excuse me officer.

Warning: This post contains some information that is not suitable for children under 13. Or family members of mine. Look away Mom! Actually my mom would be fine. Look away, lil' bro!

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This past weekend I went to a friend's bachelorette party.

Leading up the event, the ladies organizing the shin-dig dropped some very unsubtle hints about the "entertainment" by reminding the attendees not to forget their "dollar bills."

The entire spectacle was completely over-the-top and campy. Which made it hysterical and not gross. I laughed a lot, as did all the girls there. But to protect identities and keep some modesty to the blog, I regret to inform you that I will not be posting any pictures. Heh heh.

Here is what I can share:

The week before the party, a girlfriend of mine told me that the entertainment was a PhD from MIT who did this on the side. Uh, could you PICK a better dude for a bunch of Harvard girls? Hot body schmody. It's the size of the intellect that matters.

Turns out that guy couldn't make it though. The actual person we got was apparently in such hot demand that the only time he could make it was at 8:00 PM. So that's when he arrived. 8:00 PM. Who engages in such debauchery so early? It was like the early bird special. As if we are all senior citizens and need to be in bed by 10:00. Imagine that were the case: crochet at 5:00, dinner in the solarium at 6:00, backgammon at 7:00, and then watch a man do some very naughty things at 8:00. Just in time for some tapioca pudding at 9:00.

I digress. At precisely 8:00 PM, a Mr. Policeman knocks on the door. He tells us that he's received a complaint about the loud noise. And then ... the music blasts on and he proceeds to entertain the bride-to-be. He shook his booty then ripped off his velcro pants to reveal - I kid you not - an American Flag G-String (and he was wearing COMBAT boots! Combat boots! I'm surprised he didn't have a bumper sticker across his bum reading "Support Our Troops.")

I don't know about the other girls, but I sure felt like I was doing my civic duty. And before any of your minds start to wander to a dirty place, let me assure you that this was the extent of the raunchiness (sorta). G-String on, dancing galore.

But to me, the funniest part was that the CD player in the hotel room was rather tempermental. In the the middle of one of Mr. Policeman's lap dances to an unsuspecting lady, the music stopped. The room went silent. Everyone looked at her neighbor. Until Mr. Policeman had to get up and go fiddle with the controls of the stereo. The stereo was on a shelf close to the ground, so he had to crouch down and fix the CD. His bum up in the air, all exposed and everything!

When he finally got it to work, the CD started over from the beginning (opening track: sirens blaring). He'd have to skip tracks until he got to where he was before.

So then he went back to the dancing, for about 5 minutes before the CD stopped again. It happened like 3 times. It was incredibly awkward, because the girls weren't inebriated or raunchy enough to keep up the volume. But finally, the CD worked and he was able to finish his routine.

Utterly and completely hilarious. Good times overall. Still, it would've been nice if he were the MIT PhD when all of this was happening, so that he could tell us all about the mechanics of the CD player as he was fixing it. God I am such a nerd.

afternoon snack

Every day, just around 3:30 or 4:00 PM, I have a sugar fix. I need something sweet - and I usually head to the cafe downstairs and pick up a cookie or a brownie. I know it's unhealthy and I am trying to stop. But seriously, I really think it's an addiction. It's a beast that cannot be tamed. Come early afternoon, my mind is focused on one thing: lots and lots of sugar. I've tried to avoid temptation, but it just makes it worse. I sit at my desk and have day dreams of sugar plum fairies and twinkies.

Today was no exception. And boy, was I rewarded manifold. They had ... COCONUT CREAM PIE. My personal nirvana. It was so good; I nearly inhaled the small piece while eating at my desk. I am fortunate that my coworkers were in absentia at the time, because had they seen me they would've had animal services come and take me away. I probably had whipped cream all over my face and had to restrain myself (seriously) from licking the plastic container.

