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!

petty. petty. petty.

Not Tom. Me. I am cerebrally resentful of my job situation. That is a very convulted way of saying I don't like what the job situation is doing to me. I don't like the thoughts that are running through my head. I don't like feeling angry all the time. This is precisely the reason I left finance for medicine. I didn't like the person I was as a financial analyst. I liked myself much better (and frankly, I think people liked me a lot better too) - when I switched careers. But now I'm back to a place where I don't like the way I'm acting or thinking. I'm grumpy and unpleasant. For example, this post is not silly or cheesy ... I'm already falling out of my element.

A friend of mine very wisely put it to me that since I switched careers, I have to put my "dues" in for a new career. But part of me is frustrated. Can't my dues from career #1 transfer over? I put in a helluva lotta dues there. I worked really, really hard for a really long time to prove myself in finance. And then I had to leave that behind and take introductory chemistry. I had to settle for the first medically related job I could get so that I could start building a resume that sounded more like ER than CNBC. So I took it. I sucked it up and I came in and I worked. I wasn't challenged, I didn't love it. But I knew I had to do it. I had to be able to say that I worked at Such and Such institution that has credibility in the medical world.

That's why this situation is very frustrating for me. I had to take the job for necessity and now I'm struggling with the whims of a very, very tempermental supervisor. (n.b. obviously, my wanting to be discreet has flown out the window. Now I just have to pray that nobody tracks this.).

There was another development that I've failed to mention to you. He hired another person. This makes my whole situation a lot more worrisome. Why'd he hire someone? Is the writing on the wall? Is he going to Donald Trump my ass? Since hiring this person, he's dumped so much work on me I don't know what to do. And, um, well New Person (NP) isn't doing anything.

I overheard him talking to NP today. He was telling NP how impressed he was with their (bad grammar, intentionally vague) references. One reference had said what a hard worker this person was, and cited that once they called him up at 1:00 AM to ask a work related question. My boss found this very impressive and was relaying this to NP, saying "That really shows a strong work ethic."

Imagine how I felt overhearing this. And knowing that 2 days ago he basically told me I have no work ethic. I've worked more nights past 1:00 AM than anyone in their right mind should ever work. While banking, I once went 3 days with a combined 6 hours of sleep. Out of my entire analyst class, I worked the hardest without question. That was 3 years ago. I worked so hard then because I believed my life would be better in 3 years. And look where I am now.

Not to be too melodramatic, but I did sacrifice a lot and swallow quite a bit of pride to embark upon this new career path. Don't worry, I still have the big picture in mind. The idea of being a doctor makes me so giddy that, even given my current chagrin, I could probably summon unicorns and rainbows with my passion for life.

Hold on ... one second. I'm going to go get the cake. What cake? Why, the cake for this gigantic pity party I'm throwing for myself, of course!

I'll be totally honest with you all. I have been working various jobs since my freshman summer in college. They have all been really bad experiences. I worked hard and never, ever loved what I did. Did you know I had 3 summer internships in investment banking while in college? And I hated all 3. I did. Don't ask why I then pursued 2 more years of banking after that. One day I'll write a post about how I went to an actual therapist to figure this out, and what a waste of time that was. All I know is that I hated my life for a long time, and I made a change for the better.

But am I cursed? How did I end up in ANOTHER job that is unhealthy and working for an unreasonable boss? (I've had some real winners in that department, my goodness). Is it me? Or is this really, truly some awful luck? I do have faith that my life will turn around. I also know that I'm going to continue to deal with many, many unpleasant people in the future.

I just wish it weren't so bad, like, all the time.

I can't wait to be old. And someone else's boss. Because I'll be so nice. I won't be abusive or try to inflict the pain that I went through on others. That's why I love teaching and volunteering. Those have been my most rewarding and happiest experiences. The mentors I've met through volunteering and shadowing have been life-changing and really inspiring. And that's why I know I'll love medicine.

OD'd on the Deepak Chopra-esque reaffirmations from me yet? Thanks, whoever you are, for letting me vent. Want some cake?

what next?

