Oh the Horror . . .

I have a terrible secret.

I am a wimp. A bonafide, honest to goodness, horror movie wimp.

I get scared of anything horror movie related. Name it. I even get scared from the commercials FOR horror movies (forget about actually seeing the movie itself). When The Ring came out in theatres, I think I slept with my light on for a week because I kept imagining some wacked out kid jumping out of my television and all I had seen was a twenty second trailer.

When I watch horror movies, I tentatively find the smallest corner of the couch where I can curl up into a ball and hold a pillow in front of my face - JUST IN CASE. I sit and watch the movie from behind the pillow the ENTIRE time. I'll move it a little left . . . a little right . . . and peek around it, but mainly I am holding it like a weapon, prepared to shield my eyes from what I know will keep me up at nights.

I see the way my husband looks at me and shakes his head.

"What?" I say. "I can't look. I can't look!" slightly shifting my pillow. BAD MOVE. "Oh god, is that her head?!" Pillow goes right back.

John just looks at me, shakes his head, and has another piece of popcorn. But no popcorn for me. I don't have enough hands and I don't want to get butter on the pillow.

So John, you can keep your popcorn, thank you very much. It gets stuck in my teeth anyway. Plus, its a choking hazard if I scream due to an inadvertent pillow slip.

Despite my efforts to block the movie with my pillow, (and serious neck and hand cramping from inadvertently strangling the pillow) I STILL get scared.

I can't even LISTEN sometimes, especially if something is being stabbed, slashed or axed. Just the pure sound of blade hitting skin causes me to break out in hives. I can't bear to listen to he girl shrieking as she gets chopped to pieces by Jason or Freddie using his talons to harm some unsuspecting co-ed. So I sit there, on the couch, in my corner with my eyes shut tight, the pillow balanced on my shaking knees and my fingers plugged tightly in my ears.

Please note that this ridiculous aversion to the sound of people getting hacked to pieces does not just extend to horror movies. I made it through the first three minutes of Braveheart before calling it quits. This makes mafia movies also very challenging to watch, much to the dismay of my husband who has to try and ignore his wife cowering on the couch every time some mobster got wacked on The Sopranos.

Fuhgetaboutit.

But I digress.

At night, I will not go into the basement by myself. What are you, crazy? Everybody knows the statistics - that's where AT LEAST 30 percent of all horror movie deaths occur. Nor will I chance an untimely demise in the garage. After 10 PM, that's it. I don't care if I am craving a Yuengling and the only one is in the garage frig. What am I, stupid? (You don't have to answer that).

As a mother, I know I'm going to have to start telling my two year old, Shaila, not to be scared of the dark, or the boogeyman, but that's going to sound pretty hollow to her when she realizes her mother is scared of her own shadow. You tell me, what am I going to do then?

This is really embarrassing - but I don't even like reading "Goodnight Moon" to my kid. I am the only person who probably finds this childhood classic oddly disturbing. Does nobody else think that freaky old rabbit lady in the rocking chair is scary?

Goodnight comb

Goodnight brush

Goodnight nobody

Goodnight mush . . .

Goodnight stars

Goodnight air

Goodnight noises everywhere

Goodnight nobody? A blank page with nothing on it? So what is that? A ghost? I don't even know what the heck that's supposed to mean. And goodnight noises everywhere? You mean, as in all those creepy, unexplained night noises that cause me to jump out of my skin if John is ever away on business? Those noises?

Shaila goes to bed, counting sheep in her pretty little head, while I go to sleep with visions of malevolent looking bunnies jumping me in the garage while I get a beer.

The fact that I can find even the most sacred of childhood tomes ominous leaves me to believe that the problem is not Goodnight Moon (or the freaky looking rabbit-people in it that nobody else seems to find the slightest bit off-putting).

I am REALLY just that much of a scaredy-cat.

So, in honor of Halloween, here are some of what I consider to be some of the scariest movie moments ever.

1) Poltergeist

Saw this when I was 7 with my older brother and sister and was scarred for life. Clowns that attack you from under the bed, televisions that hold portals for little girls to speak to the dead. Uggghh. I still think about the paranormal researcher whose face turned into maggots sometimes when I am eating steak.

Eww.

2) Scream

Where most people will deem this movie a comedy more than a horror, I beg to differ. Seeing ET's best friend getting eviscerated by some heavy breathing, prank calling perv kept me up many a night.

3) My nanny telling me about The Strangers

Ok - I hardly even saw commercials for this one - but our nanny told me what the story was about and it freaked the living daylights out of me. For days, I was anxious anytime someone rang our doorbell, even if it was just the UPS guy. I don't know if the movie was all that scary or Kim just knows how to creep me out, but we won't make it a Blockbuster night with that one.

4) Pet Semetary

What the heck was up with that sister screaming "Rachel, Rachel!" in her creepy, weird voice? Add that to anything involving scary children being brought back from the dead and you have a recipe for me not sleeping for a large part of 1991, which is when the movie came out on VHS.

5) The Ring

I actually made it past the commercial and watched the movie (from behind a pillow of course).

Seven Days.

I slept with my light on for SEVEN DAYS.

6) The Omen.

One word. Damien.

7) Paranormal Activity.

My hairdresser told me about this today. Suffice to say, I will not see it. I will wet my pants vicariously through her, thank you very much.

8) The Shining.

The kid on his big wheel going down the hotel hallway and seeing the ghosts of the dead twin girls. (What the hell is wrong with you, Stephen King?)

9) Blair Witch

Yes - the movie made me dizzy and want to puke. It also made me cross off camping from our family "To-Do" list forever.

Sorry Shaila and Nico - I know you will be heartbroken. If it pains you that much, you can become an Eagle Scout or whatever they're called on your own time.

I won't go near a campsite, aka Wiccan playground.

10) Jaws

Even up until I was twelve, I wouldn't swim in our pool after dark.

Our pool was above ground.

