Half Priced Booger Special

Overheard on a raging road trip to New Jersey.

Me (Concerned but Frazzled about to go Postal Mom): "Shaila, honey. Can you please stop picking your nose? We can use a tissue to get what you need out, " trying to reason with my 2 1/2 year old.

Shaila (Not concerned and fully committed to driving Mommy crazy.) "No, Mommy." She is completely exasperated with me as if to say - "Listen Lady, we've been through this before. WORK with me HERE!"

Me: "But why Honey? Why must you pick your nose?"

Shaila: "Mommy!!! " She holds up her hands to prove her point. "I have many, MANY burgers in there and I need to do this."

So my daughter has booger burgers that are in need of attention. Apparently, she has many, MANY of them. She likes ketchup so I wouldn't put it past her to try the pairing.

I love her, but she is my little nutter. And we are going to have to try to kick this burger (booger) excavation practice sooner rather than later.

Happy NEW YEAR EVERYONE!!!!
Kiran

And the Husband Stealer Award Goes to . . .

PMP Dynomite!
PMP Out Of Sight!

What you see above is the bastardized version of the song called "TNT" made famous by AC/DC. I was singing it during our four days of PMP training and so yeah, I was probably a little bit of a pain in the butt. And yes, not very professional. But what can I say? I love me some AC/DC.

But two weeks ago, I was attending a 4 Day, 10-12 hour/day Boot Camp to prepare for the Project Manager Professional Certification.

The week was SOOOOOO much fun. In addition to my 10 - 12 hour training days, I was working at night and also had to come home to two ridiculously cranky babies who had a bone to pick with their absentee mom.

Hey, but I got through it all! I aced the prep class and passed the exam (ace would be pushing it on that one). So my objectives from the class were met and I was very happy about the wonderful teacher we had, the jovial conversation and dialogue amidst students during the four torturous days.

I also work for a large public software company that you all have heard of. I was planning on requesting that this teacher come to our facility and train our classes so we could get the most of the program.

Good news is I passed the exam. The bad news is, I got a threatening voice mail last night from the wife of the man who taught that class.

I had to listen to the message a few times. Was this the wrong number? Hmmm. No. Basically, what she said was that I acted inappropriately with her husband and to stay away from him.

Um. All I did was take the class. I swear guys. I know that when people tell me things like this, a little part of my mind always says - "Well, you must have done something . . ." but I promise - I went into the class looking pretty much like roadkill because I was so exhausted from the demands of that week and really had very little energy to do all the necessary "appropriate" things, much less the "inappropriate."

Seriously, why do more than is necessary? I didn't even give the teacher an apple or anything like that.

So, here is the gist of the message:

"Listen you. I don't know who you are or who you think you are."

Really, Ma'am? Obviously you know who I am or you wouldn't be freaking calling my cell at 10:30 on a Monday night. And I think I am many things but guessing we may not find quorum on that one.

OH and HOW THE HELL DO YOU HAVE MY NUMBER?

"You stay away from my husband. You came to take a class. Be a professional and take the class."

Hmmm. This is where I start to feel really bad. Because maybe she's right. But I don't see why it would impact her that I had to get to class 30 minutes late each day due to a prior commitment (Shaila ate my homework). And that's not "super" professional, so I get it. But why should she care?

"Where I come from, we have a name for women like you who steal other women's husbands." Then she proceeded to curse at me in Hindi. Which I should have been proud of because that's my language - but in this case, I got a teensy bit annoyed. Just a little. Small.

I couldn't catch the word. I was too busy being shocked and looking like a moron.

John was with me and said -" Are you ok?"

And I said, "No, will you please listen to this?"

And he did. And at no point did it even occur to me that John might doubt me on this one. I explained that the teacher was an elderly Indian man who bore more resemblance to my Indian Uncles and that had the same instructor looked like Robert Downey Junior in "Sherlock Holmes" we might be having a completely different conversation.

But John brushed my fears away on that issue immediately - because he is a great husband like that and said - this is bullS&% and you need to call the training company and let them know this happened to you. He also knows I love him and would only even entertain the idea remotely if it was Robert Downey Junior or Jude Law, and even then, I am kind of lazy so, you know . . . good luck with that.

Cuz again, it's all about conserving energy these days.

But that was my day. I got called a husband stealer by a woman whose husband taught me in a four day class and which I had ZERO interaction with outside of the classroom. And trust me, you would have shot your self from boredom with what was going on IN the classroom.

Project Management Certification is NOT sexy. Just being clear.

Soooooo, that was my day. Was yours better than mine? GD, I hope so.

Kiran

Sad Recollections of a Mean Drunk (who was mean to my dad)

Happy Holidays, Everybody!

After a little sabbatical, I'm back. And ready to attack.

Ok, maybe not attack but today I did want to share a little story about myself. It's not necessarily the happiest, or the funniest, so I am just warning you in advance. Just in case you wanted to excuse yourself.

I totally understand.

But I felt like I needed to do this. Over the past few weeks, I have given everybody a lot of grief in my posts about not being kind to my peeps (See Indian Food and Paging Dr. McGupta), and you may have thought I was being a teensy bit aggressive about it, so I wanted to maybe explain myself a little more . . . .

So sit back, grab some chai and get to know me, Kiran, just a little better . . .

*********************************************************************

"You F&%$ing Gandhi."

I turned around to see who was speaking and to whom they were saying this to. Whoever it was sounded REALLY angry and like they had a real bone to pick with someone.

A drunk man stumbled towards where I was standing with my father on the concession line. That's when I realized where the voice was coming from and who had wronged this man so deeply that he could speak with such . . . VENOM . . . such hatred.

