tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91997658146012825472024-02-06T23:06:11.438-05:00Masala Chica@kferrandino - when you want the spice but can't handle the feist. (does that even make sense? if not, please ignore - I am so bridge and tunnel, there are no words!)
@measurethisgirl - for when life in all its realness needs to be measured. Because nerds need numbers. real ones. solid ones. no fractions either (round up!).
That's what I hear, anyway.
Peace out.Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.comBlogger177125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-73516465174421725052012-01-22T23:24:00.003-05:002012-01-22T23:39:09.173-05:00We've Moved!Brothers and Sisters (pump up the volume). Ooops! <b><i>Sorry</i></b> - that just slipped out. (Naturally of course). I have moved the blog over to new digs at wordpress.com.<div><br /></div><div>Check it out at: <a href="http://masalachica.com/">masalachica.com. </a>There are some things I need to refine, but most of the boxes have been unpacked and the curtains are hung up. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think we are pretty much ready to open for business :-)<br /><div><br /></div><div>Come on over and tell me what you think. I know its hard to sometimes handle change, but I hope you are willing to do it with me.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I first started blogging in 2009, I did it within some boundaries that did not always make blogging enjoyable, though that is how it started and that is what I had hoped to gain from it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Fast forward to 2011.</div><div><br /></div><div>2011 started out tough and ended even tougher. Ultimately, I went through something really challenging last year. It was hard - so hard. But most of it wasn't something I could share here. And when you have something that consumes you but which you cannot share, it kind of makes it hard to want to write at all.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's face it, I don't want to write a blog about the weather. Or the latest "Bachelor."</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to write a blog about the truth. My truth.</div><div><br /></div><div>So other than the re-design, I think you will notice some changes. Not just in the layout but in the nature of my posts. I hope to dig just a little deeper, just a little more truthfully than I have in the past.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you for sharing the past few years of writing with me. I have a learned a great deal not only about myself from my writing, but about myself from your insights.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, no dilly dallying. Come on over!</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://masalachica.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:180%;">masalachica.com.</span></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-6894499069093396632012-01-20T21:50:00.013-05:002012-01-21T23:11:24.800-05:00A Place Called IdeallyI have always been hard on myself and the expectations I place on myself. There are times where I struggle with the realization that the desire to succeed is in fact some form of self-punishment. Punishment in that I create near impossible situations to accomplish.<br /><br />This causes me a great deal of angst.<br /><br /><br />I have always lived in the world of "<span style="font-weight: bold;">ideally</span>." I have held myself to an often impossible standard. Some of these standards are driven by societal expectations, others by arbitrary deadlines and confines I place on myself.<br /><br /><br />Do any of these situations sound like they might sound familiar to you?<br /><br />******************************************************************************************<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Sharing a dinner with an amazing </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKD2qFhOdyArYweZW4YeU-vRXee5oqka9J51zm8n6RPnAObQ6kHTuoN9FWEyW880HX5BzROnxwyNSPXuJrsyhKqphLJmSU6LFSLc589pRTrlwELZ7IUrWdCLHq56hznIYdPzyEyIewkyY/s1600/picket_fence.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 295px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKD2qFhOdyArYweZW4YeU-vRXee5oqka9J51zm8n6RPnAObQ6kHTuoN9FWEyW880HX5BzROnxwyNSPXuJrsyhKqphLJmSU6LFSLc589pRTrlwELZ7IUrWdCLHq56hznIYdPzyEyIewkyY/s400/picket_fence.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699939597948741986" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">beautiful, brilliant and accomplished friend lamenting the </span><span style="font-style: italic;">fact that she is still single. Because <span style="font-weight: bold;">ideally</span>, she would have met her dream man by 30 (not 40) and had the 2.5 kids she always expected to have.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">She is a city girl, so </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">ideally</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, she would not have picket fences, but a laundry machine would be nice.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ideal</span>, even.</span><br /><br />*****************************************************************************************<br style="font-style: italic;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwIhqIT_TIbLLlzHJ4JElGawrXkdgUJX0IU_Iygc8WXj-hs6aODrfJQfwRVIUTgrFXJhBF13vS7nCpiKG1s37eiGp4GzCHoEsR8w_7iztqsLaWxIPFgvR0sCpLXApRg8RH_CORX9uPlE/s1600/trouble-getting-pregnant.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglwIhqIT_TIbLLlzHJ4JElGawrXkdgUJX0IU_Iygc8WXj-hs6aODrfJQfwRVIUTgrFXJhBF13vS7nCpiKG1s37eiGp4GzCHoEsR8w_7iztqsLaWxIPFgvR0sCpLXApRg8RH_CORX9uPlE/s400/trouble-getting-pregnant.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699940513589185586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">A young married woman struggles with issues bearing children. </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Ideally</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, she would have had at least two by now, but its been impossible to conceive and the one time she got pregnant, she miscarried so early on. She struggles under the weight of this consuming need to love and hold the child she dreams of.</span><br style="font-style: italic;"><br style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Instead she presses her abdomen as she shudders from the coldness and unforgiving nature of the womb she has been dealt. <span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Ideally</span> she wishes God would hear her pleas and grant her this gift so many women stumble upon without even really trying.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ideally</span>, she would like to conceive, but would be open to adoption.<br /><br />It's just not ideal. Not to her anyway.<br /></span>******************************************************************************************<br /><br style="font-style: italic;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BuBd4UduRz7g-NIiqiChJKk0BLf13NXrGRSUrmYlc60pU9iF8R-y7KfMgMeOLuS0eOgk8ft4jK-0yUsnof3D7KXcUYy5dlz8WoutfT1_3wtWO4k0_UF7tUjC06TkCU7O2SyPGN-UOIM/s1600/unhappy"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 160px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BuBd4UduRz7g-NIiqiChJKk0BLf13NXrGRSUrmYlc60pU9iF8R-y7KfMgMeOLuS0eOgk8ft4jK-0yUsnof3D7KXcUYy5dlz8WoutfT1_3wtWO4k0_UF7tUjC06TkCU7O2SyPGN-UOIM/s400/unhappy" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699941140803344610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;">A woman goes to bed alone. Her kids are sleeping and she sighs a tired breath as she inhales </span><span style="font-style: italic;">her loneliness and exhales out her frustration. This was </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">not</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> supposed to be her life. <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ideally</span>, she would have a husband who saw her, respected her. She thought in her twenties that by the time she was thirty she should be married with kids, <span style="font-weight: bold;">ideally</span>. Have a nice house and a great job.</span><br style="font-style: italic;"><br style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Those things have all happened. But her idea of "<span style="font-weight: bold;">ideally</span>" is far from <span style="font-weight: bold;">ideal</span>. The check boxes have all been marked, but there was so much nobody told her, so much she didn't understand.</span><br style="font-style: italic;"><br style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">She takes off her reading glasses and turns off the light, alone with the thoughts that haunt her every night. </span><br style="font-style: italic;"><br style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">On the surface, it looks <span style="font-weight: bold;">ideal</span>. But boiling under the surface, below that layer of her mind where her thoughts run like a river, there is a parallel stream of regret that clenches her heart and makes her ache inside.</span><br /><br />I have often chased after what seemed like required milestones in my life with the "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ideally</span>" lenses on. When you put on the "<span style="font-weight: bold;">ideally</span>" lenses, they skew things a little. You see life the way you think it should be, the way you want so badly for it it be.<br /><br />But life is rarely that predictable. And the missteps we often take in our rush to the summit of "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ideally</span>" are often hard to backtrack from. Retracing to a new "<span style="font-weight: bold;">ideally</span>" seems impossible for many.<br /><br />I sometimes get asked questions along the lines of "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ideally, what is it that you are looking for?</span>" I think if you had asked me many years ago, my answer would be pretty clear. But life happens and you realize that the weight of "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Ideally</span>" runs the same risks of trying to accomplish perfection.<br /><br />And perfection scares me. It leaves me in a pile of angst and insecurity, completely unsure of myself. Its a whole lot of pressure that I don't need in the high expectation filled life I lead where I feel I often let myself down the most on unrealistic expectations of myself and others around me.<br /><br />If you are waiting for perfect from me, you better get in line and plan to wait a while.<br /><br />Grab a seat.<br /><br />Bring some popcorn, even.<br /><br />As a mother, a professional, a business owner, a wife and friend, there are few things I do perfectly. I bust my little Indian hiny trying to get there, but I have come to terms with the fact that both the number of hours and the energy I can dedicate in this life are finite. And my best will just have to do.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ideally</span>, that will be as close to perfect as I can get.<br /><br />I bet you are thinking, well you MUST think your kids are perfect. So lets do a brief inventory, everything from their little limbs, to their big brown eyes, to their distinct little voices can <span style="font-weight: bold;">bring me to tears. </span><br /><br />Because those <span style="font-weight: bold;">little limbs</span> can pack a mean punch, those <span style="font-weight: bold;">brown eyes</span> can weep tears the size of marbles over not being given the right color Skittle (who knew today was the day Orange was the best?) and those voices can say some pretty mean stuff to a mother, who <span style="font-weight: bold;">IDEALLY</span>, would not want her kids to talk fresh.<br /><br />But I think that perfection is a heavy burden for any of us to bear. I can't and won't be the one to place it on my children, Shaila and Nico. Let's face it, being perfect is damn near impossible and to be honest, its a bit boring, isn't it?<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span><span>Its great to have dreams. Its great to want things. But I think if we tried a little less to live our lives in the world of "ideally" and spent a little more time listening to our hearts and ignoring the voices in our heads and around us that say things like the things I have heard said to friends below, we'd be a whole lot happier.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span><span><span><span>"Oh, you're not married? Oh I'm so embarrassed - sorry! You'll meet Mr. Right one day!" <span>Pause.</span> "Or, um, Mrs. Right?! You're not gay, are you? It's just so unusual to find straight women in their forties."