and improvement. To the untrained eye, it may seem slightly silly and and somewhat cheesy. The trained eye, however, will recognize that it's actually very silly and significantly cheesy.

With my med school interviews winding down, I found myself with more free time than normal. I love meeting new people and trying new things. However, much of this remains simply a rhetorical goal and I often end up lounging in front of the television when I could be doing more productive things. Slightly shy of the new year, I've decided to implement some early resolutions.

1) I started taking beginner Salsa classes. My instructor is the finest human being on the planet. And he can shake his booty like it's his job. Oh, wait. I guess it is his job. Yesterday I got to class early and he used me as a guinea pig for a routine he was inventing. It was a very advanced routine. Given that I can barely get the basic step down, I just let myself be spun and dipped and flipped like a Raggedy Ann doll. The $15 for the class was worth it for that little experience alone.

FYI: Guys, if you are having trouble getting the attention of the ladies, learn how to salsa. It's so damn sexy, and so few guys can do it.

2) I've joined a book club. Yes, a book club. With real people. Not like the Scholastic Book Club from back in the day in elementary school. Remember that? Every month we'd get a paper catalogue of the new Scholastic books, and you would fill in an order form and have your parents write you a check? And then you'd cut out the little order slip and give it to your teacher? The day the books arrived in school was so exciting! Uh-oh. Do other people remember this or am I giving too much of a glimpse into my lame childhood? Still, I loved that Scholastic thing. I grin like a kid high on Fun Dip when I think of it.

But the book club. It's awesome. A friend of a friend started it, and I went. I met some amazing women and had a really meaningful and intellectual discussion with them. We have another book club tonight! We read Shopgirl by Steve Martin. It's a novella - a trifle of a book, purposely chosen for its length given our pre-holiday hectic schedules. It was quite good, I recommend it for anyone looking for a quick and fun read.

3) Last but not least. I may start taking Tae Kwon Do lessons. Yes, I'm serious. No, for real. Stop laughing! I went for an intro lesson last week at a studio near my house (which I found through Google. I HEART GOOGLE.) Kicking is a great way to exercise I think. And Tae Kwon Do is all about the kicks. My instructor was this awesome woman who was really energetic. At some point she told me to kick her though, and I couldn't. I mean, she didn't do anything to me. Why should I kick her? There's gotta be an easier way to get to know each other. So I invited her to the book club, of course! (I keed, but maybe I should...)

Yes, so who knows how long these newfound interests will last ... but as of right now they are fun. These next few months are for me - it's the last time I will have the freedom to try such activities, because once medical school starts my only high kicks will be made out of sheer frustration from being in the library for too long.

*~*~

Total aside: If you haven't seen the Curry-N-Rice video yet, here's a link to it. I promise, it's hilarious.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-4532245984549289375

goop

Ah, to be a monkey all over again. I came in for a 7:00 AM meeting where one of the doctors was supposed to give a presentation that I had prepared over this last week. Not so fun waking up at 5:30 AM then heading into work in the sleet and wind.

Of course, the meeting was canceled.

I decided to warm my insides up by purchasing some oatmeal from the cafe in my building. I've never had oatmeal from there before. I asked for a cup. The woman obliged and gave me a cup. I went to go pay, when I said "Oh, where's the cinnamon and maple syrup?" She looked confused. "Brown sugar, cinnamon ...?" She said "We don't have any." "No toppings for the oatmeal?" She shook her head.

Now, two things: First, I think she was lying and was just too lazy to go and get the toppings from whatever shelf they were on. Second, I felt too embarassed to give her the oatmeal back and say "Well then I don't want it."

So I bought the oatmeal and tried to eat it. Plain oatmeal tastes like sand and elmer's glue. Blech. I tried to eat it, I swear. But the goop is just sitting on my desk, a constant reminder that I am a total wuss. And am in the hole by 95 cents. And 2 hours of additional sleep. Gaah!

baby it's cold outside.

I get cold really easily. Over the past year, I've given up fashion for comfort and have decided to do whatever I need to in order to avoid feeling the chill of winter. I have a really ugly white hat made out of some unnatural hybrid of fur and fleece. Since I have uber-short hair, the hat covers my whole head and I look like a potato. But do I care? Nope. Because I am nice and toasty. And, hopefully, noone will recognize me under all that furleece. Yes, I just made up that word.

But the real secret of dealing with the brutal cold of boston is thermal underwear. Lots and lots of layers. Remember when we were kids (those of you who grew up in the colder climates at least) and we would wear thermal (pronounced "THURRRR-mul", accent on the rolling r, in a desi household)? I am talking the old school, waffle-type thermal. In colors like awful yellow. For girls, they had flowers on them. For boys ... well, I don't know. But I'm guessing He-Man certainly made an appearance.

They don't make waffle type thermal for adults. At least I haven't come across it recently. I have an old pair from many years ago that I have been wearing regularly since the weather turned icy. The headache of rewearing one day, doing the inside-out trick the next, and then finally succumbing and doing laundry was getting on my nerves though. So this past weekend, I grabbed my family and went on a multi-store hunt for some thermal underwear.

Results? No cheap waffle like thermal underwear for adults anywhere. We checked Target, Wal Mart, Marshalls AND Costco. Um, hello? I think there is a market for this stuff! Target did indeed carry Cuddl Duds. These are fancy schmany silky feel long underwear. And not so cheap. $20 per set. I bought some, and have been wearing them daily. I'm so warm! I love it. But I don't love the fact that I still would much rather prefer some cheap cotton waffle thermal. With pictures of She-Ra carrying lots of flowers.

I can't believe I wrote an entire post about thermal. I'm sorry readers.

ethnocentric

I think I am too Indian for my own good.

This afternoon, I saw the following advertisement atop a taxicab for Killian's Irish Red Beer:




At first glance, I didn't understand the advertisement. I said to myself "What's Desi Red? Are they advertising to Indians? Desi Red? Is it an Indian beer? What does Red have to do with Desi?"

My brain was so warped and focused on something saying "Desi" that I did not even register the word "DESIRED." And I didn't get the play on Killian's RED being desiRED.

Desi Red. What has become of me? Excuse me, as I go buy my ticket to go right back on the boat where I belong.

su dok me? su dok you!!

I have become obsessed with su doku. OBSESSED.

Have you heard of it? It's a crossword puzzle for numbers. Be warned. You will become OBSESSED.

Ha, I just like writing obsessed in capital letters. I wish I had ominous music in the background.

Here is a sample Su Doku Grid:

The rules are simple. Enter digits from 1 to 9 into the blank spaces. Every row must contain one of each digit. So must every column, as must every 3x3 square.

Go to http://game.websudoku.com. It drives you mad, I tell you. I feel like I'm taking crazy pills!

Speaking of crazy pills ... this morning, my colleague J - a lovely British woman (for those of you keeping tabs, she was the one I initially disliked because she reminded me of Emily from Friends. But I subsequently discovered she's awesome) ... Anyway, J was talking about a building she had visited this weekend, and that it was in pretty bad shape. She used the word "derelict" to describe the building.

I stopped paying attention to her story at that point ... because from then on, all I could think of was ... DERELICTE!!!!!!!!

things that make you feel old ...

Thanksgiving was nice. My two cousins came to visit. I remember when they both were born. And now they are 16 and 18. Oh man I'm old. We don't do turkey on turkey day. Instead we ate steaks and Indian food. Yum! We had to be somewhat American though, so we topped it off with some pumpkin pie. Later that night, I spoke to a friend of mine (also Indian). Same story: Indian food for Thanksgiving, rounded out by some apple pie. Let's hear it for partial assimilation!

Not much else to write, so here are some pictures. Stolen from both my brother and cousin's blogs. I am old. And therefore lazy.

These are my cousins when the were young. So cute!

My brother and cousins over Thanksgiving. They are all grown up. Thus I am old.
The lizzadies.
All of us!

*~*~

Speaking of families, I want to send a special prayer out to a friend - a friend from many years ago and a friend again today, who is going through a difficult time. SJ, my thoughts and prayers are with you and your family.

you smell kinda funny

I used to wear Michael Kors perfume about a year ago. It's a unique scent - once you've been introduced to it you can recognize it quite quickly. Sephora.com describes it as follows:

Michael Kors is tuberose reinvented. Creamy florals explode into exotic spices, tamed by Moroccan incense. A fragrant creation with a wealth of personality that will capture the heart of every woman.

However, once I ran out of my perfume I switched to another fragrance that I wore regularly (Lalique, for you olfactory aficionados). Last week, a friend forwarded along a 20% discount on any online Sephora purchase. It happened to be expiring that day so I decided to purchase some Michael Kors perfume and get back on the tuberose bandwagon.

This morning, I was sporting some new perfume. When my mom smelled me (hah) she said:

"Oh, you're wearing your Michael Moore perfume!"

Yes, apparently I smell like fat white man.

9 months and 26 years later ...

I am finally 26. My birthday was this past Saturday. It was one of those weekends where 76,534 people were having birthday parties the same weekend. Everyone kept making the the joke "Well, 9 months ago was Valentine's Day ... Ha Ha Ha."

My response? "Please, don't ever, ever say that again."

Although, after someone said that to me, I told them the following story, which I will share with you now. I apologize in advance, Mom. But it's pretty damn funny.

My junior year of college, my father came to Boston with one of his colleagues for a work conference (gotta get those CME credits!). My dad asked if I wanted to invite my roommates out for dinner. And, as anyone who ever went to college knows, you jump on an opportunity like that like it's going out of style.