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

I apologize if my list does not account for movies that are REALLY scary. You can look at my wimpy list and take pity in the fact that I am a horror movie coward - that's fine by me. Scoff if you will.

And boo to you too.

Happy Halloween!

When Every Day was Christmas

Natividad Bidot was John's maternal grandmother. And she was a fantastic lady, which makes sense when you consider that her name means "Christmas" in Spanish. She was a gift who kept on giving.

When I first started dating John, I would often hear stories of his wonderful Puerto Rican grandmother. Having looked after John and his younger brother, Anthony, while their mother and father worked in NYC, she was a critical character in all of John's childhood stories. I was excited to meet her and finally get to know this woman who had such an impact on my then-boyfriend's life.

So imagine my surprise, on the first day I met her she flipped me the bird.

Really? Yes, Really.

It was John's niece's birthday and I was meeting most of the family for the first time in Long Island. Natividad, or Nati, was sitting in the living room and taking everything in. Almost 90, she was still a beautiful woman - cute and petite with a sharp awareness in her eyes. She was unable to navigate the room due to her poor vision, so she preferred staying put. John brought me up to meet her.

"Grandma, this is Kiran," John introduced me.
"I'm so happy to meet you!" I said, giving her petite frame a big hug.
"Me too, baby," she said to me before turning to John and saying, "Look at this one, already kissing my ass."

Huh? Well, I probably just misheard. After talking to her for a few minutes, I asked her if she wanted a drink.

"Ay Karen, I'm fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, Kirsten. Kirsten. That's what I said. Oh what the hell? Get me a 7Up."

After retrieving her drink, I came back to find John's Grandma talking to one of the extended Italian family relatives. Nodding her head politely and smiling along as the woman chatted with her, Grandma radiated contentment and good will. As soon as the lady walked away, Grandma turned to me.

"Ay baby. What a nut that one, huh? She's cuckoo-ruckoos, no?"
"Uh, yeah." I later came to find out that this was a fair assessment. Smart woman, that Grandma. "Here's your 7Up."
"Ay, thanks baby. What's your name again?"

I got to know John's grandmother and other relatives a little better that day and then it was time to leave and wish everyone farewell. As John and I were driving on the Southern State Parkway, we looked over to see his brother's car. Anthony was driving Grandma home and was headed in the same direction as us.

As the car passed us, the passenger side window came down and John's Grandmother looked out the window, gave us a smile . . . and then . . .

"John, is your grandmother flipping us off?"

Over the next year I got to know Grandma better. Despite her spunky exterior, she had a heart of gold and I got to bear witness to what a wonderful and loving grandmother she was. One of my favorite things that she used to do was how she would end a call with John. She would often continue to speak after she thought we had hung up. Rather than hang up the phone after we said good-bye, she wouldn't click off till she walked the phone over to the receiver.

"Bye Grandma. Love you," would be John's sign-off.
"Bye Baby."

pause . . .

"Ay baby, I love that one. Ay, que lindo! I miss him so much. He's crazy about me." Sigh. "I wish I knew what that one's name was - Karen, Kirnan - so complicated!"

Click.

She was so excited for John and me when we got engaged. We visited her in Long Island shortly after the announcement and she gave me a long, warm hug and welcomed me to the family. I had already come to love this woman and was happy to call her "Grandma."

"Ay, que linda," she said, holding my face in her hands. "What's your name again?"
"It's Kiran, Grandma."
"That's right, Karen."
"Kiran."
"Ay, why so complicated? I am old, I don't know these things. Karen, Carrie, Kristen. Whatever. I still can't say your name, baby, but I love you both."

And you know what? That was fine with me. Since I was probably the first (and only) Indian person John's grandmother ever knew, I had a hard time taking any offense.

We lost John's grandmother to cancer a few months before we got married. The last few weeks for Grandma were spent in hospice care at John's mother's house. Grandma was in pain, but would wear a brave face when family and friends would come to visit. On one of those visits, the conversation turned to our upcoming wedding.

"Ay, I'm so happy for John and what's her name. They are going to make a great couple." Grandma told her daughter Nilsa, now my mother-in-law.
"It's Kiran, Mom. Yes, they do make a great couple," said Mom.
"I'm just so sad I'm not going to be around to see them get married!"
"You'll always be with them, Mom."
"Yes, but I won't get to see their little Indian babies. With the feathers in their heads," said Grandma.

To this day, nobody knows if Grandma was joking or if she was serious. If she was serious, nobody had the heart to correct her and inform her that I was the other kind of Indian (dot, not feather). When our children were born, I'd like to think that Grandma was smiling down on them, despite their feather-less status.

We love and miss you, Grandma. Christmas is just not the same without some Natividad.

"Call Me" (If You're in AP Calculus)

I loved Blondie as a kid. She was such a badass, and it didn't hurt that "The Tide is High" was the first single I ever owned. My father, who had a secret (ok, not so secret) crush on her, convinced me, age 5, that it was exactly what I wanted when we went to the record store. That single, in addition to "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" by Pat Benatar (which my brother, Sudhu and sister, Munni informed me I also loved), paved the way for my love of music, addiction to anything MTV and my adoration of women rockers who really knew how to sing like badasses while still looking pretty.

Call me - on the line
Call me call me any, anytime
Call me - my love
you can call me any day or night

The irony of my father introducing me to the early punk influence of Blondie, and her invitation to "Call me" made me hopeful that I would one day have someone I could breathily tell to "call me" while wearing a tight leather black dress and tips in my hair.

But as I grew older, I realized that I would never really be able to tell some guy to "Call Me" while trouncing in around in my punk black outfit and blonde hair with the black tips because:

a) I did not have blonde hair
b) I wouldn't be able to leave the house dressed like Blondie
c) I would later learn that guys did not want to call my house

The first two obstacles to my dreams of being Blondie, later Madonna, were obvious. But the third point is one that hit home hardest for me.