The man was speaking to my father, who many of you know from my previous post "The Story".

My father didn't realize it at first. Like me, he had been distracted by the sheer enormity of Meadowlands Arena, where he had taken me to see the New Jersey Devils play the New York Rangers. My dad is partially blind, so he didn't see the man yelling at him from the side as he passed.

"It's people like you who ruin this country!" he screamed at my father while pointing at him violently, as if he was about to lunge. My father turned at that point, realized what was being said and looked down, not wanting to incite this drunk further. My older brother, Sudhu, realized what was happening at that point and protectively put his arms around my father in case the drunk acted out further. My cousin, Mintoo, also stood next to me - not quite sure what had just taken place.

People were startled from their own reveries by the man's aggression and nobody was quite sure how to react. I don't really blame anybody for not defending my father. He did look pretty scary, all 5'6" inches of him, on the other side of 60 with that constant knee limp and lack of any peripheral vision.

You wouldn't want to have rasmalai with him in a dark alley if you know what I mean.

The drunk was lead out by friends who did not apologize to my family as they walked by us, after they had just sucked the joy and anticipation we had all been feeling for the night right out of us.

The year was 1992. I was sixteen years old. Despite my father getting coveted box seats to this game from a friend every year there after, I never returned to see a hockey game again.

My dad tried to convince me.

"Come on, Beti. We will have nice food and drinks and you can watch the game from such wonderful seats!" he tried to convince me.

But I just couldn't go back again. My heart wasn't into it anymore and something about remembering my father's kind and gentle face as this man shouted profanities at him just made me want to cry.

At the time, I was deeply ashamed. Of myself. Of my family. I was embarrassed about all the people who had stopped to stare at the spectacle created by this unknown man, who I had never met, but who needed to tell our section of the arena how much he despised me.

Why did we have to be Indian? Why were we so different? I wanted to be like the rest of my friends, who never had to worry about explaining to everyone what a "sari" was and why my Ma might wear that to the science fair when all theirs were in cute jeans and t-shirts. I was too young, too inexperienced to understand that I had nothing to be ashamed of. And the sad thing was, while the man's words that day shocked me to the core, it was not the first time (or the last) that I would hear those kinds of words being spoken to me or someone I loved.

I also didn't realize how much I would come to respect a man like Gandhi, to realize that while someone might use his very name as a curse towards me, that there are few examples of humanity and humility in this world like this man. So curse away, because those same words would now be a blessing to me, whether you mean them that way or not.

My father looked down.

Many Indians at the time looked down.

Violence against Indian Americans was on the rise and stories about a group who touted themselves as "The Dotbusters" were frequently on the news. A group that was committed to harassing and sometimes killing Indian Americans. The majority of the violence was targeted around Indian Americans in Jersey City - but the incidents were becoming more frequent and more violent in nature.

My mother owned an Indian grocery store throughout most of the 80's and 90's and it was a constant target for such hate crimes. The glass windows of that store were smashed in with bricks, propelled by colorful letters filled with hate, contempt and threats that we "should go back to where we came from."

I don't think they meant Jersey City.

Those bricks broke our windows, but the corresponding letter broke our heart and our will in more ways than the brick ever could.

When my parents closed shop, these hate crimes were not the sole factor, but I was deeply relieved to know that these dumbasses wouldn't be able to harass her anymore and that a part of me could relax and not panic any time I called my mother and heard some stress in her voice.

Exhale. Collect my thoughts. This entry is hard for me, as you might have guessed.

I know that I get defensive quickly. Comments which are meant to be innocuous get my guard up faster than I can express. Someone can do something as harmless as make fun of an Indian accent. I laugh it off 95% of the time and you will usually hear me come back with my own retort. I will good naturedly take it and give as good as I just got.

But what you may not realize it that the first thing I feel is a punch to the gut. Then there is a slow numbness that kind of takes over and I can usually gather myself, straighten my face, smile and keep on, keeping on.

About 5% of the time, I can't do an about face and recover fast enough. Those times there is no keep on, keeping on. Those are the times when a small, well meant joke becomes something much more. The tears well up, my heartbeat quickens and that drunk from the Meadowlands is tapping me on the shoulder again saying,

"It's people like you who ruin this country."

And I remember the look on my father's face and him trying to put up a brave front for me, and I break.

The day the Twin Towers collapsed, I was standing at a client site lounge room, watching the news unfold on the television. Once the second tower was hit and it was confirmed, a distraught man stood up, ran his fingers through his head and said:

"Those God-Damned Indians." I looked closely just to make sure it wasn't the same drunk guy from the 1992 Hockey Game.

Nope. Different asshole.

I didn't have the heart to correct him. This God Damned Indian was too busy worrying about whether friends and family in both the Pentagon and the towers could make it to safety.

There is something very permanent that impacts a person's psyche once they have been a target of discrimination. To some extent, every person will feel it in some form in his or her lifetime. Some much worse than me, some much less.

Some of us respond with humor, others with anger. Some of us are really good at brushing the experiences aside, while others carry the scars of these encounters very deeply within us.

I will honestly tell you that I am a scarred person who pretends that some of my demons have been exorcised. I'll tell you a joke in one second and burst into tears the next when I encounter a "sensitive" situation.

I am all kinds of "f%^$^ed" up, basically.

I am still working through this - through the history that frames many of my knee jerk reactions today and trying to gain some perspective. If you stick around with me long enough on this journey, I would love some help from you as I get my head screwed on right.

I never want my daughter or son to hear those kinds of words about their heritage. A time will come when it will happen, and I hope they have more grace and fortitude than I do.