The scene:
4 girls. 3 white + me (not white, in case you were wondering). 2 Desi Uncles.

What happened:

The conversation was a little awkward, as is expected. Finally, at some point, my roommates started talking about where they are from, etc. Roommate #1 was from Michigan (born and raised), but spent quite some time in Chicago while growing up. Roommate #2 was from Chicago. Roommate #3 was from Philadelphia, but her father moved to Chicago some years ago.

We came to the conclusion that all my roommates were tethered to the Midwest, particularly Chicago. We seemed to have reached the end of the conversation, and the silence was creeping up once again. All of a sudden, my Dad looks up and says, I swear on my life:

"Well, Sophia was conceived in Chicago."

The aftermath:

My jaw dropped and I think whatever food I may have had in there fell onto my plate. My roommates looked horrified and had no idea how to respond. My father looked completely nonplussed. After another 30 seconds of silence, we all burst into laughter and couldn't stop for almost the entire night.

*~*~

Here's to 26. May it be better than 25. And 25 was pretty good, I gotta admit. Happy Birthday to all the November babies, my brother included. His birthday is tomorrow.

if i were 50 years older

One of the most frustrating aspects of my job is that I work, for all intents and purposes, alone. I sit in front of a computer all day and speak to noone. It's very lonely and depressing. And, above all else, I hate eating lunch alone.

This afternoon, I went to the cafeteria. I bought a slice of pizza. In various locations in the cafeteria, they have a bench with stools instead of tables. Basically, if you are eating alone, you can sit on the bench. Each bench has about 4 or 5 stools, so you may end up sitting next to someone.

I sat on one of these benches, and an elderly gentleman sat to my right. I ate my pizza in silence, and after finishing the slice, gazed off into the distance and thought of nothing, as I am wont to do.

The old man leaned over and said "Pizza, it's sure hard to resist, isn't it?"

I laughed and told him indeed it is. He proceeded to tell me that he gave up pizza when he gave up alcohol, 30 years ago. He said "I'm 81." I congratulated him.

He asked if I was Indian and I nodded. "Where in India?" he continued. "Bombay."

"You're very beautiful. I had an Indian doctor once. She was half Irish half Indian. Dr. Brenda. Very beautiful. Like you. I also had a dentist once. She was very beautiful."

He continued, "I wish I were 50 years younger, so I could ask you out." And I responded, "Actually, I wish I were 50 years older" and smiled.

He said "Thank you for letting me flirt with you dear. You made my day. God bless you."

There was no element of exaggeration when I told him that it was he who made my day.

more fun with "what do you do for fun?"

The trend has not stopped. Every interviwer to date has asked me this question. Some humorous snippets:

1) An affable yet absent-minded physician who reminded exactly of Dr. Hibbert from the Simpsons. My answer du jour was "I go dancing." He asked what type of dancing. I mentioned Indian, since cultural references are vague enough that they are usually left as-is. I then said, "And I often go out dancing with my friends."

To which he responded, completely seriously, "Ah, so you like to go boogie-dancing."

What's a girl to do? I said, "Yes, yes I do."



2) I walked into an interview at another school. The interviewer was an awkward, middle-aged gentleman complete with bowtie and stilted conversation style. His conversation starter was the million dollar question. Once again, I answered "I go dancing." And then ....

Silence. For a good ten seconds. I shifted in my seat and tried to look at ease. He literally had nothing to say in response. In retrospect, I suppose it was quite funny. Not so much at the time.

3) My most recent interviewer was a lovely African-American woman. She also asked the fun question, and I once again said that I like to dance. She asked what type of dancing and I said "Indian", assuming, as in Case #1, that it would be left at that.

Ooops. This woman had taken Classical Indian dancing lessons at some point in her life and was set on discussing the intricacies of the eye movements in certain forms. I must say I did a pretty good job of BSing, but still. It was close.

*~*~

My parents are CRAZY. LOCO. NUTSO. What have you.

I am at home. A few minutes ago I heard some serious racket downstairs. My parents were chasing each other around the house like 5 year olds. I mean like full on running through the house. He was trying to tickle her and she was trying to hit him, and it evolved into a high-stakes game of tag. Along with shouting and laughing. Highly unnatural for my nearly sexagenarian parents. One of whom has had knee surgery.

Suddenly I hear a huge thud and a high pitched shriek "Oh NO! Oh NO!!" I ran downstairs and saw my dad sprawled out on the hardwood living room floor. In his button down and sweater vest and trouser socks. My mom is huddled in the corner crying, realizing that she has been an integral part of this disaster. I kneel down and ask my dad if he's OK. He can't stop laughing. He's fine, but bruised his knees.

I felt like scolding them both and giving them a time out.

and we're back

The last few weeks have been quite hectic. Lots of med school interviews, which means lots of traveling and skipping work (two things I enjoy immensely). So much to tell, so little will to organize my thoughts clearly. Here's a data dump of totally asinine information, should you be so inclined to read it:

My appetite is on the fritz again. For the past few weeks, I didn't eat much. The unhealthy consequence was that I lost some weight. I know it's something I shouldn't complain about, but as I've mentioned, losing weight puts me dangerously close to the gross anorexic cocaine sniffing waifish category. I'm particularly upset about this weight loss for the following reason: The weight came off my butt. That's right. Normally my weight fluctuations are evenly distributed across my body. But this time, a few pounds fell right off my keister. And now my butt's all bony and sadly not badonkadonk. Prior to going on my interviews, I tried on some business suits I had in my closet. My mom saw me in them, and said: "Where did your butt go? You used to have some shape, and now it's just flat. You have no butt."

My mom chastized me for my flat bum. Can my life get any sadder?

General commentary: I think it's great that J Lo et. al (hah, that sounds like a paper, citation, right? Social perceptions toward derriere magnitude. J. Lo et. al. Journal of Hindquarter Sociology, 2005.) I digress. I think it's great that shapely bootys are valued. It's a throw back to the days of Sir Mix-A-Lot. He likes big butts, and he cannot lie. Those other brothers just can't deny.

The other funny thing I noticed was that my dad pluralizes the word "butt." When I showed him the business suit and pointed out that it was loose in the back, he said "Yes, it's too loose in the butts." I don't why, but I find this incredibly funny. I am laughing right now thinking about it.

I interviewed at a school in the Midwest and ended up spending a weekend with a very good friend of mine who lives there. We went to Blockbuster one night to rent a video. If you want to check out some serious Midwest fashion, Blockbuster on a Saturday night is the place to be! We saw one woman wearing a very odd outfit - a brown skirt, a white ruffle top, and elbow length pink suede gloves. My friend was extremely disturbed by her. I thought it was because of the outfit, but he corrected me. "Soph," he said, "didn't you notice that she was wearing rings on the OUTSIDE of her gloves??" Unfortunately I missed that sight, but let me assure you that my friend was traumatized.

So here I am, back in Boston for two days before I'm off to more interviews. Last night I flipped on the telly to relax. I'm not a West Wing person, but I was enthralled with the fake debate last night on TV. For anyone who saw it as well (um, maybe just the ladies), I hope you can collaborate my new desire to have Jimmy Smit's love child.

The good news is that my appetite is slowly but surely coming back. As, I hope will my back, know what I'm sayin? Aha, do you now see the double entendre in the title of this post? Clever, huh? Come on, throw me a bone here. Jimmy, I'm doing it for you baby!

what do you do for fun?

I had my first medical school interview on Friday. It was ... blah. Not bad, not great. This school has a reputation of being rigorous and competitive. Everyone there - from students to faculty, made a great effort to try and dispel this perception. They kept saying:

"Don't worry about the interview! It's just to make sure you are a social person and someone we would want to have as our classmate!"

That's understandable. What became aggravating, however, was that many people - including current students as well as my interviewers, all asked the following question:

"So, what do you do for fun?"

I've decided that this is the dumbest question you can ask in an interview. I understand you want to gauge where I fall on the social aptitude test (the "New" SAT!). But honestly, how are you supposed to answer this question without sounding like a total toolbag? Standard answers (some of which I said, many of which I heard fellow interviees say), along with my personal interpretation include:

#1: I hang out with my friends
(Please believe me! I really have friends!)

#2: I go to the movies and hang out with my friends
(Please believe me! I really have friends! And PS I grew up in the suburbs).

#3: I play the guitar
(By any chance will you believe that I'm really chill and not competitive? I'll host campfires in my room and we can roast marshmallows. PS: I'm really a freak who loves Star Trek).

#4: I sing
(Shout out to my resume! Please take a second look and see that I sung in an a capella group, re-emphasizing that I am indeed a well rounded individual. Can you please tell the admissions committee that? Please??)

I was partial to #2 in my own interviews. I find it ironic that had I been truthful, people probably would have looked at me like a freak. Even though the things I do are TOTALLY normal. Here's what I mean:

#1: I wear hootchie mama outfits and go dancing with my equally hootched out friends.
#2: Lifetime, Television for Women.
#3: My Super Sweet 16. Actually, this should be #1.
#4: Taco Bell
#5: Any Will Ferrell movie. Especially Old School. Frank the Tank! Frank the Tank!
#6: Making fun of people. We all do it. And admit it. It's fun.
#7: Write about people who ask dumb questions like "what do you do for fun?" on my blog.

