What A Trip Around The Sun

Goes a song about birthdays and how overrated they are.

This birthday video (kindly sent to me by my 4th cousin, twice removed) congratulated me on completing another trip around the sun today and reminded me that I made it alive. I gave this some thought and agreed that indeed, I didn't die this year and it was quite a tumultuous and interesting trip around the sun for the 26th time.

At this time last year, I was constantly fighting with a boy on the phone, lived at home, had a temporary job, and was sitting in Organic Chemistry lecture AND workshop until 10 pm while the class celebrated someone else's birthday because I hadn't told anyone it was mine, too. Can you say miserable?

Today, I'm soaking up the rays coming through the wide windows in a nice office with a job that throws me quite a few bones and allows me to blog every now and then. I love my UWS studio apartment and am thrilled to have it all to myself. I'm in an amazing graduate program and finished the last class of my first semester last night. I've come to terms with my face and praise my own hair. Can we agree that life is pretty darn good?

Of course, in the Indian tradition, I have completed 26 years and am on my 27th - so from this day onwards, my family will tell everyone I'm 27 and need to get hitched right away. But I can deal. I have nice hair, and bad Indian music sounds great bouncing off the high ceilings of my studio.

Kodak Moment, Biodata In The Making

I wore a blue sari to a wedding reception and had 2 biodata photos taken.

My aunt (one of many) said that it is rare to have a biodata/Kodak moment. So I violently shook my head a few times, then grinned sheepishly, then smiled for the camera. My uncle is already planning a pre-wedding event, the venue for which is his ginormous back lawn.

I don't know if I am insulted that this was one of the few times they were so eager to take my picture and pimp me out or flattered that I managed to impress them.

3 glasses of wine later, I was eyeing the best man (also my cousin's best friend) and contemplating following him around. My other cousin (jeez, why are there so many?) offered to help me out and walk around aimlessly. In the end, we both just ended up getting more wine and dancing with our various uncles since all the young men were having too much fun dancing by themselves.

A pseudo-cousin challenged me to go one month without complaining about all this interest in my love life, potential marriage, and childbearing abilities. In the same breath, he asked why I was single since I am apparently so great.

I think I'm about to vomit and commit myself somewhere but I really have to make it through the next 3 weeks without losing it. Help.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Find Me a Match Online

Either the entire universe is trying to tell me something, or it's just gone crazy.

I received this in my inbox the other day:

Dear Friends,

I'm pleased to announce the launch of a matchmaking site for people of Indian origin in the U.S. as well as in India. The site is called NYdidi.com; the didi is me and, well, you know what NY is. NYdidi speaks to the Indian population by combining tradition with the modern, allowing the old India to meet the new reality.

If you know someone who is single, will you forward this email to them? The site is still in the BETA testing stage. We would like to extend a one year membership as a thank you to friends who join as founding members. We need their feedback.

So just head to www.NYdidi.com, take a personality test, sign-up, have fun and let me know what you think through our "Contact Us" page. I think you'll appreciate the warm, secure and fun site I've created.*

*Welcome to NYdidi! *
*I wish you a life filled with love and laughter*,

Register <http://nydidi.com/user/register> at NYdidi.com

I haven't even gotten to my online dating fiascos!!! Stop, NYDidi! You're moving way too fast for me. How can I address such an Indian-specific site with such a cooky name when my readers don't even know about my even more bizarre experiences yet?

Let me preface this by saying that I fully intend to "beta-test" NYDidi.com, although I've just about had it with beta-testing (doing some of my own and work-related and it was not easy). I think Didi has good intentions and some interesting ideas (like a small "party" held last week to get people started with the process), and obviously she wants to update the traditional Indian matchmaking process. But there are a few things I wondered about.

First, using your own name in an matchmaking service doesn't seem so wise. Especially when your name in Hindi means "sister." I'm not sure how appealing logging into "NYSister" to find a date/soulmate will be.

Second, I question the description of this site as a "matchmaking" service. Only bored and nosy relatives will create profiles for their respective, apparently dying-of-loneliness loved ones. Not to mention that those of us who were either born here or spent their childhoods/vast majority of their lives here are not so open to this kind of matchmaking. "Online dating" would attract a greater population.

Third, what does "allowing the old India to meet the new reality" mean? I'm not so sure how this speaks to someone like me. I'm neither old India, nor do I need it to meet a new reality, since my reality is the only one I know and I don't consider it to be new. Immature interpretation? Sure. But I'm sure it will make sense to some of you as well.

Will beta-test and return with more insight. In the meantime, I'll also detail some harrowing and not-so-harrowing experiences from Match.com. Stay tuned.

Gummy Bears & Growing Up

Time and distance are funny things. Last week I visied a good friend of mine in Texas, one I haven't seen since we graduated college a few years ago.

Shivers. Chills. A few years ago.

Ah, you say, that's the story of life. I say this, too. But then I sort of have to blink and shake myself and remember that for almost a few years, I used to see this person virtually every other hour. Weird.

Last Sunday, another friend of mine got engaged.

Shivers. Chills. Congrats! Engaged. I still can't shake the image of him eating coca-cola gummy bears (also a fond childhood favorite of mine) and pouring green apple vodka in just about everything he could find.

One of my chickies just bought a $28.00 mascara. Chills, but mostly congrats! This is the same girl who once "borrowed" my eyeliner and used it for three years straight because she didn't want to buy another one.

And another chickie actually, finally, gratefully, started drinking.

I don't know if I'm starting to feel old too early or what, but these odd waves of nostalgia have begun to hit me in a rather uncharacteristically emotional manner. Not fun.

In a way, it's a riot. Some things from the past really make me giggle and shake my head. But most of all, I'm actually quite thrilled that none of us are exactly the same anymore, although once in a while, I still enjoy my gummy bears.

Diagnosis: Who's The Happiest Of Them All?

According to the New York Times, unhappy people watch the most TV. No joke. Read about it here. It is the one activity that people engage in which has a negative relationship with happiness.

So I calculated the number of hours my father absorbs CNN via osmosis everyday and my grandmother is entranced by Zee TV. The dianosis - chronic unhappiness, just about the most you can imagine.

No surprise, some would say, but I find this very interesting. If I really think about it, I'm sure my dad wishes he had a son like Anderson Cooper or Sanjay Gupta, and my grandmother wants to be as victimized as Saloni Surname-less. TV feeds their fantasies and spurs a vicious cycle.

