The Sophia Chronicles

does this still work?

2009-05-29T22:19:00.002-05:00

There is nothing on the food network at the moment.

I first wrote on this blog over five years ago? And why are there no new template options?

babel ... not so much

2007-01-23T21:21:00.001-05:00

Due to some effective persuasion, I've decided to try and start working out again.

Earlier this evening, I went to run on the treadmill in the makeshift "gym" in my building. For the first half of my workout, I was alone in the room.

Halfway through, three guys walked in. They were in their late twenties, were dressed to work out ... and were drunk. One guy had a bottle of Hoegarten (heheh) in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

I continued running as the three of them began their strange workout. I finished and began doing some stretches. While I was stretching, I heard one guy say "Hey, did you guys read that article in the New York Times ... about high definition?"

And the other guys were like "Uh ... no. Was it about DVDs?"

The first guy said, "Um, no." And then he launched into a different language. I am not sure what it was. He became very animated and was giggling a lot as he explained the article to his friends.

And as I sat there stretching ... all I could think was "smooth move dumbass." I had read the article he was describing in detail to his drunkedy drunk friends. It was about high definition TV ... and the problems it was causing for workers in the porno industry.

Please ... speaking in other languages to talk about people or to talk about inappropriate subjects? Like that's new? Give me a break. Desis INVENTED that. Why else do you think there are like 4,000 languages in India alone? We just don't like each other that much ... and pig-Hindi wasn't cutting it to tell your one friend that you think your other friend is a moron.

bizarro blog

2006-12-22T10:37:00.000-05:00

My memory is certainly starting to slacken with age. Which bodes so incredibly well for my next few years in MEDICAL SCHOOL.

But yes. Memory. I was just surfing the web and wanted to check out the blog. And I couldn't remember if I had "The" in the website or not. I typed in:

http://thesophiachronicles.blogspot.com

And ... Bizarro Blog.

Note to self, and ... readers ... the correct address is http://sophiachronicles.blogspot.com. Though by reading this I can safely say that YOU have the correct address. Congrats! You know me better than I know myself.

Do you think the title and format of the other blog are a little eerie, given my old format and my as-yet-current title?

*~*~

Just finished an exam and now am tidying up before I take off for winter break. I love downtime.

dissection

2006-12-15T16:33:00.000-05:00

Hello All.

Per some friendly prodding, I am back to pontificate and procrastinate.

I apologize for not writing in a while. Who would have thought med school was so time consuming? Actually, it's not even the time consuming element that has prevented me from writing too much. Med school just isn't terribly amusing. Interesting? Yes. Challenging? Definitely. Intermittent spurts of uproarious laughter? Not so much.

So far school is great. Anatomy was a bit of a challenge - we have a new curriculum which tried to have us learn all of anatomy in 7 weeks. Suffice to say, that didn't go over too well. I also became very frustrated at the archaic naming of muscles in the body. Why do people make things so much more difficult than they need to be? In a particularly prolonged rant to some classmates, I decided to break with tradition and started naming my own muscles. Here is a dictionary:

Bicips brachii = Armus bendus
Anal spinchter = Poopus stoppus
Latissimus dorsi = Backus flexus
Gastrocnemius = High heelius sexius

You get the idea.

*~*~

A few weeks ago I went to the Harvard Yale football game. Talk about sad. While I had a great time seeing friends and tailgating, I have to admit that the alumni representation left something to be desired. Here is a picture of the Class of 2000 / 2001 joint tailgate:

I am amused as to how they took extra-special effort to designate this the "official" tailgate. Some things are better left inconspicuous.

*~*~

I had gone apple picking a while ago. Apparently some people need help with the concept:

Also, someone snapped this infamous photo of me ... and appropriately labeled it "The Greatest Auntie Shot of All Time."
So there you go.

if you can't beat 'em, join 'em

2006-10-05T21:40:00.000-05:00

I am officially in medical school. Which basically means I study all the time, and I make new friends by complaining about how much work we have to do. Note that this simultaneously alienates me from my former friends. Quite the dynamic equilibrium. (I know what you are thinking ... oh no she did-nt! To which I respond 'oh ... I certainly did'!)

But all is well in the land of intellectual self-aggrandizing and social ineptitude. I hit the expected hurdles: homesickness, self-doubt and la piece de resistance ... loneliness. I am having a difficult time making good friends at school. But I think this is par for the course - making friends is a long-lived process and it takes several iterations to find the good ones. I am on my way though ... slowly but surely I found my way to the back row of the lecture hall. Every morning I roll in a few minutes late to lecture, and plop down next to similarly minded classmates and engage in a lively game of "What the hell is the professor talking about?" Followed by my next favorite game of "Let's make fun of everyone but us, since we clearly are the coolest kids in school."

I had an idea to have a class-wide dodgeball game (but dropped it once I found out they already have one in the spring). I wanted to call whatever team I formed "Picked Last." Because clearly, if you are at my school, you were picked last whenever they played dodgeball. Except for the six foot tall girl in my class who apparantly was a rock star Ivy League basketball player. And who has been assigned to my anatomy group (which starts in a little over a week. The frequency of blogging, I am sure, which increase right around then because that's where the good stories will come from). But yes, she is in my anatomy group. I am sure it will make for quite the comedic scene. Has anyone seen the movie Twins? I envision our anatomy table to resemble that somewhat. Except multicultural. Sort of like Benneton-meets-Twins.

I digress. So yes, overall nothing extraordinary. Just life. And the lovely feeling of doing something (however painful it may be) that is taking me to a place I really want to be. Not once during this whole process have I doubted my desire to become a physician. And that is pretty gosh-darn nice.

