people watching

This entire weekend seemed to me like one gigantic reality TV show. Everywhere I looked there were people acting in a manner befitting The Real World. Which is to say, totally asinine and borderline ridiculous. It's best to summarize a handful of my observations:

• On the bus to New York on Friday afternoon, we made a rest stop halfway through the ride. A college-aged guy sitting across the aisle from me had purchased a bag of Starburst candy. Not the normal brick of Starburst, but a little bag that had a Ziploc type opening. The kid tried to rip the bag open, but he missed the pre-cut little snip where you can tear it easily. He kept trying to open the bag, but nothing was working. He bit at the corner in an effort to get a cut in, but couldn't do it. He was getting very visibily agitated - I know it's mean, but it was hilarious to watch him. Then, he tried a new tactic: prying the bag open like a bag of potato chips. He puffed his cheeks, held his breath and tried with all his might to open this seeming bag from hell. Nothing was working and the kid was obviously stressed. So guess what he did? He took a deep breath, then put the bag under the chair. He then closed his eyes and folded his hands in his lap. He was giving HIMSELF a time out!! About 10 minutes later, he resumed attempts to open the bag. Finally, he just started gnawing at the bag until something ripped. After he finally got it open, he scarfed down the entire bag, I think, to signal his victory.

• Yesterday evening, I went into Manhattan to meet some friends. I embraced my B&T heritage and took the Long Island Rail Road into Penn Station. After arriving, I noticed a girl who couldn't have been older than 14 walking around in hot pants and a teeny, weeny tee-shirt that said "B is for B*tch." The asterisk wasn't there, obviously, but as you know this is a PG weblog. Her shirt was so inappropriate - misogynistic, crude and really, what purpose did it serve? While I do appreciate the shock value in clothing -- my favorite piece of clothing is my t-shirt that says "I heard nerds" -- I think there should be some level of etiquette to function in society in general. I wanted to go up to the girl (or her mother, at least) and smack her. B, my little friend, is for b*tch slap.

• I took the subway this morning from Manhattan to Brooklyn. On my right, a girl was affixing fake press on nails to her hands with - get this - crazy glue. I know artificial nail glue is a lot like crazy glue, but the girl was using name brand crazy glue. Isn't that, uh, kinda crazy?

• On my left was a thuggish looking guy - baggy jeans, basketball jersey, baseball cap. Goatee. Completely asleep. Early into the ride, he kept leaning far left and far right in his sleep. And, I swear this happened, he ultimately rested his head on my shoulder. I didn't know what to do. There were a few other people in the car, who looked away and stifled giggles. When the train swerved, the inertia made his head come off my shoulder. I got up quickly and moved elsewhere in the car.

• My new seat ended up being smack across a young kid in a security guard's uniform. He must have been about 18. I couldn't tell if he was riding the subway to work somewhere as a security guard, or whether his job was to provide extra security on the subway car itself. Either way, the kid would not generate any sense of safety. He was scrawny and awkward. I looked up and he smiled at me. And then he winked. I wasn't sure if I was hallucinating, so I smiled and looked away. A few minutes later, I looked back up. He winked again. I gave it one more shot - and sure enough, he winked again! How do you respond to a wink? I wanted to laugh but I couldn't. The entire situation was so absurd. I just looked down, pulled out a bag of Starburst, and tried for the rest of the train ride to tear that sucker open.

the story of the perm.

Given my brother's comment in the last post, I am now inspired to tell the Story of the Perm. Also, I'm bored.

This will be told in the manner of my namesake, Sophia from the Golden Girls*. You will see why within the context of the story.

Picture it: Long Island, 1989

There was a young girl in fifth grade. She was going through an excessively prolonged ugly duckling phase, what with braces on her teeth and a coat of fur on her arms and legs given her Indian heritage. Body waxing, in her household, was sadly not an option until after one's age was in the double digits.

She was a studious little girl, and loved to read Cam Jansen novels and Babysitter's Club Books. She was also sadly afflicted by a serious obsession with Jordan Knight of the New Kids on the Block. So much so that she subscribed to both Bop and the Big Bopper magazines so that she could tear out pictures of Jordan Knight and wallpaper her room with them.

Life consisted of school, books and television. She had some friends, but no BFF. All the other girls had BFFs and she was sad. There were three other little Indian girls in her class, and the little bookworm so badly wanted to be friends with them. They were nice to her, but they often went to movies together without telling the girl. One day, one of the "cool" girls came into school with a perm. Two weeks later, another one of the girls came in with a perm. Everybody ooh'd and aah'd. The little girl knew what she had to do to get accepted. Go to a salon and create disulfide linkages between artifically placed curlers. (Oops, sorry, I got a bit ahead of myself. Pesky MCAT knowledge still exists somewhere in my brain.)