Mmmm ... new favorite thing. Coconut cream pie. I wonder if I can get some ready made somewhere, because I just looked up the recipe on foodtv.com, and it's not something I am capable of making (read: involves more steps than 1) open and 2) place in microwave).

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This morning I picked up and egg and cheese on a bagel from Finagle-A-Bagel. You know, I grew up on Long Island and spent several years living in Manhattan - both of which are tied for bagel capitals of the world. But frankly, I can't tell the difference between Finagle and local LI bagels. Once you toast 'em and lather em w/ a schmear (cream cheese, for all you non native New Yorkers) - they taste basically the same.

Anyway, I noticed a sign on the wall at Finagle: "Open now! The Finagle Bagel Outlet Store, in [some city I can't remember], MA."

Wow, a bagel outlet store. What do you think they sell there? Irregular bagels? Poppy bagels that mistakenly got put in with the chocolate chip batch, to form some mutant hybrid? Bagels with no holes in the middle? Bagels with two holes?

I suppose it's comforting to think that bagels who didn't make the cut to be front and center at retail Finagle stores still have a home. No, I take that back. It's not comforting. A bagel outlet store is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of.

really, i'm ok

To those who commented and supported me following my last post: Thank You. You guys are the best! Thank you for letting me vent and for reminding me that these are small battles in the larger war we call every day life.

Yesterday I called home and spoke to my mom for a bit. As you may or may not know, my mom is an avid reader of the blog. I knew she read the post. She knew I knew she read the post. I knew she knew I knew she read the post. Haha. Pete and repeat, sitting on a boat. Pete fell off, who's left?

Anyway, my mom said "How was your weekend?" (Pregnant pause.) I told her it was fine. She didn't want to overtly say "I know you're lonely, it's ok." Instead, she tip-toed around the issue. "Is everything alright? Are you feeling ... sad? I know long weekends can be ... hard."

Hee hee. So cute. I had a bit of a downer day, no big deal.

Even though I am sans boyfriend, I try to remind myself every day that I have:

1) great support from friends and family and blog readers
2) a secret stash of chocolate, and a second, even more secret stash.
3) parents who miraculously are not pressuring me to get married ...
4) but who do consistently tell me how happy having granddkids would make them. (My response? Get on that lil' bro.)

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Maybe Monday was just a bad hair day. I am in the process of growing my hair out. Being in between hair styles SUCKS. I am a slave to headbands and clips and other things that make me look like I stepped out of a bad 80's movie. The short was fun while it lasted, but I never thought I would miss being able to tie my hair into a ponytail as much as I do. Even though it will be months before I can do that, I still sometimes wear the black rubber band around my wrist, out of sheer habit. The ladies know what I'm talkin' about.

Also, Grey's Anatomy? Like, the best show ever??!

companionship

Most of the time, I am completely fine with being single. I enjoy my freedom and the ability to go out and meet a variety of people. But there are some periods when, no matter how hard you try to fight it, you feel profoundly alone.

I place long weekends into that category. Long weekends are meant for travel and shopping and long lunches and cat naps. And they are so much more fun when you have someone with whom to share those experiences.

I'm not depressed or psycho lonely; all I'm saying is that when you are given the gift of a Monday with no work and no responsibilities, it sure would be nice to have a boyfriend to accompany me to a museum. You know?

I have lots of friends and family; I could have easily gone home and spent time with my parents. But alone time is important too. Hard, but important.

Actually, it wasn't so much today as Friday when I acutely felt the lack of a significant other. I had a rather stressful presentation to make Friday morning, which I found out about Thursday night. My boss was freaking out. I remained calm, practiced the presentation a few times and made sure not to wear a button down shirt on Friday lest I reveal my excessive nervousness through perspiration.

The presentation went really well and I received great feedback. It was one of those times you wish you could call a boyfriend and squeal and have someone congratulate you. But I couldn't.

I did call my Dad, who was really excited. Still, it's different.

