excuse me officer.

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

*~*~

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

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

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

Here is what I can share:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

afternoon snack

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

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

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

*~*~

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

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

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

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

really, i'm ok

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~

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

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

companionship

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

singledom awareness day

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

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

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

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

Happy Valentine's Day Everyone!

snoooooooow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

*~*~

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

i left my heart ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are some pics for your viewing pleasure:

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

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

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

*~*~

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

little debbie, meet my conscience.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

thunder down under

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

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.

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

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

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.

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

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

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?

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.

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!

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.

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.