Anyway, the girl begged her parents to let her get a perm. Since she was quite annoying and had a high pitched voice, her parents relented. Coincidentally, that afternoon, the little girl's father was going to get a haircut. The girl pleaded to go along, and accompanied her father to get his haircut so that she could get a perm.

Once at the salon, the girl noticed that everyone there was a senior citizen except for her father. Old ladies with white hair curled tight around their heads, exactly like Sophia from the Golden Girls, sat around talking about cookies and crochet. The little girl was confused, but sat in the chair and demanded her perm.

The stylist obeyed and soaked the poor child's head in noxious chemicals. 3 hours later, the girl emerged from under the stylist's hood. Her thick, luscious locks had been transformed into tight, tight oily curls that clung to her skull. The little 9 year old girl had become, in fact, a mini, dark skinned Golden Girl.

She went home and cried. She tried to brush out the curl. The next day she pulled her hair tight into a ponytail and went to school, where everyone laughed at her. Later that week, in her mosque, the other children began calling her Michael Jackson. The nickname stuck longer than the perm did.

That little girl was me.

The humiliation remains with me to this day. So yes, thanks to my brother for recalling those painful memories. But also, thanks for reminding me that my current haircut could never, ever rival going through fifth grade with all the standard pre-pubescent angst, plus an absolutely awful perm.

Oh yeah, and fifth grade was the year where the background I choose for my school pictures was "Lasers." Neon green and pink laser beams shot in the background, as I sat there with a painful look and a terrible perm.

The photos are at home, but I will scan some in shortly when I go to New York this weekend. Because, seriously, it would be an injustice not to provide you loyal readers with a visual to accompany this story.

*Oh, and Sophia from the Golden Girls is not my namesake. She might as well be though. I was actually named after Sophia Loren. That is a completely true fact.

this hair, it is a problem.

It's the two week anniversary of my drastic hair cut. My verdict? Bad idea. Must never cut hair when in a general funk ever again. My hair grows very quickly, so I'm sure it will be OK soon. But it's precisely the growth factor that has made the haircut unmanageable. Within 2 weeks my hair transformed from trendy-short into a gigantic fro. Since I'm Indian, I shall christen my hair the Infro. It is quite a spectacle.

I should have figured the costs of hair gel and other sundry products into the price of the cut. I am not a gel person. I need to use it every day, and frankly, I'm getting tired of it. It's unnatural and goopy and I constantly feel like I have to wash my hands. Plus, hair gel smells like men's cologne. I think it's a sign that I'm not supposed to be using it.

This morning, while in the shower, some shampoo suds got into my mouth. Has that ever happened to you? It's pretty gross. Herbal Essences may smell like fruits and berries, but it tastes like rancid chemical. I tried to rinse out the taste in the shower, but then I just ended up standing there with my mouth open, trying to fill it up with water. Which, surprisingly, is not that easy in the shower, given that the water is going in a million directions. You try to get one stream in your mouth, and inevitably another one will aim directly for your eye.

And then I had to put gel in my hair. What a morning.

Yesterday I had to walk outside with my boss and another person while it was still sunny outside. My boss pulled out the sunglasses that you clip on to your normal glasses. How money is that?

I think commercials nowadays are really stupid. Except those Citibank ID theft commercials. You know, the one where an innocent woman is sitting in a chair and all of a sudden this French male voice comes out of her mouth and it talks about how he stole the credit card from this nice lady and spent a bunch of money in Vegas? Yeah, that one. I think it's so funny.

There was an interesting Op-Ed in the NY Times yesterday. It's point was that we as a population, along with the Media, are completely apathetic and our values are screwed up. It compared the media coverage of Tom Cruise vs. the media coverage of the genocide in Darfur. I suggest you read it if you have a chance. We so live in a bubble.

I heard they drained a pond to look for the girl who is missing in Aruba. It's her 60th day missing, and the coverage is rampant. If I went missing in Aruba, I bet there would be no coverage on the news channels. Did you hear that an African-American woman who is five months pregnant has been missing for a week in Philadelphia? The article is buried somewhere on CNN.com, and possibly other news outlets. Why isn't this woman's face plastered everywhere like Laci Peterson's was? I am not saying the people who receive media coverage don't deserve it. But I am saying there is a serious bias in who gets chosen to be portrayed.