Mummsy, on the other hand, despite her saint-like qualities and bearing of all our burdens, comes out the real winner here. Her TV time amounts to maybe about 0.5 hours a week. This makes her the happiest (and fairest - truly) of them all. Go, mom. I guess waking up at the crack of dawn, squeezing in a week's worth of work in a day, being manically dedicated to family and work, and chronic exhaustion has done her some good. Who knew?

I was going to suggest my family get DVR, but now I'm afraid it could worsen their condition and throw them into deep depression. I might have to cut off my relationship, too.

Why are good things so, so very bad?

The Coffee Guy, I, & $1.00

So it happened. The Coffee Guy and I reached the climax of our relationship.

We fought.

Over $1.00.

I gave him the extra when he stuffed a huge eclair-like accompaniment to my decaf coffee. He said, "No, no sweetie, only $1.00." I said, "No, no, it can't always be $1.00, please take it." He said, "No, no..." and so forth.

I started to walk away when he actually stuck his arm out the window and insisted I take the dollar. Me kept walking. I felt kind of foolish, but satisfied.

I don't know how much longer we can last like this. At some point, he'll be the only Coffee Guy I can frequent and he'll be obligated to give me free goodies no matter what. Dangerous...

And yet, not so...he's too cute! I heart street coffee and the nice dudes who sell it.

12-Year-Old Food Genius & The Boy Who Could Have Been

12-Year-Old's a Food Critic, and the Chef Loves It

Where was this kid when I was 12? I was waiting for a proposal to be best friends with my future husband. He could've been it.

This kid is all that most people must hate about NYC - an Upper West Sider who gets his own $25 to get dinner while the parents are out, and ends up sampling prosciutto and cheese at the hippest new Italian restaurant in the neighborhood. What a life.

This falls into my Only In New York category. I'm jealous, and I want to be him when I grow up.

Insert Drama [Here]; Press Esc To Quit

I have performed both commands rather successfully of late.

Don't be fooled by stories of LOL'ing to Jon Stewart and listening to bad Hindi music. I mean, that's the case about 90% of the time. The other 10%, there is some gradually unfolding soap opera/freak show in my life. Often, they unfold too slowly or are too internalized to bother discussing, but other times they are explosions of food bombs in my face and I don't know what just happened.

This past week? 2 food bombs. Not fun. Sounds like I should start scripting for The Hills. I know I'm being vague but I'm fielding questions from my sister and cousin, both of whom actually read this and request follow-ups.

But to balance it out, I also quietly and gracefully exited from another potentially sticky situation, and received a positive response for doing so. I just pressed the button and it was done! It was so gratifying - finally, something grown-up! Some maturity! Some mutual understanding! If departures can be that amicable, I should orchestrate them more often to retain some faith in the world.

Not to say that a little drama (and then some) isn't kind of fun every now and then. Actually, it's a lot of fun. It simultaneously makes me want to cry, wring my hands in the air, and giggle.

Life is too short not to try all 3 at once.

The Coffee Guy & I

As I drag my feet towards class 3 evenings a week after work, two thoughts usually cross my mind - 1) Thank goodness I'm enjoying what I'm doing 2) Why isn't it Friday yet?

But of late, my Coffee Guy has sweetened up not only my coffee but my evenings. Coffee Guy is one of many trusty New York street vendors who can get you anything from a hot dog to a scone in less than 2 seconds. But mine is special.

For starters, he is mad cute. Yeah, you read right - mad cute. He has a charming Middle-Eastern accent that does not remind you of an old Indian man who does business in Dubai. If he were a doctor, your parents would want you to bring him home. If Mira Nair bought coffee from him, she would want to cast him in a movie. He is not devastatingly handsome in the least, just very cute and sweet. I'm sure some older Coffee Guy's daughter is in love with him. I want to know his name, but that may take the relationship to a whole other level it does not need to be at.

He also calls me sweetie. I don't mind this. Half of the male population in New York will call you sweetie just for being female and standing within 2 feet of them - the fact that you are swiping your Metrocard or buying coffee is not taken into consideration. It's the way he says it that is so endearing. It is very relaxed and nonchalant, not sleazy. He's not trying to make you feel special by calling you sweetie. It would be gross if he tried to make you feel special. So the fact that he's not even trying makes it all the more appealing.

I admit that I may have unintentionally thrown myself into some sub-special but unique category with a sprightly "Eid Mubarak!" a few months ago. I'm a dork. It was Eid, I have some friends who celebrate, and as Coffee Guy blared his Arabic pop music that day, I couldn't help but wish him. Risky, considering he may not have been a practising Muslim (I learned my lesson when I wished the same to a friend in class only to learn that she is in fact, not one). But his face lit up and it was worth it.

Now, every so often, he gives me back the extra quarter I paid for the medium coffee or gives me a free donut. Last night it was a raisin scone. I felt terrible. I smiled and said "No thank you", but he insisted and I thought it was sort of wrong not to take something from someone who so clearly could profit from keeping it but really wants you to have a bite before you hit class. Or wants to buy your love with food. Hey, no one has ever tried that one before...!

No, I'm not having an affair with Coffee Guy. But I really, really, really appreciate him. The only way I can think of thanking him is ordering more things and overpaying, but I know he'll try to give me the money back. It's worse than friends fighting over the dinner bill.

I'm sure Coffee Guy will make some woman very happy some day. Until then, I'll try to support his Arabic radio habit as much as possible and hope that he doesn't gift me 10 lbs worth of donuts and scones.

Status Update

That Facebook world I was talking about? Here it is, in living color and a dash of British humor:

I Almost Missed a Flight On Account of Chipotle Sauce

Yes, only me. After a whirlwind trip to Austin, Texas this past weekend, I almost ruined it on account of chipotle sauce. While I hadn't seen one of my closest friends from college since we graduated, and visiting a red state in this day and age seemed akin to visiting a museum in a galaxy far, far away, my real quest was hot sauce. Sorry, Diddy.

Of course, I didn't really have the chance to indulge in this new way of preoccuyping myself when I'm bored with life, until, of course, the 30 minutes before our return flight.

I was supposed to go to the bathroom. Then I stopped to buy a magazine. Since I already had Marie Claire and Lucky, it was a tough call between Elle and Bazaar. Then I spotted some bottles of hot sauce. Mission accomplished! But no. It wasn't the right kind. They were all of the tobasco variety and I wanted something more hearty. I moved on.

On my way back to my waiting friend, J, I found another magazine I wanted. This time it was between Newsweek and The New Yorker. Obama, or no Obama? Hmm....There was also a new addition to the Texan food souvenirs - chipotle sauce. Also present - a helluva long line. But I waited. And waited.