<br /><br />"HOW many kids do you have? Oh, none?! Well, hopefully you guys get cracking soon. Its harder the older you get, you know!"<br /><br />"When are you guys getting married? You seem perfect together! I know we only saw you together that one time, but I could tell by the way he held your hair over the deck when you puked that he really loves you. You better nab that one!"<br /><br />"Oh, you look so good. Have you put on some weight? I can tell you must be under pressure. You're just not at your <span>ideal</span> weight."</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span><span><span><span><span><span>Give the voice you hear and often block out, the one deep inside you, a little more credit. Give it a listen. And remember, you don't have to follow my advice.<br /><br />But <span style="font-weight: bold;">ideally</span>, you will.<br /></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Kiran</span></span></span></span>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-22200762338802345502012-01-18T22:33:00.009-05:002012-01-21T23:13:57.533-05:00Get Your Pretty On<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8FptgyH_eeob-vT_PZyQEiu0xtWLF0R56_kXaifIwakZEOJadqA86Mr-eQYVEqcHK3VP6hFX38Fv5foo2VBVGZ-5g73Rny-vnd0zeIOS6ejJy7whWcMy58GeuqMHf00mBIajWGqp7j0/s1600/DSC_4683.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQs5O_TAgc96_LmdJj3tl6EDnKwTKNkOlK4ALDxDqSzq3w3EkSGKga1Z9vTjc4UAIlBO-DNE-rVVbqoLvXUw98m3Ax2bdtTO0JD6yEmpBpku4y4VWf6zq4OHAVoG3IcfvC43spiSB_9U/s1600/DSC_4697.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxQs5O_TAgc96_LmdJj3tl6EDnKwTKNkOlK4ALDxDqSzq3w3EkSGKga1Z9vTjc4UAIlBO-DNE-rVVbqoLvXUw98m3Ax2bdtTO0JD6yEmpBpku4y4VWf6zq4OHAVoG3IcfvC43spiSB_9U/s400/DSC_4697.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699182230712621234" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">That's my daughter, Shaila. No, I am not picking lice out of her hair (though sadly, I have my own memories of that and can tell you vividly what RID smells like). </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Roses. RID smells like roses mixed with gasoline. And then as if someone took a whiff of those roses and then threw them in a sewer to die.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Tell you more about that another day. It's promises like this that keep you coming back for more, I just know it.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">On a more positive note, going back to Shaila.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My daughter is a lot of things. On good days I call her fearless. On bad days I tell myself she takes more after her father. (I don't know why that makes me feel better, John. Just trust that it does the trick and I can get through the day better).</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Lately there seems to be a lot more good than bad. Which is AWESOME, don't get me wrong. The thing is, I feel like I am constantly reminded of how everything is just a phase in childhood development. Given that rationale I might have to believe that this includes some of the good as well as the bad.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So I am going to cherish whatever sweetness I can get from her (in case it's short-lived) and inhale her sweet smell which is <b><i>so</i></b> much better than rubber cement. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Rubber cement smells better than RID, just in case you want to know.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And just absorb the amazing spirit she has right now.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">When I look at her, this is what I see. A spunky dreamer. Kind and loving and ALWAYS willing to share her Legos. Sensitive - I caught her crying during "Ice Age" during the scene where Queen Latifah remembers where she is from. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Shaila, of course, started bawling but would only admit to having dirt in her eye. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Stubborn. Determined. Adventurous, even.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And the best laugher <i>ever.</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So my daughter, this little spitfire of a girl - well, she came home and told me something that made me sad. And that I am hoping is kind of a phase.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Listen to this.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><br /></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i>Why does this make me anxious?</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She has blonde envy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Like, major, major blonde envy.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't know if you noticed, but we are pretty, well, NOT blonde. Again, we are many things and blonde just isn't one of them. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My beautiful, gorgeous BRUNETTE daughter who is four years old, already believes that blonde hair is prettier than brown or black.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She has come home recently to talk to me about one girl in particular in her pre-school class, speaking almost reverently about her "golden" hair. The precious child in question is in fact, quite a cutie. I can already guess she will be in some way connected to the Homecoming court many years from now and definitely has the makings for the cheerleader squad.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't remember having blonde envy as a child. I had "pretty girl" envy - which I think is pretty normal - but I grew up in a town with lots of exotic beauty. When I say "exotic," I mean white brunettes - that's about as much excitement that the town of Old Bridge, New Jersey could take when I was growing up. If you went beyond a certain level of olive in darkness, your looks were discounted.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Kind of like mine. And in those cases you hoped that you had brains and sports to carry you through because otherwise, it was a pretty non-rewarding high school existence.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So I was at the library a lot.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But being pretty is more feasible today than it was in the past. Special pills, treatments, surgeries, medical spas that can suck out your fat over lunchtime are all the trend. And why wouldnt they be? We live in a society where beauty standards have become elevated as women "fix" themselves to the point of external perfection. In this quest for beauty, so many women can chase after all the things they always wanted to be or have.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Busty - go get some big boobs. Flabby - go get that lipo done on your hips. Blonde - Dye your hair from brown to ashy blonde. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left; ">All doable and in many ways, encouraged by the images our children and yes, we women, see on the television screen.</div><div><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;">As a young woman who never thought of myself as pretty, when I got to college and realized that a few people thought I was semi-cute, I tried to cling to those fifteen minutes of pretty as hard as I could.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And it was hard for me to keep my pretty on after I popped both kids out of my nether-regions and found myself frankly a bit traumatized by the whole thing. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have cheated in the process to keep my pretty on. Shaila sees her Mommy who once had curly hair with Keratin'ed hair that shines and is the straight hair of my childhood dreams. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But the funny thing about dreams, especially when they are shallow in nature and reflect only the most physical change in the mirror, is that they don't really feel all that special. Not really at all, actually.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Shaila may one day want to dye her hair blonde. Or <i>PURPLE</i> for that matter, just to piss me off. I won't stop her from trying to satisfy this need because I did it and well, I feel like she needs to make her own mistakes. I will probably like it anyway - she is my firstborn, so unless it comes out REALLY ashy, I will still let people know she is mine. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">She will hopefully learn that its a journey most women need to make in some capacity to understand that there is only so much change you can do to yourself before you stop recognizing - and perhaps - liking yourself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Newsflash, Darling. You are gorgeous. Like so beautiful that I hurt sometimes when I look at you. I ache because I know there will be self-doubt at times or perhaps reflections of all the things you AREN'T.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">No matter what, we embrace you as you are. Don't lose sight of who you are and what makes you so special. Its not going to be your hair or your sweet little dimple on your left cheek.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Its going to be your joy, your bravery and your ability to look in the mirror and always like - no, love, the person you are.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I guarantee you that if you do this, you will come farther than many people ever will.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Mommy will always hold you tight.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8FptgyH_eeob-vT_PZyQEiu0xtWLF0R56_kXaifIwakZEOJadqA86Mr-eQYVEqcHK3VP6hFX38Fv5foo2VBVGZ-5g73Rny-vnd0zeIOS6ejJy7whWcMy58GeuqMHf00mBIajWGqp7j0/s400/DSC_4683.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5699233243729553250" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">We cling to youth and what's not ours,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">External beauty as if it matters,</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">In the end, what we have is deeper</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333333;">Than any reflections within our mirrors - Kiran Ferrandino</span></div><div><br /><div><br /></div></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-20190468865748290112012-01-10T23:12:00.008-05:002012-01-21T23:14:13.940-05:00Heartsong<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijg4yes2H35KRxkwkZfcM1m7Df1adVH7Paji6qarZvsZeozweYUBxV8DwnrtG1HoMkx98kWhiXJdW0RUgo0Jy013u9ctw84P_TJsdIC4mfQcSkNwkp9krox6HlgdoyHCgvxiGHnUUBNw8/s1600/PurpleHeartSong.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 325px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijg4yes2H35KRxkwkZfcM1m7Df1adVH7Paji6qarZvsZeozweYUBxV8DwnrtG1HoMkx98kWhiXJdW0RUgo0Jy013u9ctw84P_TJsdIC4mfQcSkNwkp9krox6HlgdoyHCgvxiGHnUUBNw8/s400/PurpleHeartSong.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5696228246111571138" border="0" /></a>Do you ever feel like your day just kind of ran away from you? I sit here and it's 11 PM. I know I should be in bed, because I know the trouble I have when my kids get up. I want to stay curled up under the covers and no amount of coffee can make me move from out and under the lovely, comfortable, soft and downy warmth of my bed which all make me want to ....<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">snore.</span><br /><br />Sorry - that's about how easy it is to pass back out in the mornings, so excuse me while I get some coffee.<br /><br />It's just...<br /><br />Well, I feel like whether you are a working mother or a stay at home one (I will include daddies in this too, because I know plenty who fulfill both roles), by the time everything (and I mean EVERYTHING, as if I really did sweep every last bit of rice off the floor) is done and the kids are FINALLY in bed, I feel a little like...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Ok what the HELL just happened?"</span><br /><br />Because the day is done. Finito. Pretty much gone. And while I had some great highs in my work day (maybe some lows) and some amazing moments with my kids (or not), I just feel like, when the heck do you get to do the things that YOU need to do. NOT the laundry. Not the bills. Not even time on the phone with family.<br /><br />I mean the things that make you more balanced as individuals - you know - journaling, exercising, writing, playing music. Just examples, please don't throw a rock at my head because I left off basket-making or pottery or anything. Those are very noteworthy as well.