Let's just say I was no vixen in High School. Hard wired to be more dork than diva, I never really got past my awkwardness around the opposite sex or really anybody. I had friends, was not a social pariah - but I was definitely not the girl inspiring a stampede of men in the locker lined hallways.

But even then, I think I may have been able to have some luck with the opposite sex, HAD IT NOT BEEN FOR MY FATHER.

If I was out with my father and ran into male friends or classmates while we were out, when I would make the introductions, my father would stoically look them up and down and then pretty much ignore them. When I finally did start dating a really nice guy named Michael after graduating from high school, the first few times I brought him home to meet my family, I am pretty sure my father again a) ignored him and b) walked away from him in the middle of Michael's sentences - more than once.

My father, usually such a teddy bear, was just TOUGH when it came to his youngest daughter having any dealings with the opposite sex. If guys would call the house, they needed to have a story to call - you couldn't just call me because you wanted to chat. There would be a thorough screening and investigation to ensure that motive, intention, last two semester GPAs and college entry potential were all up to snuff.

Let's imagine that a guy was calling my house. The subtle inflections and pauses in my father's side of the conversation always hinted at his own hidden agenda during the conversation. One of these conversation would sound something like this:

Unsuspecting Boy: Hello - is Kiran there?

My father: Yes. Who is calling? (Hidden meaning - If your name isn't Sanjay or Rajiv, don't call again).

Unsuspecting Boy: This is Ben*

My father: And what do you want to talk to her about Ben? Hmmm? (Hidden meaning - last I checked, Ben wasn't short for Vijay so you better be quick)

Unsuspecting Boy (Now becoming Uncomfortable Boy): Um . . . . School?

My father: Do you want to talk about Math? Are you in her math class? (Hidden meaning - your name may not be Manish - but I can at least find out a) what level Math you're in and b) if you want to talk about homework or something FAR MORE sinister)

Uncomfortable Boy: Um . . .yes. I am in her Math class. And . . .um . . . I have a question about homework.

My father: Oh good. And what Math class are you in again?

Uncomfortable Boy: Um. AP Calculus?

My father: Wrong! Kiran isn't in AP Calculus. (Oops). Oh look, it looks like she's not home right now. I'll tell her you called (never). I'm sure she'll call you tonight (when pigs fly).

Click.

And with that innocent "Unsuspecting Boy" morphed into "Uncomfortable Boy" who was so disenchanted (or just scared) by the end of the conversation that he became "Boy Who Would Never Call Again."

Things like that happened more than I cared to admit - in the end it was easier to just avoid it all so I stayed focused on just getting the heck out of dodge so I could go away to school and just dealt during high school. Truth be told - it wasn't like the guys were banging down the doors anyway ;-)

But when my father brought me that first taste of Blondie, he should have known better. He opened up a can of worms and while I may have bided my time in high school, it was only a matter of time before the inner Debbie Harry was unleashed.

Because . . .

I'm not the kind of girl
Who gives up just like that
Oh no . . . .

*all names have been changed to protect the innocent (well, except Michael's because I still give my father crap about that).

She Works Hard for the Samosas

My mother's samosas got me through college.

How? You may ask. How does an Indian pastry (not to be confused with the delightful "Samoas" - the Girl Scout cookies in the purple boxes full of coconut goodness) get one through four years at the University of Virginia? What does this wholesome spicy staple of Indian cuisine (also not to be confused with Mimosas - though they probably would taste freakishly good together) have to do with my college education?

I'm getting to that. Hold that thought.

As first generation immigrants, my parents went through great pains to ensure that they made a home for their familiy in this country, put food on our table every night and also sent money back to their family in India. Achieving this was a challenge and not one that I ever take lightly having seen my parents sacrifice over the years. Our home was not one of abundant "things" - I remember all the toys I had, every gift I received - mainly because I had been to India many times and realized how lucky I was. But it was also because our family could not live in "excess."

But there were a few areas that were the very face of excess in my house, and they usually originated or had some relation to my parents kitchen.

Enter the Samosas.

My parents started an Indian grocery store in the early '80's. "Spices of India" was one of the first Indian grocery stores in the tri-state area, before the boom of what is now considered Little India in Edison, NJ. Running the store was a full family affair and consumed much of our lives growing up - my mother ran the store throughout the week and my father commuted back from his job in the city each night to help close the store. My sister, my brother and I worked on the weekends and it was a full family affair to keep the business running.

At some point, my mother started selling her own homemade samosas at the store. The response was immediate. Word got out about my mother's samosas and people would come in droves to buy them. We were selling out because we couldn't keep up with the demand. Pretty soon - the orders for special events started coming in.

Customers couldn't get enough. "Can you make 100 samosas? 200? 300? . . . "

Well, if you're my mother, you can.

Making these samosas often required wakeups at 5 AM in the morning, after preparing the potato and pea masala that gets stuffed into pastry late into the previous night. My mother would often get help from other family members willing to sacrifice - my sister, Munni Didi (older sister) or my aunt, Vibha Mausi (mother's sister) would often be laboring alongside my mother with her behlna (rolling pin) as she rolled out the dough for every individual pastry.

Over the years, I know that it all took a toll on my family and my parents. Not just the samosas - but all of it. As the waves of Indian stores hit Edison and larger Indian "Superstores" popped up in our area, my parents saw business decrease - but they fought the good fight and kept things running as long as they could. Throughout it all - one of the constants was the high demand for the samosas.

My parents have never been on a cruise. They have never really been on a vacation, the way most of us think of vacation. They never bought much for themselves - but they have worked a great deal over their life and by god, did my mother make a lot of samosas. Knowing the blood, sweat and tears that went into making sure food WAS on the table for us gave money a whole different meaning.

When I would go to the store and see a pretty dress on the rack, I wouldn't see dollars. The only currency I could see was my mother's samosa.