When I was banking, I had to interview potential candidates. I asked one girl what she did for fun (I know, I know). She said she makes stained glass windows. And you know what? She GOT THE JOB. Because when it comes to med school or a job, it doesn't matter what you do for fun. What matters is can you get the job done and not get on my nerves too much.

*~*~

I had a bad weekend. I felt overwhelmed and really depressed - and no, I did NOT need a Midol. I stayed in bed all weekend and felt sorry for myself, while indeed watching Lifetime, Television for Women. Seriously, there is a reason that channel rocks. Depressed women everywhere, unite!

So, um, what do YOU do for fun?

mmm, foot tastes good.

The other day, one of my roommates was telling me about a great deal on a pair of shoes. He wanted to buy casual black shoes. He shopped around and didn't really find anything he liked. Exhausted and frustrated, he wandered into Marshall's for one last try. And -- ta da da da -- he found the perfect pair of shoes on the CLEARANCE RACK! Isn't it so great when that happens? You find exactly what you want, and it's super cheap! He kept saying how cheap the shoes were, etc. Then he said "Oh, I'll get the shoes and show them to you."

So he did. They were um, nice. Men's shoes all look the same to me. My roommate said, very enthusiastically:

"Guess how much they were? Guess! You'll never guess."

I said "I don't know..."

"Guess!"

I mean, he kept saying they were on CLEARANCE so I ventured, "I don't know, $30?"

He looked crestfallen. "Oh man! You just ruined it for me. That's no fun. Come on man, they were $43."

Oops. I should've realized that I was on a slippery slope once I let a number out of my mouth. Seriously though. Whenever I'm that excited about a deal - it's because I found something that was worth $100 for $1.99. Like, "Guess how much my shirt cost? Don't mind the mismatched sleeves or flammable material. Guess! 50 cents! That's right, my shirt only cost 50 CENTS!"

THAT is when you brag about getting a deal. FYI, I'm totally the person who would guess $1 on the Price Is Right. Or, if someone did it before I did, I'm the person who would guess $2. Don't you just hate that person? But secretly you LOVE them.

les larmes, part deux

(Translation: The Tears, Part Deux. Sort of like, Hot Shots! Part Deux.)

Previously, in Sophialand ...

Lots of crying, for rather asinine reasons, up until college.

Fast forward to Summer 2001 ...

I began a job at Stuffy Investment Bank, LLP. I wish someone had slapped me really hard and said "Snapoutofit!" a la Cher in Moonstruck before I took that job. The reputation of the firm as very demanding and cold preceded it. They even gave me an exploding offer, which in retrospect I realize should have been a red flag. An exploding offer is one where you basically have to take the job on the spot or they take the deal off the table. No more Man 1? I can't go on trial for Murder 2 ... No! Put the deal back on the table!!

Perhaps I am being too mean. But that's my prerogative (Bobby, not Britney). All the things I had heard were true. The firm was quite impersonal and my life was analagous to an indentured servitude. There was hazing and there were all nighters and situations where I was made to feel this big. I worked really hard - sometimes for people I respected; oftentimes for people I didn't.

I tried to stay strong and show a professional demeanor. But I will not lie to you. I cried on the job many times. It was a response to being yelled at, slighted, or patronized. The NY Times article from before describes some reasons why women may be prone to crying. I agree with many of them. I knew I shouldn't cry and that it made me look really childish and annoying. But I couldn't help it. I tried every trick in the book - biting my lip, deep breaths, Kit Kat bar or two from the vending machine. But there are times where you are so frustrated that tears flow before you can stop them.

I will never forget one day where everything was so bad that I started to cry. And I couldn't stop. I was sitting at my desk, and after a few minutes of tears I started to feel better. But I physically could not stop crying. It was as if the switch had broken. I began to get really worried about being unable to stop crying. It was so bad that my coworker who sat next to me had to lead me outside and take me to lunch just so that people wouldn't see the spectacle.

Now that my life is totally different, I reflect back on that time and think several disjointed thoughts. Primarily, I feel anger. Yes, certain jobs are demanding and people have short fuses and stress levels are sky high. But for goodness sake, it's JUST A JOB. The people I worked with took themselves way too seriously and had such masochistic tendencies that humiliating other people made them feel good. As always, I must caveat that this only applies to certain people I worked with - there were others who were supportive and helpful. I have two conclusions about that time in my life that I have reached. They are:

1) I should not have taken things so personally. I think this is definitely in the top 5 of life's most important lessons. It's never about you. Sometimes people suck. I would have cried less and muttered some expletives more had I been less emotionally involved. Also, I think men have serious advantage over women in this arena. Must be the estrogen or something.

2) People should be nicer. It is a waste of energy and it is poor management to lead with an acidic approach. Ex-post-bad-job-o, I have had many positive work experiences - whether professionally or through community service. And guess what? Positive feedback works! At my second job (a hedge fund), I worked with a lawyer who I can only describe as one of the best and kindest people I've ever met. Whenever I did any analyses for him, he always thanked me and encouraged me. And that made me want to produce really good work for him, and for the firm. It's not brain surgery people.

Were my tears wasted? I don't think so. I do think I was young and uninitiated to the big bad insensitive world. And I know that that world is not limited to finance. I'm sure I'll face my fair share of abuse in medicine as well. But there are some key differences. I'm older and (hopefully) stronger. I realize that one reason I cried so much in finance was because I felt helpless. Deep down I knew that I was working so hard for a field in which I likely had no future. My heart knew I was in the wrong career way before my brain did. Re: medicine, I will face significant stress, but - pardon the cliche - there is a perpetual light at the end of this tunnel.

(Cue: "Wind Beneath My Wings" for sappiness followed by "Bootylicious" for some Grrrl Power, since those are the two themes spilling out excessively from this post. I need to shake the emotional fog. New post to follow immediately after this one...)

the crying game

I just read this article in the NY Times about women and crying. It talks about reasons women may be prone to crying as well as why women shouldn't do it at work. It really hit a nerve. Or my lacriminal duct.

I am a crier. If you yell at me, I will cry. If I have a fight with my friend, I will cry. If you may be wondering about the origins of this tendency, I invite you to meet my mother. If Muslims believed in Goddesses, I would christen her the Goddess of Tears. Because the woman could irrigate the Sahara Desert under any of the following circumstances:

1) A phone call from me. Any random phone call. She loves me so much she sometimes cries if I just call. I realize this makes me the luckiest person in the entire world. It also makes her absolutely insane because I'm wacko. But if loving me is wrong, then she don't wanna be right.

2) A fight with anyone. Especially a fight between my brother and me. (N.B. the grammar nazi confirms that the correct preposition following between is indeed "me" and not "I")

3) Any Jennifer Lopez movie. Either because she ultimately gets the guy or because the movie sucks that badly. Usually both.

Now that the genetic lineage of my crying has been established, let me share with you some vivid crying memories.

* Sixth grade. The entire sixth grade class took a 3 day trip to a ghetto place called Frost Valley, where we learned cross country skiing. Now that I am an 'adult' I realize this was just a flimsy excuse for the teachers to have illicit affairs and to let the kids run around and be obnoxious to each other in a venue outside of the classroom. There were two girls I was friends with - Alison and Lena. But they seemed particularly chummy on that trip and I felt left out. So I started crying and didn't stop for the entire three days. Amazingly, Lena remains one of my closest friends to this day. And for the past 15 years, she has continued to remind me of the sob fest that was Sophia circa 1991.

* Eleventh Grade. Second day of AP American History. We were supposed to write a scholarly book report over the summer and turn it in the first day of school. I got it back the second day of school. I had written it the night before it was due, and I hadn't even read the book. But come on! I was Sophia, earner of good grades, sometimes even if by magic. The very butch and daunting teacher handed me back my paper. With a 72 written on it. Holy sh*t! Surely the paper must have been graded out of 72, right? I got a C on a paper? How would I ever get into Harvard?! My life was over!! A little psycho? Sure. But I bet my life that every single person I went to college with had a similar experience at some point. Because all people who go to Harvard were anal retentive dorks in high school. And frankly through most of college. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar. That's right. I said it. Whatcha gonna do?

Oh, I lost my train of thought. Sorry. Anyway. 72 on the paper. Cue the sobbing. In the middle of class. Tears and snot and stifled giggles by classmates galore. The next day, I walked into class and raised my hand during the discussion. The teacher looked at me, didn't miss a beat, and said "Yes, Ms. Weeper?" He called me Weeper for the rest of the year. Lena was also in this class. For the past 10 years, she has continued to remind me of the disaster that was Sophia circa 1996.

* Freshman year of college. I had just been dumped by my boyfriend of four months. Which, if you can recall your freshman year of college, seems like the social equivalent of an eternity. Enter the saltwaterfall, Hershey chocolate bars and Sarah McLaughlin CD. Cried straight through chemistry class. Though, at Harvard, one could easily attribute that to the pain that was freshman Chem.

Since it's late and I'm a bit sleepy, I will end this post now. It's interesting, actually. I began the post with the full intention of writing about my experiences of crying at the job while on Wall Street, and all the things I dealt with and learned. But I delved further back into my life than I thought. The second half of the post shall come tomorrow ...

*~*~

Jimmy Dugan: Are you crying? Are you crying? ARE YOU CRYING? There's no crying, there's no crying in baseball. Rogers Hornsby was my manager, and he called me a talking pile of pigsh*t. And that was when my parents drove all the way down from Michigan to see me play the game. And did I cry? NO. NO. And do you know why?

Evelyn Gardner: No, no, no.