<br /><br />Everybody has a heartsong. So how do you find yours? Or recognize that maybe it has gone someplace to hide with the sentiment, <span style="font-style: italic;">"hey she is not ready for me now with all this crazy stuff going on, but she will be ready by the time the kids are both in school" </span>so you can put it in the drafty part of your closet right next to the old BCBG dress you refuse to donate because you JUST KNOW you will fit into it again.<br /><br />Someday.<br /><br />Are you delaying singing that heartsong or maybe just saying goodbye to your dream?<br /><br />Are you maybe, just a teensy bit scared? Of not being successful? Of risks? Of what people might think?<br /><br />Still a mother.<br />Still a professional.<br />Still a wife.<br /><br />But also...<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Still a dreamer.</span><br /><br />I have friends who have found their "heartsong." It's the ability to take what they have passion for in their hearts and make it integral part of their lives in some way, a way that it is woven in that it cannot be denied or perhaps made into less of a priority. For them, fulfilling these heartsongs has allowed them to live to new potentials they would never have known. Yes - they were mothers, but beyond mothers, they are also artists and needed a push in finding that song.<br /><br />I think that I want these moments because right now my heart is kind of "skipping" in terms of playing the song. Its got a lot of static and it just sounds like a really crappy recording, probably similar to the recordings I used to tape off of Z100's top 5 at night on my radio/cassette player.<br /><br />I can hear it, but because maybe its singing a few different tunes, I haven't found my "song" yet.<br /><br />Is that crazy? Do you believe that you have a heartsong that you were meant to pursue? Something that always brings you back to a dream that you feel is unfulfilled.<br /><br />Now listen here. If you tell me your heart always wanted to be Eva Longoria, I know that this will be a LIE because she only rose in popularity in the last six years. It needs to be a <span style="font-style: italic;">legit</span> heartsong. A yearning, really. A yearning to pursue something which you have captured and mastered in your dreams in a way that you are comforted by the thought, and saddened by its absence in life.<br /><br />For friends who I have who have taken that leap of faith, I must say that I applaud you. You are braver than me, and definitely more talented than I will ever be in the areas you found your heartsongs.<br /><br />You make me want to be brave and own up to my own dreams.<br /><br />And do you think that maybe if we listened a little harder to that song, and muted all of the other crap in our lives while also paying less attention to all of the areas that we are weak or make excuses for - that we are denying ourselves and our families a better life?<br /><br />Just because YOU would ultimately be happier.<br /><br />The journey to find your heartsong is a tough one. Sometimes realizing you have not achieved it makes it hard for your heart to sing anything, even happy Christmas songs. But you are brave and you can do this. Maybe in 2012 we can all listen a little bit HARDER and sing a little bit LOUDER.<br /><br />It's not easy. Hard things never are. That's what makes them hard.<br /><br />But soooo worth it.<br /><br />I may not know my heartsong yet, but I can sing a bra off a drunk girl in a crowded bar. (True story, I HAVE done this). So I think its important that I really give this whole thing a try.<br /><br />Don't you think you should too?<br /><br />Dig deep. Don't tell me resolutions. Tell me your dreams. What have you always wanted to do? What made you stop? Could you, WOULD you - if you knew that it was an option?<br /><br />If you could, but you won't, why not? Are you scared?<br /><br />Please don't stop dreaming sisters and misters. You are brave. You CAN do it. I will try with you and I guarantee that if we do - we will sing this song in really kick ass harmony together. Like a "Feed the World" meets "USA for Africa" kind of harmony.<br /><br />Sing your heart out. Just don't let you heart ever stop singing. Even if right now, it may only be a whisper.<br /><br /><br />KiranMasala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-11993891657323641932012-01-10T07:00:00.002-05:002012-01-21T23:15:01.129-05:00Bend<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMkDj_mNszYRBkx0kCuxur7Kk65W0VbrB0hkPOrD_onTxtD-DwuDFhzg4A3MPOC3-AspZ0sdxk-z21yJ6mqWNyNttW-9i9exosvQFTF2GolfnIbRPvhbUMoee8EzU24-mL7k9V58_4ac/s1600/yoga.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmMkDj_mNszYRBkx0kCuxur7Kk65W0VbrB0hkPOrD_onTxtD-DwuDFhzg4A3MPOC3-AspZ0sdxk-z21yJ6mqWNyNttW-9i9exosvQFTF2GolfnIbRPvhbUMoee8EzU24-mL7k9V58_4ac/s400/yoga.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695451206899935890" border="0" /></a>I am really, really flexible. Bendy, in fact.<br /><br />See this picture of me? It was taken in Hawaii last year.<br /><br />NOT.<br /><br />It was basically taken in a place I call my dreams and apparently didn't involve me or any joints. Bones, even.<br /><br />I am the least physically flexible person I know. In a quest to reach my toes, I am often amazed how ridiculously arthritic and just, well - UNCOMFORTABLE - I look as I try to inch my way anywhere south of my calves.<br /><br />I have had a lifelong jealousy of people who have the ability to do things like splits and back bends with ease. The kind of people who you might end up sitting next to at the end of your workout at the gym, who manage to wrap their legs around their head while you make a valiant effort to do some half ass stretches.<br /><br />Ughh, really.<br /><br />Or that lady in my yoga class who I always manage to stand next to in Bikram. The one who can touch her head to her toes while still looking cute.<br /><br />There are many things in life which are unfair.<br /><br />I always felt like I got dealt a short stick. Or, whatever that saying is because as I type this, I realize that that makes absolutely no sense and I am mangling cliches again.<br /><br />People say, "Oh it comes with practice." Well let me tell you something, sister. Or mister.<br /><br />I practice. I practice so hard. I bend and stretch and try and hold and push some more and sweat and bend and god, why is this so damn hard?<br /><br />I just don't seem to be going anywhere.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>So, yeah, sometimes it feels like I am not going far. And how it bruises my ego and my vanity to realize that I look far from cute as I aim and shoot and fail.<br /><br />Gosh, why are my toes still so freaking far away?<br /><br />Sometimes it hurts me to look at myself in the mirror on these days where I feel like I cannot find that edge - the edge where the "me" in the mirror looks like the "me" that I envision in my head. The one who is not hindered by structural limitations - real or perceived.<br /><br />Its hard to acknowledge that I well never be a yogi, despite the fact that I can pronounce Sanskrit better than most people in my class will ever be able to. And it feels hard because it feels like I have lost out on my birthright - a chance to bond closer with Indian culture.<br /><br />Isn't that <span style="font-style: italic;">lame</span>? Oh God! (Shiva, not Jehovah) just don't answer.<br /><br />Its something that I am coming to terms with. I go to yoga and in my quest to gain some flexibility find myself being the furthest thing from peaceful or quiet in my head. Instead, I focus on weakness and not strength and isn't that maybe being just a <span style="font-style: italic;">little</span> bit hard on myself?<br /><br />I am not the woman in the picture above. And frankly, that's okay.<br /><br />So I think I need pack my dreams of ever becoming Gumby away. It ain't happening. I will keep pushing myself, but only if I can do so without punishment.<br /><br />Because life is not always a competition. And I have to stop competing with this image of the me in my head and the me looking in the mirror.<br /><br />And when you are trying to be a mother, a wife, a businesswoman, a daughter, a sister, a friend, a neighbor or WHATEVER role we try to wrap and bend ourselves into that day, sometimes you find that there is only so far you can bend before you break.<br /><br />I am trying to be a little kinder to the "me" looking in the mirror. So maybe I should start now.<br /><br />So I am looking in the mirror and taking an immediate stab at this. Looking pretty good, sister. Like, many not your full age even. <span style="font-style: italic;">Well, yeah - you do have that holiday weight on you, but that shouldn't be too hard to take off. Right? </span>Hmm. Turning to the right. <span style="font-style: italic;">Your hair looks pretty nice and oh what is that?</span> Yes, that <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> flour in my hair. Yes, my nail polish <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> chipping.<br /><br />I start to take inventory of the house. I am nowhere near ready to do my taxes. My office is a mess and no, I am fine, that is not panic. My voice just sounds funny because this happens to people with tight hamstrings. Oh damn, the laundry is still waiting to get into the dryer.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What else?</span> Oh shit, the Christmas tree is still up.<br /><br />Stop.<br /><br />Stop.<br /><br />STOP.<br /><br />Breathe.<br /><br />Inhale.<br /><br />Exhale.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Shanti.</span><br /><br />This year I will learn to be bendy. Not the "bendy" that I don't know if I will ever get physically, though I can keep trying. I will leave that to the women in my yoga class or videos or the Cirque de Soleil dancers. I mean that I will learn to be the kind of bendy that gives in to my life without being so darn hard on myself.<br /><br />We can't all be Gumby.<br /><br />But we can all learn to bend.<br /><br />KiranMasala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-46673549271135812962012-01-08T22:45:00.001-05:002012-01-21T23:15:40.913-05:00Dip Your Toes in the Water<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis9rFxnK4HWu94bj9Ek5ifvRppXomPiiC7GKODYqYUG-wkUch36j7NK7AT88ZgOsRx80896E6PTi5nr5qdPMzgANehyOGvDZGWbTERN5_yHVNOLf_1jZS9Pl5sO3KRQ0IJsIPDgnNBng/s1600/beacha.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis9rFxnK4HWu94bj9Ek5ifvRppXomPiiC7GKODYqYUG-wkUch36j7NK7AT88ZgOsRx80896E6PTi5nr5qdPMzgANehyOGvDZGWbTERN5_yHVNOLf_1jZS9Pl5sO3KRQ0IJsIPDgnNBng/s400/beacha.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695369850656426722" border="0" /></a><br />I remember going to the ocean as a kid and feeling like I was home. At that moment, it didn't matter that I was an Indian kid growing up in America who never felt quite like I fit in. It didn't matter that I was an American who would never quite fit in on the many trips I took to India - back to the country my parents had come from.<br /><br />At the beach, the ocean seemed so much larger than anything running through my little head. Because even as a kid, my mind could not just sit the hell down. And I don't mean that in a - oh I was always just thinking about so many great ideas, in my pursuit for intellectual nirvana.<br /><br />I mean it in the way that I wasn't sure where I belonged. Looking back I recognize it for what would be a lifelong journey with insecurity that many people struggle with.<br /><br />I tell myself that others feel this so I don't feel quite so alone. (Or so crazy).<br /><br />Things I think a lot of kids like me might have thought - Why don't I look like my friends? Why does my family seem so different from everyone else's? Why are my parents fighting, AGAIN?<br /><br />You know, the normal shit most kids think about. Apparently, I was starting my lifelong questo to always ask "why?" for things I would never be able to answer, or were, in fact, quite obvious.<br /><br />When I was at the beach, all of that went away. I smelled the salt water from miles away as we drove in caravans to the crowded shores of New Jersey. I didn't know yet that the rest of the country didn't always hold New Jersey in the highest esteem and had not yet been exposed to a lifetime of <span style="font-style: italic;">"Oh yeah? What exit?"</span> type questions.<br /><br />Yeah, so cute. And very original.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Though I have to admit, at least you can get a geographical sense of where one lived in the often misunderstood Garden State. Let's remember that it IS called that, either because there ARE in fact, many gardens there. Or maybe just because we all have complexes about our garden free exits).