By this time, I had one missed call and 2 text messages from J. When I finally met up with him, he was waiting outside an airport cafe with all of our bags and looking slightly perplexed. We had about 15 minutes until our flight. We just made it. Whew.

Except now, I don't think J, or anyone else, will ever let me go to the bathroom by myself.

The Sweet Hereafter That Has Yet To Begin

Alpha Cousin reminds me that I have not shared the intimate details of my life in 7 days. Don't even ask what has been going on in this little brain of mine since then. It is almost too gory and palpable for a blog. All I have to say is that on the eve of 1-month-until-I'm-4-years-closer-to-30, I can't help but feel that I'm still 16 somewhere inside, and that she is trying to bust loose.

Life at 16 was sweet for a reason. Now, for better and for worse (but largely for the better), it can be categorized into ways it never could back then. Life at age-at-which-I'm-almost-4-years-closer-to-30 is sweeter for sure, but in a Sour Patch Kid kind of way. Here's why:

My Big Old UWS Studio

Bowled over by living in one. It's so big I get tired moving from bed to bathroom to closet to coffee table to dresser and finally out the door in the morning. There has been a temporary lapse in my Martha Stewart ways. I revel in watching 3 TV shows at once and keep hair tools on the coffee table. I drink almost everything in a wine glass. I play Hindi music VERY loudly and often put the most awesomely bad songs on repeat. Sometimes I even sing along. Okay, I usually sing along. I actually Laugh Out Loud (aka, LOL) when John Stewart tickles my funny bone and I know the doorman can hear me swoon. I dig into un-plated food with abandon knowing that I will be the only one returning to the container and re-ingesting my own germs. I stay up unreasonably late like a 5-yr old waiting for the big secret party she's never invited to and must be in bed by - except it never comes. I also vacuum, a chore I have not performed since I was...16.

My Path To Finding "Somebody Special :)"

Yeah, with the smiley face, according to another dear cousin who is far older than me (yes, that's right, you're far, far older...) and recently wished me luck in my "path to finding somebody special :)." Huh? Clearly my family is a gold mine of blog topics lately. Gag me with the dirty spoon still sitting in my sink.

If anyone I know has followed such a path, please enlighten me. Oh, right. None of you did. Oops.

But then, of course, awesomely bad Hindi song comes on and I'm singing along, LOL'ing to John Stewart, and swooning. Weird thoughts start swirling around in my head and before you know it, I've vented to about 4 different friends and 2 different relatives and 1 coworker and 1 somewhat of an absolute stranger about the state of dating and love for the average 25-yr old female in this day and age. It is an exhausting performance and preoccupation.

The Google/Facebook World

I claim to be a traditionalist about communication. I only use my cell phone when necessary and avoid Facebook, AIM, etc., like the plague.

Yeah, right. With Gmail and its amazing buddy/chat capabilities (video! Google talk! regular chat! AIM chat! endless possiblities...) available to me all day long, this is primarly how I communicate lately. It is inescapable and much more a part of my life than I would like to admit. The context has changed - I no longer see my friends 24/7, literally. Now, I can kind of need it to navigate distances and awkward situations.

People poke me on FB and it's kind of a fun reminder that we all do little during the day and are generally insomniacs. Some even give me public gifts. I admit to doing some stalking on it as well - we all know that is what it was meant for.

Late at night, I v-chat with my chickies who managed to make those previously red states go blue when they moved. I like seeing their cute faces and how they give me virtual tours of their new pads. In the mornings, I update peeps on how my night went if I had been out. We are our own news feeds.

But online communication and use of these snazzy social networks can get kind of fuzzy and you start smacking your head for all sorts of online social taboos, rejections, or misreads. You want to use it, and you don't. You want to rely on it for some things, not for others, but can't avoid either. I've spent many an hour biting my nails, twirling my hair, and throwing myself into anxious tizzies surmising what the latest action or non-action meant. It was so much simpler when it was just email and instant message back when I was...16.

Not to mention that I have this blog. Jeez. But at least this is just me spewing and avoiding the tortuous interaction I would surely put you through.

My Posse...

Or lack thereof. Going on 4 years out of college, there is only some semblance of a "scene" left. No more traveling with your posse - it dwindled to foursomes, trios, then pairs (but not always the pair you were looking for). Then random combinations of all of the above which changed frequently and unexpectedly. People moved, either physically or onto new phases in life. It happens.

And it's not all bad. I crave my freedom and space, reveling in my own phase, the feeling of being unattached, going to/leaving a party at your whim, staying in, going out, screening your calls and knowing no one will actually come find you. I also have to give myself props. I'm exponentially more comfortable going out on my own and meeting up with new people to meet new people. It's liberating and gratifying. It's my new thing.

And so in my post-16 trauma that should have occurred 9 years ago, I remind myself that most is not lost and how many great things are about to begin.

As they say, c u l8r.

History & Hope

Excuse my silence yesterday. I was overcome with emotion for about 24 hours but now I think I'm okay. I'm still sort of speechless. But the below says it all:

Gobama!

Grandmothers & Election Day

I know it's lame that the national obsession with Obama's upbringing and his grandmother made me write this. Well, it's not really the sole reason. I love my paternal granny very much and think about her often, although she refuses to acknowledge it. Unless you're with her 24/7, take her shopping, and get her a cell phone, she's not happy with you.

But Election Day made me realize something that I often forget about her - she's a U.S. citizen. And adamantly so. She keeps track of her social security money to the cent and can describe her citizenship interview in vivid detail. She even gets offended when people think she doesn't know English. There is little she can do, however, to actually exercise her rights as a citizen. She is 86 years old and splits her time between NY and India.

This morning, my coworker described taking her own grandmother at 6 am to vote. Her grandmother said only Obama could've gotten her do it, and that his grandmother left just 1 day before the election to be his angel today. I wanted to bawl.

I know it would mean a lot to my own grandmother if she could wobble her way to a poll site and cast a ballot. Hopefully, Zee TV won't trump civic duty. She's a steely lady who has come a long way from Arrah, India. Every vote does count, and she shouldn't let this opportunity go. Plus, it would give her something to talk about other than cell phones and fictional television characters.

So this is my Plan For the Day. Make sure Dadi votes. Make sure your grandparent(s) does too, if she/he can. It is clearly past the voter registration deadline, but apparently, she may be able to complete a paper ballot as long as she has proof of residence. Knowing her, she'll bring a suitcase of official documentation just in case and argue with the volunteers in perfect English.

Gotta love grandmothers. And the right to vote. And Obama. And his grandmother. And this country if it gets its act together.