Jimmy Dugan: Because there's no crying in baseball. There's no crying in baseball!

i watch too much TV.

The hardest part of any addiction is admitting that you have a problem. So here goes:

I think I watch too much TV.

More acurately, I think I watched too much TV for a good part of my life. Because today something happened that made me realize two things:

1) Precious brain space is being clogged up by TV related things
2) Too much TV can blur the lines between reality and, well, not-reality.

This afternoon, I met a British doctor who is spending a year at the hospital to do research. I had to meet her at the reception desk and show her to a conference room. We chatted briefly. She is obviously uber-intelligent, well put together and quite personable.

So why did I have this nagging feeling that I didn't like her? I met her for all of one minute and I decided something was off. Am I so judgmental and petty? As I reflected on my immature reaction, I realized what it was about her that seemed offensive.

She looked and sounded exactly like the woman who played Emily (Ross' British chick) on Friends. It was eerie. What was truly frightening though, was that my thoughts about a fake person on TELEVISION somehow manifested themselves in real life. Thank goodness I didn't look at her and say: Damn you for trying to get between Ross and Rachel!

I have cut down on TV significantly though, so I'm well on the road to recovery (from what, I'm not sure). Although - if you aren't yet, you really must check out My Name is Earl. It is hilarious. I hadn't seen it yet but they replayed the first three episodes this past weekend. I was laughing out loud in the living room like some mental patient while my parents were asleep upstairs.

Uh, so maybe this road to recovery will be longer than I thought.

clown feet.

For my size, I have relatively big feet. I have strange feet issues; for example, one foot bends inwards and causes pressure on my knees.

Over the past few years, I've realized that I will have to forgo fashion for comfort in the footwear arena. Fancy occassions still call for painful 4 inch heels of course. But the day to day routine will have to be sacrificed to the comfort side.

Over the summer, I wore Dansko sandals almost exclusively. What can I say? They hug my big clown feet. Since today was relatively warm, I wore my red sandals. After work, I stopped by The Gap and a shoe store for some browsing. While in the shoe store, an older woman (maybe mid-60's) came up to me and said:

"Excuse me, may I ask you something?"

I said "Sure."

"Where did you get your shoes? They look so comfortable."

Oh maaaaaaaan!

crossing guard

The main road near the hospital is under construction. It's quite dangerous to navigate, and for the past few months police officers have literally been acting as crossing guards and shepherding us wee lambs across the street.

Yesterday afternoon, as I was returning from getting some lunch, I waited by the crosswalk for the policeman to let me across. He turned to me and said "Student?" I didn't want to get into it, so I just said "Yeah." "Medical?" he continued. I nodded (I mean, I will be one day, right?).

"Where you from?" he asked.
"New York."
"Bronx, Brooklyn?"
"Long Island."
"Verrazano. Yeah. I was on the Verrezano Bridge a few weeks ago. Crazy. Crazy construction. Verrazano. My buddy's from Staten Island. Yeah."

Jigga wha? I was so confused. I stood there with my Miss America fake smile plastered on. The light finally changed. I turned to him and said:

"Have a nice day!"

And he said "Yeah, yeah. I'll try but look at all this sh*t" and proceeded to gesture to all the crazy cars driving by.

I forgot about my strange crossing guard, until I encountered him again this morning. I looked at him to cross, and he said "The doctor right? Smile baby, don't look so severe!"

hotbox

A friend of mine had an engagement party this past weekend. Another soldier down. Just joking - she looked amazing, her fiance is terrific, and I had a great time at the party.

I came back to Boston yesterday. Fortunately, my friend N. was heading back as well and we took the bus together. About halfway through the ride, she leaned over to me and whispered "Do you smell pot?"

I sniffed (but didn't inhale!). No, I didn't smell pot. A few minutes later, the purple haze rose and I definitely detected the eau du reefer. N indicated that the guy sitting in the seat across the aisle from her had been in the bathroom for quite some time. He was making the bus bathroom a hotbox!

We couldn't stop laughing. Only on the Fung Wah bus, people, could someone get up and light up in the bathroom and not give a second thought to getting caught. And that INCLUDES the paranoia that comes with the experience. How I love thee, ghetto Chinatown bus.

Our neighbor finally exited the bathroom and reclaimed his seat. He was so obviously high. And he reeked of ... soap. He tried to wash the scent off, but it wasn't happening. Now he just smelled like someone who smoked up in the shower.

I had bought a box of Entenmann's Chocolate Chip Cookies for the ride, and briefly considered offering them to him, since he presumably had the munchies. But I didn't.

After I got home, I unpacked and settled down to watch Desperate Housewives. What better way to relax than a soapy drama? Toward the end of the show, I decided to indulge in some chocolate chip goodness and ate some cookies. After the show ended, I called my best friend to chat. 15 minutes into our conversation, my stomach did a somersault. And then another one. Luckily, since it was my best friend on the phone, I didn't have to mince words. I interrupted her mid-sentence and said "Babe, I gotta go puke and will call you back."

The cookies made me vomit. Stupid Entenmanns! Another aside (and probably TMI). I throw up very violently. It's like a Jerry Bruckheimer film. Whenever I experience reverse peristalsis (hah!), it is accompanied by minor petechial hemorrhage. That is a fancy way of saying some capillaries in my face burst and I look like I have two black eyes.

Bottom line: The pothead smokes and goes to sleep. I get the munchies and look like I was in a gangfight. Sweet irony.

*~*~

Ali G. "What are the effects of marijuana?"
DEA Official: "Well, it makes you lazy, sleepy. You lose focus..."
Ali G. "Yes, but wot are the negative side effects?"

(paraphrasing of course ... I couldn't find a script of this episode, but it was hilarious.)

Booyakasha.

one more dumb thing.

(Yes, this officially makes it 3 posts in a row).

THESE STUPID SPAM COMMENTS ARE DRIVING ME NUTS.

I just discovered Blogger allows "word verification" for comments. I just enabled it (1 comment too late though). What's word verification? You know when you're going to subscribe for something or want to purchase an item online, and before checkout it says: Type the following word:

SGJDTHISISNOTAWORDSDFDF (but in reality, only like five letters)

That's word verification. So now if you want to comment you have to do that. Just so these dumb spammers will leave my blog alone.

I apologize in advance for the minority of you readers who sometimes comment. First, thank you to those who comment! I LOVE LOVE LOVE comments. It reminds me that people do read this sometimes!

dumb luck.

Just to have two posts in a row with the word "dumb" in them.

Yesterday I lost my cell phone. Straight up, fell out of my jacket pocket lost it. Given my absent mindedness, I was shocked to realize this is the first time I've lost a cell phone. For any of you who have lost one before, I feel your pain. I felt totally disconnected from the world. And, as one is wont to do when something like this happens - I convinced myself that everyone and their mother would be trying to call me. Here's what went through my head:

"Oh my god! My cell phone is gone! I have to find it. Or get a new one ASAP. How will the world go on if I am unreachable? My parents must be freaking out. My roommate from nerd camp in 7th grade is probably freaking out. Granted we haven't spoken in 13 years, but I bet NOW THAT I LOST MY PHONE, she is trying to get in touch with me. I can't believe I lost my cell phone. THE WORLD IS GOING TO END!"

Don't judge. If I didn't create this drama for myself, my life would be that much less interesting. And people, we're at the bottom of the barrel here in terms of interesting things going on in my life.

The good news? Someone found my phone! The better news? This kind soul had the prescience to go through my phone book. He found the entry for "Dad Cell" and called my Dad to let him know that he found the cell phone belongining to his electronic-gizmo losing child. This kind person also deposited the phone at the security desk of the place where I lost it, so that I can pick it up whenever it's convenient for me.

Nice people do exist! And they cover my bumbling butt!

things that are dumb

Let's play $100,000 pyramid in reverse. You know the categories. Here are the clues:

• Clear strap bras. Just because the strap is made of clear plastic, it doesn't mean I can't still see it! I saw a girl in a tube top wearing one of these. I can see the straps! What is the point of a saran wrap bra? Good lord. I bought one of these once, a long time ago. To wear under tank tops. I quickly realized it looked worse than just showing a normal bra strap. Stop the madness!

• Cell phone ring tones that sound like animals. Among others, my cell phone has options for "bird" and "cat." At work the other day a woman's cell phone started barking. Actually, I hate ALL ring tones. I keep my phone on vibrate because there is no good option for a cell phone ring.

• Chalkboard and chalk. I started teaching another class for BehemothTestCompanyInc. During the last course, I taught in a room with a big beautiful white board and colorful dry erase markers. This time, I am in a shoddy classroom with old blackboards. And white chalk. Since I think colors are really important for visual stimulation, I went out and bought colored chalk to use in my lessons. Monday was my first class. It went well. Except for the WHITE DUST CLOUD that settled on my hair, my sweater, my black pants and my backpack. I looked like I had jumped into a bin of flour and was about to be deep fried. Oh, and chalk? As difficult to get out of clothing as deodorant marks (ya'll know what I'm talking about).

• People who do not crowd into subway cars. I've noticed that in Boston, the middle of the subway cars are conspicuously spacious. During rush hour, nobody crams into the middle. People huddle near the doors. So when the train comes to your station, you cannot board. Even though there would be enough room if people smushed into the middle. This would not fly in NYC. People would push you until you are basically sitting in someone's lap. But in Boston? Noooo. It's civilized here. We would never force someone into the middle of the subway car. You'll just have to wait for the next train, sucka.

canon

I have a strange obsession with Pachelbel's Canon in D. Everytime I hear it I almost start crying. I think of weddings and meadows and clouds (oh my!). During my senior year of college, I took a class on Chamber Music. We learned music theory - chords, fifths, gins, tonics (heh).