Now, it's Monday. And I am listening to jazz on the radio. I took a nice long shower and did my hair and makeup and look very trendy. With nowhere to go. I think I will take my book and go to Starbucks and read for a while.

I know these are the times that make me strong, independent, and resilient. But oh, are they hard.

singledom awareness day

Today, my friend sent me an instant message reading "Happy Singledom Awareness Day! (SAD, if you're keeping track)".

So there you have it. I'm not bitter about Valentine's Day. Really. I like chocolate too much to be bitter about this completely contrived holiday singularly established to make single people feel worse about themselves.

I am lucky enough to have amazing friends who have all agreed to be my Valentine. Yeah, I'm a player. I gots lotsa Valentines. In all seriousness, I received tons of e-mails and instant messages from my friends. I am one lucky gal. One single, twenty something, spinsterhood-headed, lucky gal.

And, well, I did wear a red and white sweater today. So shoot me. Right through the heart. (Because I give looove a bad name.)

Happy Valentine's Day Everyone!

snoooooooow.

It snowed. A lot. Man do I hate winter. Last Friday, in light of the coming storm, my coworker from London told me how excited she was for her first New England snowfall. Needless to say I didn't share her enthusiasm.

Prior to the discovery of the imminent BIGGEST STORM EVER IN NEW YORK CITY HISTORY, I had already decided to go to New York for the weekend. I originally had plans to go into Manhattan and spend time with friends. Those quickly transformed into sitting at home all weekend with my parents and alternating between ZEE TV and the Weather Channel. The Weather Channel, by the way, is run by a bunch of sadists. How else to explain their continuous display of the current temperature in Jamaica (the island) during breaks between blizzard coverage?

After the storm, a group of men in a pickup truck came by and offered shoveling services. Now, there is a luxury worth spending money on. I agreed to a price. But I will admit something: I monitored them from the windows like a hawk. I mean, service is service is service, right? At some point, my mother and I were both watching them from our living room. She turned to me and in Hindi said:

"They need to do the part near the end of the driveway ... and they are piling too much on the right, how will we get the car out?"

Therein is one of the funniest and most natural elements of immigrant life. When you want to talk about someone, you revert back to Mother Tongue. Mind you, the shovelers were outside. They couldn't hear us. But my mom delicately lowered her voice and altered her language in order to convey mild criticism. Gotta love it.

I was booked on a flight back to Boston this morning at 6:30 AM. Amazingly, it took off and was only about 40 minutes delayed. I feel a little bad; everyone who was booked yesterday had their flights canceled and will have to struggle to get a flight back at some point today. But serendipity led me to book my ticket for early this morning as opposed to last night, and as a result, here I am. Blogging at work. Glad it was so crucial for me to rush back ahead all those other passengers.

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If you can watch Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, and not tear up even the littlest bit when Ty and the family scream "MOVE THAT BUS!", then I declare you positively inhuman.

i left my heart ...

I was in San Francisco this past week for a medical school interview.

Everyone warned me that I would fall in love when I least expected it. And I did.

Unfortunately, not with a man. But with the city. And the state. And the sunshine.

Pray tell, East Coasters, why do we live here amongst the career focused, money hungry, stressed out masses simmering in such cacophany? I know I am romanticizing the lovely Bay Area, especially since I was a relative virgin to its seductive wares. But the city mesmerized me with good weather and friendly people.

Rather than bore you with the minutae, I will just tell you that I spent four days with one of my closest friends, who is a graduate student at Stanford. We drove all around the place, had good food and great conversations. We hiked (sort of) and took a tour of wine country (perhaps the most beautiful scenery in these here United States). I did notice the following things:

• People are pretty darn healthy out in California. They hike and run and play tennis instead of Nintendo. They wear less makeup. I stood out like a sore thumb as I get winded climbing a set of stairs and swear by lip gloss as if it's the elixir of life.
• Sun makes me happy.
• They're not kidding about the, um, diversity of San Fran. My last day there, I took the BART (public transport) to the airport. A transgendered/transsexual/i-have-no-idea-what-the-correct-terminology-is teenage boy (with lipstick and a hybrid outfit consisting of jeans with a skirt on top and some kind of muumuu blouse) sat next to me. Suddenly s/he said "I loooove your hair." Huh? I thanked him and told him I was contemplating what to do with it. But the salient point here was that s/he was nice and pointed me in the right direction to the airport.