</span><br /><br />The anticipation would course right through me as I would wait. It was a whole lot of waiting, I can remember. Waiting for my parents to meet up with our <span style="font-style: italic;">uncles</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">aunties</span> in our separate cars so we could caravan to the beach. Waiting for us to haul our station wagons through the Jersey traffic to the ocean. Waiting for the drawbridge that just HAD to pick that moment to be up.<br /><br />Oh god someone has to pee.<br /><br />Waiting to find a bathroom. Waiting for us to find a spot where we could lay out the colorful sheets and for the aunties to start arranging the coolers full of <span style="font-style: italic;">roti</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">sabji</span>. God forbid we ate any of the food from the boardwalk or bologna sandwiches like the family next to us.<br /><br />In retrospect, all ok - but I don't know. At the time, I just felt so darn strange.<br /><br />And then finally, FINALLY!!, the waiting was over. I was free. The ocean was right there.<br /><br />As the crispness of the wind coming off the ocean and the massaging feel of the sand soothed every inch of my being, I felt whole. The "crazy" was still there, but slightly muted in the unmitigated joy I felt, knowing that I would be running into that water in just a few minutes.<br /><br />And I would remember running up to the water's edge, surrounded by my siblings and cousins, ready to run right in.<br /><br />But I would stop.<br /><br />Because the ocean, no matter how much it called to me like it was exactly where I needed to be - was cold. Sometimes colder than I could handle. And I wasn't always ready to be caught in the undertow. The few times that I had gotten caught in a wave still scared me, scared me the way I would never eat my mom's fish curry for fear of that time I got a bone stuck in my throat.<br /><br />For you see, when you are 5, these things kind of stick with you.<br /><br />But no matter what - no matter how much I still could hear the thoughts in my head asking <span style="font-style: italic;">why does nobody look like me, why can't I be like everyone else, why do I feel like my family is so broken, why am I surrounded by so much shouting all the time, why, Why, WHY?! -</span> kind of way - I was finally home.<br /><br />And as I would walk towards the small waves breaking on shore and put my little toes in while the water rushing back to the ocean pulled the ground away from under my feet, I came to realize that for me, life would always be a little of wanting to run towards what I know I couldn't control. That I would want to be in situations where the ground was never quite stable under my feet and where it was okay if things got messy.<br /><br />The loud crash of the ocean was louder than the clashing voices raised in anger at home, the tears and the heartache I seemed to know too well at the age of 5.<br /><br />This was the time, MY time, where I was just a normal kid, eating a <span style="font-style: italic;">roti</span> with <span style="font-style: italic;">bhaigan bharta</span> at the beach.<br /><br />And eventually, once my toes were in the water, I would rejoice in something bigger than me, bigger than I could comprehend and surrender to what I knew I would always have to surrender to.<br /><br />Home.<br /><br />KiranMasala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-8280126318093537812011-12-30T23:02:00.013-05:002012-01-21T23:16:51.604-05:00Let There Be Light<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwoJx4Pv_jwB1R2Mqj78WHCo75RrXB7BFXWYGEDQuPVSfJZIC1yE-PW_e-sLMriwlNycw55LAoiDgQvbgHi1YmZi59OeQirbkSeLKSUCggj2aZOeqGmH6GiEV0OPDmEgFGSiVuxNBfbV4/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-01-08+at+4.07.53+PM.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 340px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwoJx4Pv_jwB1R2Mqj78WHCo75RrXB7BFXWYGEDQuPVSfJZIC1yE-PW_e-sLMriwlNycw55LAoiDgQvbgHi1YmZi59OeQirbkSeLKSUCggj2aZOeqGmH6GiEV0OPDmEgFGSiVuxNBfbV4/s400/Screen+Shot+2012-01-08+at+4.07.53+PM.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5695371046519978514" border="0" /></a><br />As we approach the new year, I am sitting in a shadow of darkness.<br /><br />For you see, there once was a girl I knew who could walk into a room and smile a smile so bright that it would light up the darkest corners within. A girl who would laugh with such abandon that you couldn't help but laugh with her, whether or not she let you in on the joke. A beautiful brunette who radiated an enormous amount of self-awareness and confidence within the petite package of a cute, bubbly teenage American girl.<br /><br />A girl who liked Taylor Swift and hanging out with her friends. A girl who was an amazing, incredible soccer player.<br /><br />A kick-ass sister.<br /><br />A wonderful daughter.<br /><br />And I thought she was a pretty rocking niece.<br /><br />Today, just a few hours ago, we received a phone call telling us that this beautiful, lovely, amazing girl is gone.<br /><br /><div>She made a decision that I cannot bear to think of. </div><div><br /></div><div>The finality of it seems so unfair.<br /><br />My husband, John and I, along with a shattered sea of family is sitting wherever we are tonight, some far - some near from each other. All asking questions that don't have easy or immediate answers, not wanting to believe that this is true. We all feel the sharp stabbing of pain that makes it harder to breathe as we realize that the aftershock of this quake will be felt for the rest of our lives.<br /><br />I know that I for one keep thinking that this is just a bad dream. Just knowing that there will not be another time, another day where we see that smile is almost too much to bear.<br /><br />I don't know if her parents and step-parents will ever find the answers they will need. I don't know if life or death ever fulfills that need for us. But I know that they will always honor that sweet girl, the one with the heartbreaking smile and the heart of gold.<br /><br />I know her brother and sister will mourn her but will also still hear the sound of her infectious laughter somewhere in their hearts every day of their lives.<br /><br />I didn't have the chance to say it, but how I wish I could have said the following words to her as we spoke at Thanksgiving as she lovingly threw her younger cousins in the air.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You are so loved. You are precious to so many people in ways that you do not yet understand. The joy you bring to the lives of others is immeasurable and the joy you will experience in life is something that you cannot yet comprehend. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You are strong. Stronger than you think. You have people who will hold you up and catch you if you fall. You just need to let them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You are cherished. Your smile. Your heart. Your mind. Your laugh.<br /><br />Just you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You are worth so much more than the problems you have today. Your pain is real and pain will undoubtedly be there in life. But if you don't know pain, you won't understand what true elation is on those moments that I know you have ahead of you. The ones where you soar. The ones where you catch your dreams. The ones where you leap from great heights and land with a grace you don't even see in you yet.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">A grace that we all can see and know will only grow with time.<br /><br />You are a blessing.<br /><br />Just you.<br /><br />And you're perfect.<br /></span><br />I am still not able to make sense of what is happening right now, but for now I just want to get to the point where breathing doesn't hurt. Please pray for her parents and sister and brother, stepbrothers and sisters.<br /><br />They got to see that light every day and it will be hard for their eyes and their hearts to adjust to the sudden dimness that overtook the brightness.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We love you, angel. We loved you on earth and we will love you in Heaven. Everyone who loved you will learn to be strong but don't ever stop shining that light down on them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">RIP, sweet Amanda.</span><br /><br />Kiran</div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-66650300256438994022011-12-22T16:38:00.010-05:002012-01-21T23:17:12.753-05:00A Letter to My Daughter From SantaI said I wouldn't do it. I vowed that this year would be different.<br /><br />I really, REALLY believed I would change.<br /><br />But I didn't. I am still the same person who gets sucked into the frenzy of Christmas shopping, gifting and shenanigans that I say every year that I deplore.<br /><br />It's not that I don't love the joy of giving gifts at Christmas. I do. In fact, it's one of the few times I buy something special and beautiful and what I hope is very meaningful to every person on our list.<br /><br />It's just that, when I think about my kids specifically, I question whether I am doing it right.<br /><br />I come from a childhood where I can remember most every toy I was given. While toys and games were not plentiful, each one I had was cherished and appreciated. The clothes were revered and worn till they were threadbare or outgrown. Even then, the next time my family would go to India, we would give it to family members in the remote villages of Northeastern India, where they were worn even further.<br /><br />I have memories of my Holly Hobby First Oven (My brother bought it for my fifth birthday after saving money from his paper route).<br /><br />My first pair designer jeans - they were Jordache's (My sister saved up for me from her first job at Macy's). I was only 5 and really didn't know why I was so excited. (Note: On that gift, I think my sis was more excited than me. I was like a real American Girl Doll she could dress up that talked and pooped and everything. Just the Indian version.)<br /><br />Apparently she wanted toys too.<br /><br />My husband John grew up in a family where Christmas was everything I ever romanticized it to be. Full of presents, holiday songs, roasts and stockings and all that seemed merry. He talks about the extravagance of his holidays and how special they were growing up.<br /><br />And I get that.<br /><br />So every year we go back and forth on what to get the kids. On the ideas - I start small, he starts big. We end up somewhere on the other side of even his big ideas, not the middle, but GARGANTUAN.<br /><br />Apparently once I start shopping and getting into the true Christmas spirit, I become unfocused and quickly forget my intentions to keep things simple.<br /><br />And they end up being far from simple.<br /><br />My daughter is four and my son is two. We are trying to teach them the difference between want and need. I feel like we missed the mark this year a little.<br /><br />I wrote my daughter a letter to Santa that I want to give her on Christmas night. Some may call me a buzzkill. Some may say this is too much for a four year old.<br /><br />But I know her. And I kind of think she will get it. And I hope that as she starts getting IT more, maybe I can remember what IT is really about.<br /><br /> <style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-font-charset:78; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1791491579 18 0 131231 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1107305727 0 0 415 0;} @font-face {font-family:Cambria; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-536870145 1073743103 0 0 415 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Arial Rounded MT Bold"; panose-1:2 15 7 4 3 5 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} @page WordSection1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} --> </style> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Dear Shaila,</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Well if you are getting this letter, it is because you made it on the NICE list this year. Congratulations! Your brother Nico made it too! I know that your mommy and daddy are very proud of you and so am I.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">This year you got many presents. Too many to count, I even think. But I want you to know that Christmas is not just about getting gifts. It is about being grateful for what you have and showing that by being the best person you can be to others.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">You will not always get so many gifts on Christmas. There will be Christmases where there are several presents to open and there will be Christmases where there are fewer gifts.