OK, back to the back row. We were learning the details of the cell cycle late last week. In the cycle, a cell alternates between a phase when it copies its DNA (called "S" phase for synthesis) and the phase when it divides ("M" for mitosis). For several reasons, it is important the M phase follows S phase. Our professor spent quite some time explaining this, and often reiterated:

"S&M are very important. M must follow S. In certain situations, S&M alternate rapidly."

And in there in the large theater, a lone, high pitched giggle emerged from the back row of miscreants.

new adventures

2006-08-24T21:11:00.000-05:00

Today was my 4th day of medical school. I feel like this is some kind of bizarre dream and one day I am going to wake up in a cubicle with drool coming out of my mouth.

I went on the hiking trip. I am proud to say I made it through ... barely. This trip was without a doubt the *most* physically challenging thing I have ever, ever done in my life. We hiked part of the Appalachian Trail and climbed over 4,500 feet in the course of 3 days. We each carried heavy backpacks and traveled a total over nearly 15 miles. And I was in one of the EASIER groups.

As soon as we got off the bus, we began our hike. Within the first hour, we had climbed nearly 500 feet. My pack was very heavy for me; I couldn't breathe and my legs felt like they were going to fall off. I honestly thought I would have to stop them and ask them to let me turn around. I was able to push through, but was definitely the weakest link in my group. Originally I was self-conscious, but everyone was really supportive and nobody made me feel bad about it.

My group got along swimmingly. I think the key was that everyone had a good sense of humor. This was quite a relief, as I was really worried about getting along with my classmates, many of whom are considerably younger than I am. We played intense games of poker using M&Ms and raisins as currency. I didn't shower for four days. We had to pee and poop in the woods by digging holes in the forest and hoping noone walked by you. We drank brown lake water (some of which even had tadpoles floating around in it).

The amazing part was that I didn't get sick stomachwise. I think I was so preoccupied with the stress of hiking on the rest of my body, that my stomach was a very low priority for my hypochondriasis. It just made me realize how much of physical pain is due to your mental status.

While the experience didn't transform me into a groovy woovy Mother Earth type, it most certainly changed some of my neuroses. For example, my Brita has been sitting in my kitchen unused, because tap water now feels like an incredible luxury - when earlier I would have most likely grimaced while drinking what I was convinced was "chlorine smelling water."

Once we made it to the top of the mountain though, I felt like I had conquered the world:

*~*~

Tuesday we received our white coats. I guess it's kind of a big deal. I was really excited in the morning. But after hours of relatively boring speeches by various deans and faculty, I was ready for a nap. During our ceremony, we had to each say something about how we ended up in medical school and then go and get our coats in what was supposed to be a momentous and emotional moment.

By the time it got to me, I had to pee so badly that I blurted out some nonsense and then abruptly sat down. After an awkward silence, my neighbor leaned over to me and said "Uh, you need to go get your coat now." Duh.

Also, since I was one of the last people to get a coat, I received a men's size 38. I look incredibly silly. As if I didn't feel awkward enough being in school, let's go ahead and make me look like I'm playing cross-dress up from Daddy's closet. My mom and brother were in town for the day though, which was terrific. Also, I have to say. Harvard Med's campus is just stunning.

It's been a good week. More to come. But so far, I'm quite the happy camper. Literally!

T minus 7 days

2006-08-09T12:00:00.000-05:00

Hello hello!

It's the beginning of the end. Of summer, that is. Tomorrow I am half-moving to Boston. And by half-moving, I mean I am going up for two days, dropping off some clothing and an air mattress in my new apartment, and then rushing back to NY a la Speedy Gonzalez.

School begins August 21st. Let me just say: OH. MY. GOD.

I am simultaneously completely ready and totally unprepared to begin school. Does that make any sense? I'm very excited and I know that it's going to be a good time. But the transition is bittersweet; it's been nice being home and spending some good time with family and friends. Luckily, I'm not moving to a place that is completely unfamiliar. Unfortunately for you readers though, that means a never ending stream of posts to come about the lovely, lovely Fung Wah bus!

Don't ask me why (because I seriously can't come up with a good reason), but I signed up to go on an orientation hiking trip. It starts one week from today. Hiking. In the mountains. For four days. Granola - save the earth - Koombaya (sp?) - hiking. With backpacks. And no showers. No deodorant. No shaving of legs. ME. I am going hiking. WTF? I think my thought process went something like this: "Hmm, this is so unlike me. Let me sign up for a hiking trip which will inevitably become a comedy of errors, because I'm running out of material to blog about."

Yeah. Yesterday I went to a sporting goods store to buy some stuff for this trip. Which included a bottle of "Potable Aqua." They are iodine water purification tablets. It kills bacteria from lake water. Apparently we're going to be filling up our Nalgene bottles with lake water and dropping iodine tablets in them and then DRINKING said water.

Note to self: Also pack an economy sized tub of Pepto Bismol. And a Hershey's bar or two. I don't care if the chocolate attracts the bears.

*~*~

My family went on a vacation to Vancouver recently. I had no idea that Vancouver is as beautiful as it is. We then took a luxury train ride from Vancouver to Calgary, which passed through the Rocky Mountains. Quite fun. In a 1930's imperialist sort of way.

if you build it, the desis will come

2006-07-09T21:09:00.000-05:00

Just one week prior to the Atlantic City shutdown on July 5th, I had paid a visit to the dilapidated boardwalk city for the first time in years. The reason? Family friends in town. Family friends, mind you, who don't drink or gamble. Just like my parents. So Atlantic City was obviously the perfect choice for an outing.

Did we go and walk along the beach on a quiet and lovely Tuesday evening in June? No. Did we check out the fancy-schmancy new Borgata Casino? Of course not. Where else would 5 desis go on a random night in the middle of New Jersey?