**********************************************************

So, yeah, kind of a buzzkill. I know. I was just reflecting on this story and so many others that I have tried to forget. But each is intrinsic in explaining why I respond the way I do to statements, comments, questions about my culture in the way I do.

When I figure it out, I will let you know.

Hope you have a fantastic week friends and family.

Kiran

I'll Be as Pretty as I Wanna Be

I don't know if anyone's noticed, but I really try to avoid the following on any pictures of me on Facebook or in my blog.

1) No double chin
2) No spinach in my teeth
3) No hint of a tummy
4) No bad hair (or at least no ridiculously frizzy hair)
5) No leg hair

What can I say? I'm a GREAT editor.

Because it's a painstaking process for me to decide which pictures make the cut. Hundreds and hundreds of .jpegs have been ignored and neglected (but still haven't made it to the trash bin because I realized that while I looked like a hag, someone else looked cute in them) in order for me to find even a FEW pictures that I think were ok to display.

Because in some ways, Facebook and maybe even this blog are like having a high school reunion ON MY TERMS. This is fantastic because it's like I have been able to hire a personal trainer, get rid of the circles under my eyes and tell you all about how great I am, and you can't even question it.

Well - if you're smart and you know me, of course you question it. But you haven't been able to flat out call me out on it.

(or maybe you're too nice).

I'll try not to test you too hard.

So I get to sit on my little bloggy pedestal and tell you again how I'm a victim, how I'm just misunderstood and how nobody likes little Indian girls who dream of world peace.

It's a comfy pedestal. I REALLY like it.

This frustrates John. I know it. He knows it. He's like - "You get to tell a story - but it's your version! And somebody called me a turd!"

Hmmm. This is true. (Sorry, Husband). Somebody called him that after the "Dear John" letter and that's not right. (I mean, don't get me wrong. I had a good laugh about it). But in the end, he IS my husband, so I had to delete it.

But apparently NOT before he saw it.

So I apologized again to John and informed him that his only recourse is to start his own blog and start his version of reality because I'm sticking to mine.

But what he said made me pause. Because I have been telling you, my friends, a big lie about who I really am. Because in the past, these are the kinds of pictures of myself I would deem worthy of posting:

Me in my rock star days. Another day. Another post.

But really, this is a more accurate description of what John has to see every day.

Yes - that's Shaila. But behind Shaila, you will see someone with her eyes rolling in the back of her head who looks like she is possessed. Like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist."

That's me. Granted - it's when I had gone into labor (and didn't realize it) and gave birth to Nico not many hours after this was taken. (And no - Shaila doesn't walk around in Indian clothes and bindis on most normal days - but that was a special day). I will tell you about that day tomorrow, but tonight I just wanted to set the record straight.

And so friends, after much photo sorting, selection, editing and ultimate dismissal is done - what I USUALLY show you see is what John really wishes I looked like most days.

I am all for pulling the wool over your eyes but I felt like I needed to come clean. Especially after someone called John a you know what.

Again - sorry about that husband.

Cuz I know you have to deal with the un-Photoshopped me day in, day out. And yet you still love me.

Sucker.

Kiran

Paging Dr. McGupta

E.R. The show that catapulted George Clooney's career in a way that "Facts of Life" never could.

Well, Hello, George!

House.

What's wrong with this picture?

Grey's Anatomy. We forgot about Patrick Dempsey after "Can't Buy Me Love" but it made us look again.

Nice. You're Definitely McSomething.

Some things just get better with age.

But I digress. Because that's not my point today.

Now, I don't know if you have noticed, but these medical shows all present a really, really inaccurate depiction of hospitals, at least as far as I know them.

In fact, I have been to many a hospital in my day so I consider myself to be a "connoiseur" of sorts.

Here's the thing. ER went about 7 seasons in before they introduced an Indian Doctor. And it was probably because one of the Casting Directors saw "Bend it Like Beckham" and realized the error of his or her ways.

Now, House, ehhh. Maybe 5 seasons before Kal Penn came on board? (Don't even get me started on the choice of Kal Penn. You'd think he was the only Indian male actor in the United States.)

I can just imagine it now. The casting director talking to his assistant:

"Hey, it looks like they need to cast some Indian or Arab looking guy on 24 as a terrorist. Call Kal and see if he's available."

And so it goes. Kal is now working at the White House (I mean it. Really. Really.) so now there won't be any Indian males on television for a long time.

The problem I have with these shows, is while I think it's all great to see "McDreamy" and "McSteamy" and McRedhead Guy whose McDoing Sandra Oh on the show (I don't think they gave him a name yet), where the heck is McPatel and McShah?

(For the rest of this post, I will speak as if I am one of the characters on Grey's Anatomy. This means, I will repeat everything at least twice. Two times. Everyone else has noticed that annoying habit of those writers, right? right?)

So, going back to the lack of Indian doctors on any of these shows.

Seriously? Seriously?

Have you been to a hospital in the United States in the past ten years? I don't care if you are in freaking Iowa, much less a metropolitan area - but half of the freaking staff is Indian. Indian!

So don't go telling me that the only Indian on staff is a freaking Psych resident. If an Indian was going to be a Doctor, his parents would kill him if he did not go into neurology or cardiology.

Bullshit. Bullshit.

In other words, that bull has shit.

You know - I know that TV is a fantasy world. I have never had a doctor who looks like Patrick Dempsey, and don't think I haven't tried. I've tried. I've tried.

To the writers of these shows, I really, really question what the hell hospital you think you are running there. Maybe its because you figured if all the Doctors were Indian you couldn't weave all your "sexy-time" stories into the mix, and maybe you're right given the Puritanical nature of most Indians, but seriously? seriously?