So, ladies and gents, I loved California. My interview went well, but as always it's a big crapshoot and I still have no idea where the heck I will be next year. Exciting? Yes. Frustrating? HELL yes.

Here are some pics for your viewing pleasure:

At a winery in Sonoma. The two wine glasses are shown to illustrate the color differences for wines aged in cork barrels vs. stainless steel barrels. It may not seem like it, but you can tell quite easily once made aware of the difference.

The view of the Golden Gate Bridge from the med school library. That's right. The LIBRARY.

I know I will end up where I'm supposed to be ... but wouldn't it be nice to look at that, like, every day? I loved California so much that I am going back next month. My family and I are going to do the drive along the Pacific Coast Highway from LA to San Fran.

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Random aside. I went on a pseudo-date (friend of a friend, not really a date but kind of a date. Know what I mean? I bet many of you do) a few weeks ago. The dude was desi. An ABCD, second generation, what have you. Just like me. Or so I thought. Until he asked me when I moved to the States. I stared at him and told him I was born and raised in New York. And then he asked me why I still speak with an Indian accent. Oy vey. Or should I say, Aree Yaar!

little debbie, meet my conscience.

Last night I had dinner with one of my all-time favorite people. She is a friend of mine from college, and was my roommate in Manhattan the first year I lived there. Now, I must tell you how much of a rock star this girl is:

Incredibly intelligent, beautiful, fiercely loyal, caring, fun and super sweet. Harvard Undergrad. A big wig on Wall Street. Harvard Business School. Captain of the girl's tennis team in college. Yes, I'm serious. A tall Indian girl who plays tennis like nobody's business. As opposed to your garden-variety desi girl, like me, who is 5' 2" and can hardly play ping pong. Speaking of which, will someone PLEASE teach me how to put on a damn topspin?

So yes, she's awesome and I'm so glad we had the chance to catch up yesterday. We had a lovely dinner. After dinner, we wandered over to CVS since she had to purchase some paper plates for an event she was hosting.

Now, you can hardly expect me to walk into CVS and not buy at least one of the following items:

Doritos
Makeup
Some kind of newfangled hair product for my style du jour
Cookies
Chocolate
People magazine
Chewing gum
Hand cream (FYI - I have discovered that the best possible remedy for dry hands / cuticles is none other than slathering on some Vaseline prior to bed time. Yes, it's kind of ghetto. But it's so effective and works better than anything else you will try. Scouts honor. Take THAT Cosmo).

So, as I wandered the aisles of CVS, my eyes fell on the Little Debbie display. And people, I LOVE Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Sandwiches. I am talking pure, unadulterated love. So much so that I am going to name my daughter Little Debbie. My dad liked Sophia Loren, but I can safely say that she doens't hold a candle to Oatmeal Creme Sandwiches.

I secretly purchased my box of cookies ($1.19 for 12. How sad is it that I know the price has gone up, since a few months ago a box was $1.00 even?). My friend finished her transaction at another register. As we walked out, she saw my sheepish grin and asked me what I had bought. I looked at her guiltily then pulled out the box of cookies. She gave me an adorable look of admonition. I protested "Metabolism in my family slows down at 30! My cousin told me so! I want to eat whatever I want while I still can!"

She smiled angelically and told me, "Soph, it's fine. Just make sure you pay attention to your health." Oh man I love that girl. Her sincerity and all-around sweetness can make anyone melt and see the righteousness of her ways.

Last night I had two cookies though. Don't tell her.