One thing I must admit: I do not have an artistic brain. Not even close. I can't draw, play music, or create anything that has not yet been created. I forgot everything I learned in that music class. Now, all I can tell you about Pachelbel's Canon is that it makes me happy. So happy that I remember being frozen when a high school chamber music quartet in Grand Central Station began to play the piece. I was not alone - a large crowd gathered. I even put money into the cellist's case ... because damned if that did not make me forget that I was on the way to a very boring job encased in a very boring life. Five minutes ago, Canon came on as I listened to my iPod. And I just sat there, momentarily forgetting that my job is still boring as is my life.

*~*~

A NY Times article yesterday announced: "Many Women at Elite Colleges Set Career Path to Motherhood ." The writers cited interviews with women currently attending or who had graduated from prestigious schools: i.e. Yale, Harvard Business School, etc. The results indicated that most of these smart women want to have babies and be good moms. Even if that means putting their careers on the backburner. My reaction? Well, duh.

Based on my interactions with some of my closest girlfriends (who happen to be Harvard alums), I could have told you that most of us really want to have families. Smart women want careers. Intellectual stimulation and success are paramount for establishing a strong sense of self. But I think all of us recognize that professional success does not translate into personal happiness. A good home life does. Good parents, spouses and children do. So is it really that shocking to think that these "smart" women realize that life means having to compromise and ultimately be true to yourself?

I forwarded the article to some of my friends with the caption:

Big surprise. The real story should read "Women at elite colleges want to be mothers but can't find decent guys to have babies with."

Now there's an article I would find interesting.

a manicure and a what?

One of my favorite TV shows is Law & Order SVU. If you don't watch it, I highly recommend it. Plus, I love Mariska Hargitay. The show is about sexually based crimes and the cops who investigate them. I'm trying from memory, but the opening dialogue is something like:

"In the criminal justice system, sexually based offenses are considered especially heinous. These crimes are investigated by an elite squad known as the Special Victims Unit. These are their stories. Dun-dun."

Anyway, last night I was hanging out with my folks watching an episode of SVU in their room. This particular episode was about a man who had kidnapped and raped a little girl.

During the commercial, I was talking to my mom about what I wanted to do tomorrow (well, that means today since this conversation happened last night.)

I pointed at my feet and said to my mom:

"Wake me up early tomorrow. I want to go get a pedophile."

good peeps.

My roommate L. is so kind-hearted. I think that's a description rarely used to describe people these days, and that's too bad. Kind-hearted people remind you that there is good out there.

Yesterday, we walked to the local market to pick up some milk. There is a homeless man who is usually camped outside this mart. As we walked, L. asked him if he was hungry. He shook his head. We walked a bit more, and then he said "Well, yeah..."

And you know what she did? She asked him: "OK. Are you a vegetarian?"

Inside, she bought him a ham and cheese sandwich. As we paid for the milk and sandwich, she laughed and said "Only in Boston would I think to ask a homeless person if they are a vegetarian."

Kind hearted. We should all learn from her. I'm not saying we should go and give all of our wordly possessions to the needy. But we should aim for moments of true selflessness.

the worst of both worlds.

I often joke that I inherited the inferior gene for a trait from either parent. I.E:

• Mom has green eyes (Yes, I know my inheriting green eyes is genetically impossible unless someone in my dad's family had green eyes too. But still. I'd rather have green eyes. From God and not from Johnson and Johnson).
• Mom is short. Dad's not. I am short.
• Mom is very fair. Can't tell she's Indian type fair. My Dad sports the Deccan Tan, as do I. (Pass the Fair 'N Lovely, please!)
• Dad's allergies
• Dad's hirsutism. (True story, once while getting my legs waxed at the salon, my Columbian beautician got frustrated and said "Aiiie! Sophia! Must get daddy pay for this thas where you get it!)
• Chicken legs (will refrain from telling you which parent)
• I can go on, but I won't.

I got some good ones too though, I can't complain. I must admit I'm quite content with my nose, as it's my Dad's and his mom's and shared by most of the women in his family.

What's my point? Good question. I'm standing at a crossroads where which gene I inherited could make a big difference.

I've been noticing some white hairs recently. Their numbers are increasing. My hair is jet black, so the few strands are prominent. As of now, I've been cutting them as I see them. Though one day the Sharpie marker did seem a bit intriguing. But anyway. Here's the deal:

My dad had jet black hair until very recently. No baldness, but now he's getting the distinguished gray that comes from supporting kids in their mid-twenties when he thought he'd have granddkids by now.

Mom ... mom ... Jet black hair also. Until she was around 30. I am almost 26. What will happen in the next four years? Am I going to have to start dyeing my hair? Maybe I'll go real old school and dye it with Mehendi like our mom's did in the 70s. Everyone loves a redhead, right?

My mom says white hair is caused by stress. I'm hoping that's the case because I can attempt to control that. If it's genetic though ... man ... let's just hope I got the good gene. Because the last thing I need is to have my future colorist say "Aiieee Sophia! You get your mommy pay for this all her fault!"

10 reasons why friendster pisses me off.

1) Try explaining what friendster is to a person who has never used it before. I'm serious. It's virtually impossible to do without making it sound like a weird cult.

2) Two words. Status: Single.

3) You have a new message from [Insert Desi Guy Name]:
"hello you look sexy nice profile like to meet you i nice guy."

4) Interested in meeting people for ... Well, I don't know. I'm not really looking for friends. If someone wrote me and said "You seem cool, let's meet up, I'd like to make some new friends." I would think "This person is a freak." And then I would complain about how difficult it is to meet nice, new people.

5) If I look at one more person's picture and the caption says something like "Annie and I at my friend's wedding" I am going to have a conniption. They should call it peoplewhosegrammarsuckster.

6) Wait, Angela, you know my friend John's cousin Bob? How did I never know this? Oh my god! What a small world!!! We all have to hang out sometime!

7) There are some people I really wish had no way of tracking me down or knowing where I am and what I'm up to.

8) You can never just "look" at friendster. It sucks you in and turns into an hour diversion, at least.

9) Friendster can turn even the most level headed person into a stalker. Jake is still single as of last week. He signed in yesterday? Well he obviously has access to the internet. But for some reason he can't return my e-mail. Just greeeaaat.

10) Oh who am I kidding. Friendster rocks. Some person's profile I once looked at said he was affiliated with "friendswithbenefitster." Hilarious.

what is this strange feeling?

I am disconcerted. This weekend I felt ... content. Things were chill. And fun. No drama or stress. Laughter was in abundance. The primary reason for this contentment:

My roommates rock. As I've been complaining about my living situation for quite some time, it's nice to finally boast about it. My fun roommate returned from her study abroad a few weeks ago. Two new roommates moved in this month, and they are both great. Quick synopsis:

Roommate #1. ME! Little. Brown. Different. (heh)

Roommate #2: Fabulous. Drama student, but not dramatic. Puerto Rican and loves life.

Roommate #3: Law student. From California. He's awesome and he deals with our landlord like nobody's business. Unlike me who stammers and is easily bullied into letting our lock stay broken for days.

Roommate #4. I just met him. Quite possibly the funniest person I have ever met. I have not laughed this hard in as long as I can remember. Stitch in your side type funny.

So yes. CONTENT. We painted the apartment. We furnished our gorgeous porch (heretofore unused). We light candles and always play music. We made brunch today - pancakes, eggs, mimosas and cinnamon buns. Roommate #1's friends came over, and we got to know each other. Brunch went from 4:00 PM (yes, I know, it should be linner) to 7:00 PM. I sit in the living room to work instead of locked in my room.

I hope this lasts as long as it can. Because it feels SO GOOD to not dread coming home. It's the first time I've called my apartment home.

I cooked again recently. Very simple this time though - some pasta. But it came out good. I don't know what is happening to me. I feel like cooking more often. I feel like working out regularly. But this is not me. Shouldn't I be angry and brooding and pretending that things are worse than they really are?

Did anyone see the Adams Family Part II? If you didn't, good for you because it sucked. But if you did, remember when the camp forces Wednesday and Pugsley (hah, Pugsley is a funny name) to watch Disney movies in the cabin? Wednesday comes out and painfully cracks a smile. One of the campers shivers and says "I'm scared!" That's what I feel the reaction to this bizarre contentment of mine should be. Be afraid. Be very afraid. Or not. Why don't we all join hands and make s'mores and tell each other what we like about each other? I like you, dear reader, because the kindness of your soul shines through your internet connection to my site.

are you ready for this?

Da ra ra ... (cue flashing lights and cheerleaders). I bought the Jock Jams! CD in 1995 for this song. And also for Whoomp There It Is!

1995 was 10 years ago.

I just got an e-mail asking: "Class of 2001? Are you Ready?"

It's the first e-mail about my fifth year college reunion. My answer: No, I'm not ready. As the peppy class committee so eagerly wants to remind me, college finished almost five years ago. And where am I? Applying to medical school, alongside current college seniors. That's right. Class of 2006, are you ready for this? This being the jaded old fart who is going to be your lab partner in Anatomy class while having flashbacks to playing "Operation" as a kid. Class of 2006 probably doesn't even know what Operation is. They played Super Gamefighter Grand Theft Power X2 v. 9.6. Holla back if you miss Contra and the old school Legend of Zelda.