I hope that it becomes more commonplace to see minorities represented on television in realistic depictions of what they do. That means for every time you freaking present me with a show with an Indian 7-11 owner, do me one better and show me Dr. Singh in Cardiology.

Because otherwise, I wonder what crock of shit you're really trying to sell me here.

So yeah - I'm an angry Indian American. I get that I am a little "angsty" about these things. But what do you expect from me? Seriously - the only Indian I ever saw on television growing up to represent my "peeps" was Apu on the Simpsons.

Apu - my one and only role model on television

What the f%^$^ is up with that? What's up with that?

Now all of a sudden you might be hip with us Indians. Ooohh, Slumdog. That was a great movie. I loved Slumdog, you might say. I love, lurve Indians. Padma Lakshmi is sooo great on Top Chef. That Sanjay Gupta is so great at giving medical advice!

I guess I should be grateful that I can finally find a face that resembles mine represented on the big and small screen. I am grateful actually. Incredibly grateful. Because I feel like my existence is starting to be validated in some way by mainstream culture.

I used to say that if aliens invaded our planet and tried to learn about us by watching our television shows, they would have no idea that someone like me even existed in the United States.

Think back on the television shows of the past two decades. Do you remember seeing anyone who looked like me?

That's me. The one on the right.

So to the casting directors who are trying to make television resemble some semblance of reality (not like reality TV as in "The Jersey Shore" but I mean REAL reality), I have one thing to say.

Pick me. Choose me. Love me. (I hated when she said that to him. I seriously wanted to smack her and tell her to stop grovelling and to go have Dr. Jindal from Radiology paged. He would have treated her right). But seriously. I know there are some cute Indians out there you can tap for your roles. And just because Kal is busy being all governmental and all that - it doesn't mean I want to wait another twenty years before I see another Indian Doctor on House.

Seriously. Seriously.

Mr. Costco Receipt Crosser-Outer

This is where you help make the world a better place

Dear Mr. (or Mrs.) Costco Receipt Crosser-Outer,

I salute you.

I don't know how you do it. But as we approach the holidays, I wanted to make sure you know how much you mean to me.

I know that it's a busy time of the year for you. That's a lot of receipts! Most people would have gotten Carpal Tunnel by now, but not you! While I am not always the best at showing my appreciation, today I wanted to give a BIG SHOUT OUT to you.

I can come up there with 200 items in my cart and you somehow manage to do an inventory of my cart in less than 10 seconds. How do you DO that? And then you shake your head and do that fake counting thing, just to make sure that we know you mean business. You might even take your index finger and jab it at my cart in time with your fake counting. It's really very smooth.

And the ORDER you maintain as the pushy lady behind me tries to run me over with her cart in her haste to make it you before I can. Nothing seems to phase you! You always gracefully manage to not even blink as the guy behind me tries to cripple me by swiping at my heels. I guess these are the the random acts of violence you have become accustomed to from your vantage point in a virtual war zone.

Because here's the thing Mr. Costco Receipt Crosser-Outer. As you peruse our carts and wield your little marker with a flourish, you never let on what you're REALLY THINKING.

Here's what I mean. Here is an inventory of the contents of just some example cart purchases that I have seen.

Shopping Cart 1:
Two cases of wine, a loaf of bread, the new Dan Brown novel, Metamucil, Fiber One bars, Diet Pepsi and diapers.
Who:
Me
Your assessment:
Wino. Who wants to stay regular. And that Dan Brown novel sucked.
What you say:
Have a Nice day!

That's a lot of wine lady. Are you gonna change diapers after drinking that?

Shopping Cart 2:
A ladder. And a box of underwear
Who:
Big guy in front of me with plumber's crack
Your assessment:
Did you come here to buy underwear and you ended up with a ladder? Or did you come to buy a ladder and you just ended up with underwear? Which one is it buddy?
What you say:
Have a nice day!

What came first, the chicken ladder or the egg underwear?

Shopping Cart 3: Frozen Pizza, Frozen Chicken Nuggets, Cases of soda, Fruit Roll-Ups, Twizzlers, Potato Chips, Fresh Cupcakes and Cheesecake (they were giving out samples and you couldn't resist)
Who:
Tired looking woman with her kids screaming at her in the cart and throwing the aforementioned Fruit Roll-ups at the guy with the ladder and underwear.
Your assessment:
Lady, you need to learn how to cook and maybe you should load up on some fresh veggies, fruit and water which we also sell. No wonder your kids are so cranky with all that over-processed crap you feed them.
What you say:
Have a nice day!

Nothing like a balanced meal

Shopping Cart 4:
A box of muffins, steaks and a case of water. And motor oil.
Who:
Guy in the flannel shirt who looks like he had a bit role in "Deliverance"
Your assessment:
What, are you entertaining tonight, Bubba? Or building a bomb? Get the f$#% out of here.

What you say?
Have a nice day!

You've got a pretty mouth

In a crazy world where people have too many mean things to say to each other, you just wield your Sharpie with class and bid us adieu with no words of judgment.

Because that's just WHO YOU ARE.

So I salute you today, in all your glory. I SALUTE you for not giving me dirty looks when I forget and put my receipt away by the time I get to you. I APPLAUD you for democratizing the exit experience of everyone who passes through those doors.

I HONOR you for drawing those cool little smiley faces sometimes for my daughter. Because you know that after I just blew $300 on too much wine, diapers and my fiber supplements, that smiley face reminds me that it's all worth it.

Merry Christmas! Happy Hannukah! Happy Kwanzaa!

Those Secret Asians

A few weeks ago, I did a post about how as a second generation immigrant, I wasn't always as "in touch" with pop culture and popular slang sayings that were never spoken in our house. This made things translate in a very odd way for me which I have revealed to you in all my vulnerability.