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Don’t ever judge your Christmas by how many presents you get.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">One day you will come to know that the best Christmases come from giving. From giving your heart, giving your love and giving your generosity to others.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">There are some children in this world who will not receive presents this year. While it’s true that some ARE on the naughty list, what is even more true is that there are some places in this world that even Santa can’t even reach.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Many of these children not only need toys to bring smiles to their faces, they need food. Some don’t even have water to bathe in. Or even drink!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Will you do me a favor and say a prayer for them? I pray for them too, every night with Mrs. Claus. I know it’s not enough but I do try.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">One day your mother and your father will talk to you more about what Christmas is about. While I hope you enjoy your many toys this year and that you take extra special care of them, I also hope that you think about something.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; ">Something very, VERY important.</span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; ">That is this.</span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; ">Love does not come to you in presents.</span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; ">Happiness comes from more than just things.</span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; ">You are more than all of these gifts will ever be. No matter how expensive, extravagant, fun or pretty.</span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; ">It’s easy to get distracted about what matters most in life, most of all at Christmastime. </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; ">If I can tell you one thing right now, which I believe from what I see and from my reports from my good Elf, Brimley, it is this.</span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">The greatest thing about you is your kindness and your grace. Your amazing desire to think of the whole world as your best friend. I have seen the way that you can never answer who your best friend is, because you want to be the best friend you can be to each of your friends.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">While I brought you gifts today, just know that what you possess is one of the greatest gifts you will ever have. Don’t ever lose it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Shaila, presents will come and go. You will outgrow toys.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Never, NEVER outgrow your spirit.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; ">I know this is a long letter. But it is very important that I got this message to you. Please continue to be the best sister you can be your brother, Nico. He loves you very much (though you are right, he doesn't always know how to show it).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><br /></p><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:";color:#CE0202;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">You are very, very lucky to have each other.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Listen to your elders and take care of yourself. You will get another letter like this again from me, probably in a year from now. (If you are nice, that is!)<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Always remember to believe. In Christmas, in Santa and most of all…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family:verdana;"><span style=";">Yourself.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "><br /></span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; "> </span></p><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;"> </span><p class="MsoNormal" face="verdana" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; color: rgb(206, 2, 2);">Love,<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" face="verdana" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;"><br /><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; color: rgb(206, 2, 2);"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; color: rgb(206, 2, 2);font-family:";"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0); font-family: verdana;font-family:verdana;">Santa Claus</span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><br /><span style="Arial Rounded MT Bold"; color: rgb(206, 2, 2);font-family:";"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops:0in 472.5pt">I hope you all have an amazing holiday.<br /></p><br />Merry Christmas!<br /><br />KiranMasala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-65585406574244906182011-12-20T06:30:00.005-05:002012-01-21T23:18:44.299-05:00Sex Ed 101When I was a kid, I had a lot of strange ideas about sex.<br /><br />Like many words in my family, the topic and even muttering the actual word were considered taboo in my family. It was a concept that I knew about mainly because I saw people rubbing their bodies against each other if I was lucky enough to catch a glimpse of "Guiding Light."<br /><br />My older sister and I had an arrangement. If I was quiet and let her watch "Guiding Light" then I would be able to watch as much "Scooby Doo" as I wanted.<br /><br />The arrangement worked for me.<br /><br />I was lucky enough to watch a lot of Indian movies with my family when I was growing up. Full of colorful singing, highly choreographed dance routines, car chases and gratuitous violence, the movies were an amazingly entertaining way to spend most of my early childhood in a trance in front of the television.<br /><br />However, these movies were <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> the best representation of what sex was either.<br /><br />You see, in Indian movies, people don't kiss. Like, ever.<br /><br />Ok, so there might be some movies now that have kissing scenes, I am out of the loop. But when I was growing up, it just didn't happen. Not to say that the sex wasn't there. It WAS. But I just had no idea when it was happening, what initiated the action or how people kept getting pregnant.<br /><br />Did it happen during the dance scene where the woman was wearing a white sari in the rain?<br /><br />Did it happen during the scene where the man looked deeply into the woman's eyes and placed his hand on her hand?<br /><br />How come the next scene shows her panicking and her parent's throwing her out of the house for dishonoring the family?<br /><br />Dude, he <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">just</span> touched her hand. How is that her fault? I thought. And how did that sperm get in her stomach?<br /><br />Which lead me to believe that pregnancy could happen at anytime. To anybody.<br /><br />Spontaneous pregnancy.<br /><br />I was very cautious around men. If someone accidentally brushed against me, I would make sure to wash the body part (foot, hand, shoulder) quickly and thoroughly.<br /><br />I had my whole life ahead of me. I couldn't be saddled with a kid!<br /><br />While I knew this pregnancy thing could happen very quickly and without warning, I still had no idea how in the hell it actually happened. I knew that odds were higher once you were married because of increased risk of exposure - for example, hands brushing each other at the dinner table and all that.<br /><br />While we didn't have the internet, I know I could have easily looked some of this stuff up in the heavy outdated volumes of Encyclopedia Britannica, so I blame myself for not knowing.<br /><br />Sure, I read "Are You There God, It's Me, Margaret." But short of understanding now that I would be saddled with some stupid thing called a period for the rest of my foreseeable life - none of the penises, I mean - <span style="font-style: italic;">pieces</span> (SORRY!) fit together.<br /><br />Sometimes I would catch glimpses into what this meant. When watching an episode of "Who's the Boss" with my mother (Ma hearts Tony Danza), I was banished to my bedroom during the episode where Sam gets a hickey because it was too risque. I didn't even know what the hell a hickey was, but I knew again that it probably had to do with sex.<br /><br />Over time, I realized that my assumptions were wrong. Through close observation, I started to note something critical to my understanding the epidemic proportions of pregnancy and the key to prevention.<br /><br />You could not rub tummies with a man. Ever.<br /><br />I had it all wrong. It wasn't the hand or the foot or the shoulder or the leg, all which could come in contact easily without risk, even in the most sperm infested environment. It wasn't like sperm was pollen - it wouldn't just float over to you while you paid for your lunch in the cafeteria.<br /><br />Not even on Pizza Fridays.<br /><br />A whole lot of tummy rubbing was what was causing these outbreaks of pregnancy on "Guiding Light," "Dallas," and every other show on TV. That dad from "Eight is Enough"? He liked to rub tummies so much with his wife that they had 8 kids.<br /><br />What the hell?<br /><br />Watching the scene from "Grease" where Rizzo and Kenickie are necking in the car? Well <span style="font-weight: bold;">of course </span>she got scared that she was pregnant. Now I understand my mother's concern about Alyssa Milano's hickey.<br /><br />Necking, i.e. the touching of necks and exchanging of lipstick from one face and or neck to another oftentimes leads to good fashioned tummy rubbing.<br /><br />Rizzo must have been so bloody grateful at the end of "Grease" when she wasn't prego because she obviously had been rubbing some serious tummy.<br /><br />That girl got around. She knew her way around necks and belly buttons.<br /><br />I lived the first 12 years of my life in the dark on the mechanics of the actual act. Sitting in Sex Ed in the 6th grade next to one of my best friends, I skipped a few chapters ahead to see a picture of male and female genitalia with arrows indicating possible entry points.<br /><br />"What the fuck?" I said, looking at my friend Danielle. Yes, even though I did not know what sex was, I cursed like a sailor when I was 12. Another day, another post.<br /><br />My eyes were wide open. I was horrified.<br /><br />"What?" she asked. I could tell she was amused by my reaction, because I was obviously joking.<br /><br />"Danielle, why would he put THAT, well THERE? This book makes no sense. " I was floored.<br /><br />"How do you think it happens?" she asked.<br /><br />I explained to her what it was really about. How tummy rubbing was the cause of so much unexpected pregnancy in the world. Like most friends would do, she nodded understandingly and patted my hand.<br /><br />No fluids were exchanged.<br /><br />No, of course she had to bust out laughing and announce it to the whole room. "Oh my God! Kiran thinks sex (that word, ugghhh, that WORD!) is rubbing stomachs."<br /><br />"Is she stupid?"<br />"What the fuck's wrong with you?"<br />"Why the hell would anyone want to just rub stomachs? How did you think the sperm went in?"<br /><br />"It just goes through the skin," I explained, not willing to let go. "Sometimes the belly button."<br /><br />They all looked at me in silence before busting out laughing again. I am pretty sure my teacher was laughing the loudest.<br /><br />So - SEX - yes, that WORD - and what it meant from a purely physical, mechanical perspective, was fully explained to me in my 6th grade Sex Education class at Jonas Salk Middle School when I was 12 years old.<br /><br />I would like to say that finally having this knowledge gave me what I needed to navigate my way through relationships with men, but I think I was so traumatized by the pictures in that textbook that I was too hesitant to let go of my tummy theory for a while.<br /><br />I had my first "real" kiss when I was 17. I almost bit the guy's tongue off, I really had no clue what the hell I was supposed to do. My teeth were like a blockade and <span style="font-weight: bold;">nobody</span> was going to get past them. I tried, I really did. I am only person I know who had so much trouble with the act of French kissing.<br /><br />It took a long time before anybody got to rub tummies with me.<br /><br />When Nico and Shaila do get to the point where they ask me, I wonder how readily I will walk them through the truth. I think just to mess with them, I should work the tummy theory into their education in some way.