I feel bitter about everything today. From my hair to the media.

my nerves, they are a-fried

I'm in the process of receiving "secondary" applications from most of the schools that I applied to. This is basically a blatant ploy for medical schools to steal even more money from poor, bright-eyed prospective medical students. The schools ask you to answer some very bland questions to supplement your common application. General questions include:

1) Tell us why you want to attend [Insert Name Here] Medical School.

This is a requisite copy and paste of nonsense from the school's website. Do you think the response: "Because I HEART NY" would be an appropriate answer for the 8 schools in NYC I am applying to?

2) If you have taken time off since college, please write a separate essay explaining what you did in your time off.

Dammit, stop wasting my time and read my freaking original essay in which I discuss this point ad nauseum.

3) If you were ever the subject of academic or legal disciplinary action, please write a separate essay describing these events.

Heh, me soo crazy! Me wanna go med school to smoke the ganja and get some neeeedlz. Needlz. Yeah yeah needlz.

I forgot to mention the most important part. You have to send each school a check for something on the order of $75 for them to even look at it. Oftentimes, they will get your check and two days later you will get a message that says:

Thank you for your interest in [Jerk Medical School]. Please don't take this rejection as an offense, but we don't have room to interview you. We're sure you're smart. But obviously not that smart because we got your $75 sucka!

So yes, secondaries. Not fun. I just got an e-mail for a secondary from one of my schools. Cut and paste directly from the e-mail:

"The required browser for this site is Netscape. IE is not a supported browser for this application. We also recommend using a PC versus a MacIntosh. You will be able to make payment for this application using PayPal, an on-line transaction service."

Netscape? Who the hell uses Netscape? That is so, like, 1995. And Paypal, great. Why don't you just SELL your open slots for med students on E-bay?

how in the ...

So, this little site counter thing that resulted in my shameless plea for affection and support has some interesting tidbits of information. For example, it lets me see how many people have looked at the website, how long they looked at it, and if they were referred here from another page.

Since putting it up, I noticed that most everyone reading the blog wasn't referred from anywhere. A handful of people came by way of J's flog or my cool roommate's blog. I decided to take a look again just now, and it's insane. The last 10 or so people to look were referred to from sites I've never heard of. And one person - I swear to you - was referred to my blog from a site labeled "Kuwait Transsexxuals".

Part of me is wondering how in the hell someone got to my site from that site. But I can't look at that site since I'm at work right now and, well, you get me.

And, as a little added bonus, this is my 100th post ever. Yay for ... my ridiculous amount of free time.

to stay, or not to stay

Last night I met up with two people and went to a production of Shakespeare's Hamlet in Boston Common. I didn't know my fellow theater-goers all that well - one was a friend of a friend, and the other was his friend's friend. Confused yet? Basically, the three of us hardly knew each other, but were all up for something fun and cultural.

The night started off nicely, as I arrived at the Commons a bit early and ate some Burger King. FYI, the Italian Chicken Sandwich is back! I think my brother may be the only person as excited about this as I am, but damn ... that thing is good. I soon met up with my companions, and we headed over to the Commons. It was a beautiful night - not too hot, not too cold, a nice breeze and a fun crowd. We were a bit far from the stage, but who cares, we were going to be all smart and see Shakespeare!

The play soon started and I did my best to listen and try to understand what the hell Shakespeare is all about. I've never read Hamlet, but the Playbill did give a quick synopsis. I tried to follow the dialogue, but sincerley admit that:

1) I couldn't and
2) I didn't want to.

All around me, people of all ages and races seemed entranced by the lyrical nature of the actors' dialogue. I held on to the synopsis for dear life, as it proved to be my flashlight in the darkness of ignorance that is me. Within half an hour, the two people I was with and I started exchanging uncomfortable glances. Basically, we were trying to gauge how much fun the other two were having. Our body language was pretty clear. Finally, M, the organizer, looked at me and the other girl and said "So, you guys wanna go to a bar or something?" We both smiled and said "totally!" in unison. Instead of a bar, however, we ended up getting some good Indian food at a little hole in the wall restaurant known and loved by Boston's Indian community. We got to know each other a little better and had a really nice time.

It's strange sometimes, isn't it, how people get along? It's quite a crapshoot - sometimes personalities don't merge and hanging out with new people turns out to be unenjoyable. But the three of us got along well and had a pleasant evening. I hope I get to hang out with my new friends more, because as you have probably sensed by now, Boston isn't all that fun. And finding friends who feel the need to try and be highbrow and actually make the attempt to watch Shakespeare, only to all admit they want to hang out and talk about silliness ... well, that's pretty unique.

I will take an Adam Sandler movie over Shakespeare in the Park any day. That's just me. And I'm glad I'm not alone in that vein.