So be nice.

Recap:
chump change = junk change
Application:
Is this all you are giving me? I can't buy anything with this junk change! It's junk, that's how small it is!

What am I supposed to by with this? Junk, for ants?


the jig is up = the gig is up
Application:
Oh man, they totally know that guy is scamming everybody. The gig is up. He will have to find a new gig, maybe working at a new company.

poetic license = poetic justice
Application:
Oh that Beyonce, her song lyrics don't need to make sense. She is so pretty that I am sure she is afforded some poetic justice.

It's downright embarrassing. I know it. You know it. My family doesn't because most of them usually nod along because it sounds right to them. Which in a way, makes it EVEN worse.

That is why I wrote the post on Moo Moments, which is when you THINK you are saying something but in fact, you sound like a moron and are way way off.

This happens a lot with songs. I got some great feedback when I did that post on what others had used for their own lyrics. (Oh and thanks for not leaving me hanging looking like an a$%#ole.)

Bon Jovi - Living on a Prayer

Janine mentioned that while the original lyrics are "Gina works the diner all day," she thought it was "Gina wants to die of old age." I told her that with all the hours Tommy was working the docks, this made a lot of sense.

Whitesnake - Here I Go Again

My really smart Sorority Sister - Lisa - informed me that she used to think that the infamous Whitesnake lyrics were "Here I Go Again on my own. Like a Twister I was born to walk alone." She seemed to think that was silly but two things:

1) Tawny Kitaen was kind of dancing around like she was in a twister or something crazy with all those splits.

2) I don't want to hang out with a twister. Would you? I don't think anyone except a crazy storm chaser who would want to hang with a twister. And those guys are freaky and probably piss off the twister too.

So yeah - they are probably very lonely.

Stevie Wonder - Part Time Lover

Another sorority sister of mine - Betsy (look, our sorority had the highest GPA at UVA so I don't know what's going on here), but she admitted that instead of "Part-Time Lover," her sister would sing "Apartheid Lover."

She was still probably caught up in all those "songs for a cause" movement and got confused. You know, Feed the World, Let your Apartheid Lover Know its Christmas time.

So yeah, these things happen. I am sure Bob Geldof ran into it all the time.

But I will leave you with one last one. One I was too embarrassed to tell you about.

For a long time, I always thought the song "Secret Agent Man" was really "Secret Asian Man" which really is very odd.

There was nothing racially motivated about it. Apparently I'm just dumb.

So. Secret Asian Man. And what would that mean, really? I have tried to justify it in my head knowing that it was only a few years ago that the correct lyrics dawned on me.

I have thought long and hard about this. I think I may have been thinking about our friend Garth.

Garth is awesome. Garth is great. He is a kick-ass soccer player. But if you heard a name like Garth, would you imagine that he was Japanese in ethnic origin?

Hmmmm. I think not.

It would almost be like . . . . a secret.

So here's Garth - he is my Secret Asian Man:

SHHHHH. Don't tell anybody.

When Friends Lie . . .

I'm not crazy. Kiki was pretending to be unwell.

"Kiran, I'm soooo, soooo sorry. I just can't come. I have a fever and the BIGGEST migraine ever. I hope you understand," Kiki* said.

"Of course I understand," I said, as I could hear my friend coughing up a lung.

"Well," trying my best not to panic about my already too-high credit card bill. "You need to focus on feeling better. Make sure you get some rest, Kiki."

I hung up the phone wondering how to fix this. I felt bad about my friend being sick but I was also worried about how I was going to cover the cost of the $50 ticket. Since it was only a few hours before the concert, I could end up eating the cost since my friend had gotten sick only a few hours before sound check.

I was in my mid-twenties and things like $50 concert tickets were a hard thing to swallow. They still would be to me. I don't like to throw money away like that.

John, please be quiet. I know what you are thinking, husband. (we talked about that - it's an investment, ok?)

Anyway.

I had gotten 3 tickets to the Matchbox 20/Sugar Ray concert. It was the spring of 2003 and some unheard of band named Maroon 5 was opening. It was at the Verizon center (then known as the MCI center).

She will be a liar, She will be a liar . . .

I just want to lie

As for it being a Matchbox 20 concert - please don't throw stones. I could be lying and saying it was something way cooler but I really want you to understand me better.

I had expected my friends Amee and Kiki to come to the concert with me - they had both jumped at the opportunity when I told them about the ticket pre-sale event I heard about. So I splurged and took a leap of faith and put it all on my credit card, which was pretty much how I rolled when I was in my twenties.

The thing was - Amee was still in. Kiki had a migraine.



Now, I met Kiki at a telecommunications company we both consulted at. She was new to the area and amidst a sea of nerdy "telecommy" dorks, two party girls saw each other across a crowded room and recognized each other as comrades.

A few years older than me, Kiki was a cool chick. She always had the best clothes and drove the nicest cars and drank drink swankier cocktails than I could afford at the time. I was excited to meet her and as was also common in my twenties, pronounced her one of my "new best friends" and introduced her to everybody I knew as a "salt of the earth" kind of girl.

Or really, more like a "salt with her margarita" kind of girl.

But as I got to know Kiki more and helped bring her social status on the rise, I noticed that she wasn't "quite as friendly." And that's cool - I had my own things going on and my own circles I ran in.

But you know that episode of Brady Bunch, where Marsha helps this nerdy girl up the social ladder by giving her a makeover and somehow Davey Jones from the Monkees is also involved in the episode and then the girl becomes hot and starts dating Greg. And now that she is all that, she tells Marsha that she doesn't need her anymore?