Dress from The Limited - $29.50 (converted to @ 60 samosas)

Senior Class Trip - $100 (converted to @ 200 samosas)

New Shoes from Macy's - $30 (converted to @ 60 samosas)

Don't get me wrong. I have lost sight of that work and sacrifice a few times growing up during more unreasonable "angsty" teen momments - wanting more, demanding more "things." But usually, wanting something came at a cost - knowing literally how many hours of my mothers work it would take to satisfy my whim. And no matter how much I wanted things - they were never worth it.

Today, our friends and co-workers in Virginia can't get enough of my mom's samosas. When she comes to visit - she always offers to make a batch of 50 - 60 samosas and spend 4-5 hours of the precious time she is here making sure she leaves behind something that she knows will make our friends happy. I always feel guilty about it - how can I ask her to make one more samosa? Shouldn't she just retire her behlna already?

But it's my mother and if you know my mother, you know that she shows her love through her food and, ultimately, who am I to deny my mother her freedom of expression? (Especially when it tastes like THAT?!)

So thanks, Ma. For so much more than just your culinary masterpieces. For everything.

Now will someone please pass the chutney?

The Broadlands Vigilante

I live in a quiet, unassuming neighborhood in Ashburn, VA called The Broadlands. Thirty miles northeast of D.C. - it's a place where children play in the streets and neighbors call each other friends. All in all - a great place to raise a family - amidst the neighborhood block parties, community pools and beautiful running paths and trails.

There's a kind of joviality that can only exist when you place large homes in such tight quarters that you can spit on your neighbor's crepe myrtle from your driveway.

Some people call it suburban hell. But me? I fondly call it home.

But behind the smiling faces, behind the laughter of the children riding their bikes in the street lurks a horror that we never knew existed before we moved here. Something so shocking, neither John nor I could foresee the evil until we were settled into our cul-de-sac.

My friends, I am talking about the driving.

Nobody warned us about the dangers of the abundant four way stop signs or the over-aggressive soccer moms, both of which seem to go precariously hand in hand. Why have traffic lights when you can have people drive up to busy four way intersections and use good judgement and the honor system to decide who goes next? In a MAJOR, METROPOLITAN area.

Well - because that would actually make sense.

You see that docile, sweet lady in the Juicy Couture sweats? The one with the pretty, expensive highlights? Well she will RUN YOU OFF THE ROAD if you make her late dropping her kids off at the ice skating rink. So smile at her in the checkout line at Harris Teeter but you better STAY THE HELL out of her way once you pull out of the parking lot.

In a town close to the Dulles Technology corridor, many of my own peeps have settled down and while I am proud to say they can probably write kick ass code, I have been almost run off the road by my own more times than I can say. Since I moved to Ashburn, DWI means something totally different. Driving While Indian has become a reality of our every day life.

A few years ago - I was turning out of our neighborhood onto a 45 mile an hour road to get to a major throughway. As I was turning, I realized a car that was already established on the road was coming at me with alarming speed. As I completed my turn and accelerated to 45 mph - I looked in my rear view mirror and realized that the car was gaining distance and must have been going at least 65 mph.

I identified the car as a Honda Accord and allowed it to pass me, as I didn't trust the driver. The driver made a series of aggressive, jerky moves which caused me to question whether he/she could be drunk. But it was a Tuesday morning and I highly doubted this was alcohol induced.

But you know what? NOW I WAS PISSED OFF. How dare this person drive in my neighborhood with so little regard to the speed limit? How dare they so blatantly disrespect all traffic laws?

And how dare you CUT ME OFF before I have had my morning coffee?

I wanted to see who was in the car. I had already villified this person by about 100 so I wanted to know who was STOMPING ON THE DREAMS of the neighborhood children and threatening their safetly. (It was a school day and I don't think there were any kids around, but it's really the principle I am getting at).

I had almost caught up to the car when it pulled off to take the Dulles Toll Road towards Washington, D.C. Cool Beans. I was going that way so maybe I could see who this person was. I bet this person was one of those people who gave kids crappy Halloween candy or didn't give volunteer firemen money at those traffic intersections. I could just tell.

Now, I know it sounds a teeny bit like road rage at this point. But it's not. I was just performing a civic duty.

So as I went about my civic duty and made sure I stayed behind that car going East on the Dulles Toll Road, I realized that the person was nervously looking in their rearview mirror and was TRYING TO LOSE ME. Which makes sense, but at this point, I had invested too much in this and after all, we were headed in the same direction - and I just wanted to see THE FACE OF EVIL that had stomped on the safety of my future children.

Crazy right? Yeah. So I realized that and as the traffic thickened, I gave up and pulled back. This was ridiculous! What had I become? But as I got ready to pull off my exit for Centreville Road/Herndon, I realized the car was also pulling off onto the same exit. It was a two lane exit, and the Accord was in the left lane waiting in a queue to turn left at the light, whereas I had to go right.

As I pulled up alongside the Accord and slowly made to pass it, I looked over and saw that the driver was an Indian woman (Holla!), probably just a few years older than me and was clenching her steering wheel in terror. She nervously looked in my direction and looked back at the road . . . looked at me and looked back at the road. I guess I had her attention. I looked over, shook my head at her and shook my finger, admonishing her for her recklessness.

"Uh, uh uh." Which translates to "Oh no you DIDN'T Girlfriend."

And with that, I drove to work. Boy, did I tell her.

This experience empowered me. I realized that I had a duty to make the roads of Broadlands safe for my fellow neighbors. That feeling increased tenfold once Shaila was born and I had a child in the car with me. Now when someone cut me off, or almost accidentally swerved into me because they were texting, they were not only jeopardizing me but my, I MEAN my daughter's dreams of going to Harvard, being a valedictorian and a concert cellist.

One night, after picking my daughter up from daycare, we were driving back home when a car aggressively overtook my car.

GAME ON BUDDY.