<br /><br />After all, its how they were made.Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-71318789603881808562011-09-22T20:12:00.016-04:002012-01-21T23:19:13.387-05:00The Forgotten<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qcKQntfNX1FRVDw1O_07XbFctn6_mT-MQFKgm8TlmpVtbWeGpHsUISqkcPSXgk00wPM0y1Q4dsxoguMvQmpGxZuSvMJlIURptt09dr72NXQ9NzXpcRAkf8m7sZaPop4VTtE67nfGN8M/s1600/Dadaab-refugees.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a2KH7P0akOpEFaH1QE0V8Sgab1Shq3otBs1XuVdT4PaJcHBc1ygkgMK-zRyaGARurg0Aw5vlXNofknIc2u5uAa2ANjpwrQVvni3-XS1EjXJGVKZHQolWoGVbccFS8s1dmnakZeAkFA8/s1600/Dadaab-refugee-camp-kenya-007.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8a2KH7P0akOpEFaH1QE0V8Sgab1Shq3otBs1XuVdT4PaJcHBc1ygkgMK-zRyaGARurg0Aw5vlXNofknIc2u5uAa2ANjpwrQVvni3-XS1EjXJGVKZHQolWoGVbccFS8s1dmnakZeAkFA8/s400/Dadaab-refugee-camp-kenya-007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655377452883083506" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; color: rgb(102, 102, 102); line-height: 16px; font-family:arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Photo: Roberto Schmidt/AFP/Getty Images</span></span></div><span style="font-style: italic;"><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">The other day I woke up and it was just one of those days when nothing went quite right. The air conditioning was not working and our refrigerator was completely on the fritz. My son, who is perpetually teething or just being "picky" would not eat and my usually sweet daughter was acting like the spawn of Freddy Krueger. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">It was NOT a good day.</span></div></span><br /><b>KENYA</b><div><b><i>A mother walks twenty miles with her children in her arms. Her husband has died and both she and her youngest daughter have already been raped while on their journey to seek refuge. She is too numb to hurt, she just knows she needs to find water and get her children some food. She has heard that if she makes it to a refugee camp just a little further away, they can find shelter and sustenance and maybe she and her children can make it through this.<br /><br />Already on the journey they have seen too many frail bodies that have not made it to the destination. The mother averts her eyes and pushes her children, whose blistered feet bleed as they walk mile after mile, just a little further. The sight of blood provides some comfort, because if they can bleed doesn't that mean they are still alive? Her arms grow heavy from the weight of her two youngest boys in her arms as she continues along.<br /><br />She is tired.</i></b><div><br />Work was a bitch today. After a busy day of meetings, some good, some not so good, I am ready to sit back with a glass of wine after spending a few hours playing with the kids. The refrigerator repairman came in and told me that it would cost $500 to fix it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I cringe, especially since the air conditioning breaking at the exact time makes this extremely inconvenient - and yes - financially painful. It's not like I can pick to choose one thing over the other though, right? I mean, what do I ignore, the refrigerator or the air conditioning? As I pull my sticky shirt away from my skin, its clear that there isn't really a choice. Oh, and I need to hit Costco this weekend. </div><div><br /></div><div>We need more paper towels.<br /></div><div><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><b><i>KENYA</i></b></div><div><b><i>We are so thirsty. There is no water. My third youngest son grew more weak and could not walk anymore. He fell to the ground a few miles back. I could not revive him. I could not hear him breathing, but I needed to keep moving with the others.</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><i><b>He is gone.</b></i></div><div><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div><i><b>I hope he is with God. </b></i></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><b><i>We walk towards where we have been told there is some water and food. I can't lose another.</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qcKQntfNX1FRVDw1O_07XbFctn6_mT-MQFKgm8TlmpVtbWeGpHsUISqkcPSXgk00wPM0y1Q4dsxoguMvQmpGxZuSvMJlIURptt09dr72NXQ9NzXpcRAkf8m7sZaPop4VTtE67nfGN8M/s400/Dadaab-refugees.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655378958645292162" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 266px; " border="0" /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">By the time I am done with the conference calls and can go start cooking dinner, I realize that I am tired. Pizza again, I think, as I pick up the phone and call our local pizza joint. Heck, we'll even throw some breadsticks in, just to mix it up. Gosh, is that enough food? Let me throw on a salad too. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; ">That should be enough, I think.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><b><i>KENYA</i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><b><i>We are at the camp. We have traveled so far, but there is no water. There is no food. There is nowhere to bathe. There are just so many people, all hoping that they would find their hope for survival here. But we may be too late.</i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><b><i>Only three of my six children are still with me. I had to choose some miles back which ones I thought could make the journey with me. I could not lift my eldest daughter. My arms can only hold so much. </i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><b><i>My heart can't hold anymore.</i></b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div><div><b><i>There are no tears anymore. There is no water in me, anywhere. I am crying a river inside my heart but how can you cry when you have not had water in so, so long? We keep praying that the rains will come, but they do not.</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><b><i>I have lost three of my children.</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><b><i>I am praying that we can get more food and water at the camps. </i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>My husband and I had a great conversation about how we might contribute more to the world. There are several domestic programs we want to support, but we definitely want to make sure it all makes sense when we do our taxes, so we can claim the right deductions. We should definitely help some international programs as well. Let me look into my company's corporate matching program. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll get around to it. Gosh, I hope I still remember tomorrow. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's going to be a busy day and I have been so stressed.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>KENYA</b></div><div><div><b><i>Do people not know how we cry? Can they hear the choked breaths of my children as they breath their last breaths?</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><b><i>If they know, why won't anyone help save us?</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><b><i>If I can save my three remaining children, that should be enough, I think. It's the only thing I pray for now.</i></b></div></div><div><br /></div><div>***********************************************************************************</div><div>As you know if you have been reading my last few posts, I went to the Social Good Summit to learn more about how we can influence change through the use of social media.</div><div><br /></div><div>During one of sessions on Day 1, I was actually able to watch my cousin-in-law, Dr. Raj Shah, the Administrator for USAID speak about the crisis in the Horn of Africa. He had recently been to the Refugee Camps in Dadaab. </div><div><br /></div><div>There was a slide you can see on the picture he is sitting in front of. Sadly, he said that the situation was all too familiar for him. The UN estimates 750,000 people are at risk of dying in Horn of Africa if more immediate, aggressive measures are not taken.</div><div><br /></div><div>"We're on the cusp of a huge amount of deaths in East Africa - it doesn't have to be this way, " says Shah. The situation is further exacerbated by the fact that the current drought in the Horn of Africa are the worst in six decades. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>SIX DECADES.</i></div><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirBbWZ_tpBWMuAmIkwQiRPGColXAcyGXk3595cRheNrwJF-BS8vZ8k95rfsBrU-SlN0um2aV2qr2T5nCasoZdoL2wxTf3GVQ5bg08bpWieXTR0P3O_jP4R0fKtNL20stkWRxxpEdb9pkk/s400/raj+shah.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5655385864072938722" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 290px; color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; " border="0" /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div>In the picture above, Dr. Shah explained how the mother in the picture was helping her child to eat. The child was so weak that in order to be fed, it had to be done via a nasal tube.</div><div><br /></div><div>The mother sits next to her child and tries to feed her son. You look at this picture and think to yourself "Is it too late?"</div><div><br /></div><div>God, I hope for that child, it is not.</div><div><br /></div><div>What Dr. Shah went on to explain was that earlier that day, that mother had <b>already lost another child.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>If you look closely at the bed, he is wrapped up in a sheet on the right side of the bed.</div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>There is a dead child on that bed.</b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><b>Too. Late.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>That picture was up there for a few minutes, but when our eyes stopped focusing on Dr. Shah and the image of the mother and the son, when he pointed out the baby on the bed, there was an audible gasp and then just the sound of silence.</div><div><br /></div><div>What can you say?</div><div><br /></div><div>This is happening today. And its so bad that so many will die. The ones who will suffer the most are women and children. </div><div><br /></div><div>We must not forget these children. Some of us already have. But they are no different than out own children, except perhaps that they are not born in a developed country and they will never have the opportunities that so many of our own will have.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the opportunity to breathe, drink water and eat seem pretty basic, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>The opportunity to NOT have to choose which child you allow to die today seems pretty basic, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>Please look at that picture again and say that you won't accept this. </div><div><br /></div><div>Please <b>don't</b> accept this.</div><div><br /></div><div>Kiran</div><div><br /></div></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-45661787795240677642011-09-21T20:57:00.011-04:002012-01-21T23:19:48.265-05:00I Say I Want a Revolution<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRxzWlra4X14fKKyzx3HquA8gKUki1BQs8SGU3FdhLJ1yYC4YPbq-drWWsdPpwzKh6jlRJpc0KMCJ3YoWP2RhVcQIe5FksmdWVLtLfg6AZhfcDLs_Fm7jD8V8HgeDxq2P9Th2Z5sbHg1g/s1600/Ted+Turner.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRxzWlra4X14fKKyzx3HquA8gKUki1BQs8SGU3FdhLJ1yYC4YPbq-drWWsdPpwzKh6jlRJpc0KMCJ3YoWP2RhVcQIe5FksmdWVLtLfg6AZhfcDLs_Fm7jD8V8HgeDxq2P9Th2Z5sbHg1g/s400/Ted+Turner.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654994090076127698" /></a><h6 class="uiStreamMessage" ft="{"type":1}"><span class="messageBody" ft="{"type":3}"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I am not an optimist, I am a prisoner of hope." - Archbishop Desmond Tutu</span></span></i></span></h6><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I am headed home today after two full days at the UN Foundation’s Social Good Summit, hosted in partnership with Mashable & Ericsson at the 92</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">nd</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Street Y in New York City.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I was offered a free press pass and entry into the Digital Media Lounge, because for some reason, there was a perception that more than ten people actually read my blog. Not one to argue or to point out that most of the readers are my family and the others are just people who are too nice to not support my endeavors in writing, I jumped on the opportunity.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There were so many compelling reasons to go. When I saw the agenda, I gasped out loud. Tell me you wouldn’t too?