And as Marsha looks devastated in all her blonde glory, the girl says "It's not how I got here Marsha. The point is, I'm here."

That made Marsha sad

I guess that's a little bit of what Kiki was like. You would go to a club with her, leave for the bathroom and she would be gone, on to a cooler club. If you asked her about it later, it was always something like "Oh, I thought you left and I was just meeting you there!" or "No, honey! Don't you remember we agreed to meet there after I told you about the hot bartender I wanted to introduce you to?"

"We did?" Scratching my head. Sucker written all over me.

"Oh darling, I would never leave you! How could you even think something like that?"

I don't know. Maybe it was the fact that she never seemed happy just hanging out at a club. It was always about going somewhere "better" where the guys were "hotter" and the drinks were "swankier" and our dating prospects were more in line with her expectations.

I suspected that Kiki had blown me off a few times before - I'd seen her do it to others so I knew it was possible I was also in the way of her campaign towards social domination. One time, she made a big deal about me meeting up with her in a bar in Georgetown - Cafe Milano. I got there ten minutes later and could not find her. She was nowhere to be found. No messages on my phone and I couldn't reach her. I spent another 20 dollars on a cab to take me home, feeling pretty bad. When I would ask her about it (she now decided to answer the phone) , "Oh honey - I never left! You just didn't see me! Cutie, pie!"

I am pretty sure unless she became a hairy greek man, she was not there - the bar was dead (which explains why she would want to leave) but couldn't she have waited 5 minutes till I got there?

But sometimes these feelings are just that. Feelings. And you don't always know what to trust. As far as I was concerned, Kiki and I just had a habit of getting into misunderstandings that were mainly my fault and I would need to do a better job at reading her full memo before we embarked on the evening as I was obviously missing something.

I'm sure this happens to everybody. Right?

So I called Amee and told her about the ticket and we figured out who we could sell it to. Things started to look up and once again, we were excited to make it to the concert.

When we got to the stadium, we ran into several groups of people we knew. That's the norm in this area - for a big city - its a lot of small overlapping social circles.

Me and Amee - in happier days. We were still so naive.

We got situated in our seats which were AWESOME - we were so ridiculously close to the stage and the walkways the musicians came across - they were within touching distance. We really lucked out. I felt bad that Kiki was going to miss this!

A few minutes before the show was set to start, some stragglers came in to claim their seats. And in the seat right in from of mine sat . . . hmmm. No, that can't be . . .

Kiki.

The funniest thing was that as she walked to her seat and saw me, she first had the immediate reaction of "hey - kiran!' and did that fake arms in there air "oh, you know you're getting hugged girl" kind of thing that we do in DC. And there was actually joy to see me. But then realization, awkwardness and a whole lot of other things took over and replaced the joy as she realized she had just stepped into some really stinky dog poop.

And it wasn't mine.

I of course was mute and was pretty sure my mouth was left hanging open for several minutes. Amee tried to help, I think. It was very blurry. I was kind of devastated.

I mean, what could I say?

1) You didn't want to come with me to the concert
2) You got what you thought were better seats from someone else
3) You LIED to me about being sick and were ok with me taking on a new $50 debt
4) you had the audacity and disrespect to show up - just never expecting to see me.


Well I'll tell you something about that day at the MCI center where over 20,000 fans came to the venue. The fact that Kiki ended up in the seat RIGHT IN FRONT OF MINE was no accident. It is called KARMA and I believe everything played out exactly as it was meant to. I could think of no better way for me to realize that yes, the doubts I was having about my so-called friend were not just in my head. They had been legit.

So, unlike most people, who have some of those doubtful situations with their friends, I don't know how many get their questions resolved by some ultimate bitch-slap that confirms all those doubts.

I got the bitch-slap and I am so very grateful it happened and ended things at once, rather than years of more prolonged doubt provoking events.

The good thing? I don't think Kiki enjoyed ONE SECOND OF THAT CONCERT. After my initial sadness and anger abated, I felt a strange relief for ever doubting myself and those feelings I had dismissed for so long.

I enjoyed every song and sang as loud and as possibly off key as I possibly could manage, as close to her ear as I could.

I never received an apology. So I didn't apologize when I spilled half my Miller Light down her shirt by accident.

I never received an explanation. So I also didn't explain why I spilled the other half of my Miller Light down her shirt on purpose.

Whenever I hear a Matchbox 20 song, I remember her mortified face and I laugh and laugh and laugh. (and they are not funny songs, so people may think that's odd.)

I hear Kiki married some guy with four kids up in NJ and just had a kid of her own. I am guessing she is not clubbing anymore, but who the heck knows? She's probably trying to get on to the next round of "The Housewives of NJ." She would fit in well.

Some of you who read this know her and may still be friends with her. Every friendship has a story, a balance and an integrity of its own.

Our story sucked, the balance was all hers and there was no integrity, so it's safe to say she is probably investing more in her relationships with you.

I would ask you to never hurt your relationship with her because of me, but for anybody who ever tried to excuse what happened above, and my own reaction to it and to tell ME, ME that I was the one with the problem.

You get a big fat, "Seriously"?

A Meredith Gray, from Gray's Anatomy "Seriously? Seriously?"

Seriously?

A resounding, "Are you on crack, Seriously?"

So, let's just not plan to go there EVER AGAIN.

She had a migraine. Sheesh. I should have GIVEN her a migraine.

* Not her name. But I have never been a fan of this name and so today I shall call her Kiki.

SO FRIENDS TELL ME. AM I ALONE? HAS ANYTHING LIKE THIS EVER HAPPENED TO YOU? PLEASE SHARE? I WOULD LOVE TO KNOW HOW YOU HANDLED IT AND GOT OVER IT, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU SHARED FRIENDS.