On Education & Flower-Drawing

Let's talk about why I will never send my children to school in India if I ever choose to work there (a possibility given the field I'm in and the direction I hope to take). But let's not address the usual issues one might find of concern - let's instead finally reveal the traumas of my time as a 1st grader at The Woodlands School in Patna, Bihar, in 1990.

Boy, does my family have stories about this one. It is one of the few times in my life where I was so inexplicably unreasonable and unable to adapt. I'm practically a chameleon and always have been - throw me anywhere and I'm pretty much able to adjust to things. In fact, I prefer that kind of existence. I like shifting - it suits my nature. The Woodlands School did not.

I was a real nerd even in kindergarten. I know everyone loves school at that age, but I REALLY loved it. I loved my friends, my teachers, my art projects, my picture-day outfits, my cafeteria, my locker, you name it. I didn't take issue with anything. The only real tragedy was that I was such a weakling, and was often absent due to sickness. School inspired me to become a story book writer/illustrator when I grew up. School was safe and school was home.

When the family moved to India for a year for my father's sabbatical, my adventurous side got the best of me. I was a precocious child. I knew that an Indian school was not going to be the same as my perfect, privileged little kingdom of public education on Long Island, but the thought of moving away for a year to another country gave me this awesome prickly feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Myself and my younger sister (the poor thing had only experienced nursery school so far and didn't know any better) were placed in a simple public school for less than 1 year. I was in the first "standard" (grade), and she in whatever comes before that. I don't know what went through our young minds at that time, but I do remember every detail vividly once it all began.

I could deal with the benches and rows of little brown children in starched white shirts, pleated red skirts/shorts, and patent-leather shoes. I could deal with calling the teacher "Ma'am" or "Miss." I didn't mind that there was no cafeteria and that I didn't know the principal. I got used to sitting in place and watching a rotation of subject teachers come and go instead of moving around ourselves. I even learned to love the cool pencil boxes and especially sharp, steel sharpeners.

What I didn't understand:
- Expecting to know the times table up until 12 when I could barely add
- Why we were given coloring books to color as "art" instead of being given time to create our own
- Where we were supposed to eat lunch

Most of all, I didn't understand the people and I was spoiled by the after-school special that was my social scene back home. In New York, when the new kid from Israel, Ofair, had first arrived, he was properly introduced to the class and we took turns introducing ourselves. Sure, Ofair was a little odd but we were expected to be nice to him and make him feel a part of the class. In turn, Ofair offered to us his harmless and slightly whimsical personality.

In India, I was met by blank stares and giggles from boys who thought my nails were too long. The teachers made no effort to integrate me into the class. Maybe it was because I was Indian, too. But while I didn't expect anyone to make me feel "special" like American teachers did, I certainly didn't expect them to make me fit into the mold of this bland, sad group of repressed 1st graders. While the atmosphere wasn't warm or uninviting, it wasn't exactly welcoming either. I didn't know how to fit in and what to offer.

Every morning for what seemed like an eternity, I had a mental breakdown. I awoke with tears in my eyes and refused to go to school. I took forever in the bathroom, held onto doorways, tried to sweet-talk my driver into turning back home, and could not choke up any words when necessary once there. After some time, my parents, baffled by this sudden change in attitude towards school, finally pulled me out and got me a tutor.

Yeah, so I was an Indian-school-first-standard drop-out. Never again. I know there were good schools in India (maybe not Patna though...) back then, and there are more now. My niece attends a very modern, somewhat new-age, earthy private school in New Delhi but that's just not me.

American education supposedly sucks, but I was lucky to have attended one of the best school districts in the country. Nothing comes close to some of the experiences you have as a regular ol' public school kid here - to the diversity you take for granted, to the individuality that is encouraged, to the appreciation of childhood, to the early dreams and goals we are told we can achieve. Nowhere could I stand before an easel, palette and brush in one hand and pages of a handwritten plot in the other, at the age of 6 so confidently and envision myself as the next great best-selling story book author/illustrator. Nowhere else could I have such a fluid intellectual curiosity and profound enthusiasm for education. It almost makes me cry how much I can appreciate my schooling with so few regrets.

Some cousins of mine attend a posh private school in India. When they moved back to India from, of all places, Minnesota, the younger one expressed frustration with her new school. She told me that they were asked to draw flowers in her art class. When she drew one, her teacher "corrected" her design. Luckily, my cousin is a spunky one and asked why she couldn't draw any kind of flower since there are so many kinds. Her question apparently went unanswered and she came to me upset by the apparent lack of democracy in flower-drawing.

I know this is not representative of all Indian schools, and possibly not many at all these days. I also remind myself constantly how priviliged I was such at such a tender age, and that few people are lucky enough to have had the same experiences. I just hope to give my own kids tablets of blank pages to draw in and construct some dreams. And that will be right here, where I was able to do so.

How Long I've Been A Democrat

If it appears to you that I am very liberal and a staunch Democrat, that's okay with me. It occurred to me last night that I can recall my very first reaction to a presidential election, and thus, how long I may have been one. It dates back to - kindergarten.

I feel compelled to address this because by some telepathic coincidence, this morning's Today show featured a segment on educating young children about the election and politics. I was proud to see that 20 years ago, Mrs. Cohen, my dear kindergarten teacher, was way ahead of the game.

Back in 1988, Mrs. Cohen requested that we bring in a picture of our presidential pick. I actually thought long and hard about this, but realized that my developing brain was powerless in understanding what issues were at hand and on what basis such a decision could be considered. I looked through newspapers but since I couldn't understand most of the words, I focused on the pictures.

To my young little eyes, the answer lay in Michael Dukakis. He was young and fresh-faced compared to Bush, and was sort of handsome. Plus, I liked the sound of Dukakis. I thought it was different and profound, while Bush invoked canned bean commercials.

The next day, I marched up to the dry-erase board and sticky-tacked my image of Dukakis in the appropriate column. Sound choice or not, I had unknowingly declared my party affiliation for years to come (and crushingly chose the loser of the election).

In honor of my superficial baby steps as a U.S. Citizen, here is an equally superficial (but powerful) ode to Mr. Obama - man, that guy knows how to take a picture. If I were kindergartner right now, these would seal the deal for me.

Pictures: © Callie Shell / Aurora for Time & The Huffington Post

M.O.B. Mentality - My Managerial & Organizational Behavior

At some point this morning, I realized I was staring at the screen and not moving. Just staring. Not registering anything before my eyes. Hypnotized by the bright glare of the screen and coasting along into nothingness.