No parties for me during the Labor Day weekend. It was very suburban. On Saturday, my parents and I headed to the mechanics to get two of our cars fixed. My parents drove in one car. I followed. My dad, being, well, my dad, refused to give me directions to the place and said "Just follow me." Two problems: 1) My dad is a very aggressive driver and 2) I'm not. He ran through yellows and made u-turns that made my stomach drop. I'm surprised I was able to make it.

The good news is I made some real progress on my applications, so I am getting close to finishing those up. I was invited to interview at a school in the Midwest. My parents want to come. No kidding! When I was applying to college they couldn't care less about accompanying me to visit schools or interview (OK, granted my Harvard interview was like 10 minutes from my house). I love the irony: The entire crux of my application is that I am a well-rounded, mature individual who has had real life experience that is invaluable. And then I come to my interview with my Mommy.

Something very bizarre happened yesterday. I had the desire to cook. Really cook. There is a dinky Indian grocer near where I live, so I went and picked up ingredients to make a chicken curry. I called my mom and asked her what to do. I made the curry -- an event which seriously should have been videotaped, if, you know, America's Stupidest Home Videos still existed or something. Anyway, given that I don't cook, I didn't think things through. I started to fry the onions before realizing I had to use a can opener to open the tomato paste. Oops. And then while I'm throwing ingredients in there, it hit me that I forgot to defrost the chicken. Double oops. But everything sort of worked out. And by sort of, I mean that all the ingredients mixed in and the curry actually started to smell good. I took a little taste ... and BAM. My mouth was on fire. I misunderstood how much chili powder I was supposed to put in. Actually I think I bought chili powder instead of curry powder. I put in a heaping tablespoon, which probably had enough fire in it to melt through the pot. Triple Oops.

Aside from the heat, though, the curry tasted quite good. See, I accomplished something in the last five years. Class of 2001, are you ready for this?

shut up before i punch you

I just got off the subway and came into work. This may have been the most excruciating 15 minutes of my life, ever. And that includes all those times I had my ugly braces tightened.

In the seat next to me were the two biggest losers I have ever encountered in my life. I must paint you a picture. The boy: twenty something. a spitting image of Napoleon Dynamite. Red curly white boy fro and everything. The girl (if I can even venture to call her that): a tortoiseshell glasses wearing, baggy t-shirt (with a picture of John Lennon, worn, oh so painfully sans bra) cargo pants sporting embodiment of wannabe hip but so awfully uncool. Oh my god. I am wretching.

You all know the type - in high school, she sat around wearing goth clothing and talked about the fakeness of everyone and doodled disturbing scenes on her binder cover. She worked at Blockbuster Video. The girl who rolled her eyes at everything and read the Marquis de Sade because she is soooo deep . The girl who secretly lusts for the blond blue eyed quarterback but sleeps with the balding phys ed teacher instead.

I digress. The girl was SO loud. I mean, her voice was irritating and just SO LOUD. As I entered, they were mid-conversation:

Vomit Inducing Girl

I mean, her job is to walk around France looking beautiful. Beautiful but tragic. But not tragic sad. It's beautiful. Like smoking cigarettes beautiful.

Napoleon's Twin

Yeah, she reminds me of a French movie. It's not a character, but more an ephemeral concentration of sentiment* (N.B. Verbatim. I made it a point to memorize that phrase because it was oh so incredulous).

Vomit Inducing Girl

Absolutely. It defines post-modern. But who knows what's happening in the world. They just released the Chasing Amy DVD. If that doesn't say something then I don't know what does.

I was in so much pain that I had to do something. I noticed a woman across from me was trying her hardest not to laugh. I made eye contact with her then discreetly pretended to strangle myself. She started to giggle and had to look away.

Napoleon so wanted to get in Vomit Girl's pants. Man. I had a blueberry donut this morning (first try - thumbs up!). But I'm having some trouble keeping in down. I have a bagel with me but I can't eat it. I'm not joking, I am so nauseated by the loser fest that I was presented with this morning. Excuse me while I barf all over your faux intellectualism. Now stop pretending and go home and watch Desperate Housewives like you know you want to.

*~*~

Yesterday I went to the gym. I was on the buttblaster thingamajig when a sleazy looking man got on the machine next to me. Within a minute, I almost passed out. His BO was that bad. It was so bad that I had to get off the machine, walk around, and finally give up on the notion of finishing my work out because I needed to shower lest some of it landed on me.

On a much more realistic note, I cannot comprehend the Katrina disaster. It feels so surreal. As if this is happening in another country, far far away. New Orleans basically no longer exists. I cannot understand what these people must be going through. The death toll is now estimated to be in the thousands. It's a virtual anarchy there. I hope hope hope that things get better for everyone who was affected.

that's tepid

I had a fun weekend. On Friday night, I went out for sushi in NYC with one of my best friends. We were both pretty tired though, and went back to her place to crash. I should clarify. It's really her friend's place. And her friend has an amazing apartment. It's very modern and artfully decorated. Everything is new.

I like cool bathrooms. This apartment had one of those rainfall showers. Have you ever been in one of those? Wow. I need to get me one when I'm a grown up. It's that good. I kid you not, I stayed in the shower for an entire hour.

But the best part was the shower knob. It was very high falutin. Instead of "Hot" and "Cold" it said "Hot" and "Tepid."

I swear. Those were your choices. I realized how fancy this shower was, and how I barely had the right to be in it given that the word tepid is not part of my vernacular. But seriously, can you imagine someone who didn't know what "tepid" meant in that shower? That would be mighty confusing.

The shower experience made me remember a particularly funny episode of The Ellen Degeneres Show. Snoop Dog was Ellen's guest, and they had the most absurd but hilarious conversation. First, Snoop was trying to teach Ellen the "izzle" language. She kept messing up, but finally she pointed at the table and said "tizzable?" And Snoop said "Yeah, dawg."

They then spoke about how Snoop has the ability to introduce words and phrases into widespread use. Just like "izzle", and the phrase "drop it like it's hot." So Ellen asked Snoop to help her institute the use of "tepid" instead of "cool." She asked him: Next time you are on BET, and something's cool - say "Yeah, that's tepid." Snoop said he would and for a good chunk of the show he kept saying "That's tepid." It was hilarious.

I bet he would've thought that shower was tepid, yo.

Boss man is in a bad mood, again. Dazaamit. Ha. I don't think that really works. Fo shizzle.

knock knock

There is a restroom in the hallway near my desk. It's a one person restroom. As one would hope, there is a lock on the door. I suppose out of politeness, though, people often knock before going in just to make sure they don't surprise the person on the inside in case they forgot to lock it.

It's quite nerve-racking, however, when you're on the inside and someone knocks. This happened yesterday. Someone knocked, and I didn't know what to say. Your initial reaction when someone knocks on a door is to say "Come in!" ... but that's not right in this situation. Other options include "Yes?" ... but that begs an answer from the person on the other side, which just makes it even more complicated and awkward. Another variant includes "There's someone in here!" But it's hard to say that without sounding panicked and shrill.

My reaction? Stay silent. The person tried to open the door, but I had the prescience to lock it. And that was that. One person restrooms should have little signs like the airplane lavoratories have. When you lock it, a sign outside says "Occupied." Who would ever knock on an airplane lavoratory door? Simple solutions to simple problems, people.

So now as I ponder the asinine topic of restroom etiquette, I am remembering the strangely fascinating bathroom at Peep, a restaurant loved and often frequented by my friends during our heydays in New York City. (Heydeys? I must research this phrase. Do words ever strike you as strange only when you see them written down? Or is it just me?).

Anyway, Peep. Their bathrooms have one way mirrors - you can look out, but people can't look in. However, everyone knows that you can look out and see them, so it becomes a bit of a psychological game. Let me illustrate: once while eating there, I had to use the restroom. The restroom was situated literally behind the table where my friends were sitting. So in the stall, I could see everything they were doing. But they knew I could see them, so they started waving at the wall and making faces. I mean, I knew logically that they couldn't see me, but it still made me very uncomfortable and rush the hell out of that bathroom.

Woohoo, it's Friday! I have a lot of work to do this weekend - work work, applications work, laundry. So what am I going to do? Leave it all unattended and go to NYC, of course! I wonder if Peep has space for dinner tomorrow.

oooh a scanner!

I am so excited. My brother bought a new scanner so that we can capture our old family photos electronically. We had one at some point and it broke. But now we have a new one! I like this picture. Now do you see the inspiration for the new haircut? Check out his entry for some more:

me llamo sophia

Names are funny things. Your name is so personal, it virtually defines your identity. But you hardly ever use your own name, unless introducing yourself. And your friends and family often come up with nicknames for you as it is.

As I mentioned earlier, I was named after Sophia Loren. My parents were also really big Dynasty fans, so I'm just counting my lucky stars that I wasn't named "Crystal"or "Alexis." Those names are fine, I just think that Sophia bridges the East-West name gap quite well. Alexis, not so much.

Pet Peeves: Do not call me Sophie. Ever. I'm not French. Or a poodle. Don't spell my name with an f. I don't like it. It's not how I spell it. And it's asymmetrical. See? Sofia vs. Sophia. The f just sticks out in the middle. In Sophia, the p and the h balance each other. Come on, you know there had to be a geeky reason behind my preference.