Desis feel an odd sense of entitlement when it comes to the Trump Taj Mahal. We ignore the fact that it's an overtly exoticized version of the "East" - complete with Arabian Night's Theme. Come all ye social-security dependent, jumpsuit wearing, chain smoking 80-year olds to the mystical land of slot machines and an overpriced but mediocre buffet. A buffet which, may I add, was called:

Perhaps the "Mughals' Meal" would have been a tad more appropriate? Or am I just stooping to their level?

Whatever the case was, we were at the Trump Taj Mahal. And we weren't alone. The casino was rather deserted (perhaps a harbinger of the upcoming NJ bankruptcy ... or just an indicator that the place sucks) -- but there were a handful of other people there. Mostly little old ladies piddling away their pensions. But there were also other desis. Think I'm kidding? Think again:

This was one of two desi families I saw just strolling through the casino.

*~*~

I wasn't completely honest when I said my parents don't gamble. My mom is a sucker for slot machines. I have been known to lose the odd dollar here and there myself. I know they are completely ridiculous. But I like the sound the machines make when you win. Perhaps you will understand why I was completely powerless against the following:

It's the Dummies guy! I LOVE the Dummies guy! Winning for dummies? Come on! What a marketing scheme! I lost $50 in ten minutes.

the price is ... munchies

2006-06-26T14:23:00.000-05:00

For some reason, I have had multiple conversations about The Price is Right with various people over the past few days. So, given my channel surfing at 11:00 AM this morning, it didn't surprise me that I felt inclined to watch Bob Barker.

After the initial hoopla and "come on down" display, four rather disparate contestants found themselves ready to attempt to assign a price to a foozball table in order to continue on in the land of showcase showdowns.

The first contestant, a bouncy little mom from Nebraska, bid $1200.

The second, a rather large African-American man from Texas, bid $900.

The third was a Filipino guy in his twenties named Alvin. He didn't realize it was his turn. He seemed ... out of it. Bob Barker said "Hell0 - contestant, I can't see your name. Can you turn and face me? Ah yes, Alvin ... What's your bid?"

Alvin was totally lost. "Huh?" he responded.

Bob asked again "What's your bid for this foozball table Alvin?"

Alvin looked up, grinned widely and said "420."

"Four twenty or Fourteen-twenty?" asked Bob.

The Nebraskan mom tapped Alvin on the shoulder to indicate that Bob was talking to him. Alvin looked back up and said "Four-twenty man!"

The Price is Right. It never ceases to amuse.

PS: Thoughts on the new layout? I thought I would experiment ...

potent potables

2006-06-24T10:02:00.000-05:00

I have a strong affection for overstock.com - much as I do for Costco and kittens. I am lying about the kittens.

A recent e-mail from Overstock touted some items that were placed on clearance (Clearance from a clearance warehouse - does the fun never end??). Anyway, I couldn't make this up if I tried. For $105.35 (67% off the list price of $319.90), you too can own:

'The Ex' 5-piece SS Knife Set with Unique Cathartic Holder (bulk pack of 2)
STORE YOUR KNIVES IN AN ANONYMOUS EFFIGY DEDICATED TO WHOMEVER YOU PLEASE!

Makes a perfect gift and a guaranteed conversation piece. Take out your frustrations as you store your knives! Got an Ex? Get 'The Ex'!

There are almost no words for how sick and amusing this piece is. My question is, who is the buyer at Overstock.com who thought that this would actually be a solid sales item?

*~*~

Subzi Mandi. Subzi means vegetables, and Mandi means 'bazaar.' Or 'bajaar', if you're sticklers for the more representative pronounciation.

Anyway, Subzi Mandi is the name of an Indian grocery store. The other day, I noticed a plastic bag from Subzi Mandi in my kitchen - my mother was using it to collect some papers for recycling. I had never noticed before, but was highly amused by the slogan for the store which was emblazoned on the bag:

LADIES' FIRST CHOICE

I love that there are no qualms about political correctness in the world of Indian grocery store marketing. Ladies cook, while men sit around the house with their belts loosened eating paan. Let's not beat around the bush. Ladies Luv Subzi Mandi.

Um, that's all I've got. That, and the fact that we had six relatives from India descend upon our house like a tornado this past week. They left to go to Niagara Falls. What is it with visitors from India and Niagara Falls? Just like GERMANS LOVE DAVID HASSELHOFF, I have decided that INDIANS LOVE NIAGARA FALLS. It's quite disturbing.

catatonic

2006-06-09T11:45:00.000-05:00

There is no good explanation for why I haven't written in a while, considering that my most pressing daily responsibilities include checking e-mail and perusing bedding options at overstock.com. The more I look at them, the more these 400,000 thread count egyptian cotton sheets seem like a necessity.

I guess sometimes I write to avoid other responsibilities. Given that I really have no responsibilities, I have no need to avoid them. Hence the writer's block. Que sera.

So what's happened in the last month? I went to South Africa. That was fun. In light of the backlog of vacation updates, I won't get to telling you about that trip for, let's say, a month. Oh, and the two-year birthday of my blog passed. Two years of pretending my life is more interesting than it is, who'dve thunk it. And finally, one of my most favorite readers got married. Congratulations SJ! I saw some pictures through the flog universe - you looked radiant. I hope you had a wonderful honeymoon and are reveling in married life.

Here, finally, are some pictures from Australia. No hard-core Discovery Channel type stuff. More pictures of funny signs I saw all around. There is comic relief everywhere.

Beginning of the Great Ocean Road - a cliff drive south of Melbourne. My guess is the sign is to remind brazen Americans that they are not the center of the universe.

A storefront sign in St. Kilda, Melbourne. As you may be beginning to notice, I really liked Melbourne. The neighborhoods had distinctively artistic and bohemian vibes.

A stationery store in St. Kilda. Heh.