I should add that the heat was turned off on our floor this morning due to construction. I shivered in place and recoiled into myself to conserve energy.

I won't lie and say and that I don't lapse into such a state of unproductivity occasionally. That fact, combined with my Managerial & Organizational Behavior (M.O.B) course, has forced me to adopt a M.O.B mentality and consider the following:

What kind of worker am I? What work environments/conditions do I thrive in? Am I a better manager or leader?

Is anyone paying attention to whether or not I turn into one? Am I?

Am I potentially an accidental success? Will someone randomly pull out the rug from under me and leave me wondering where I went wrong?

Is there any room for this kind of deep introspection in an academic, health/medical research environment that rests entirely on the whims of the National Institutes of Health?

I've come to consider myself to be a worker bee with a cavalier streak that no one could do anything about if they even noticed it.

I work because I like to work. I chose to work in this field because I want to make a contribution to public health and global justice. I work because I'm comfortable with a certain kind of lifestyle. But I also work because a job is a job, and I wonder if I will ever be able to stop viewing "work" as such and feel engaged in a career.

Why, you may ask. If you tally my blog hours, you might notice that I'm just a tad, a tad bit lonely during the workday. I work largely by myself on a research study whose Principal Investigator thankfully respects individual work styles and is insanely busy. This is a wonderful thing - but also a bit of solitary experience. After much thought, it struck me how much of my work in public health and non-profit sector has been this way.

How this will affect me professionally, I don't know. But it does make me wonder about the things I may have missed out on. That said, I can't say I regret having the opportunity to fulfill work responsibilities, read The Huffington Post & New York Times everyday, do homework during lunch, visit the drugstore in the afternoon (if necessary that is...), leave early for class, and get to work in 10 minutes the next morning.

It's likely that it won't, unless someone directly inquires about my organizational behavior and cavalier worker bee ways. Until then, I've taken it upon myself to focus on a new personal evolution, one with concrete goals and an enthusiasm it's taken me a long while to develop.

Thanks, Professor.

A Suitable Boy/The Ideal Man, Part Deux

Friend who helped me formulate A Suitable Boy/The Ideal Man has further defined what speciman of a man may be right for me.

Apparently, what I need is a liberal, studious, half-Jewish, half-black man from NY who likes Bollywood movies.

Start looking.

Here, Vibes

Background: Years and months and days enduring the approach of an age (much too early by some standards) that apparently demands love and marriage and such.

Current Status: No love or marriage or such.

Scene: Crisp autumn evening in an NYC cab with 2 dear loved ones, both female relatives. On our way to dinner.

Conversation: Nothing and everything.

The Plot Thickens When: In pure "jest," I receive a "You bloody idiot - what are you doing with your life? You need to send some good vibes" from one female relative.

Vibes.

In addition to hopefully building a career and pursuing higher education, I'm apparently supposed to be worried about said vibes. Apparently, I don't have them. Apparently, they are what I should be emitting from my radiant self to attract any number of good Y-chromosomes my way. Apparently, it is my fault that I am not.

Since no clear definitions or plan of actions were offered, I'll literally take this to mean that I should hike up my skirt, pull down my shirt, and perform a mating dance.

Here, vibes.

A Suitable Boy/The Ideal Man

Of late, I've been asked what I am looking for in a boy/guy/man/boyfriend/husband/life partner. I have no idea what this question is supposed to mean. It makes as little sense to me as asking what kind of food I like and what kind of food I hope to eat in the future - hopefully, good, healthy, yummy food? I don't care what it really is, as long it's satisfying and enjoyable? No mold? Good-looking enough but doesn't have to be primped, primed, and garnished? Sigh. I figure when you meet someone you can be with for however long it is meant to be, you'll know.

I was wrong. After much thought and consideration, my friend and I have decided that the most suitable boy/ideal man would be a combination of John Stewart, Barack Obama (don't groan), and Stephen Colbert.

Stewart is funny, quirky, and handsome. Obama is presidential, quirky (I think), and handsome.

And Colbert. Well, Colbert is funny, quirky, can fake being presidential, handsome, can breakdance with Korean pop stars, loves Amitabh Bachchan, and possesses those perfect in-between looks and carriage that could pass for a number of different ethnicities, making him an excellent non-Indian Indian candidate.

I heart Stewart/Obama/Colbert. Sorry to throw the Obama in there - I know it might be inappropriate and cheesy. But he really does have a killer smile, and may be president. It's a no-brainer. There are many others I could add to this list but since I already sound 15, I'd rather not risk sounding 13.

Why I Haven't Been Blogging & My Affair With The Huffington Post

I have been quiet for a while now, and for no good reason. Possible explanations included being generally busy with my fascinating public health coursework (it truly is) and being unable to find my way through a mental fog of disconnected thoughts.

And then it hit me. The culprit of my silence has been none other a lethal combination of The Huffington Post and You Tube. Yep, you've been deprived of my ramblings because I found something more amusing than myself.

The Huffington Post - not the best source of the latest, most objective news some might say. Frankly, I don't care. That website is addictive, especially for bloggers like me who put together lists of the funny moments this election circus has to offer and email their friends and family approximately 10 related articles per day.

Nevermind that the website is completely and utterly disorganized. There are articles, opinions, videos, news feeds, pictures, and audio clips thrown around that page in the most attractive, haphazard arrangement imaginable, and I can't get enough of it. Its not enough to catch every SNL, Letterman, and Daily Show moment possible then night before - I have to read up on the aftermath the next morning.

So my coworker and I comb through Huffington and You Tube like our lives depend on it. I'm starting to think that rambling to myself was better - at least it is somewhat engaging. All this election business often makes my jaw drop and stare at the computer screen with eyes glazed over, although I do get a million and one laughs out of it between 9 am and 5 pm everyday, guaranteed. I am not alone. My cousin refers to it as "my cocaine."

Trying to shake myself out of it. Hear from me soon.

Big Tobacco's Spin on Women's Liberation

If you found Fresh's Tobacco Caramel and Etat Libre d'Orange's Jasmin et Cigarette advertising to be a tad bit more than just troubling, then this article will both interest you and likely increase your frustration. There is also a revealing slide show, In Old Ads, Doctors and Babies Say 'Smoke.'

New York Times City Room, 10/10/08 - Big Tobacco's Spin on Women's Liberation

An exhibit of old smoking ads went on display this week at the Science, Industry and Business Library at 34th Street and Madison Avenue.

