that song is weird.

Going to leave for my trip to Australia shortly. I am flying out from San Francisco with one of my best girlfriends. I came to San Fran last night via Song, Delta's low-cost airline.

Now, if you've ever flown Song, you'll understand. And if you haven't, I'll do my best to paint you a picture. Song is basically an airline on acid. They are trying to be a hippy-trippy low cost carrier, and somehow the end product is a creepy carnival like experience.

First, the colors. Bright blue and green are the main colors, accented with purple and orange. The colors are everywhere. When I was dropped off at the terminal at JFK, you pull into an area where the passenger drop off area is not bland concrete, like normal - but huge mushroom shaped overpasses painted -- you guessed it -- blue and green. When my brother pulled the car into the area, I commented "This looks like Disneyworld on crack."

Then the plane itself - the seats are colored blue, but the top could be green and the side panels orange and/or purple. It's very disconcerting. It makes you feel like a kindergardener. But not in a good way. But whatever it is, they have satellite TV and cheap fares.

Then the safety announcement started. And that's when I fully creeped out. The pre-recorded announcement sounds like a weird transcendental yoga/relaxation/Deepak Chopra mantra. Complete with soft chimes and wind noises in the background. It went something like this:

"Take a deep breath in and be aware of the oneness of the earth ... blah blah blah... and now...please look at our lovely safety demonstration by our Song brethren Sister Sharon in the aisle..." (ok, it's slightly exaggerated but you get the idea).

The flight crew also seemed to have toked up before the flight, because they were all really absent minded and excessively friendly. When the beverage service passed by, the flight crew referred to most people as "dude" or "sweetie". Call me old-fashioned, but I kind of prefer "Miss" or "Sir."

They are low-cost though, so you had to pay for any food. Which I normally wouldn't do, but did this time because it was a long flight and all. The sandwich was $8, a bit steep, but surprisingly good. I paid with a $20. The woman didn't have change at the time and said she'd come back later. Well, later came and I didn't have my money yo. As another flight attendant strolled by, I got her attention and asked her to remind the other one about my change.

Shortly thereafter, the original woman came up to me and gave me the $12. She seemed a little angry; she forked over the money then rolled her eyes at me and said "I didn't forget you know." I looked at her and replied "Now, take a deep breath and let's join hands ..." Just kidding.

Finally, I used the restroom near the end of the flight. Standard bathroom lavatory. But the handsoap? I kid you not: lemongrass and wasabi hand soap.

Seriously? Why would I want my hands to smell like an appetizer at a Vietnamese restaurant? Damn hippies.

OK, will try to post from the down under if possible. Thanks for the good wishes from the last post - you guys are the best!

naked muslim girl

My mom was in India recently. I missed her a lot. Like when I scraped my knee. She spoils me with her love and takes good care of me. She feels my own pain with twice the intensity and celebrates my successes with excitement that dwarfs mine.

Case in point:

December of senior year of high school. Waiting to hear about college acceptances. As mentioned before, I was a bit (ha) of a stress cadette in high school. I was ten times more neurotic than I am now and really high strung. I had applied early to Harvard and was set on getting in. I felt like Balki Bartokomous in Perfect Strangers: "Harvard or Bust."

I was so nervous about finding out my fate that I literally did not eat, sleep or (shamefully) shower for the two days before the decisions were made available. I woke up with a start on Monday, December 16th, 1996. All potential applicants were allowed to call to find out their decision at 9:00 AM. I started calling at 8:30 AM (Stop judging! Years of therapy have made me better.) But apparently I wasn't the only one doing so. I kept getting a busy signal. Finally around 10:00 AM my mom came into my room, grabbed me and said:

"You look disgusting. Take a shower. You'll feel better."

I decided that a shower couldn't hurt ... and so went into her bathroom and turned on a stream of very hot water and let the steam cloud my already weary mind. I stood there for what seemed like an eternity, finally having some semblance of sanity for the first time in days. I began shampooing my hair when I heard a knock.