A sign along our hike in the Olga Mountains, The Outback. Because I am in seventh grade and couldn't hold in my laughter.

I really like this picture. I took it of my own shadow during a hike in the Olgas. The only thing missing are the white ipod headphones.

In front of Ayer's Rock (Ularu), The Outback, Sunset. It's literally a giant red rock in the middle of nowhere, which is why it's a tourist destination. But the colors and scenery were magnificent.

~*~*~

My fifth year college reunion started today. I'm torn whether to go ... I think I may decide last minute and go for some festivities tomorrow. It's one of those things where I'm not terribly excited, but I don't want to regret not having gone.

I got a pedicure yesterday. Forget June 21st. Yesterday marked the first official day of summer.

just call me susan

2006-05-03T17:04:00.000-05:00

This coming weekend there is a "second look" at the medical school. I was originally planning on going, but then I realized that since I've already decided to attend this school for sure, it doesn't make much sense for me to go this weekend. Plus, I think it best to delay accepting the fact that all of my classmates would have been born in 1985. Hmph.

Anyway, I e-mailed the woman at the admissions office to tell her I wouldn't be able to attend. Her response?

Hi, Renee.
Thanks for letting us know. We also have summer tour options available if
you are interested. Yours, [Admissions Officer]

Um, Renee? Where did that come from? And why would I need a summer tour? Did this woman even READ my e-mail? Nice to know these are the people who will be coordinating my education for the next five years.

easily amused

2006-05-02T16:35:00.000-05:00

I traveled to Australia with one of my very best friends. We are quite similar, in that we are both petite Indian girls with a penchant for dorkery. However, we do have our differences. Mainly, she is quite health conscious while I literally start to get the shakes if I don't get my fix of high fructose corn syrup in a two hour period.

But I must admit some of her good habits rubbed off on me. We ate healthy breakfasts and had fruit and yogurt every day. We supplemented our diet regimen with fresh juices and smoothies. During one of these juice breaks, I discovered love in (literally) the least unlikely form:

Carrot.Orange.Ginger.

That's right. Fresh juice made from carrots, orange and ginger. Sound gross? Well it WASN'T. So enamored was I that upon my return I became fixated on purchasing a juicer. And not just any juicer. At some point in my television watching stupor, I stumbled upon the infomercial for ... THE JACK LALANNE POWER JUICER.

Who knows why the salesmanship of an 80+ year old ex-fitness icon worked so well on me. But that it did. So much so that I surfed E-bay, powerjuicer.com (seriously), and multiple retailers before making a wonderful discovery: Costco now stocks the Power Juicer.

Reminscent of my 10-year old self desperately in need of the latest NKOTB casette tape, I whined and whined until my parents took me to Costco and bought me a power juicer. Yes, I have officially digressed into childhood. I think the look of glee I had rivaled that of any child in Toys-R-Us.

Oh, and one other thing. It's not just Jack selling the juicer on the informercial. He brings out his wife to help him.

People, did you know that Jack LaLanne's wife's name is ... ELAINE? Her name is Elaine LaLanne. I swear. It's so sad that it's funny. Or so funny that it's sad. I can't decide. All I know is that had I been her and met Jack say in 1851 or whenever they met ... I immediately would've recognized the irony that my name was Elaine and that his last name was LaLanne. At that point I would've broken it off, or at least rallied for women's rights and kept my own last name. But who am I to judge? Maybe her maiden name was Blaine. Or Dwayne. Or Wayne. And her parents were just really mean.

Anyway, we also stocked up on enough fruit to start our own stand. I came home and spent hours with my new toy. And even though Good Housekeeping gave it two vacuums up or whatever their seal of approval is ... I feel the need to give my own praise. The thing is awesome. The orange juice I made was surprisingly good. I then got out some carrots and ginger and made my pre-destined concoction, which was also quite yummy.

And then I doubled over in pain and had to run to the restroom. Two large glasses of freshly squeezed juice ingested over the course of 10 minutes on an empty stomach ... not so good.

Anyway, I kept experimenting. Strawberry-kiwi ... pretty good, though I put in too much kiwi.

I haven't used it today. My current guess is that I just had 3 glasses of juice, each worth one easy payment of $33.33.

kleptomania

2006-04-25T10:20:00.000-05:00

My life has been extraordinarily uneventful. Which has been very nice and relaxing. The obvious consequence is that I have virtually nothing to write about. Que sera.

Last week I decided to go to Boston for a few days. I stupidly did not check the weather forecast - apparently Boston decided to do a "Let's pretend it's winter again!" weekend. All I had was my denim jacket. And sandals. I could hardly get out a sentence since I was shivering so much.

Last Friday I had some time to kill before meeting some friends. I had no desire to walk around outside, so I went into a shoe store. I needed to buy a pair of flip flops for an upcoming trip, and began browsing. However, this store sold really expensive fancy schmany European shoes - High end Reef flip-flops for $50, and something called Rainbow flip flops for $70.

Now, I know sometimes you have to pay for quality. But being a desi, paying more than $1 for a pair of Bata chappals seems sacriligeous. Anyway, I probably sat around and tried on five or six pairs of flip flops. I didn't have to ask for the size as the shoes were all hanging on freestanding racks.

While at the store, I spoke to my mom on the phone for a few minutes. All in all, I must have been there for a good half an hour. I headed toward the door to leave, but still felt cold. So I lingered by the entrance and looked at some other shoes.

And that's when I realized that four rather large and intimidating men (I think the store owners and employees are all Turkish) - were looking at me very intently. At first I was a bit nervous, and then it hit me:

They thought I was a shoplifter. I had a big shoulder bag with me, I had been browsing and trying on expensive sandals that were easy to swipe, and a spent a good amount of time on the phone. I checked the door: no security walls. They had to monitor shoplifters the old school way - by staring them down and then chasing them down the street.