Mars Inc. is introducing "Mega M&Ms"to expand their product line. They are aimed at adults. And they come in 'adult' colors, including "teal, beige, maroon, gold, brown and blue-gray."

Great. Metrosexual M&Ms. Whoever complained about M&M colors? Are adults embarassed to eat a bright red M&M? But these people would be OK with a "teal" or "maroon" piece of chocolate? Did they do a focus group? Did someone really say "I am having sexual fantasies about Green M&Ms. It's too much for me. Please, make it blue-grey, to reflect the sadness and angst that fills my Generation X identity."

They should call them Muted M&Ms instead of Mega M&Ms. Bigger and blander. Less fun. But they will match the color scheme of your Queer Eye inspired apartment!

This is so dumb. Beige M&Ms. Beige. They got rid of the two shades of brown (ha! ok, only a single person might get that reference.) And replaced it with beige. Who wants to eat a beige M&M? Why not eggshell, or mauve?

As you may or may not have been able to tell from all my exasperated rhetorical questions, I'm frustrated. By necessity, I can't really give you explicit details about what's wrong because I could potentially get in trouble. In a nutshell: I almost got fired yesterday. Please believe me when I tell you I did nothing wrong and that this was completely unexpected and unwarranted. My gut feeling? My supervisor had a meeting with his boss that morning. Things were probably not OK. He decided to blame someone else. He blamed me for many things that were completely not my responsibility, by a longshot.

He also was a bit cruel and insinuated that I have no motivation. This is literally a snippet of the conversation we had:

"You treat this like a forty hour a week job. You don't work at night, you're gone most weekends. Your work is good, but you don't work hard enough. Maybe you don't want to work hard. Are you really committed to medicine? You know, residents have 80 hour work weeks. Maybe you should consider this career choice."

That was about 5% of the conversation. My head was swirling, my insides were churning. I thought I would vomit. My internal thoughts during the meeting:

1) Um, this is a 40 hour a week job. There's not even much to fill those hours. Nothing is making sense right now.
2) How dare you question my committment to medicine.
3) I used to be a freaking investment banker. Do you know what that means? Do you?
4) Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.

I've gone on too much. I have to be careful, obviously. You might remember from a prior post the same thing happened to my co-worker a few months ago - so I wasn't completely unaware that something like this could happen. He said almost the same things to him then (while praising me). Still, this is an unfortunate situation. I did nothing wrong and yet I feel like I got smacked for misbehaving.

I'm going to go soothe myself and buy some REGULAR M&Ms.

speechless

Yesterday I was speaking to a friend of mine on the phone. The situation I was describing had something to do with kung fu. But for the life of me, I couldn't recall the word kung fu. While we were talking, I started to meander as follows:

"You know ... like Feng Shui. I mean ... uh ... Fung Wah ... No, that's not it. Umm ... like kicking. Fung Wah! Oh whoops."

Finally I got it: Kung Fu. It was perhaps the longest brain freeze in history. It's so interesting when that happens, I think. Your brain went to get some coffee at Starbucks. There should be a warning sign when that happens - or at least, somewhere your body should light up with the words "Brain will be back in five minutes."

There have been no other significant developments in my boring-as-white-bread life. Day job, as always, is frustrating. I started teaching a test-prep class, and that's been fun. I like teaching. Wait, let me rephrase. I like talking. I enjoy an environment where I'm engaged and always interacting with people. Sitting in front of a computer all day necessarily sucks out creativity and articulation skills. This is no joke - when people asked me why I left my last job in finance, one of my reasons is that "After going days without speaking to people, I found myself having trouble verbalizing my thoughts and even talking to my friends."

I finally got my hands on the new Harry Potter book. Harry Potter, you're not the boss of me! But apparently you are, because despite how tired I was yesterday, I stayed up until 3:00 AM reading the book. Honestly - I was sleepy at midnight. But I kept saying "one more chapter ... one more chapter." Until I finally got to a point where my brain actually did knock on my skull and say "Brain ... will be back in five hours."