I turned and looked, and saw my mother standing there knocking on the glass shower door. She was gesturing frantically at the cordless phone in her hand. I opened the shower door and looked at her with disbelief.

"I hit redial and someone picked up!" she squealed.

I took the phone, calmly told the woman on the other end my social security number, and nodded my head when she gave me the answer. My poker face fooled my mother, who thought I didn't get in. Then, I smiled and told her I had been accepted.

She shrieked like a banshee and burst immediately into tears (a technique I have still not been able to master. My tears build up slowly then pour like a fountain. I can't cry spontaneously). The next thing she said was:

"You must Thank God for this opportunity."

Without hesitating, she grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the shower and dragged me into her bedroom, where a large portrait of the Aga Khan (spiritual leader of our sect) hangs. Mind you: I am buck nekked, with shampoo in my hair.

She ordered me again: "Thank God for your acceptance to Harvard."

So there I stood. Hands clasped, suds in my hair and eyes, completely exposed in my birthday suit, saying "Thank you God for letting me get into Harvard."

Is she the cutest or what?

Now, readers, I do admit I have an ulterior motive in telling this story. I primarily want to express to you how awesome and funny my mom is. But I also am feeling very nostalgic for that day in 1996, because nine years and three months later, on March 16th, 2006, I found out I was accepted to Harvard Medical School. Woohoo!

I am beyond thrilled and really excited. My mom once again burst into tears when hearing the news. She didn't, however, make me strip down to my skivvies and thank the powers that be. I, uh, did that later.

grace be not my name

I'm excessively clumsy. I spill food on myself in approximately 2 out of every 3 meals, and I still insist on wearing white shirts. I trip when there is nothing to trip over. I slip even when the ground is made out of gravel.

Graceful is a word that has never and will never be used to describe me.

I have a large blue excercise ball in my room. Um, I did not realize the irony of my color choice until just writing that last phrase. Anyway, yes, excercise ball. It rolls around my room, often taking permanent position near my bed. The other day I got up in the morning, swung my feet over the bed and got up. And in my universe where gravity does not exist and vertigo is the name of the game, somehow I slipped ONTO the excercise ball and basically rolled off of it onto the floor.

Having trouble imagining it? Yeah, I'm having trouble accepting that it really happened. I don't know how, I don't know why, but it was truly a moment of slapstick comedy. Except that I hurt my hand.

Yesterday, I was leaving work and heading toward the train station. I heard the train coming as I was swiping my subway pass ... and decided to make a run for it. Up the stainless steel stairs. In my slippery orthopaedic shoes and my long down jacket that basically immobilizes my legs. And then ... you guessed it. I tripped and landed on my knees on the steps in front of me. It was such an impact that the stairs reverberated a pitch that harmonized with my shriek.

It was a fall that looked like it hurt a lot. Nobody stopped to help me as they were all running for the train anyway. People suck sometimes. Man, I hope I would help someone who fell like that. Anyway, amidst the searing pain in my knee, I still managed to hobble up the rest of the stairs and onto the train. People stared at me but noone asked if I was OK.

As the train started to move, I looked down and saw that my pants had not torn, which was a good thing. But the pain in my knee could not be denied. I knew I had scraped myself quite badly, as within a few seconds I could feel blood start to flow. I limped home, and took off my black pants to reveal ... my long underwear. Haha. Don't laugh. My thermal did have a large blood stain, and when I took them off I saw that I had skinned my entire knee.

I skinned my knee. I SKINNED my knee. How old am I? Seven? As I stared at my leg I had a flashback to the last time I remember skinning my knee. I was just about seven or eight and was riding my bike down the street. I distinctly remember holding nintendo cartridges in one hand and trying to steer the bike with my other. My guess is I was going to a friends house, but the memory is hazy. Anyway, yes ... so I fell off the bike and skinned my knee. I went home and my mom cleaned the wound and put a band-aid on it and kissed my boo-boo.

Last night, as I sat in my room, wincing as I put alcohol on the scrape and then bandaged the knee ... I realized that I miss my Mommy. And that I'm a complete and utter basketcase.