I knew I had to get out of there. I wondered what would happen - would they stop me and ask to check my bag? Would they follow me? Who knew. And for some reason, I was feeling a little cheeky. So right before I left the store, I turned around and looked the 4 thugs right in the eye and then strutted out of there.

And that was the most exciting thing that happened to me in the last two weeks. Hmm ... I should rent a video or something.

the kiddie table

2006-04-13T07:09:00.000-05:00

I have wowed myself with my own laziness. Since returning from vacation, where I happened to be much busier and more physically active than normal, I have been a big old couch potato. Furthermore, I was having insomnia / sleeping issues toward the end of my trip. My flight back to NY was a red-eye, and I couldn't sleep for a minute. Thus, when I got back home I turned nocturnal.

I had all these grand plans ... like doing laundry and you know, getting out of the house for a few minutes. But I just zoned out. I allowed myself three days of such behavior - and yesterday was the third. No more vegatative indolence. Today I shall do something! Does blogging count as something?

As mentioned earlier, Australia was fantastic. We did and saw so much that I was actually overwhelmed with the idea of summarizing it in a single piece of writing. I also took 445 photos. Deciding which ones are best to display has proven to be daunting. Also, I've been pre-occupied. Ellen was on. But it's on my to-do list. One of these days I will write a vacation recount.

Being home has quite the range of benefits and disadvantages. Benefits = acting like a carefree six year old. Disadvantages = being treated like a six year old.

My parents subscribe to the "out of sight, out of mind" mode of parenting. That is to say, when I'm around, they suddenly worry about my every move and dictate my schedule. Mind you that I am 26 and spent 3 weeks traveling all over the place, over which time they spoke to me maybe twice. But when I'm home, it's a whole different ballgame.

Yesterday, my mom called and left me the following message (I was napping. Since I was so tired from, uh, sleeping). Anyway, she said:

"Hi Sophia. This is Mom. Listen, Dad says we have to go to dinner at [said restaurant] tonight. So, I hope you don't have other plans."

It turned out to be a business dinner - my dad and a group of his colleagues. And their kids.

(Cue ominous music...)

And this is when I realized that my life is borderline pathetic. I was placed at the far end of the table with the kids. And when I say kids, I mean kids. The oldest was an 18 year old girl. The other kids were 3 boys; one 10 year old and two 8 year olds.

My friends and I have discussed this before. Particularly at Indian functions, if you are unmarried - no matter what age, you will be placed at the kids table. For goodness sake, I'm going to be a doctor and this was a meeting of doctors, but since I am sans-life-partner, my companionship for the evening was mutually painful. (Ewww! You're a girl!!).

The kids were actually very sweet and I established my "coolness" with them by ordering them whatever they wanted: Lobster for the 10 year old, who freaked out when they brought in a full lobster, head and all. Extra ice cream for the two 8 year olds, who lamented that the waiter brought them vanilla instead of chocolate. I fixed this potential World War III by asking for chocolate sauce.

One of the 8 year olds pulled a bit on my heartstrings though. I'll call him Bobby. Not that because that's his name, but because I am always amused that Indians nickname their kids Bobby, Billy, Bunty or Freddy. It's like, hey, my kids name is Rajeshlal but I'll call him Bob.

I liked Bobby, most probably because he was a big geek and reminded me of my own geeky self at that age. He even attends third grade at an elementary school that is part of the school district I myself attended. For the few Herricks readers out there, you might appreciate this:

Sophia: So, what elementary school do you go to?
Bobby: Uh, Denton Avenue.
Sophia: Oh, I went to Center Street!
Bobby: Center Streek sucks.

Nice to know that things have not changed in TWENTY years.

Anyway, Bobby was one of these kids who ends every phrase with an inflection - so that it sounds like every thing he says is a question. His head was full of random information that he was incredibly eager to share. It went something like this:

"So? You know? Sand dust? How it forms? Sand dust in the particles? Uhuh? It mixes with air particles in the atmosphere? And they mix? And dust forms? When you rub the sand? And then? You breathe it in? And it goes in your nose? And your nose sends a message to your sneeze center in your brain? And then your sneezing muscles contract? And you sneeze? Did you know? A sneeze goes at 100 mph?"

So cute. But a bit taxing. And don't doubt that every 15 seconds I thought "Holy crap, I am 26 years old. I be needing a husband."

My mom was seated next to me (the fault line between the Adult and Kiddie sides of the table). She noticed my amusement, and then shared the funniest story with me. A few months ago they had been at some dinner party, and the same group of kids were there. Apparently Bobby and the other kids were talking and sharing their curiousity about the world. Bobby started to say: "Hey, do you guys know what intercourse is? I've read it but nobody tells me. What's intercourse?"

Man, I wish I could've been there. Because I have a hunch that I would've been the only person at the kiddie table who knew that answer.

there's always something

2006-04-02T08:36:00.000-05:00

G'day Mates!

Am posting from lovely Sydney, Australia -- now officially my favorite place in the world. And not just because they have lots of KFCs here, which, as luck would have it, they do.

Tonight is our last night here. I'm really sad. This has been one incredible adventure - I will of course post details once I am settled back at home.

But I do always want to brighten your days whenever possible, so I thought I would share the following e-mail I received from my Dad this morning. I had written him earlier this week to let him know that I had been accepted for the joint degree program I applied for. I am going to do an MBA along with my MD ... basically so that I can remain in school forever.

His response has had me chuckling all day:

Hi Baby,
You never cease to amaze us with your achievements. We are extremely proud of you. Now we dont have to worry about anything (not really you know, till you get finally hooked to some nice guy!!!) Love you and can't wait to see you back home.
Dad and Mom.

How cute is that?? I know I say this incessantly ... but I really do have the most amazing parents in the world.

that song is weird.