Except, of course, if it's Romeo and Juliet. Because, well, I'm a girl.

i am the laziest person alive.

Guess what I did this weekend? Come on, guess! Here's a hint: it's even less than a little bit. That's right. Nothing. I did absolutely nothing.

I had big plans, I did. I could have gone to New York and visited several friends, some of whom were having swanky shin-digs. But no. I have work to catch up on (primarily because I hardly do any work when I am actually at work). I start teaching a Kaplan class next week, and I need to prepare. And finally, some of my secondary applications have come in. So this weekend was supposed to be about catching up. Instead, it has resulted in the dreaded falling behind.

Yesterday I woke up late and watched TV for a good two hours. At around 1:00 PM, I figured I should probably make some food. I decided to make scrambled eggs. In addition, I was finally going to heat up and try the chicken sausages I had bought last week.

Here's the thing about Muslims and sausage. It's like forbidden fruit. All you pork-lovers out there constantly speak of the succulence of sausage. You order it on pizza and then look apologetically at us when you realize we can't join in your indulgence. Same goes for bacon. Now, the advent of chicken and turkey sausages entices us toward the promised land of smoked meats in strange casings.

Months ago, I almost bought Emeril's Chicken and Apple sausages. But being the good Muzi that I am, I carefully read the ingredients. Chicken parts .... onions.... seasonings ... so far, so good. Then the very last ingredient: All contained within a pork casing. What?! How sneaky! So I sadly put my chicken sausage back and sulked away. Until last week. When I saw "Skinless Chicken Breakfast Sausages" at Trader Joe's. Could it be? Sausages without the danger of eternal hellfire! I kid. Though, as a child, I was so afraid of ever ingesting pork that I avoided Oreos like the plague because they had animal fat. Instead, I had to eat the retarded cousin of the Oreo - Sunshine Hi-Hos. Holla!

So last week, I couldn't believe my luck and snapped up those sausages. And yesterday I decided to try them. It was a momentous occassion.

Sadly, my excitement was unwarranted. Those stupid sausages tasted like salted cardboard. Yuck. I'm hoping for all the pork-eaters out there that real sausage tastes really good. Because if this is a big sham to make us Muslims jealous, well ... you already did that with the Oreos. And FYI, Oreos stopped using animal fat. That was a happy day. Because unlike chicken sausages, Oreo cookies are the nectar of the gods.

I finished my scrambled eggs, silently mourning the loss of appetizing sausage experiences to come. I was going to go the gym, but instead I started watching Lifetime Television (for women and gay men!). I watched the dumbest Lifetime Movie about a girl who sleeps with her mother's boyfriend. It was so bad, but I watched anyway. Even I was getting sick of my sloth, so I took a shower and got all dolled up. To go nowhere.

I proceeded to watch Edward Scissorhands on FX. And then, I had to watch Law and Order SVU. The best show on the face of the earth, ever. Except for the Golden Girls, which I watched this morning. I tried to watch Bowling for Columbine with my roommate at 11:00 PM, but fell asleep in front of the TV. Again. I feel asleep after being awake only 11 hours. And after a day full of doing NOTHING. Now, that's lazy.

I couldn't let today be like yesterday. So I did make it to the gym and ran until my butt literally hurt. But the rest of the day seemed eerily like yesterday. I just took a shower and got re-dolled up. But not for nothing. I'm going to go see Shakespeare in the Park later tonight. See, I'm sophisticated! (Said as I'm chewing on some Turkey Jerky and drinking Gatorade).

i woke up disoriented.

It's 3:40 AM. I woke up 10 minutes ago completely disoriented. Yesterday morning, the power went out in the apartment while I was at work. My cool roommate was kind enough to venture into the basement of doom and wade through cobwebs to the fusebox and reset the power. Me, I couldn't even reset my clock to say the correct time.

I fell asleep watching TV last night. My sleeping habits are cyclical and very strange. For the last 2 months, I could not get more than 6 hours of sleep a night. It would take me at least 2 hours to fall asleep also. If you were unlucky enough to interact with me during that time frame, I'm surprised I didn't scare you away since you are still reading this right now!

Then suddenly last week it changed. I felt quite tired all the time, and last Sunday I fell asleep at about 10:00 PM and woke up at 9:00 AM. Eureka! Sleep catch up! I was high on REM baby. But then this whole week I've been sleeping a lot. Ironically, I'm more tired during the day now that I'm sleeping than I was during the times when I was not sleeping. The sleep hangover - myth or reality? I tend to favor the latter - the more sleep I get, the more I want, and the more tired I become.