It was only about a mile away from my neighborhood when this happened, so as I swerved around cars and made sure I stayed on the tail of this car, I realized it was actually headed into my own neighborhood.

And then - the weirdest thing happened.

At the next four way stop sign (I swear, Ashburn gives them out like freaking candy), the car gained some distance on me. I could still make it out, when it pulled into the parking lot of the elementary school, parked and turned off the lights. Far, far away from the school and near nothing else. And then I realized.

The driver was hiding from me.

With that, all the adrenalin left my system and I was disgusted with myself. I drove by and decided that I had had enough of my vigilante/enforcement days. Let someone else carry that burden - it was too much for me. With my daughter in the car, I was chasing down people to make sure they drove safer? Somewhere along the way, I had lost perspective.

So I retired my red satin cape with the BV (Broadlands Vigilante) on it, as well as the matching one I had special ordered for Shaila. No, I am kidding - I never got those. But seriously, how cute would those have been?

I'll admit that I went a little overboard in my zeal to keep the streets of this neighborhood safe, but I have backed off now. But if you ever drive up Ridgeway Drive and are going much faster than the requested 25 mph, just be careful.

Cuz I'm still watching ;-)

Puja Hangovers

Indian people pray A LOT. At least, that's what I grew up thinking since that's what I saw around me every day, most weekends and most holidays as kid. From the daily pujas that my parents each did at home, to the pujas at family and friends houses that we had on the weekends. These religious ceremonies, which are done for any significant or (with my family), NOT so significant occasions served as the landscape for much of my childhood.

Lost your job? Have a Puja.
Got a new job? Have a Puja.
Got a new house? Have a Puja.
Got a new car? Have a Puja.
Want your kids to get married? Have a Puja.
Want your kids to get married to a Doctor? Have a LONGER Puja. And throw in some fasting to boot.

Given the size of my family and extended family, you can see how all the occasions for prayer add up. This doesn't account for all the special days associated with Hindu gods. It would be one thing if we had one god, but Hindus pray to A LOT OF DIFFERENT GODS. Between Krishna, Durga, Kali, Vishnu, Lakshmi (I haven't even started yet), the list extends for a while. So, when all is said and done, you really don't have much leeway to NOT pray during the calendar year.

And boy do we like ceremony and rituals. While I know a lot of them have a strong history and are ingrained in the culture, Indian people like to make up new opportunities for ceremonies. How else did we come up with the car puja? You can't buy a gold Honda Accord anymore (a prime choice for many of my peeps) without your parents wanting to rush to do a car puja in the driveway. And if you don't want to do it at home, you can bring the cars to the nearby Hindu temple, where there are often parking spots reserved for the "Car Puja Only" guests so they can have a priest properly bless their car.

I am surprised there isn't a Blackberry or iPhone puja. (That's next). I don't live near my family anymore, but I am exhausted just hearing about their grueling puja schedule. Every weekend, there is at least one day dedicated to going to someone else's house to pray with them. These events are more social then anything, but the added benefit of getting some more praying time is a definite bonus for my family.

Because as you can see, you can never pray enough.

Most Monday morning conversations with my mother go something like this:

Me: Hey Ma, how was your weekend?
Ma: Acha tha. (It was good). We had a Kirtan (a singing prayer) on Friday night. On Saturday, we had Dr. Das's puja and then yesterday we just rested after we came back from the temple. Nothing much.
Me: You sound tired. Are you feeling alright?
Ma: Ha, Beti (Yes, Daughter). I just fasted yesterday so you know how it is.

I really have no idea how it is because I would be gnawing off my arm if someone told me I couldn't eat for a day.

Me: Well get some rest, Ma.
Ma: Oh I will - right after I shower and do my puja.

See what I mean? My mother has a puja hangover and she doesn't even know it. Her "hair of the dog" is just more praying.

My parents like to boast that in high school, I was a pretty good kid. (Forget about college - all bets were off). But for those four years, I didn't party, didn't drink or have much interaction with the opposite sex. It really had nothing to do with choice - I just HAD NO TIME. I was too busy PRAYING.

So there you have it. I'm a bad Hindu. I can't keep up with the religious calendar, I like McDonald's too much, I'm too undisciplined to fast and I conveniently live five hours away from my family so nobody bothers inviting me to their pujas.

I'm going to have to ask my mother to pray for me. Oh - I forgot - she already is.

Six Degrees of . . . Bacon

If you read my post "Are You There Krishna? It's Me Kiran," you know I am a fan of bacon. Despite the fact that it was considered "off limits" for my parents, who like many Indians, do not eat pork products, I could not get enough of it as a kid. How could something that tasted so good be bad for me?

If eating bacon was wrong, well - I didn't want to be right.

I was first introduced to it when I was six years old at a friend's house and came home and announced to my mother that we were missing out on this "ambrosia", this nectar of the gods. I wanted her to buy it and make me some at home. She was having none of that though and proceeded to tell me what dirty animals pigs were and that if I ate pig, I was basically eating poop, because that's what pigs eat.

You know - I applaud my mother for coming up with that colorful and unsavory imagery. That was really disgusting. But the thing was -IT DIDN'T MATTER. I didn't care - I had tasted heaven and I wanted more.

As luck would have it, the Gods (all of the Hindu ones that my family prays to) were on my side. At my next health check up the doctor told my mother that I was underweight and needed to put some weight on by my next visit. A picky eater, it was constantly a thorn in my parents side that I did not have a hearty appetite. Dr. Rahill, my childhood pediatrician, asked my mother what kinds of food I DID like.

Dr. Rahill: She needs more fattening food. Will she eat cheese? What does she like?

Ma: No, I try everything Doctor but she won't eat ANYTHING. She like potato chips. Potato Chips! I can't feed her that all of the time!
Dr. Rahill: (Scratching his head in thought) Hmm. No - but we need to get some fattening proteins into her diet.

I didn't know what fattening proteins were but I decided I should pipe up.