Nicknames I've had: Sofu Tofu (as a kid). Michael Jackson (I wasn't kidding about this). Gandhi (elementary school kids can be mean. And racist! I am still floored that a nine year old had the capacity to make such a slur. Great parental influence). Soph. Sophs. Sophster. Sopher Topher. Hophia (Don't ask. Funny at the time. Not funny anymore).

I started thinking about names and nicknames this morning as I was writing an e-mail to a friend. E-mail has such an interesting etiquette to it. I do not use capital letters when writing to friends. I usually sign off "Soph" ... or when I'm especially lazy "S." When it's a formal e-mail, capital letters and I sign off "Sophia." It feels a little forced. How strange is it when your own name feels forced?

This made me recall my days in finance. In the business world, it's standard practice to answer your phone with your name. I.E., the phone would ring and I'd answer by saying "Sophia V-----." (My blog has to date avoided my last name. I like mystery.) Now that I'm out of that environment, it strikes me as such an odd system. Why couldn't I just answer "Hello?" Somehow stating your name asserts your presence and authority. I would also try and lower the register of my voice to sound professional. But all that did was make it sound like you dialed a cheap 1-900 number. And got some old washed out broad on the phone. Like Alexis Carrington Colby.

Man that show rocked.

O Brother, Where Art Thou Brains?

Heh.

My brother said the following in his comment in my last post:

"This has to be the most pointless blog entry you've ever written. "

I beg to differ. Perhaps the post about the footsie in the library, or the 1,524 posts about the fact that my eating habits are really weird. Or my personal favorite, my mid-June post titled "Hello" and the contents of the post say "Why is the font messed up?" And of course, lest I forget that 342 posts about my favorite Chinatown Bus.

Speaking of the Chinatown Bus (I guess this makes it post 343 now) ... a Fung Wah bus caught fire last week. Thanks for the link to the article JW. Although, I must admit I was completely freaked out during my ride on said bus yesterday evening. My knuckles were white the entire time. And I sat in the very front of the bus because the last bus caught fire in the back. You know how much it sucks to admit that there still is no better deal than the Chinatown bus, even though a bus CAUGHT ON FIRE??

This whole blog is pointless. That's kind of the point!

tomatoes

This morning on the way to work, I found myself on a subway car with a group of loud mouthed, annoying high-schoolers. One of the kids, an overly geekish boy, thought he was much too cool and decided to share a story with his friends ... at the top of his lungs. The story?

"Yeah, so we had the LONGEST make-out session yesterday. And she just wouldn't leave. I had to kick her out because I had to study. I mean, my tongue was so tired. Know what I'm sayin'?"

I wanted to smack this kid and tell him to stop acting like such an idiot. If not, he's going to be a 40-year old virgin. I hope my friends and I weren't this annoying and puerile as high schoolers. However, I am ashamed to admit that we most likely were.

I had to run some errands during lunch time. As I walked down the street, a cute family was walking down the street in the other direction. Mom and Dad had fallen right out of the J. Crew catalogue. And little Timmy or Tommy, who must have been 3, was holding each of his parents' hands. So sweet. As the family approached, I glanced at the little boy's T-Shirt. It said, in capital letters, and I quote:

"MIDWIVES HELP CHILDREN."

Huh?

After my errands, I grabbed a burrito. While I ate it, I decided that the bites I took that had tomato were quite good. I concluded that tomatoes make everything better. Salads, sandwiches, burritos. Yes, I can safely say tomatoes improve any culinary experience. But then I started to drift off into the land of stream-of-consciousness. I thought about foods my mom makes that have tomatoes. And then I thought, you know, when my parents speak Gujrati, they refer to tomatoes as "Tamatas." I wondered, is "tamatas" the real Gujrati word for tomatoes, or is just an adaptation? Are there even tomatoes in India? Or do they get them from other places? I was nearly lost in the irrelevance of my thoughts.

My mind wandered further: If "tamata" is really the Gujrati word for "tomato", what the heck happened? I imagined it to be one long, inter-continental game of telephone. Start in America. The word is "tomato" ... pass it on. And many years later, a little man in a village in India eats a red fruit (yes, it's a fruit) and says "Ahh, acha ... Tamata!"

"f" to the "o" ... "b" to the hizo

What do you get? FOB.

I am a big old aunty and it's getting worse with each passing day. And trust me, I started off at a pretty high threshold. In our South Asian Cultural Shows in college, I played the aunty. There wasn't even a question about it - if there was an old Indian woman in any portion of the show, chances are I played her. My favorite experience was that during my senior year, I got to wear a fake butt in the performance. Quite authentic.

Other data points: I speak with a slight Indian accent. I don't know why. Born and raised in NY (Long Island, to be precise). Forget saying "coffee" like "cau-fee" and "Long Island" like "lawn guyland." I say "Chai" with a little headshake and "What" like "Vot?" And I can slip in and out of this accent like nobody's business. It turns on automatically when I'm around my parents. Not that THEY speak with an Indian accent. My parents sound more American than I ever will. This is, how you say in English? ... ironic?

My fobbishness is starting to become very pronounced. On Sunday, to recuperate after a big night out partying, my friends and I met up at a little Indian restaurant that I love. My head hurt. It was raining outside. I was sleepy. I needed my Chai. The restaurant serves their chai out of a metal thermos. Rock on! I poured myself a styrofoam cup of steaming goodness and sat down. I took my first sip, closed my eyes ... and channeled my mother. It was eerie. I had the exact reaction that my mom has when she takes her first sip of any of the four cups of tea that she has in a given day. And to top it all off, one of my friends commented aloud that I had the same reaction that his mom has when she drinks tea. Well, what do you know.

But today was definitely the kicker. A few weeks ago, my mom had sent some food with me back up to Boston after I was home. The food went really well with some hot sauce that she included. I had gone straight to work from the bus station, and had the food she gave me for lunch. Since then, the bottle of hot sauce has remained on my desk at work.

About 30 minutes ago, I went to the cafeteria and picked up a ready made tuna sandwich. It was so bland. As I sat at my desk eating the sandwich, I thought "Man, this sucks." And then ... I saw the hot sauce. I poured it all over the sandwich and ate it. Trust me, there was no taste of tuna at all. It was like bread soaked in chili peppers. And to me, that was much more enjoyable than a tuna sandwich.

Somewhere out there ... there is a middle aged Indian woman wearing a mini skirt and listening to 50 cent.

tremors

The building that I work in was recently constructed. Additional construction began in the last two months, and the building shakes. Literally. It rattles as if a subway is passing below. I imagine this is what minor earthquakes feel like.

The thing is, I didn't realize initially that there was construction going on. I would sit in my chair and feel a rumble. And truth be told, for a good few weeks I thought I was imagining it. Literally. I thought that maybe I was hungry from no breakfast or the stress was affecting my sense of stillness. And every few minutes I thought "I felt it! Am I going nuts?"

I have no real co-workers or anyone with whom I feel comfortable enough to say "Uh, is it me or is the building shaking?"

A few weeks ago, my concerns about losing my mind were put to rest. I had a bottle of Diet Coke on my desk. And when I felt the tremors, I looked at the soda. It sloshed a bit and there were ripples. Aha! It's real! It was like that scene in Jurassic Park with the water. Except, you know, there were no dinosaurs. A few days after my scientific discovery, I heard two ladies in the elevator talking about the "shakes." I ruled out hangover shakes as the topic of their conversation, given that they were older nurses wearing clogs and Mickey Mouse pins on their lapel. They finally mentioned the construction going on as the source of these "shakes." And I thought: I am NOT CRAZY! Well, not totally.

spam a little, dance a little

If you have a second, check out the very last comment in my last post. If you don't have a second, let me summarize for you:

It's SPAM. That's right. Some long comment about a stock tip that was obviously automatically generated. First there were telemarketers. Then spam on your e-mail took over. Then telemarketers on your cell phones! And now - spam on my blog comments! Wow! These people will stop at nothing. I am convinced that the government should outsource hunting down terrorists to telemarketers. They'd find Bin Laden in whatever cave he is in, and then try to convince him to switch from Sprint to MCI.

*~*~

What a nice weekend. My good friend JV and her buddies from medical school came to Boston. She pahked her cah in Hahvayd Yahd (literally), and it was good times to be had. Of course, you put more than five Indian dorks in a room and the geek quotient rises significantly. Only my friends would use the phrase "steady state" when describing the fact that nothing new is going on in their lives. But that's why I love 'em. And pretend not to know 'em in public.

I met up with the group at a bar (33, where else, if you know Boston). I was told to be there around 10:30 ish. Which I was, fully forgetting about IST. As I waited for my friends, one of the bouncers noticed that I looked bored and came over and said "Come hang out with us." So I did. He was a very nice man, as far as bouncers go. But at some point the conversation approached a steady-state (HA!) when he told me he is a plumber and I had to hold my tongue so as to not ask him toilet related questions. Luckily, my friends arrived and I politely excused myself.

Here are some fun pics from Saturday night. My friend J is a rock star. I like her. I likeralot.


Don't we all look so very ... brown? I mean happy. Yes, happy. And brown. Speaking of brown, Happy Birthday Mother India! And happy Birthday to my good friend AE! She is an awesome friend and an honorary brown person. Yes, I have the power to do that, don't ask questions. Lots of happy birthdays all around!

Yesterday I had the pleasure of hanging out with another friend from out of town, and took a little tour of Harvard Yard in the morning. I forget how quaint Harvard can be. As I walked through the Square, all the Asian tourists snapping photos reminded me.