So yes, last night I fell asleep while watching TV. I had not brushed my teeth or washed my face. I woke up suddenly, completely confused as to what time it was but acutely aware of the fact that my face felt greasy and my breath was oh-so-unpleasant. Requisite face washing and teeth-brushing ensued, and now I'm completely awake. Hey ya'll! (This is Paula Dean ...).

At 3:45 AM one tends to think of random things. Right now, I am thinking about:

- My haircut. I am now convinced I look like Moe of the 3 stooges (far left). Also, doesn't the Stooge in the middle look like Robert De Niro?:


- Soy Milk. I kinda like it, it kinda makes me feel really sick. I was introduced to Chocolate Soy Milk by a friend and fell in love. My parents visited last weekend and we went grocery shopping. Given that I had to neither 1) pay for the food nor 2) lug it by hand back to my apartment gave me carte blanche to buy whatever I wanted. It was like Supermarket Sweep baby! I bought 6 quarts of Soy Milk. Before I drank it occassionally. I started drinking a big glass daily. And my stomach, well, not so happy.

- Congress is changing Day Light Savings time? WTF? Can they do that? Won't this mess up our time schedules, especially with respect to the rest of the world? What next? Will they vote on gravity?

- While flipping channels yesterday I came across a Family Feud re-run. The 2 groups competing? Ex-Wives vs. Ex-Husbands. Huh. How does that work? Is that part of the divorce settlement? "I'll give you the car ... if you agree to go on Family Feud with me." I am also amused by the fact that Al from Home Improvement is the host. Why is the host of Family Feud always a portly, next-door-neighbor type of guy?

- Community Access Television is weird.

- It's too hot in my room. I keep thinking about getting an AC, but every day means one day closer to the fall, and no need for an AC. I had all these plans to read, clean and do laundry after coming home yesterday. But all that fell apart due to the unreasonable heat. So I plopped down, turned on the TV ... and here I am.

speaking of counting

Since yesterday's post dealt with counting things, I decided to actually start counting how many visits I get to this blog. The application started to keep track of visits as of this morning.

So, I guess not many people are reading this blog. I could lie and say it doesn't matter, but people, why don't you like me?! (I just an eerie flashback to seventh grade when I had braces and rainbow bangs).

Maybe I should reconsider having this website tracker, but perhaps I do need a dose of reality. Does my blog suck? Really, I'm curious. It's not like I'm going to stop writing though. I have nothing better to do at work except surf the web until I get so bored that I decide to vent out my frustrations to my miniscule audience.

That being said, I myself like the blog. Then again, I am the girl who laughs at her own jokes. I also know that there are a handful of loyal readers out there, whom I adore. Thanks guys! I once had a friend who told me he thought my blog was stupid. Note the past tense in the last sentence.


*~*~

I'm going to pretend I'm on the therapist's couch right now and divulge a little neurosis. I've been in a funk for a while now. I don't like Boston, I don't like my job. I want to go back to New York but I recognize that is completely an escapist route. If I move back to NY, especially without a job, I will get frustrated and take it out on my parents.

I live here right now because I have a job at a hospital. I don't like this job too much, but I'm very wary of leaving it. First of all, I have health insurance. That's quite important.

Second, my medical school interviews are coming up and I do not want to seem flaky. Since I'm a career switcher, I feel that one of the most important things I need to do is convince the medical schools that I really, truly want to be a doctor. This is not a whim. However, quitting my first medically related job after 8 months is not that best way to convey the sentiment that I am dedicated to becoming a physician. Sigh.

And - I never thought the day would come ... but I am sick of the Chinatown Bus. I can't take it anymore. I did a very depressing calculation the other day. Since moving to Boston, I think I have made at least 15 round trips on the bus. That's 30 trips on the bus. At 4 hours a pop (sometimes more), I've spent 120 hours on the damn bus. That's 5 straight days! 5 whole days! And what do I have to show for it? There are no frequent rider miles. They should upgrade me the next time I take it. Oh I know! They should let me drive the bus!

Oh a lighter note, I am trying to de-funk-defy. I went salsa dancing with a friend yesterday. How fun! I've never really gone salsa dancing; luckily they had some rudimentary lessons. My friend is also a terrific dancer, so all the ingredients were there for an exciting night. We didn't take ourselves too seriously and danced for about 2 hours. However, we were both distracted by a woman at the dance club:

This woman had the most gigantic breasts of any woman I have ever seen in my entire life. They were obviously fake. She was wearing the tiniest halter top as well. Her shirt was truly a miracle of engineering and stretchy fabric. At some point she walked near us, and we both had to duck.