Thanks,
Kiran

(I am in training all week and may not be able to answer emails/comments till late at night. But my posts will auto-publish every day). Have a great week!

A Shout Out to My Blogger Peeps

Women don't have to be bitchy. I know that's what a lot of people think. I used to think that too. Shame on me.

Since I have started blogging, I have met some AMAZING, AMAZING women who are there to help each other and support each other's writing. Since I have started writing again, I feel like a new person. It has been an amazing thing to embrace after feeling like I had to let go of some other things (I can't be the lead singer in a cover band anymore. no, I'm not kidding. Another post, another day).

Anyway.

This week, two amazing women whom I have started to consider to be "bloggy friends" each bestowed an honor on me.

The first was from my "bloggy twin," Monique, whose life oddly mirrors many aspects of mine. No she's not Indian. No she's doesn't work for a Software company. But she like Cornnuts and she says things like "for shizzle" with pride. There's other stuff too. She is the wife of a surfer out in CA but I hope I am fortunate enough to meet her someday.

Last night, John said - "What are you going to do? Try to meet her halfway in Iowa or something?"

John, you're funny.

The second was from Elise at Oh My Goddess. The name kind of says it all. She is a ray of positive light and support in a sea of many, many bloggers. I hope to get to know her better as I continue to write and embrace this new lease on my creative life.

Anyway - head over to their sites and take a look. If you want to become a Follower, it's not like you are cheating on me. Please do it!

Happy Friday everybody! Go and eat some curry now! (based off of previous post. keep it to yourself if you don't).

P.S. Oh - also a shout of to DCBlogs. Seriously. You guys are very cool. Thanks for picking my Dear John post for your "Parenting Edition." I was wondering where all my new readers came from yesterday :-)

When Good Indian Food Happens to Bad People

After the positivity of yesterday's post you know I am just ready to let loose the demons that I have tried to keep quiet. "Quiet, you!" I yell over my left shoulder. They complain a little but will generally retreat. I shake my head vigorously and say "Demons OUT!" and shake a little harder to loosen the ones still in residence. It seems quite effective.

At the very least it is effective at drawing frightened glances from John.

Good. Now I can think. Is it just me or is Thinking HARD? Sometimes more than I can handle. I felt like I did too much thinking during the other night's Top Chef Finale and now my brain is mush and I am still no closer to being able to cook for riz-eal.

But today I wanted to share with you one of my pet peeves which many of you may not be aware of. And don't even assume that I am being rational. I know that this is very irrational.

I really don't like it when people tell me they don't like Indian food.

Often misunderstood, the curry just needs a chance

I don't know why I take it so personally. I know you don't mean to hurt my feelings but I really really hate it.

I feel like often times, when people realize I am an Indian American, one of the first comments I will hear is "oh I love Indian food." This comes after at least ten other people inform me that "they don't like Indian food, because they don't like cumin" or something like that.

Why does it bug me? Maybe because I know how much the food and the culture is intertwined for me. With our special events, the food was an integral part of all of it and so in many ways, its hard for me to hear that you don't care for the food, because food is so much a part of our culture.

So I make this instant assumption:

I Don't like your food = I Don't Like your Culture = I hate you people and your stinking curry.

Gandhi was one of my people. So if you don't like Bhindi Masala - it means you don't like Gandhi.

What did Gandhi ever do to you?

(I said it wasn't rationale and I am fully aware you think I am crazy but sometimes it's just better to put it all out there)

Maybe I am overly-sensitive about it. It makes me feel bewildered and sad. Like this.



I get it. Some people really just don't like any spices beyond salt and pepper. But I think if I can be open to trying some of the crap I have tried over the course of my life, you could maybe humor me and have a piece of naan with some tandoori chicken.

That's not too spicy, is it?

And I mean, you're really going to balk at chicken curry? It's tomatoes, chicken, seasoning, onions and garlic. who doesn't like that? It doesn't have to be spicy either. We Indians are very willing to work with you and we like to ensure that people are fed, maybe even more than my Italian relatives do.

So just a hint, next time you see me and want to tell me all about how you "could like indian food, but you're not crazy about cilantro or something," just keep it to yourself. Pick up some Taco Bell and eat it in the car before you get to my house. Say you have the stomach flu and don't eat what I'm serving you.

But stop telling me you don't like Indian food. It's like a dagger in me. After you tell me, I usually go to the bathroom and have a good cry about it and then I come out and figure out what the heck I am supposed to feed you now.

If you don't want to eat my mom's samosas, please know that I will judge you. If you can't dip your roti in the lamb curry, I will snort at you behind my hand, and loud enough for you to know. When you pick at a yummy kabob and think you're too good for it, I will walk over, slap that kabob out of your hand and say - yes! get your stinking hands off that kabob.

Give me back those stinking kabobs. They're too good for you.

When John and I got married, we had to have multiple caterers - for his Italian side of the family we catered in Italian food and for the Indian side we catered in Indian. So many people adamantly told John - hey you better make sure there is something for us to eat. So we represented across the ethnic board. Ironically - most of the Italian food was not eaten and everybody braved up and had the Indian food because it smelled so good.

When in Rome, John.

Or maybe I should say, when in Delhi. People will eat chappati and Rogan Josh. It you serve it, they will eat it. Especially if you get them really really boozed up in advance. (There WAS a lot of booze. They must have thought the naan was garlic bread or something).

Our reception where Italians and Indians danced and ate in harmony

So just telling you. If I serve you Indian food and you don't happen to like it - slip it in your napkin and feed it to our neighbor's dog. Don't tell me you don't like it because I am still hormonal and I can't be trusted to respond appropriately other than maybe throwing my samosa at your head.