(Image Courtesy of Stanford University,
tobacco.stanford.edu)

Why do nearly one-fifth of women in America smoke? The answer goes back to an event almost 80 years ago on Fifth Avenue, which is often regarded as one of the most successful P.R. stunts in American history.

This sometimes overlooked piece of history has surfaced again because of an exhibit of historic cigarette ads at the New York Public Library’s Science, Industry and Business branch at 34th Street and Madison Avenue.

The show, “Not a Cough in a Carload: Images Used by Tobacco Companies to Hide the Hazards of Smoking,” which opened this week, was curated by a doctor, Robert J. Jackler, whose mother, a smoker, died of lung cancer. (For more about the show, see Stuart Elliott’s Advertising column from Monday.) At the beginning of the 20th century, only women thought to have loose morals smoked in public. A New York Times article in 1901 warned that women’s smoking of cigarettes was “growing to be a menace in this country.” In 1904, a police officer stopped a car on Fifth Avenue because one of the passengers, a woman, was smoking inside. Smoking was considered a male domain. A 1919 New York Times article quotes a man saying:

I hate to see women smoking. Apart from the moral reason, they really don’t know how to smoke. One woman smoking one cigarette at a dinner table will stir up more smoke than a whole tableful of men smoking cigars. They don’t seem to know what to do with the smoke. Neither do they know how to hold their cigarettes properly. They make a mess of the whole performance

But the tobacco companies wanted to change this view. “The industry understood that they were half of humanity,” Dr. Jackler said. So in 1928, Edward Bernays, often considered the father of modern public relations, was retained by American Tobacco Company to help get women to smoke.

Recognizing that women were still riding high on the suffrage movement, Mr. Bernays used the equality angle as the basis for his new campaign. He convinced a number of genteel women, including his own secretary, to march in the 1929 Easter Day parade down Fifth Avenue and light up cigarettes in a defiant show of their liberation.

One woman who lit a Lucky Strike told the reporter from the New York Evening World that she “first got the idea for this campaign when a man on the street asked her to extinguish her cigarette because it embarrassed him. ‘I talked it over with my friends, and we decided it was high time something was done about the 'situation.' As described in Larry Tye’s biography of Mr. Bernays, “The Father of Spin,” the media ate it up:

Ten young women turned out, marching down Fifth Avenue with their lighted “torches of freedom,” and the newspapers loved it. Two-column pictures showed elegant ladies, with floppy hats and fur-trimmed coats, cigarettes held self-consciously by their sides, as they paraded down the wide boulevard. Dispatches ran the next day, on page one, in papers from Fremont, Nebraska, to Portland, Oregon, to Albuquerque, New Mexico.

The Times published an article the next day on the Easter Parade, with headline saying in part, “Group of Girls Puff at Cigarettes as a Gesture of 'Freedom.' “Within a year, it became acceptable for woman to smoke outside,” Dr. Jackler said. The cigarettes became known as “torches of freedom.” Cigarette companies then started tailoring their messages to women. One of the most resonant themes was that smoking would keep women slim (even then, women thought thinner was better). Lucky Strikes ran a campaign pitching, “Reach for a Lucky Instead of a Sweet.” Other advertisements cast shadow images of plump women behind slim ones, implying that the difference was smoking.

Dr. Jackler said his mother came of age influenced by the ads. She started smoking in college in the 1940s at the University of Vermont. Her cancer had prompted his interest in that era of tobacco marketing. (Now, more women die of lung cancer than from breast cancer.) “She thought it would be smart and sassy thing to smoke,” Dr. Jackler said. “She thought it would make her elegant and mature and sophisticated.”

Documents from the files of the tobacco companies, released in 1998, indicated they had studied female smoking habits through research projects with names like “Tomorrow’s Female,” “Cosmo” and “Virile Female.” Marketing cigarettes for women continued with the introduction of Virginia Slims in 1968, which for decades used the theme “You’ve come a long way, baby” as an allusion to the feminist movement. “There is a bump in women’s smoking in the 1970s,” Dr. Jackler said. That increase has shown up now, he added, as more cases of “lung cancer and emphysema, because they started smoking in the ’70s because of the Virginia Slim ads.”

The restrictions of the tobacco companies’ 1998 settlement with the states circumscribed their use of cartoon characters like Joe Camel, outdoor advertising and certain magazines. The intent was to limit marketing to youth. But last year, R. J. Reynolds introduced Camel No. 9s, a feminine sounding brand whose name tries to evoke perfumes like Chanel No. 19, as well as a song about romance, “Love Potion No. 9.”

Camels No. 9 uses phrases like “light and luscious,” comes in fuchsia and teal packaging, and has flowers in its ads. Some say this blatant effort would be laughable if it weren’t so pernicious. The soft imagery, of course, is strikingly different from a woman featured in New York City’s antismoking advertisement — Marie, who has had 20 amputations because of her addiction to cigarettes.

(Image Courtesy of Stanford University, tobacco.stanford.edu)

For Warrick

It's official. Warrick Brown is no more, and McKeen was finally arrested for his murder. Thank god. I was having heart palpitations at the thought of watching an entire season without seeing any justice served. I normally don't take TV very seriously, but the passing of Warrick Brown on CSI: Crime Scene Investigation actually left me in tears. His warm, easy smile. His clear, soulful eyes. Sigh. He is too wonderful, and his absence too painful. I hope the TV gods carve out a spot for him somewhere else.

London Doesn't Have Drugstores

And therefore, I can never live there. I've been toying with the idea of applying to a PhD program there in the future, and am grateful for this revelation. My friend recently moved to London to begin a graduate program and was more than sorely disappointed by the fact that she could not find a plastic bowl or shower caddy anywhere within a few miles (or should I say kilometers) of her housing. Apparently, London drugstores differ greatly from Duane Reade.

Which reinforces my belief that the modern drugstore is one of my America's greatest offerings to the world. Seriously. What CAN'T you find in a drugstore? At Duane Reade the other day, I found everything from eyeshadow to crushed red pepper to a hammer, not to mention plastic dinnerware and utensils. This all in addition to the pharmacy.

I realize that my love for drugstores has serious implications considering that the major chains are all but wiping out mom-and-pop businesses throughout NYC and elsewhere. It really is terrible and against everything I learned as an Urban Studies major. Unfortunately, my habits prevent me from taking a stand against them. I'm addicted and rely on the fact there is a Duane Reade on just about every corner in New York. Back on Long Island, my mother has a similar relationship with Rite Aid.

London apparently also has very skinny, Euro-type men who don't appeal to my friend. She misses big, beefy American men.

So there you have it. No beefy men or drugstores. I told you I'd be traveling in my head.