2006-03-17T20:34:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-17T14:28:00.000-05:00

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

2006-03-02T11:45:00.000-05:00

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.

excuse me officer.

2006-02-27T11:55:00.000-05:00

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!

*~*~

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

2006-02-24T16:46:00.000-05:00

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).

*~*~

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

2006-02-22T14:52:00.000-05:00

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.)

*~*~

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

2006-02-20T13:43:00.000-05:00

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

2006-02-14T16:11:00.000-05:00

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.

2006-02-13T12:22:00.000-05:00

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.

*~*~

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 ...

2006-02-09T15:42:00.000-05:00

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.

*~*~

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.

2006-02-01T11:59:00.000-05:00

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.

thunder down under

2006-01-30T00:42:00.000-05:00

I am going to Australia at the end of March. This is very exciting. It marks my first foray into "adventure travel." Lots of people travel to cool locations and explore the land. My vacation preferences to date have been Florida, and, um, Florida, and ... uh ... Costco?

One of my closest friends is an adventure traveler. I think this will be a good experience - I am not gutsy enough to travel alone. This way, I get to have all the adventure with the added benefit of companionship. Crocodile Dundee, here I come!

I just booked the ticket online, which was WICKED expensive. Whenever you make an egregious purchase, do you ever find yourself inexplicably apprehensive? As I stared at the final price, my mind started racing. I thought "This is nearly a month's salary, if not more. This much money can be put toward my medical school expenses. Spending this much money makes me a really extravagant person."

But then, fears aside, I pressed the "Purchase" button. Do you know what I did while the little hourglass was indicating that my credit card debt was slowly inching up? I prayed. I don't know for what or why, but I prayed. Perhaps I prayed for a safe and fun trip. Perhaps I was thanking the powers that be for my fortunate circumstances to have the time, means and friends to allow me these experiences. Perhaps I was just praying my credit card wouldn't get denied. Yeah, I think it was the last one. Woohee, it went through.

Three years ago a group of girlfriends and I went to Las Vegas for little debauchery. While walking on the strip, a man handed us a flier for a nude male revue called "Thunder Down Under." And dammit if it wasn't a 5-4 vote against going. And as if I really need to tell you, I was very much the ringleader of the girls who wanted to go see the show. There is still residual bitterness from the loss.

And now, I can finally go see the real Thunder Down Under. Hallelujah!

now that's what i call funny

2006-01-19T15:56:00.000-05:00

This may be offensive, but it's so damn funny.

Check this and other really funny t-shirts here. I am particularly fond of the backwards one - see if you know which one I mean.

i am a lucky moron.

2006-01-17T14:50:00.000-05:00

Today's posts focus on restrooms.

This morning, I stupidly, stupidly placed some cash in the pocket of my jeans. Not an insignificant sum either - around $100, a recent ATM run that was meant to get me through the next few weeks. And by ATM, I mean Automated-Teller-Mom, who had generously given my increasingly poor student bum some spending money this morning before I returned to Boston.

I went to the restroom this morning at work - quite absent-minded and tired from my 6:30 AM flight (JetBlue, I love your cheap fares but could you please extend them to some semi-reasonable hours of the day??). But yes, went to the bathroom, freshened up, powdered my nose (not really, but it sounds nice) etc.

About an hour later, I noticed the following post-it note on the bathroom door. And people, I don't roam the hallways and linger near the bathroom. I literally sit in front of the bathroom. The post it said "If you feel that you have dropped some $$$ in this rest room, please page 55555."

I read it once, and didn't think anything of it. A minute later, I did ye-olde-Homer slap to the forehead and said "D'Oh!" I checked my pocket, and sure enough, the money had fallen out. I am such a moron! And I am SO lucky!

But I am more moron than lucky, as you shall see. I took the post-it, but instead of reading "page 55555", I thought it said "Call 5-5555". So I did. A man answered. "Computer support!" he said.

"Um, did you leave the post-it on the bathroom saying that you had found some money in there?" I asked.

Muffled laughter. "No, I sure didn't."

"Oh, um, thanks."

I then wandered down the hallway, and then asked a secretary whom I do not know how to page someone. She told me how to do it - amazingly, online. Tekmology! Unbelieveable! I paged the number with the following message "Hi, did you leave the post-it on the bathroom? If so, please call me at [my work phone #]"

Sure enough, he did. And then he came by and dropped off the $100. I thanked him profusely and tried not to notice his sardonic smile, so obviously thinking "This girl is one lucky moron."

Sorry for being so careless Mom. I hope this doesn't block off future withdrawals from the ATM!

transitory

2006-01-17T14:02:00.000-05:00

I am getting antsy.

As I prepare for a new journey come September, I'm feeling very unsettled in my current situation. I wish I knew where I was going for medical school ... where I will be spending the next four years of my life. I wish I knew if I'm finally going to meet someone semi-normal and get on with this whole marriage/adulthood thing already. I wish, I wish ... but right now, I just wait.

Boston is starting to feel like more of a place of the past, even though I still live here. Is that weird? I know I'm leaving so I've already begun to mentally disconnect from my life here. I'm not that interested in my work, and I'm starting to plan out when to leave my job and move back to NY. Needless to say, the date is continually creeping up. As of now, I think I'll travel for most of March and be back in NY by the beginning of April. Buh-bye beantown!

Always, always in transit. I am constantly out of town - a few months ago it was for interviews and now it's been more for random trips. I feel like I did when I was working - although this time the traveling is all on my dime. In spite of that, it's still so much more fun this way.

One thing has remained constant though: I hate airport restrooms. Given the amount of traveling I've been doing, I've been relegated to use these restrooms more so than I would like. Do you know why I hate them?