This looks light but I have wielded it before and caused someone intense pain

And just to reiterate, your dislike will always be a wedge in a our relationship, I am just being honest. So you go on judging and acting like you know what the bloody hell you are talking about and I'll make sure never to offer you my mom's famous chicken biryani.

There's only one SUCKA in that situation and its not me.

xoxo,
Kiran

Super Duper Friend Series - Mandy

Yesterday, I mentioned that I have a really hard time writing thank you notes . Not because I am not eternally thankful, but because I am just really, really weird about it. It's like OCD for "Thank You" cards.

Acceptance is the first step, my friends. And it upsets me to no end when my friends are so ahead of the curve than me.

Who do they think they are? Did they even wait till I backed out of their driveway before they pulled out the fancy stationary? What kind of stunt are they pulling? Seriously.

John will usually get the mail and bring it in and say - "Oh look, we got something from Ms. Perfect our friend."

No. That can't be right, I will shake my head. That would mean they sent out the card in less than two days. I try to do the math which often means holding up my fingers and trying to count out loud at the same time. Math is not my forte so I sometimes have to re-start my counting.

By the time I get the math straight, I am like WTF? "No Way!" I think I am close to 2 months delinquent in some cases.

So it is obvious my friends are out to make me feel inferior just really good, considerate people.

The other day, we received such a note from our friend Mandy.

No that's not a Calvin Klein ad. That's Mandy. I know.

WTF? She's beautiful to boot.

Mandy was saying "Thank You" for a donation that we made for an amazing cause that she will be participating in. She must have sent the "Thank You" card the same day we made the donation which really just irked me just shows how amazing she is.

Mandy is a successful lawyer who wants to make a difference in the world. She is a "nice lawyer." I know that this is hard to believe, but I do have friends who are "nice lawyers." (It's weird saying it though, right? Just try it. See what I mean? Weird.)

Well, in all honesty, Mandy is just an amazing human being. She far exceeds being a "nice lawyer." She will be traveling next year to an undisclosed location in South Asia to accept a legal fellowship with an organization called the International Justice Mission (IJM).

Now, I can't do justice to what Mandy will be doing abroad, so let me take an excerpt from the letter she had first sent when she told everyone about this journey she planned to embark upon. Her eloquence kind of needs its own space.

I will spend the year working with IJM to secure legal protection for trafficked women and children – as young as four –who are held in the bondage of forced prostitution in the region’s infamous brothels, and to secure the conviction and sentencing of the sex traffickers who brutalize women and children for profit. In the eleven years since IJM’s founding, the organization has secured freedom for hundreds of women and children held as sex slaves in the cruel reality of human trafficking. IJM’s investigators document undercover evidence of trafficking and sexual exploitation, its lawyers secure justice against perpetrators, and its social workers provide aftercare services to heal survivors and teach them skills needed for economic independence.

Mandy will be leaving behind everything she knows for a year to help make this world a better place. Really. Not like me who thinks that smiling at my Barrista at Starbucks and tipping them an extra buck is making the world a better place.

She IS REALLY DOING IT.

How brave is that? Sometimes, I get thrown by having to leave the comfort of what I know. "It's going to be hard to travel to NJ with two kids for the holidays!" I tell John. We sigh and lament the how hard it's all going to be.

Hmmm. Maybe so. But my friends, there are people who come into our lives everyday to make us realize what is out there beyond the microcosm of our neat, perfect, structured little worlds.

People like Mandy inspire me to be a better human being. I know that she will touch the lives of many young girls on this amazing journey. These young women will be blessed to have someone like Mandy in their corner.

Every child in the world deserves to have someone like Mandy in their corner.

One of my favorite quotes from Gandhi is "We must be the change we wish to see in the world." Thanks for being living proof that there are people who live, breathe, dream and actually DO so big.

The change.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about a woman named Betty Makoni, a woman who represents the face of what a HERO is today. Mandy's sister and I were both talking about it and she said something really astute. (To everybody out there, Glennon is one of my favorite people in the world too. Another day, another post. In the meantime, visit her over at Momastery).

In my post, I stated that Betty is the force that will get the women she is helping through their torment in the absence of divine intervention. No, Glennon said, maybe Betty IS the divine intervention who is helping make the lives of these women a little brighter one day at a time. That we ALL are supposed to be the divine intervention like Betty Makoni.

Maybe, I said.

Apparently Mandy got the memo.

I told Mandy sometime ago that I was going to teach her to curse in Hindi. Huh? You might ask. But just so you know, I often offer this to many of my friends because I think it's a valuable skill to be able to list on a resume. (call me if you want to learn. I'm always here to help). However, before I start with my Hindi cursing lesson, I wanted to teach her a powerful word that I think is important for every human to know.

Namaste. Made popular by yoga instructors all over the world, many people say it without knowing what it means. In Sanskrit it translates to "In you I see the divine."

Namaste, Mandy. We wish you all the luck in the world on your incredible journey. You will be able to see that divinity in each of these girls that you help. Their lives will be much richer for it. And I see that same divinity in you and am so proud of you for embracing it.

Do you see it too?

TO ALL MY FRIENDS WHO WANT TO HELP RAISE SOME MONEY FOR THIS AMAZING CAUSE, PLEASE CLICK ON THIS LINK. To donate directly to Mandy, just send me an email and I will hook you up with her information.

And just know, I may never send any of you a Thank You message on time, but in every act of grace and love you perform, I am always blown away.

Friends, Namaste to you ALL.
XOXO,
Kiran