Say It Ain't So

Oh, but it is so. All the variety in pickin'-apart-Palin on the web has been consuming all my potential blog-time. So I decided to integrate the two activities, throw in some other fun stuff, and present to you the best of the week:

Margaret and Helen - A must read. After reading this particular post, read all the others. I want this woman to be my friend.

Palin Flow - Wonderin' how she made it through that debate? This is why.

Alaska Hockey Moms for Obama

Sarah Silverman's The Great Schlep

"Hey Sarah Palin" (to "Hey There Delilah")

Madonna Goes Off On Sarah Palin

Alec Baldwin Imitates Sarah Palin

Tina Fey As Sarah Palin In VP Debate On SNL

And for some warm fuzzies (and also because it's kind of weird): Yes We Can (Hold Babies)

DVR Dates & Unhealthy TV Obsessions

As most of my friends and sisters well know, I would watch X-Files or CSI over Grey's Anatomy Gossip Girl anyday. Unlike most my age, I refrain from the fun dramas or comedies that have everyone hooked. Instead, I opt for the thrills, mystery, and gore of all crime shows and science-fiction dramas. Some exceptions include The Hills (which I haven't been keeping up with) and America's Next Top Model - I know. Neither is very good - okay, they suck. Another one - Ugly Betty - is a real winner and always a breath of fresh TV air.

This season is particularly exciting, especially since I can now schedule DVR dates all week. We didn't have DVR at home and Zee TV and CNN were far more traumatizing than anyone can every imagine. For months I missed out on some of my favorite shows, all of which make you think the world and everything in it sucks and make you fear for your life everyday. Splendid unhealthy fun, if you ask me.

In addition to CSI (the original, Miami, & NY), Law & Order: SVU (okay, all the others, too), The Closer, Medium (which hasn't started yet), Without a Trace, and Numbers, I'm also now hooked to Fringe and Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles, both on FOX. They are fabulous, particularly Fringe - it's kind of The X-Files for this generation - not nearly as intricate or engaging (yet), but a fair enough replacement after all this time.

If you at all care, Fringe stars Joshua Jackson of Dawson's Creek fame (I never liked you, Pacey), while The Sarah Connor Chronicles has Brian Austin Green of the original 90210 series. These aren't lame comebacks - both are actually quite good in their roles, and the shows are straightforward and fast-paced.

I know I should get into Lost and 24 given this track record, but I've missed too much already. Heroes, too, but in case you didn't now, it has almost exactly the same premise as USA's summer series, The 4400, which I was addicted to a while ago. Not pleased with Heroes' take on it. I kind of view it as the sci-fi show for the common man. Not enough mythology there for me.

I have a hard time focusing on comedies. They make you feel so much better, but I develop ADD when I watch them - I end up multi-tasking and get distracted. Recently, I forced myself to record The Office so that I don't completely depress myself watching the fictional (and not so) woes of the world unfold before me every night. Plus, I love Mindy Kaling.

I miss the weird days of Buffy and Angel (Charmed, too, except that it was honestly horrible). Here's to figuring out how many different ways the world will/can come to an end.

I Forgot How To Write...And Study

It's been a long time since I took an exam that didn't require memorizing formulas and the shapes of molecules. Now, I face the daunting task of writing clear, complete thoughts in the form of clear, complete essays for an exam tomorrow. As my professor reminded the class last week - we're graduate students, and should know how to write. Yikes.

As you can tell from my two blogs, my writing skills have been reduced to composing cyber yap on some rather superficial/random thoughts that I prevent from spiraling into a 10-minute rant or rave with someone who doesn't want to listen on the phone. I also cannot write a sentence less than 50 words long.

Tomorrow, I will have to use these writing skills to discuss topics such as molecular epidemiology and organophosphate poisoning. It's not nearly as scary as it sounds, actually. I just don't trust myself to handle it all properly given the pre-med fog of the last couple of years.

I also feeling guilty when I'm doing something else instead of studying. Like blogging at work. Ok. I was good. I used my lunch hour to listen to an Ipod lecture and study - such a nerd. I don't know where all this paranoia is coming from. I guess I didn't blog enough last week to soothe my nerves. Must start doing so over the weekend.

Chicken Recipe

I love to cook, although I have a pretty old-fashioned way of doing it, a methodology I owe to my dear mother, who is a true Maestro in the kitchen. After spending many an hour in the kitchen "eyeballing" (to use Rachel Ray's term) ingredients, improvising cake recipes, and making lunch while growing up (not to mention eating a lot), I have developed I love of cooking and frankly, feeding myself and others.

So here's something I recently whipped up, which is really nothing, but tastes yummy after a day at work and class spent blogging and/or thinking about blogging.

What you need:
A package of 4 skinless chicken breasts
Thai peanut marinating/dipping sauce
Ketchup or canned tomato sauce
Cayenne pepper
Black pepper
Salt
Garlic powder
Any hot sauce

Olive oil for cooking
A skillet
A spatula

What to do:
Cut up chicken into pieces slightly bigger than "bite-size" - about 1.5 in. Heat up a skillet/pan on medium-low and warm up about 2 tablespoons of olive oil in it for a couple of minutes.

Toss in the cut chicken. It's particularly fun if it forms a big fat mound in your skillet. Then you get to un-mound it later. But be careful not to let it fall over the sides - this shouldn't happen unless you're using a dollhouse-sized skillet.

Add about (I say about because I "eyeball" it) - 1/2 tbsp garlic powder, 1/4 tsp cayenne pepper, 1/4 tsp black pepper, and salt to taste. Also add 2-3 tbsp ketchup or tomato sauce. Add in about 3 dashes of peanut sauce and hot sauce to taste. Yep - just throw it on top of the chicken. Stir.

The above are conservative numbers. If you eat prefer more flavor/spice, be my guest and sprinkle away. It also depends on how big/thick the chicken pieces are.

Time before you can dig in:
~15-20 mins. More if you like the chicken to be seared a bit in which case, raise the heat a little when adding ingredients and turn down before letting the chicken fully cook.

That's the first time I wrote a "recipe." Enjoy.

A History of Dance & Nostalgic Jams

There was a time when my partner-in-crime from age 0 onwards literally pumped and pumped the jam with me wherever we went. At first, I couldn't dance even though I had major rhythm. I just didn't know how to put it together, and I was shy. Then one fine day, Alpha Cousin & partner-in-crime says "It's simple Suman - just put one foot behind the other, and snap. Then move to your side, put the other foot behind the other, and snap! Step, snap, step snap..."

