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)