Because never, ever, in my entire life, has an automatic flush toilet ever flushed at the right time. Seriously, whose genius idea was this? Are people really SO lazy that they can't flush the toilet? (Sadly, the answer is probably "yes" to this question). Some may say that auto flush toilets are more sanitary. Aside from the aesthetic factor (i.e., said toilets actually being flushed), I disagree. Even pre-auto-flush toilets, I skirted this problem by pushing the handle with my foot. And don't tell me you've never done that either.

Did anyone see Beavis and Butthead Do America? Great movie. And if you did, perhaps you may remember the scene where Beavis and Butthead are transfixed in front of auto flush urinals. They stand there, wave their hands in front of the urinals, and grunt the Beavis and Butthead laugh while the urinals keep flushing.

Not so fun in real life when the toilet flushes when you least expect it!

happy happy joy joy

2006-01-10T16:14:00.000-05:00

Here are some cute pictures from last week. It was my amazing roommate Rainey's birthday. Given that we are both New Yorkers born and bred, I treated her to our most favorite birthday ice cream cake from CARVEL!!

Celebrate good times ... Come on!

the love of my life.

2006-01-10T15:28:00.001-05:00

I love an intangible force of modernity. It is a coping mechanism. Helping me manage my life, minimize boredom, multi-task, procrastinate ... and most importantly, surf the web while supposedly doing "real work." My heart belongs to ...

ALT-TAB.

How I love thee. Let me count the ways.

1) I love you first thing in the morning when I catch up on CNN.com and NYTimes.com
2) I love you mid-morning as I check e-mail
3) I love you at lunchtime as I surf Amazon.com for nothing in particular
4) I love you in the afternoon as I get sucked into friendster
5) I love you as the day concludes and I once again check e-mail and then write a blog post

Alt-Tab, will you marry me?

hairy arms

2006-01-05T15:37:00.000-05:00

I took a glace at the stats for my blog. The meter can show me search words that have led people to my blog. Someone chanced upon the site by searching for "hairy arms", and per my second to last post this site came up as a hit.

In case that reader returns, here's my advice. Wax. No pain, no gain. That's my motto.

Man fifth grade sucked. And if those were my arms, imagine my legs. I was finally allowed to get my legs waxed at age 10. My desi female readers will understand my plight. My mom didn't take me to a salon. She took me to some desi woman's apartment who did ghetto waxing on the side. This woman made wax on the stove with sugar, and um ... sugar? Then she used a butter knife (a METAL butterknife) to put the wax on. And no muslin strips. She used old torn up sheets as the wax strips. We are so cheap. Needless to say, I never went back to her again.

It gets worse. Since I was so young, my mom only let me wax the bottom part of my legs - not even up to my knees. And then she dressed me in shorts for school the next day (it was summer). The shorts covered only half of my thigh! Imagine going to school with hair up to my knees and nothing below that. It was like that scene from "40-Year Old Virgin" when Andy gets his chest waxed. Except sooooo much worse.

By the way, I know I tell these funny and rather cringe-worthy stories of my childhood and paint my mom as some evil perpetrator. But she didn't mean anything by it. My mom is the best woman in the whole wide world. In fact, I think she had the premonition to know that one day people would write journals on something called the "Internet" and that her daughter would be one of these people. She did these things to ensure that I would have material 16 years later. Isn't she amazing?

adult ADD

2006-01-05T14:19:00.000-05:00

Do you remember the commercials for Strattera, the ADHD medication, that came out a while ago? They showed a woman in a meeting. And then they showed her "thoughts" as a disjointed vignette. For example, as she sat in the meeting suddenly her thought was her kid at soccer practice, or her cooking a casserole for dinner.

The advertisement then said "If you can't concentrate, or your thoughts are disorganized, you might have adult ADD."

Well if that's the case, then EVERYONE has ADHD. I think that was the point of the commercial though.

For whatever it's worth, I think we all have elements of ADD to our personalities. Remaining focused 24/7 is impossible, and we need to let our thoughts swim amorphously in our subconscious for us to ever come to terms with them. Then and only then can we think clearly and coherently.

Oh, I lost my train of thought. Gosh darn ADD. In all seriousness, over the last few days my brain has been checked out and I can't hold a single thought for more than a minute. But I think that's OK. Over christmas break I focused on completing a difficult application, and it took all of my energy and attention. To recover, I've hit the opposite extreme - complete mental disarray and confusion.

What was I saying? Hee hee. As part of my current inability to say anything with substance, I will change the topic. My roommate and I were recently discussing how the meaning and nuance of language is deteriorating. The use of modifiers such as "like" and "whatever" are so commonplace that the actual meaning of the words "like" and "whatever" have been lost.

With the onslaught of e-mail, instant messaging and text messaging, I fear that all the strides in communication we seem to be making will be undone with the loss of all substantive meaning. Recently, while surfing the host site for my blog, I came upon some blogs by high-schoolers. Truth be told? I was *appalled* at the use of language and acronyms. It felt as if my every nerve were being scraped by a dull nail file.

I admit I am a grammar snob. I have mentioned this before, but I think hearing language used eloquently and correctly is a beautiful experience. Not that I am an excellent writer by any stretch of the imagination; nor am I the best in my every day speech. But I am trying to get better, and frankly this blog challenges me to do so by creatively articulating myself.

Who will challenge the next generation though? Will novels of the future be full of grammatical mistakes and peppered with acronyms?

Chapter 1:
Jane like walked into the room. Billy was standing there and OMG he was like "Hey Jane" but Jane was like "whatever" and then Jane said "Your shirt is untucked" and then Billy was so embarassed but then they both laughed OMG it was so funny ROTFL.

Someone (or the educational system at least) please help us.