I made some progress on my applications yesterday. I needed some background entertainment as I typed, so I watched Comedy Central's Blue Collar Comedy Tour marathon. Given that I don't fall under any of Jeff Foxworthy's "You Know You're a Redneck If..." criteria, I think I missed many of the jokes. But Southern drawls are pretty darn charming.

i don't get it.

This morning while riding the T to work, I saw a man with a Segway. Do you remember hearing about these? It's a "personal transportation device". It came out a few years ago and was hailed as the invention that would change life, as we know it, forever. Obviously, that didn't happen. Here is a picture of the Segway (c) their website:

My question is: If he's got a Segway, why is he riding the subway in the first place?

Some people ... I just don't get them. Later this morning, I was taking the elevator back to the 7th floor where I work. I hit the "7" button. A man came rushing into the elevator just before the doors closed. Now, even though the 7 was already lit, he insisted on punching it a few more times.

Why did he feel the need to do that? Did he think the elevator would only open on 7 if he pushed the button, and no other reason? These are the types of people who could never become President of the United States. Can you imagine him sitting in the Oval Office with the BTDTW (Button to Destroy the World, of course) in front of him? We'd all be obliterated. Multiple times over.

I'm so happy it's Friday. This has been a long week.

hotel, motel ... holiday inn

Isn't it crazy about the fugitive couple that was cornered by the Feds and just surrendered at a motel in Ohio? That's some scary stuff - right out of a movie. The wife (the woman who killed the police officer) was a nurse in a correctional facility. While there she met and fell in love with her husband, who was an inmate at the time. This guy is no pacifist either. This is his fifth escape from law enforcement officials. In a prior escape, he and another innmate threated a guard with a knife made out of a toothbrush and a razor blade.

This stuff happens in real life? Wow. It sounds like a bad TV show, doesn't it?

But there are the elements of stark reality. The motel owner, of course, is Indian. Last name Desai, but he falls under the Patel/Motel/Hotel umbrella. He's probably freaking out about his business right now. Who would want to stay at the same motel where the crazy fugitives were staying?

*~*~

My building has plumbing issues so our water shuts off on certain days. It shut off at 7:00 AM on Tuesday, and again today. This means having to get up wicked early to take a shower. I was so tired though, that I took a shower this morning at 6:20 AM and promptly went back to sleep. A shower is supposed to wake you up! Plus, you always feel a little gross after waking up; be it from a full night's sleep or just a nap. So even though I was technically clean, I didn't really feel fresh and awake.

I hate breaking in new shoes. I've been wearing my new sandals for the past two days and I have blisters all over my feet. I really want to chuck them into the back of my closet and forget about them. But then I think, the more I wear them, the more comfortable they will be! But what if they don't break in and become comfortable? What if they always give me blisters? It's shoe roulette, I tell ya. One thing is for sure, I can't go around wearing these bright blue band-aids that say "LIPITOR" in bold white writing all over my feet. Because those are the only band-aids that I have. My feet look like a third grader's sticker collection. Well, a third grader with high cholesterol. Still, my dad gets free band-aids from the Lipitor people, and now my feet are walking advertisements.

diet of champions

As if I haven't chronicled my bizarre and crazy eating habits enough, here is one more to throw into the mix:

When I'm stressed, I don't eat.

First things first, I do not have an eating disorder. And by no means am I poking fun at any such disorder - it's a serious medical condition that deserves attention. I fully admit that my eating habits do not err on the side of healthy, but I do not starve myself for any specific purpose. It's just that when I'm stressed, the first thing that is affected is my stomach. Pepto Bismol is my holy water. Case in point, as a banker, I lost 7 pounds. I'm about as built as a six year old whose dad has to bribe the coach to let him play wiffle ball. 7 pounds lighter for me means I look like the alien life form that is Mary Kate Olsen (or is it Ashley? Who the hell knows).

This past week, kinda stressful. Therefore, I didn't eat very much. You know what happens when you don't eat much? You start to feel nauseated. And then you really don't feel like eating. I found myself in this troubling situation last night. Not hungry, but knowing that I had to eat something. I tried to convince myself I craved falafel. "Mmm, falafel" I kept saying to myself (sometimes out loud, oops). I bought my falafel, but sadly it didn't solve the problem. I had about half and then didn't want anymore. But I was hungry. I felt hazy and sleepy and I knew that depriving myself of calories much longer was a bad idea.

And then, like a mirage in the desert, my roommate appeared at my door. "I'm going to get some dinner then probably get some ice cream. Do you want me to pick you up a pint?"

I silently sang "hallelujah!" to myself. He came back a while later, and presented me with a pint of Half-Baked from Ben and Jerry's. Half cookie-dough, half-brownie.

And that, boys and girls, is how the spell of the no-eating-neurotic-stress cadette was broken.

*~*~

Mathilda: "I became ... bulemic."
Derek: "You can read minds?!"

This movie gets better each and every time I watch it.

i object.

I summoned enough energy to run some errands this afternoon. Who would have thought that in the span of 2 hours, I would have gathered enough 'material' to write a post? And, in case you were wondering, 'material' is a euphemism for 'things that annoyed me.' Several things I observed made me want to yell out "I object!" Here is a list:

• That the only way I can get my hair to look cute (as it finally did today) is to put so much product in it that I could snap a strand of hair in half. And also provide enough fuel to power the state of Rhode Island.
• My stomach being unable to predict how it will react to Dunkin Donut's iced coffee that day until after the purchase of said iced coffee. Needless to say, today it was not a welcome guest. And I bought a medium instead of a small!
• A shoe store having a sale. First, I object to the fact that a pair of shoes I bought for way too much money 3 months ago was on sale for 50% off. Second, I object that the shoe store was having a sale today, when I was in a vulnerable mood. And finally, that buying a pair of shoes still makes me feel 100 kajillion times better. I am such a girl.
• People who do not say thank you when you open a door for them.
• Couples who walk with their hands in each other's back pockets. Grr.
• Girls who wear midriff bearing tops when they shouldn't. Girls who wear thongs that stick out of low-cut jeans. Seriously, that's so trashy. Actually, low cut jeans for that matter. It might have been on Sex and the City or another show, but there was a line that said "I don't want to own a pair of jeans that I need to get a bikini wax just to wear!" So true.
• Sales that say 1 for $7.98, Buy 2 for only $11. This was the sale on accordian folders at Staples. I only needed 1. But how could I not buy 2 for only $11?! If anyone needs a 13 pocket accordian folder, let me know. It's actually pretty cool (stop laughing, it is). I bought one in pink (for me) and one in green (a neutral color, for whoever shall receive it.)
• Having to buy certain, um, female products in front of everyone at CVS. All drug stores should have hidden checkout counters for this specific purpose.
• Not having the additional 30 seconds to put your change back properly in your wallet after you complete your transaction at CVS because there is a line behind you. Then you have to shove your bills and change into your purse in such a rush, knowing that later that day you will have to empty your purse and/or pockets and reorganize all of your money. And also, having to deal with the fact that when you get home and try to take your keys out of your purse, all the money that you shoved in from CVS goes flying everywhere. Dammit!

Sustain or Overrule to your heart's content. I really need to get started on my applications. I object to proscrastination.

date my mom.

Have you seen this show on MTV? It's ridiculous. Basically, this Abercrombie-bred corn-fed frat boy goes on 3 separate dates with the mothers of 3 ditzy girls. The moms try to be flirty and convince the boy that he should date their daughter. Finally, the moms convene on a beach and the boy chooses which daughter he will date.

I just saw an episode. First, it's a pretty strange relationship a girl has got to have with her mom if she'll let her date a guy in lieu of her. Second, the mom herself has to be pretty loopy to go on a date for her daughter. It was embarassing - the moms were basically pimping out their daughters. When the boy asked one of the moms what her daughter looked like, she said "She's beautiful, great body, like me but an 18 year old." The boy just stared at the mom. Because she had gigantic boobs.

I watched though. And I hate to admit that it was highly, highly entertaining. Oh well, I needed a little pick me up. But throughout the show, all I could think was "This could never, ever have occurred in my life. Or the life of any Indian girl I've ever met." Can you imagine a show where a boy went on dates with 3 Indian mothers? That would be more like an episode of Fear Factor. I imagine it would be something like this:

Date my Aunty

Boy: Um, hi, I'm here for our date ...
Aunty: Tuck in your shirt beta
Boy: Yes ma'am. I was thinking of going for sushi for our date
Aunty: Shoe-shi? What is this? Veg-only please.
Boy: Oh, OK. So, what does your daughter look like?
Aunty: Very fair.
Boy: What about her body? Does she .. um ... take after you? (While glancing at Aunty's sagging bosom and ample bottom.)

Lazy weekend. I needed to de-compress. Work, unfortunately, seems to be a lose-lose situation. I don't think I'll be able to continue much longer. But I'll keep you posted on any developments. In the midst of all this, I began to feel an excessive amount of self-pity, thinking, "I work so hard and it never pays off."

And then what happens? I flip on the TV yesterday morning and the movie "Rudy" is on. Oh man, I couldn't stop crying. And the movie was being sponosored by Kleenex! Double Whammy! Yesterday = emotional TV. Today = Silly, make me laugh TV. "Date my Mom" this morning. And, like an early birthday present, Zoolander right now. I'm going to get some Orange Mocha Frappucino!