In a previous life, my friend was a computer programmer focusing on missile defense. He lapsed into protocol: "DUCK! TARGETS IDENTIFIED! LAUNCH IMMINENT!" I had nightmares about her boobs. That's how scary they were.

duck blur

I have a cool roommate. Hi cool roommate! Last night our brain waves crossed in a beautiful display of 90's pop culture recollection.

Location: our sweltering kitchen.
Time: too late for dinner, but I was hungry.
Scene: heating up some Trader Joe's frozen gnocchi (damn good!).

Cool Roommate (henceforth "CR") and I shared in some gnocchi goodness. There was some leftover, but I couldn't finish it. I was putting it into a mini-tupperware (think baby food size) and CR was making fun of me because it literally made no sense to save such a little amount of food. He made a joke about saving "14 gnocchi." He continued to say that he wished he could count random things really quickly - like gnocchi or beans.

Here is where normal people would think: "Like Rain Man."

But at literally the same time, CR and I said "Like that guy ... that guy on Duck Tales."

That's right. Within a minute we recalled Fenton Crackshell. Scrooge's accountant. I correctly remembered that his mother had curlers and lived in a trailer. We mapped out Fenton's transformation into Gizmo Duck (Blabberin' Blatherskite!). Then we did a sad but heartwarming rendition of the Duck Tale's themesong (Woo-oo!). Good times.

Conclusions from our little time traveling adventure:

* Ducktales was definitely the best of the Disney Afternoon lineup
* What the heck was Tale Spin all about?
* We approve of Animaniacs (who were zany to the max!)
* DuckTales had some very interesting and educational story lines. Memorable episodes include the Golden Fleece and William Drakespeare.

My favorite DuckTales episode was the one about inflation (Ahem, yes I'm a total nerd. Hasn't that been established?). It had to do with a special coin that kept multiplying and the boys thought they had hit the jackpot. But then everything became really expensive and a pack of gum cost something like 10,000 coins. That little visualization sure came in handy during the Money Supply lecture in my MacroEconomic Theory class. You think I kid, but surely I do not.

Cool Roommate was kind enough to send me the link from WikiPedia about Fenton Crackshell. They also have a nice post about DuckTales. If you are so inclined, here is the Unofficial DuckTales webpage that has some fun stuff (but some pop-ups, so don't say I didn't warn you.) So have fun! Here are some pictures taken, ahem, unofficially from said sites for your amusement.

for the love of paula abdul

I have several pet peeves. But one of them trumps all the others. The mother peeve. And that is: bad hip-hop dancing. Now, I warn you, some parts of this post may be slightly offensive or stereotypical. But I'm tired of lounging beneath the PC umbrella. Today, there is no protection. Slather on some SPF and let's go.

Gripe 1: Bad freak-dancing.

Oh, ooooh .... where to begin? Freak dancing. Grinding. Do y'all know what I'm talking about? This is not the equivalent of Baby and What's-his-Name getting it on in the basement with all the other people while Penny's all knocked up. This is two bodies glued together to the hip-hop beat. This is how 50 cent intends people to dance to his "songs." Freak dancing is what goes on in the Candy Shop.

Here is a step-by-step. A girl with some rhythm and some back backs (hah!) into a male and their hips move. There are two criteria: the two dancers are in sync with each other AND with the music. Not one or the other. BOTH. Both people. And it has to be sexy. Both parties need to feel it. If they don't, it looks like an episode of America's Most Wanted.

It is terribly painful to watch when this delicate art gets butchered by people who:

a) can't dance
b) are too drunk
c) are too drunk and think they can dance

I guarantee you have all been witness to this debacle. Have you ever watched the Real World? It's right there for you. Unfortunately, I had to experience this again first hand this past weekend. It was a good friend's birthday, and we all headed out for some dancing.

A disclaimer (and a blatant self-indulgence): My friends can dance. We tear up the dance floor. And we're damn good. Gloria Estefan's got nothing on Indo's man. The rhythm has not only gotten us, it inhabits us.

So as the brown-brigade is getting this party started ... there was a lanky drunk white guy trying to freak dance with a woman. He was obviously wasted as was his poor little victim. It hurt my eyes to watch, but I couldn't help it. Maybe I could rescue them? We need to do an Extreme Makeover, Funk Edition. He kept running around, trying to grab this girls hips and then make out with her. Oh man.

Now, here's my not-so-PC element. Often, it does tend to be the white people who can't dance. I'm sure you all can jump, but the hip-hop-hippity-hop sometimes eludes you. Please don't hate me ... your brown brothers and sisters are here to help! And that's not to say that some of you have not mastered the art. I've seen some amazing dancers from the other side of the Thanksgiving Table (get it? Because I'm Indian ... haha).