My iPOD is making funny noises. I am so the girl who messes up all her technological gadgets. I lost my cell phone, broke my laptop, and managed to screw up my iPOD twice in a year. No wonder I'm all about books with words and trying to save the art of language. I am the quintessential luddite.

say what?

2006-01-03T16:38:00.000-05:00

Happy New Year everyone!

Here are some funny things I overheard / were said to me / were said to friends:

Just now, I overheard a conversation between two people in front of my cubicle. One guy asked another "OK, when do you want to talk about the project?" And the other guy responded "I'm going to urinate, and then we'll talk in five minutes." I mean, it was obvious he was headed to the bathroom, but did he need to spell it out like that? And these are DOCTORS people!!

I flew back to Boston on Sunday. While at the airport waiting for my flight, I decided to get some McDonalds. The McDonalds counter was super busy. I finally ordered. The cashier, a large African American woman, said "Six Chicken McNuggets?" I nodded my head and took the bag from her. She looked me straight in the eye and said "Each one will make you fat." I swear! That's what she said. I didn't know what to do. I stared at her incredulously for a second. And then started to laugh, and she laughed even louder than I did.

My friend said that while on his flight, a gay steward was trying to hit on him. Now, I caveat that my friend is a bit of an exaggerator. But he told me that the steward asked him what he did for a living. My friend said he was in medical school. The steward replied "That's great! I am studying for my bachelorette in Marketing."

a promise kept.

2005-12-29T23:53:00.000-05:00

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

Well readers, Happy Freakin New Year.

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

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

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

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

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

2005-12-25T17:42:00.000-05:00

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

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

Merry Christmas everyone!

Love,
Sophia

happy holidays ... from wal-mart.

2005-12-23T14:33:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

*~*~

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

i will be the eccentric old lady.

2005-12-20T14:07:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~

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

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

goop

2005-12-16T09:42:00.000-05:00

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

Of course, the meeting was canceled.

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

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

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

baby it's cold outside.

2005-12-15T14:01:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

ethnocentric

2005-12-08T15:14:00.000-05:00

I think I am too Indian for my own good.

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

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

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

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

su dok me? su dok you!!

2005-12-05T16:59:00.000-05:00

I have become obsessed with su doku. OBSESSED.

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

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

Here is a sample Su Doku Grid:

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

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

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

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

things that make you feel old ...

2005-11-29T15:50:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

*~*~

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

you smell kinda funny

2005-11-23T23:09:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

Yes, apparently I smell like fat white man.

9 months and 26 years later ...

2005-11-22T09:38:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

What happened:

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

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

"Well, Sophia was conceived in Chicago."

The aftermath:

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

*~*~

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

if i were 50 years older

2005-11-14T15:09:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2005-11-12T17:24:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~

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

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

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

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

and we're back

2005-11-07T10:35:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what do you do for fun?

2005-10-24T08:46:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

"So, what do you do for fun?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~

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

So, um, what do YOU do for fun?

mmm, foot tastes good.

2005-10-17T10:17:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

"Guess!"

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

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

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

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

les larmes, part deux

2005-10-17T09:36:00.000-05:00

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

Previously, in Sophialand ...

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

Fast forward to Summer 2001 ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the crying game

2005-10-13T23:26:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~

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

Evelyn Gardner: No, no, no.

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

i watch too much TV.

2005-10-12T14:35:00.000-05:00

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

I think I watch too much TV.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

clown feet.

2005-10-06T20:28:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

"Excuse me, may I ask you something?"

I said "Sure."

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

Oh maaaaaaaan!

crossing guard

2005-10-06T14:04:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

"Have a nice day!"

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

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

hotbox

2005-10-03T10:55:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~

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

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

Booyakasha.

one more dumb thing.

2005-09-29T12:33:00.000-05:00

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

THESE STUPID SPAM COMMENTS ARE DRIVING ME NUTS.

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

SGJDTHISISNOTAWORDSDFDF (but in reality, only like five letters)

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

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

dumb luck.

2005-09-29T10:53:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

things that are dumb

2005-09-23T12:30:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

canon

2005-09-21T13:40:00.000-05:00

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

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

*~*~

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

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

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

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

Now there's an article I would find interesting.

a manicure and a what?

2005-09-18T09:18:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

I pointed at my feet and said to my mom:

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

good peeps.

2005-09-16T13:23:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

the worst of both worlds.

2005-09-15T14:17:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

10 reasons why friendster pisses me off.

2005-09-13T14:54:00.000-05:00

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

2) Two words. Status: Single.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

what is this strange feeling?

2005-09-11T19:54:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

are you ready for this?

2005-09-07T14:01:00.000-05:00

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

1995 was 10 years ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

shut up before i punch you

2005-09-02T08:48:00.000-05:00

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

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

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

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

Vomit Inducing Girl

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

Napoleon's Twin

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

Vomit Inducing Girl

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

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

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

*~*~

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

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

that's tepid

2005-08-30T14:48:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-26T11:18:00.000-05:00

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!

2005-08-23T11:45:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-23T10:57:00.000-05:00

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?

2005-08-20T12:15:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-19T15:50:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-17T11:27:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-16T10:36:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-15T11:17:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-08-12T14:06:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-11T13:59:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-09T15:12:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-08-07T15:05:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-08-07T10:05:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-08-05T16:31:00.000-05:00

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?

2005-08-04T14:02:00.000-05:00

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

2005-08-03T09:45:00.000-05:00

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."

people watching

2005-07-31T11:16:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-07-28T13:34:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-07-28T09:53:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-26T13:13:00.000-05:00

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 ...

2005-07-25T16:45:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-25T10:41:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-07-24T16:32:00.000-05:00

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.

2005-07-23T02:39:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-22T16:03:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-21T09:16:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-20T09:55:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-18T15:01:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-15T10:20:00.000-05:00

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

2005-07-08T13:08:00.000-05:00

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.