Me: I want bacon. I like bacon.

Dr. Rahill: What? (My mother just looked at me like she wanted to throttle me).

Me: I want bacon. (Louder this time). It's yummy.

Dr. Rahill: (Turning to my mother). Well - there you go. It's not the best thing, but it is fattening. Let her have some of that.

SCORE.

My mom left the appointment, went to the drugstore to buy those white hospital masks, went to ShopRite and bought a pack of bacon and resigned herself to the task. She opened up every window in the house, turned on every fan and put on her little mask, in the hopes that it would cover up the "disgusting" smell of bacon. (I have no idea how anyone can NOT LIKE that smell). And she proceeded to make the entire pack for me and serve it to me on a plate.

There I was, 6 years old, devouring my huge plate of AWESOMENESS (all 15 servings of it) while my mother tried not to gag and went about scrubbing the range to get the horrible, pig stench out of her kitchen.

It couldn't get much better than this.

My parents never waivered from their anti-PIG and anti-COW eating stance. At least, not intentionally . . .

A year or two ago, my parents came to visit during some of the NFL playoff games. John and our friend Chris Carlin were off to watch one of the games at the local sports bar and asked my father to come along. A few pitchers and a few games later, John and my dad returned home.

Me: How was it? Dinner is almost ready.

John: Oh, we are full. We had a few beers each and some wings (cool) . . . and some cheese fries (uh oh).

Hmmm.

Me: But you remembered to order the cheese fries without bacon, right?

John: (A look of horror on his face) Oh. No.

Me: But Papa didn't eat any of it, right?

John: (Shaking his head) Actually, Papa ate MOST of it.

Me: Oh no.

John: Don't tell him. He DOESN'T NEED TO KNOW.

Me: Are you kidding me? (Realization setting in). This is awesome. I have to tell him!

So, when my dad came into the kitchen, still reveling in the buzz of good beer and lots of saturated fats, I had to break the news to him.

Me: So, Papa, I hear you liked the cheese fries.

Papa: Yes. They were very, very good. Delicious.

Me: Hmm. Well you would think that. BECAUSE THEY HAD BACON ON THEM.
Papa: What?

Me: Bacon. You ate bacon!

Papa: (Shaking his head in disbelief). No I didn't. I didn't eat bacon. I would KNOW if I ate bacon.

In seconds, I had turned his whole world upside down. Everything he knew, everything he thought he knew.

Me: Trust me Papa - you ate bacon. (Looking at John for affirmation). John, tell Papa you ate bacon.

John: (Sounding resigned) Papa, you DID eat bacon.

Papa: No. No.

Me: (Not relenting) Just because it didn't oink at you, doesn't mean you didn't eat pork!

But my father refused to believe that he had. He resolutely held on to the misguided belief that he had not partaken in anything resembling pork consumption. As if by not admitting it, he could wash the pork away. To this day, he will not admit that he knows what those little morsels of goodness on top of his fries were.

But sometimes, when my father is unusually quiet and he gets this far off look in his eyes, I like to think that he still remembers that day and the little taste of heaven he had. I'd like to think that he has no regrets. And you know my friends, I don't think he does.

(Mainly because he still hasn't admitted that he ate bacon).

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Make Me a Match

Everyone knows the song:

Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match.

Find me a find, catch me a catch.

Matchmaker, matchmaker, look through your book

And make me a perfect match.

Growing up, my parents assumed that they would have the dubious honor of playing matchmaker for me at some point in my life. Both of my older sisters had arranged marriages, as did one of my brothers. Of my four older siblings, only one brother had gone the non-traditional route and married someone not only not selected by my parents - but also someone non-Indian.

I was not even allowed to speak to the opposite sex when I was in High School unless it was ABSOLUTELY necessary and involved Calculus. However, as I got closer to graduating from the University of Virginia, my parents started sweating and getting nervous. I was the ripe age of 22 and there I was, single. God forbid I end up 25 and not married! Time was of the essence.

I could usually tell when my mom was scoping for candidates for me at an Indian party, prime meat-market candidates hunting ground. I would see her and other "Aunties" whispering and twenty minutes later would find myself talking to these Auntie's sons (FYI - for most Indians - all older Indian men and women who look like they could be remotely friends of your parents are called Auntie and Uncle).

My Mother or the Auntie: Kiran, have you talked to Sanjay? Sanjay likes to read books like you. He also likes the Madonna and the U2 and the Police band. Why don't you talk to him?

At this point both Sanjay (or whoever the unassuming victim was) and I would mumble something and try not to go beet red. When I would confront my mother about it after the party she would be terribly affronted.

Me: Ma, how could you? That's so embarrassing!

Ma: To Kya? (So What?) He's going to be a doctor. And he is so tall! He looks like (INSERT NAME OF SOME BOLLYWOOD ACTOR HERE).

(FYI - My mom thinks anyone over 5'6" is tall)

Over the years, I did relent and agreed to go on a few dates with guys my parents had set me up with. The guys were nice, but there was never any love connection. However, I had to put an end to this after the third such date, when I came back from the date and had to deflate my mother's balloon AGAIN and tell her there would not be an upcoming wedding.

The date had gone well, but it was clear 5 minutes in that I had absolutely nothing in common with the guy. Here's what we had in common.

Indian. Check.

Tan. Check.

Breathing. Check.

He was nice and all, but I was starting to wonder what criteria my parents were using to find a guy for me. So I decided to ask my father before I agreed to go on any more dates. How had he come to set me up with this guy?

Papa: Well, he comes from a very good family, you know. His father also went to my college and was in the class three years beneath me.

Me: Were you good friends with him?

Papa: No - not really. But he's an Engineer. (Which is not much of a stretch as my father went to ENGINEERING COLLEGE). But he is good friends with the neighbor of my cousin's third cousin from his mamera (mother's) side's accountant.

(Oh, that's good to know)

Me: Did you find out anything about this guy's hobbies? Interests?