But if you are new to the grinding scene, don't jump in feet first. Take it slow. Get the hips moving. Then get the attitude going. THEN back it up, back it up, back it up!

I truly don't mean to offend. That being said, I'm likely addressing one person here since I think that is the size of my white readership. Hi babe! You know who you are and I love you! Please still be my friend. Not only because you're an amazing friend, which you are, but also because you may be my only white friend and I'm going on a quota system here sista-girl.

Gripe 2: Dance classes ruined because of certain people who can't dance.

I went to the gym yesterday. I'm trying to be good again. I got to the gym at 6:00, and noticed that there was a class called "Multi-Groove" at 6:30. Hmm ... maybe I will try out said Multi-Groove. What a disaster.

The instructor was this fine African-American guy who could dance like nobody's business. However, he couldn't teach a baby how to cry. He kept zoning out and doing his own little dance moves. Which is fine, if you're at home or in da club, but not IF YOU ARE TEACHING A DANCE CLASS.

The demographic of the class was pretty interesting. There were about 10 people. All girls, except for the requisite 40-something skinny yoga-doing new age white guy who wants to experience every culture under the sun. Of the girls, half were black, half minus 1 were white, and the 1 was me. The instructor played reggae and hip-hop.

In addition to the instructor's non-instructional nature, I was quite distracted by two people: the old white dude (he was trying so hard, but my god, he looked like he was continually doing the chicken-dance), and a young pretty white girl.

The girl obviously was a trained dancer. A trained ballet or jazz dancer, I suppose. Because she got every move down, but she did the moves as if they were ballet. She made what was supposed to be rough gentle. Her facial expression made it look like she had just wrapped herself in a bunch of towels that were fresh out of the dryer and smelled like Snuggle. Instead of emphatic spins she twirled gracefully.

It's HIP HOP. There is attitude! I certainly don't mean to say that I was doing to the moves right or that I am a good hip-hop dancer. But girl, be pissed off! Have sass. Think about the last guy you dated and think about kicking his butt. That's how to get this party started!

hogwarts and hogwash

I love Harry Potter just as much as the next person. I would have bought the new book and started it already, but my brother already bought it so I'm waiting for him to finish so I can read it next. The excitement around the new book release is warranted. I love the fact that children waited in line to buy the book so that they could read it as soon as humanly possible. However, the giddiness of some older readers is a bit frightful. People - don't forget you are just Muggles!

On the eve of the book release, I walked past the Harvard Book Store at 11:30 PM. The book store, like many others, was having a Harry Potter extravaganza. I decided to walk in and observe some of the festivities. Seeing the kiddies having fun was nice. Seeing parents and kids united in the pursuit of reading was nice too.

Seeing a college aged couple wearing robes and hats and reading excerpts of Harry Potter 5 back and forth to each other as if it were Shakespeare ... not so nice. Seriously. Is this foreplay for them? I'd be less disturbed if they were plain old making out. I exited the store and went home.

CNN had a picture gallery of people around the world buying the new book. I particularly liked this one. It's of a bookstore in Chennai (f/k/a Madras).

i'll take slightly disturbing for $200 alex

I met a friend of mine for lunch yesterday. We had Indian take-out, and were craving something cheap and sweet after our heavy lunch. We headed over to CVS, where we went old school and bought "Spree" and "Nerds" respectively.

As we were leaving CVS, I noticed my friend had purchased an additional item. Baseball cards. I didn't even know they still make baseball cards. I asked my friend why he bought them and he said "I don't know, I used to buy them."

Needless to say, I never used to buy baseball cards. I did, however, buy Garbage Pail Kids trading cards. Did you? How disgusting were those things? How did our parents give us money to actually purchase those items? Lest you forget, here are some memorable images:





Gross, huh?


~*~*~

I got a haircut yesterday. It was quite drastic. It's very, um, short. It's a boycut. I've been tempted to do this for years now, and I figured that this was as good time as any. A good friend of mine recommended the salon.

The salon is owned and operated by a gay couple. They have been together for 24 years, and have been stylists together for something like the last 20. My haircut was quite the experience. First, the salon is decorated like a psychedlic spaceship. Seriously. Second, when discussing various style options, my hair dresser suggested "So, maybe Courtney Cox circa the second to last season of friends?"

I swear that's what he said. We then went on to have a conversation about my desire to cut off all my hair, including "Don't worry about those boys who tell you to keep your hair long. Men don't know what they're talking about. Straight men, that is."

