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.

i will be the eccentric old lady.

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

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.

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

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!!

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 ...

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

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 ...

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

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?"

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

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?

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.

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

(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

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.

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.

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!