Papa: No - but he's in Residency to be a Doctor.

(See a theme here?)

Me: What was so great about this guy's father? Why do you think they come from a good family if you didn't really know him? What was he like?

Papa: Well . . . I don't really remember.

Me: What do you mean, you don't remember?

Papa: I don't remember much about him at all, actually. I think he had a nice nose.

(Huh? Really?)

So, as you can tell, my parents were taking great pains to go through a methodical process of hand picking someone ESPECIALLY for me, using very selective criteria.

And I can't tell you that over the years, I was that much better at picking out men I dated. I showed a lack of judgement on my own more times than I can say. And maybe my dad's selection criteria was better than my own - after all, having nice nose genes is a huge bonus. But in the end, despite my parents efforts, I decided to forego the arranged route.

Which is how I came to meet my husband, John, the old fashioned way. In a bar.

Classy.

The Power of "Sunday Bloody Sunday"

I recently went to the U2 concert at FedEx field with my husband and some friends. I almost didn't make it, because with an 8 week old baby and a 2 year old at home, I felt horrible leaving them for that long but in the end, I needed to go see Bono and The Edge and the rest of my boys. I knew that something special was taking place and I would regret missing those MOMENTS that you just know are going to happen at a U2 concert. So I got on the big yellow Keg Bus with my friends and took the trek to Landover, Maryland.

Seeing U2 is not like seeing a regular performance or a show - it's seeing a FORCE OF NATURE. Bono transcends most other artists as we know them and is so much more than a performer. While you do go to a U2 concert to hear the music - you go for that grand experience, those adrenalin fueled finales, to hear the songs that we grew up with and make our hearts break at the height of their crescendos - but mostly you go for those impossibly inspired moments that simply blow you away.

OH YOU LOOK SO BEAUTIFUL TONIGHT

There were a few moments at the show that I think will remain with me forever. I think the first was during "The City of Blinding Lights" when Bono pulled a young boy in from the audience and ran alongside him on the 360 degree stage. Even after having heard this song hundreds of times, hearing the lyrics juxtaposed next to this boy's face flashing across the larger than life screen gave new meaning to the words and took me somewhere else.

"I've seen you walk unafraid. I've seen you in the clothes you made. Can you see the beauty inside of me?"

There was just something so magical about that image. And boy does that kid have something to live up to now. What an incredible life event to have Bono and everyone in FedEx field singing to you.

"Oh you Look so Beautiful Tonight!"

I know I mentioned in previous blogs that I am already in a hormonal state and prone to some tears - but there was something really moving about that, and frankly the tears could not be avoided. While that boy's face was beautiful, there was something deeper in that message - about the beauty inside of all children - and really in all of us. Maybe I am making something bigger than it was - but I don't think so. The poetry of that moment was staggering and if you didn't feel it, you probably had had too many overpriced Miller Lites.

HOW LONG, HOW LONG MUST WE SING THIS SONG?

"Sunday Bloody Sunday" began with Bono honoring the people and unsung heroes of Iran. Images of women, children and men being bloodied in the streets of Iran while still fighting for freedom emblazoned the large screens as the strains of one of the most recognizeable songs ever reverbrated through the stadium. While seeing the song used to call out what is happening in Iran today, it makes you realize the universality of the message of that song - which was written sometime in the early 80's by what was then an Irish Boy Band. As these images flashed into focus on the screen, the chaos of the images was breathtaking. But I think what happened next is what really will stay with me forever.

Bono reached into the audience and pulled up a man on stage. An American man. And he gave the man a flag. The American flag. But this American man did not have blonde hair and blue eyes. This American man was wearing a red T-shirt and jeans, and probably had never expected as he was putting on his clothes for the concert that he would be up on that stage. But this American man was not sporting a new and trendy haircut. This American man was Sikh and had a turban and a beard. And he took the American flag in both hands and held it behind his head with pride as the words of "Sunday Bloody Sunday" rocked that stadium. All the while the images of Iran were still fresh in everyone's minds.

That, my friends, is an image I will never forget. It's an image that in many ways was unifying across this stadium of tens of thousands of people, not long after the eight anniversary of 9/11. I am not naive enough to think that everyone in that stadium embraced that image the way I did. But I know in my heart that most, if not all, of that stadium was moved by something very powerful.

SO WHY THE POLITICS BONO?

Having read many of my friends comments on facebook and hearing some of the opinions about the show, I realize that not everybody was inspired by the messages espoused by the band at that show. I heard some people wished that Bono had held off on his politics and focused more on his singing. I guess my response to that is - this is U2. It's not a Britney Spears or Justin Timberlake concert. U2 has always been focused on causes and freedom and while Bono's voice may have become magnified over the past few decades - his voice hasn't changed - it's just GOTTEN LOUDER.

But where I also disagree is that this isn't about traditional politics. Bono is not the nemesis of Ann Coulter. Not once in his messaging did Bono preach "left" or "right" ideals. He acknowledged both sides of the American government that had helped him gain momentum for his ONE campaign, which is committed to stopping AIDS in Africa. He honored the democratic leader of Burma, Aung San Suu Kyi, who has been on house arrest for 20 years and dedicated "Walk On" to her. To me - that's not politics. It's humanity.

However, you say tomato, I say to-mah-to. I see the point, but would counter that if people are just going to a U2 concert just to hear songs, you are better off just listening to the CDs. And expecting Bono to keep what has been his mission for the past few decades on the backburner is just not realistic. It's like going to a Kanye West concert and being disappointed because there are too many curses. It's just not happening.

And in the end, I think that it's that larger than life voice, that incredible life force that is Bono and that amazing commitment to making their music reflect their ideals and belief in humanity that makes a band like U2 universal, transcendent and impossible to capture in words.

So all in all, a humbling experience. And a very human, life affirming one.