Result: the most fun haircut I've ever had. He did a fantastic job. It's taking some getting used to ... I can't decide if I look cute or if I look like a 14-year old boy. If you see me, let me know your thoughts. Unless of course, you are a straight man.

trivialities

It's been raining like mad in Boston for the past few days. I got caught in a terrible downpour on Wednesday. The kind of downpour where the rain laughs at you for even thinking that you could avoid it by using a mini-umbrella. Everything got soaked. My new favorite thing got soaked - the LL Bean monogrammed backpack I bought for myself. Yes, I monogrammed it, just for myself. Greetings, fellow citizens of Nerdinia. Here is a picture. It's from the website. The website had a sample up there with the initials "PGR." I am not PGR. I am SAV. I altered the picture for your benefit (as you can see, I'm really into the pictures on Blogger now.)


So my backpack got soaked. It's a really good backpack, it can withstand normal rainfall. But nobody stood a chance against this rain. It was so bad that my wallet, which was in a compartment within another compartment got soaked. My dollar bills are still wet.

While I'm on the subject of dollar bills ... I had a strange experience while riding the T into work this morning. There was a nice family - obviously tourists, riding in the same subway car. They had a cute daughter, around 5. A little hyper. There was a woman sitting across from the little girl, and the girl tried to impress the woman by dancing a little bit. She was wiggling around in her seat and giggling - even I couldn't help but smile. But then the girl got up and grabbed one of the subway poles and started dancing. It got a bit strange as she kept dancing with the pole. I mean, the child was five! The woman facing the girl gave sort of a "this is weird" laugh. That it was. Someone, call Benson and Stabler, stat!

My boss is still kind of bonkers. He finally wrote my med school recommendation -

something I've been asking for quite some time. He kind of used it as leverage to get me to do work, saying things like "You should really work hard on this project, it'll enchance your recommendation."

A few things. He showed me the draft today. He spelled my name wrong and continually referred to me as "he." In addition, he wrote "Sophia has been working here for the past 8 months. She will continue to work here for another year."

Jigga WHA? When did I say that? And when did you decide to put that in writing in my medical school recommendation? Oh boy. Though, it's pretty trivial I suppose. It's just annoying is all.

you are like wet sand in my underwear

I love that line from White Men Can't Jump. So funny, descriptive and disturbing. Speaking of sand ... I spent much of the long weekend in the Hamptons. Because I'm a lady of leisure and high status. I attend society teas. Kiss Kiss, Hug Hug. I felt like a debutante. And then I remembered. I am more aunty than debutante. I am a debut-aunty.

The Hamptons came about because our very good family friends have a beautiful beach house. They graciously offered to let us stay there for the weekend as they were out of town. The first night, I headed out to the beach with my brother and two of my very best friends. My parents joined for the rest of the weekend.

Necessary components of any vacation where I can actually relax:

• Good peeps (check)
• Ice cream (check, check. Nestle Crunch Bars and Edy's Dibs. Woohee!)
• TV (half a check. A gorgeous plasma screen TV in the house. No cable)
• Shower optional (check)
• Good music (check. JV brought along some great CDs. Who doesn't love Hip-Hop with breakfast?)
• A visit to Costco (check. With the family on the way back from the Hamptons.)

All systems Go. Great vacation! We cooked on Friday. I helped. I swear! Look, here is proof, along with some other visual aids from the trip:

*~*~*

My parents informed me that they had received a phone call "inquiring" about me. A woman who used to live in NY was hoping to find a bride for a young male member of her family. I don't know how or why, but my name was suggested. The woman asked my Dad if I was dating anyone (good idea, ask the person least likely to know). My dad then informed her that I had changed careers and was planning on attending medical school.

The woman responded: "Oh, just starting medical school? That won't work. We are looking for something more immediate."

Whoa. There is almost too much to process. First of all, the idea that I was tossed up as marriage material both flatters and frightens me. More the latter, because as much as I lament my single status, the idea of marriage still freaks me out. Secondly, something more immediate? What were you hoping for? Ramen Noodles? A TV dinner? Wow. But then secretly, I feared: Does going to med school make me a bad wife candidate? Not only can I not cook, now my choice of career is sabotaging me. This whole situation. Very much wet sand in my underwear. My granny, comfortable underwear. Which I forgot to mention is another necessary component of a good vacation.

After reflecting on the "interest" and letting it rattle me somewhat, I regained my good old obstinate nature. My life comes first. My career choice rocks and ain't nobody gonna make me feel otherwise. And do some research before you call and inquire about my "marriagable status." Because I'm kinda crazy. And I like it that way.