History in the making as the original Indian dance team was born. Their members resided on Long Island and Queens, and studios were located in our basements, backyards, wedding receptions, and graduation parties.

To top it off, we always had a ready audience in the Older Sis. Ok, so maybe she wasn't exactly "ready" to watch us pretend to be Bollywood stars. I think we traumatized her.

Listening to my IPod the other day, a song which I have not heard in ages came on. Before I knew it, I was 12 again, wearing a sparkly Indian outfit, and throwing my hands in the air like there was no tomorrow. A tidal wave of nostalgia ensued and since then, I've been recalling all the amazingly bad/awesome songs that we used to groove to. My own personal VH1 marathon in my head, which needs to be released immediately.

It was the early-mid 90s. Four little Indian girls began to come of age just as Indian remix masters burst onto the scene. Puffy sleeves and tights were just about on their way out, and everyone was wearing Revlon's Toast of New York Super Lustrous Lipstick. We went to weddings at huge banquet halls in New Jersey and carried back equally huge floral arrangements that positively STANK the next morning. No one used straightening irons and hair was perpetually bushy.

Two of us thought we were really cool. One was too young to notice we weren't and did everything we did. The other one, too smart for her own good, KNEW we weren't and incessantly made fun of us. It was okay because she was actually pretty funny, didn't dance, and we needed a DJ.

Against this backdrop developed the following soundtrack. I've highlighted the most memorable Hindi songs and 1-800-DIAL-MTV jams. Listen, watch, and imagine us bouncing around in our own interpretive choreography. Mind-blowing.

By Film/Artist:

ARROW: Hot Hot Hot
BALLY SAGOO: Jugni (w/ Malkit Singh), Mere Laung Gawacha
BETA: Dhak Dhak Karne Laga

BOMBAY: Kehna Hi Kya, Ek Ho Gaye Hum Aur Tum
CHANDNI: Mere Haathon Mein Nau Nau
HEERA: Maar Chadapa

HERO: Ding Dong Oh Baby Sing A Song, Tu Mera Hero Hai
LAMHE: Megha Re Megha, Morni Baaga Ma
MADONNA: Material Girl, Like A Prayer
MALKIT SINGH: Hey Jamalo

NUSRAT FATEH ALI KHAN: Sajana Tere Bina
QURBANI: Aap Jaisa Koi, Qurbani Qurbani
REEL TO REAL: I Like To Move It
ROOP KI RANI CHORON KA RAJA: Chai Mein Chini
SADAK: Rehne Ko Ghar Nahin, Tak Dhin DhinTak
SANGAM: Mein Kya Karoon Ram Mujhe Budhha Mil Gaya
SNOW: Informer
WRECKX 'N' EFFECT: Rumpshaker
YARAANA: Mera Piya Ghar Aaya
2 IN A ROOM: Wiggle It

To PP In Honor of SP - Donate!

I didn't plan to express any political views here, but I just couldn't resist this:

Donate to Planned Parenthood in honor of Sarah Palin and send her a thank you!

Smoke Alarm - Etat Libre d'Orange's Jasmin et Cigarette

I'm flabbergasted. Another fragrance with tobacco notes. Worse yet, "cigarette" is a part of the name. This month, a new French line of perfumes, Etat Libre d'Orange, introduced Jasmin et Cigarette. The description of this perfume on the website reads:

"It is the era of Harcourt Studios when Greta Garbo and Marlene Dietrich magnetized men with a Hollywood look in the eye, smoking a cigarette in a smoky black and white ambience. Jasmin et Cigarette is also the slightly jasminy smell of a women's skin when she exposes her freshness to the dark seduction of night. A hazy atmosphere. The reminder of a fantasy, of an indelible trail she leaves on a dress at the break of day or in the intimate memory of the man who made love to her. It is elegance seen by Gainesbourg, the woman from the 80s who smokes Gitane cigarettes and wears jeans and who, with astounding naturalness, claims her sensuality as a right. Transparency in sophistication, just a trace of jasmine mingled to the so far neglected smell of a cigarette. Jasmin et Cigarette is the twilight zone, the banned, addiction. Nicotine woman or heroine, she is an icon, the woman one longs for."

If suffering from lung cancer wearing 80s jeans and a Gitane hanging out of the corner of your mouth seems like a bright idea, power to it. If nicotine also helps you claim your sensuality, all the more power. Clearly, the world of Jasmin et Cigarette IS the twilight zone, one where feminity is somehow tied to a frankly disgusting and dangerous habit.

I don't know if it's a coincidence that both this and Fresh's Tobacco Caramel were launched (or relaunced in Fresh's case) during the same month, but something doesn't smell right. I earlier addressed the Fresh issue as well - read here.

I'm pursuing graduate studies in Public Health and so this is the expected response from someone like me. But one need not be immersed in PH issues to feel this way. More people should be troubled by the power of marketing/advertising and their implications for tobacco control, smoking cessation, and prevention of diseases and conditions associated with tobacco use. The more eco-conscious are careful about selecting natural products and support companies that don't use animal-testing. This is as, if not more, important, and people should be concerned. Particularly young people targeted by this kind of nonsense. Do you long to be like Greta Garbo and snag a man with your coffee and cigarette breath? I didn't think so.

I think a letter to both companies is in order. If you agree, let me know. I'll feel less like - one of those letter-writing people. Maybe we can get them to rename the perfume - how do "Toxic Rose" or "Carcinogenic Bloom" sound?

Letters on Pages

Before I decided to blog non-stop, I used to spend much of my free time reading. I'm a real geek. I can stroll through the aisles of both Sephora and Barnes & Noble with equal glee. I love my books with a passion, but have no favorites. So while I won't exactly write book reviews, I would definitely love to share my most current reads as well as my book "playlist." Being a true geek, I am also on Shelfari.com where you can check out my bookshelf and other fun literary things as well.

Always on my bedside table: The Unbearable Lightness of Being (Milan Kundera)

Current read: In Defense of Food (Michael Pollan)

Last read: Love in the Time of Cholera (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)
The Omnivore's Dilemma (Michael Pollan)
Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister (Gregory Maguire) The Impressionist (Hari Kunzru)
Shalimar the Clown (Salman Rushdie)
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting (Milan Kundera)
Tender is the Night (F. Scott Fitzgerald)
Wicked (Gregory Maguire)
The Fountainhead (Ayn Rand)

To read: One Hundred Years of Solitude (Gabriel Garcia Marquez)

Started and didn't finish: Identity and Violence (Amartya Sen)
The Householder (V.S. Naipaul)