"What Have You Done?!!" And Other Encouraging Words for Parents

I think the absolute worst thing I have to deal with when grooming my children is not the numerous stinky diapers but the fact that I have to cut their nails every once in a while. In all honesty, they should be cut about every week - but its such an unpleasant thing to do all around that everybody - my kids, myself and even the neighbors - dreads nail trimming night at the Ferrandinos.

I avoid it as long as I can. I wait until the nails no longer resemble nails, but are more like talons that are threatening to gouge our family members' eyes. When the kids are really little, I can put them in those little mittens which make them look like they boast lobster claws - but they are really not a solution - and the talons keep getting bigger no matter what. But you see them playing a big part in all our baby pictures for Shaila since I could not get the guts to just cut her nails already.

My husband, John, will usually make sure that I know when it's time to cut the nails. Reaching down, he will hold our children's hands and say things like "Wow - we really need to cut your nails, sweetie." Now, I know he is not talking to Shaila and Nico when he says this. Keep in mind, John has NEVER ONCE cut Shaila's nails and I am highly doubting that he will be cutting Nico's nails. So when he says "We" - must really be referring to the professional team of nail technicians that we have hired who handle this sort of thing.

Ok - he is not. He is referring to ME. (note there is no "We" in this).

And I get the job done - though I dread it and breathe a huge sigh of relief every time its done. I have to resort to all sorts of bribery with my two year old, Shaila and I use every arsenal of bribery available to me - be that the promise of purple nail polish, a gummy bear or some other treat. Nico is too little yet to begin this game - but I expect it will start with him too, before I even know it.

My scars and trepidation around cutting the nails can be traced back to a very definitive event. When Shaila was three days old, I trimmed her nails and I was a nervous wreck. I could not make out the distinction between her soft baby skin and the small, clear slivers of nail that I was trying to get off. So, with my husband and visiting parents breathing down my neck, sweat pouring down my neck and my hands trembling, the inevitable happened. I cut her.

The cut was small. Barely noticeable - however - there were a few drops of blood and Shaila did whimper. (Okay she bawled. REALLY REALLY LOUD). I was new to motherhood and was pretty mortified but never as mortified as when John looked down, looked at the blood on Shaila's hand and said:

"KIRAN, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"

(We are not very melodramatic in this house, so don't worry about that).

Despite the scars and John's voice which still rings in my ears "What have you done? What have you done?!!" I push that aside every 1 week, ok . . . ok . . every 2 weeks and get the job done. And hope that my kids can avoid scratching their eyes out through the grace of god until I can work up the nerve to cut those darn talons down to manageable lengths.

To all the mommies who just bite their kids nails, that's great except that would leave me with a whole different anxiety of how not to bite my kids finger off. Cuz that would really suck.

Are You There Krishna? It's Me, Kiran.

I was an early bloomer. I don't know how - I don't know why, but I do know that by the time I was in fourth grade, I was the tallest girl in my class, had already gotten my period and was already in need of a training bra. I was so embarrassed about it all that I did what any other self-professed tomboy would do. I slouched over to hide my height, I hunched my shoulders to hide my chest and I avoided any slumber parties in case I would have a visit from my monthly "friend" (with friends like that, who needs enemies?) or in case any of my friends would notice that I was actually growing before them.

I am thinking that my conservative Indian background didn't really help me foster much acceptance for these changes that were happening to my body. It probably didn't help that the day I got my period, I called my mom at her store to tell her about it and ask her what to do.

"Ma, I'm bleeding."

"What?"
"Um, Ma. I'm bleeding."

"Well get a bandaid."

"No Ma - not like that. I mean, I'm bleeding."

"Oh. Oooohhh."

On that October afternoon in 1985, I could hear the realization dawn on her over the phone. She told me what to do and where to get what I needed on this new quest as a woman. Her next words still resonate with me and kind of help establish the tone of how I viewed these changes.

"And make sure you don't tell anybody about this."

Well I wasn't expecting a cake, or a Hallmark card, but really Ma? I was ten years old, freaked out and now I had to treat it like a dirty secret.

I wish I could say that this was an isolated incident. But my parents were not quite sure how to help me out with my questions and concerns about things, so I kind of hid away and hoped nobody would notice that I was growing up before I was supposed to. But then they went TOO FAR.

In most Indian families, you don't see a lot of pork and beef products in the house. I know with mine, they were rarely around. However, my parents would accomodate me and get things like bacon or pepperoni to keep me happy. I was a picky eater and was skinny and my parents figured it was better to have me eat the disgusting stuff rather that eat nothing at all.

However, at some point, my mom decided she had had enough and decided to use my insecurities to push her own agenda.

She pulled me aside and took my for a nice walk. She told me she needed to talk to me about something important.

"Kiran, I've been meaning to talk to you about the changes in your body. I know that you are not happy about them."

"I know Ma. It's embarrassing. I feel like all these things are happening to me, but they aren't happening to any of my friends."

This is where she is supposed to tell me how great it is if she were to go by the standard parent script. Change is beautiful, becoming a woman is lovely, your body is doing exactly what it is supposed to, yada yada. But this is where my mom went off course with the standard parenting script. Way off course.

"Well the reason they are happening is because you eat too many pork and beef products. This is your fault."

So, with that, my mom announced we would no longer have pork and beef products in the house, which made her happy to no end. And here I was, a big boobed, gangly, ten year old kid with a penchant for bacon and pepperoni.

AND I HAD DONE IT ALL TO MYSELF.

When I talk to my parents about these things now and try to explain that they should have perhaps handled things differently, they kind of look at me like I'm crazy. My mom is like - "Well SHOULD we have gotten you a cake?" BUT ITS NOT ABOUT THE CAKE, Ma. And my dad admits that they really hated the way that bacon made the house smell so in the end, it was just something they had to do.

In the end, I had a library card and so I came out as unscarred as I guess you can. Thank you Judy Blume. Because seriously, without you, I would have been even more f'$%$#ed up than I already am.