</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://mashable.com/sgs/agenda/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Check it out.</span></span></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The focus of the Summit was about expanding awareness for Socially “good” causes while using “social” mediums. Understanding the game changing implications this creates in raising international awareness. </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Twitter. Facebook. Blogging. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">We are at a place in our society where we are enabled by technology and people's desire to "connect" where we are looking at a true democratization of information. We are not beholden to stuffy men in conference rooms determining our fate - on some level, we are - but the reality is that people are empowered through social platforms in a way like never before.</span></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This is where you start a revolution, my friends.</span></span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Revolution.</span></span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I checked in at the Summit on Monday and made my way to the Digital Media Lounge, where I met several journalists, bloggers and had an opportunity to rub shoulders with some of the Summit Speakers.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The conference started with a bang, with none other than Ted Turner taking the stage. I had never heard him speak before and was blown away by his wit, his genuineness and his complete "irreverence" when talking about individual and corporate responsibility towards social good programs.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I also had this strange desire to go up onstage and sit in his lap and call him Grandpa. He was just so darn cute! But yes, I know that this would have been odd and I would not only have been kicked out of the Summit before it hardly started. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It also is not lost on me that Ted Turner looks nothing like either of my grandfathers, both of whom were very wonderful Indian men. Ted Turner is pretty amazing, alright. But he is not Indian.</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So that was odd too.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Here are some of the gems I was able to capture when I wasn't snorting up my coffee:</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On Nuclear Weapons:</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"The world is too nice of a place to blow up." </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Word, sir. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Word.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On Climate Change & Sustainability:</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"More should be expected from us. Clean renewable energy IS possible."</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"I'd rather have a nuclear power plant than coal. One might kill you & one WILL kill you for sure."</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On Creating World Influence:</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"You can't make people like you by bombing them."</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Instead of sending in troops, let's send in doctors, engineers and scientists."</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Makes sense, right?</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"It costs the US 1 million dollars for one soldier a year in afghanistan - It's crazy! It made sense in the middle ages. There was no TV."</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">On Individual Wealth:</span></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"My goal is to leave my children enough to cover my funeral expenses." </span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i></i>That will be some snazzy funeral, Mr. Turner.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"Rich IS better. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. You have to be able to afford dessert."</span></span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Why I wanted to hug him and pinch his cheeks:</span></span></b></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"We have to make it together or we are not going to make it at all."</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Amen, sir.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I guess the biggest message I took away from Mr. Turner's speech (other than that he is really cute, like a little teddy bear - but richer) and something that I kept thinking about was one of my favorite quotes from Mother Theresa:</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="body"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other."</span></span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I will be continuing a recap of some of the most memorable moments of the Summit for myself. Hope you stick around to hear more about it.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kiran</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <!--EndFragment-->Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-5244615856080124282011-09-19T10:30:00.005-04:002011-09-19T11:13:10.938-04:00A World Of Good - Social Good Summit in NYC<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PEGcHnQ08ueHyu_5uRTEapP224tM2tZ_bXMWdhZEBkytTr_K-r6xOrFJaanKpDhmJ1irk6BvJW5S9zCukoTXDuAycygIEtlLN93zAlN9wntwUcMJRbkjYQ-kmlCM98xO8lJl2OcrpQ4/s1600/visual1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 40px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3PEGcHnQ08ueHyu_5uRTEapP224tM2tZ_bXMWdhZEBkytTr_K-r6xOrFJaanKpDhmJ1irk6BvJW5S9zCukoTXDuAycygIEtlLN93zAlN9wntwUcMJRbkjYQ-kmlCM98xO8lJl2OcrpQ4/s200/visual1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5654088371662242322" /></a><br />For the past two years (give or take), I have blogged about topics close to my heart. Some close and personal, but often times a take on the polarities of life.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The opportunities I have been given as an American which my cousins in the village in India may not have had.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The day to day conveniences (water), liberties (freedom, the right to safely LIVE without the constant threat of rape or sexual debasement).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The fact that any hunger I have felt in my life has been self-inflicted, never because I just needed.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">That the images I see of children who are living with the realities of hunger, violence and fear every day seem to far away. </span><br /><br />But in a world so connected by images, by knowledge, by technology and opportunity, we are also in a place we have never been before.<br /><br />Our awareness of these issues is there. There is no reason for us to turn our backs on these realities anymore. You can change the channel, you can go to a new website. You can ignore tweets and you can pretend that its not happening.<br /><br />You can try, anyway.<br /><br />Let me know how that goes.<br /><br />I am at the Social Good Summit in NYC, sponsored by the UN Foundation, Mashable and Ericsson. Here is the agenda.<br /><br />The speakers list is incredible, kind of surreal.<br /><br />Ted Turner. Lance Armstrong. Rah Shah, the USAID Administrator. Christy Turlington, Founder of Every Mother Counts. Mandy Moore. Ami Dar, Founder of Idealist.org, Scott Harrison, Founder of the charity water.<br /><br />Elie Wiesel.<br /><br />Archbishop Tutu.<br /><br />This is NOT a full list.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Did I mention I get to see Elie Wiesel speak? </span><br /><br />I am blown away.<br /><br />I am here for inspiration. I am here because I care. I believe we can make a difference.<br /><br />Will you be inspired with me?<br /><br />I will be live tweeting from 1 - 6 each Monday and Tuesday - hoping to share this amazing experience with you. We all have the ability to use our connection to the world to help, to create awareness and to make real and irrefutable change.<br /><br />Join me.<br /><br />Kiran<br /><br />To read my more Masala Chica-esque tweets, follow me @kferrandino. For tweets related to measuring social & digital media on humanitarian programs, follow me @measurethisgirl.Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-3544125628530208122011-09-14T11:00:00.001-04:002012-01-21T23:20:27.477-05:00My Blanket From Brooklyn<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlkdE0fzHie5uzbtojz8gbKqmNN9hlOfWEZIMNyGpMl1fVA-afuXYcs4bz1gvaBUQwCr1xQhgeonitmbgSpnApkU5Yt4Pgv_h8HRmfldDNCtjihawrL6c4DM064jWXOM6TWmbOIiCPx0/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-09-13+at+10.00.44+PM.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div style="text-align: left; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">A warm blanket. Your favorite sweater. The jeans which could be called fashion catastrophes, and you just KNOW instantly qualify you as a Glamour "DON'T" if anyone ever caught you in public with a camera (especially when combined with that comfy but not quite trendy sweater) which you just can't throw away. They comfort you in their yielding softness, how they give to your every step and move and have been with you for so darn long.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">These are all things of comfort. That bring me enormous happiness.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">A few weeks ago, I saw one of my oldest friends, </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Danielle</span></span></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Danielle and I have been friends since we were in the third grade. When I first saw her enter the schools of my elementary school hall, I was a bit awestruck and perhaps a little jealous. She had this long dirty blonde hair that went all the way down her back and miracle of all miracle, no frizz. I self-consciously pushed my own hair back off of my forehead, trying not to focus on the random curls springing all over my head that could hardly be called pretty at the time as I went to introduce myself.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">(I would later come to learn that my hair could, in fact, be pretty, but I had not yet discovered that running a brush through spiral curls 100 times a night might work for Marcia Brady. Not so much for me.)</span></span></span></i></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">As I drew closer, I observed her big blue-green eyes which boasted the longest lashes I had ever seen. I had already begun to question how fair God was at the age of 8, and this just created a whole new list of questions. My girl crush could have ended there except that when I heard her voice, it cinched the deal. It was like listening to an exotic bird.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">"</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Are you new?</span></span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">" I asked her.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">"</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Yeah</span></span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">," she said. Except when she said it was more like, "</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Yeyah-uh.</span></span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">"</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">"</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Where are you from</span></span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">," I asked.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">"</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Brooklyn</span></span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">." Except when she said it, Brooklyn sounded like the coolest place in the world because when she said it there were at least three or four additional OOOs in the word Brooklyn.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">"Broooooklyn."</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">That borough of New York City lost its anonymity at that moment and I realized what a special place it must really be. Staten Island had NOTHING on Brooklyn, I realized.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">To solidify our friendship I tried to sometimes mimic my new friend. When she had to go to speech lessons because she couldn't say the letter "r" at the end of her sentences, I also decided to go on strike against the letter preceding "S" in the alphabet. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">"Four" became "<span style="font-style: italic;">Faw</span>."</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">"Year" became "<span style="font-style: italic;">Yeay</span>."</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">We also cursed a lot. But I don't remember whose fault that was. I think that one was mine, but I'll blame Brooklyn.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Danielle had a sophisticated taste palate. This meant she tried all the Indian food I put in front of her. I thought it was normal for kids to bring things like sesame breadsticks, fresh mozzarella, prosciutto and genoa salami in for lunch because that's what came out of her brown paper bag. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">I went home and complained to my parents that I just wanted to be "normal" like my other friends. Danielle was not the only one of Italian heritage in the group and I lamented the fact that I couldn't have normal dinners like them. You know, like </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">pasta e fagiole </span></span></span></i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">or homemade italian gravy. (Gravy is what real Italians call sauce. And it tastes NOTHING like Ragu).</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">As Danielle and I solidified our friendship over the years, I was often exposed to the wonders of her mother's amazing Italian cooking. I learned how to twirl spaghetti with the help of a spoon and it eat it the proper way under the tutelage of her Irish father. She was there to help my through my first crushes (always unrequited). I was there for her every time (it was frequent) a guy liked her.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">I was a nerd. She was a cheerleader. I was a runner. She didn't like to sweat. I still hadn't gotten a hold of my hair. She could still walk out of the shower looking perfect.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">It just added to the Brooklyn mystique.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">I spent many a summer day cavorting in her in-ground pool (Could she BE any cooler?) and some of my best childhood memories are intrinsically tied to her. Some of my saddest as well. Some of my most embarrassing.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">She saw boys call me terrible names. Names that sometimes made me cry. Tell me that I was ugly and brown, a nerd and that they would never date a Hindu. She hugged me through those and was my rock when I needed her.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">I saw her have the worse nosebleed of her life as we were on the school bus one day with nary a tissue in sight and only our nasty ass gym t-shirts to stop the blood-flow. (She was 13 - no we did not do coke, although we had a preference for Coke Classic).</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">She has wiped my tears for me. I have wiped hers. At some point her tears are mine and mine hers.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">I guess that's the best way to think about friendship.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">She is my blanket in a lot of ways. My comfy sweater. The pair of jeans that always make me feel like a million bucks, no matter what fashion is in that year. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">But don't get me wrong, she is not an outdated pair of Levis. She is 'still'</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"> smoking hot.</span></span></span></i></b></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">I saw Danielle a few weeks ago when I really needed an old friend. Seeing her and feeling the comfort from her hugs lifted me up on a day when I really needed to be lifted. When I saw her face that day, my emotions were free to come to the surface and we talked and talked - about <b>everything</b>, <b><i>nothing</i></b> and <i><b>so much that means nothing to anyone but us</b></i> - all at the same time.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">She brought her two daughters with her and as I watched our children playing together and hugging and laughing with reckless abandon, I felt enormous joy in seeing both me and Danielle in the eyes of our children.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">I felt a tug on my heart as I realized how special my bond is with her and how lucky I am to still have this friend in my life. </span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">I hope that one day, our kids know that kind of friendship and that kind of unconditional love and support from a friend in their life. The friend who knows you knows your voice well enough to know when "I'm fine," is anything but. The friend, who no matter how much time goes by, is there for them.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Thanks for being my blanket, Danielle. I love you, old friend. No matter the distance between us, you are always in my heart. Your like a sister, from another mother (aw Fran, you will always be a kind of mother to me. You're just my italian mama ;-).</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Thank you for always being a part of my life.</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Love,</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Kiran</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">“</span></span></span></i><a class="sqq" href="http://thinkexist.com/quotation/truly_great_friends_are_hard_to_find-difficult_to/9958.html" style="text-decoration: none; "><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Truly great friends are hard to find, difficult to leave, and impossible to forget.</span></span></span></i></a><i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">”</span></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"> - Anonymous</span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><a href="http://masalachica.blogspot.com/2009/01/thinking-of-you-thursday.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">P.S. </span></span></span></a><a href="http://masalachica.blogspot.com/2009/01/thinking-of-you-thursday.html"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">I wrote about Danielle a year and a half ago when she was going through a time where she needed to be lifted.</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"> I used an alternate name at the time to respect her privacy, but would like to let everyone know who read that post at the time that her </span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">youngest is doing immensely well and is just as precocious, lovable, independent and beautiful as we all prayed she would be. Thank you for your prayers at that time.</span></span></span></span></a></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">The following is a photo montage:</span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:100%;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsAUw4FzyDx5aPDuZKIzULGKVA4VsUDhTNQuwvkpeTtX4dwAoWPvF0Ey7hQWpSRRxrlbOOVYA69qrb7tYB2uzFC16eWq6R6IY43T3oNiskcVGWW2OcCPQP6XV_xRvCKM7ThTxe1IShl-g/s200/Screen+shot+2011-09-13+at+9.53.09+PM.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652027688223896130" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 164px; " border="0" /></span></div><div style="text-align: center; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Our friends, Monica, Danielle and Me. Notice how she is still my friend despite the inappropriate use of camouflage as a fashion statement. She REALLY loves me. Monica? Not so sure - that's maybe why she stood on the other side.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center; font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:100%;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBz09snR5lVIhbELB26l55RN6rDVS4LD75Pf5IGxWOung3ad74OiR_58YkWEkdR1otJWcrQzrFJMCcLw-reaYheKJdo5nG10pCQ2rGxyAlyCCQKUkiHQ-EhiH33-W-MMTXHP364DQ4A5c/s200/Screen+shot+2011-09-13+at+9.56.21+PM.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652028364339378450" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 168px; " border="0" /></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Some of my favorite high school friends are in this picture. Gwendolyn, Karen, the one who is about to take flight in the center is none other than ME, Danielle, June, Becky.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div face="georgia"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlkdE0fzHie5uzbtojz8gbKqmNN9hlOfWEZIMNyGpMl1fVA-afuXYcs4bz1gvaBUQwCr1xQhgeonitmbgSpnApkU5Yt4Pgv_h8HRmfldDNCtjihawrL6c4DM064jWXOM6TWmbOIiCPx0/s1600/Screen+shot+2011-09-13+at+10.00.44+PM.png" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlkdE0fzHie5uzbtojz8gbKqmNN9hlOfWEZIMNyGpMl1fVA-afuXYcs4bz1gvaBUQwCr1xQhgeonitmbgSpnApkU5Yt4Pgv_h8HRmfldDNCtjihawrL6c4DM064jWXOM6TWmbOIiCPx0/s200/Screen+shot+2011-09-13+at+10.00.44+PM.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652029496150754802" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 112px; " border="0" /></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#330000;">Danielle and I are in the top right. Notice that the volume of my hair (naturally) is about 4 times the volume of hers. Its like I stole her supply of mousse for a year and decided to use it for that shoot.</span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-56799614428942570622011-09-13T10:09:00.009-04:002012-01-21T23:21:45.691-05:00Never Forget What We Promised Not to ForgetLast week, in the days leading up to 9/11, I read several Facebook status updates from friends saying that they didn't want to remember and didn't want to be reminded through self-important status messages about that day 10 years ago.<br /><br />I do not fault them. I can understand, especially if they lost someone that they loved that day. Sometimes you can't stomach to remember and relive something so painful. Especially when you have rebuilt and recalibrated your life.<br /><br />Of course, there were also those who said they did not want to remember, because as a result of that day, the United States has become involved in two wars that have taken so many more American lives.<br /><br />And I can understand that too.<br /><br />But in honoring those who died on 9/11, there is something else we honor. It is that for that day, we were Americans together, equalized in so many ways. We were not Republicans or Democrats. We were not rich or poor. We were not Christians or Jews or Hindus, Buddhists or Muslims.<br /><br />The planes carried not only Americans, but people of all citizenship, as did the towers. Their pain was something we watched in horror, helpless in so many ways.<br /><br />So why do we say, "Never Forget"? Its certainly not to remember the hate crimes which rose across the United States in the weeks following, against Americans who looked like they could be of Islamic descent. Its certainly not to remember the words of those like Ann Coulter, calling the widows of 9/11 and the surviving children things I can't comprehend.<br /><br />Those are not our shining moments as Americans, but perhaps in a way, we should also remember those things - to remember that amidst the consciousness created that day, there are those who gain power and manipulate vulnerability to create greater hate.<br /><br />We are capable of shining. We are capable of rising.<br /><br />But yes - there are those amongst us who are always capable of hating. And when you are surrounded by that, it does stunt healing. It does stunt understanding.<br /><br />It stunts us being able to survive something like this with the grace this country showed on 9/11, should it occur again.<br /><br />If we can't keep rising, those who espouse hatred such as the Glenn Becks and Ann Coulters of this world win.<br /><br />There is a fine line between living in fear and creating it. Those who create it for us are very skilled at playing at our weaknesses.<br /><br />But Americans are not weak. Remember THAT from that day.<br /><br />That I will never, EVER forget.<br /><br />And if we fight hatred with weakness and acquiescence rather than consciousness and love and the continual honoring of those we lost, than we are shells of what we were that day.<br /><br />And we HAVE lost.<br /><br />We have lost the spirit of the Americans on United Flight 93 who bravely took control of their flight to ensure the terrorists did not succeed in taking down another American institution.<br /><br />We have lost the spirit of the teams of selfless firemen and rescue workers who risked everything in the hopes that they could save ONE MORE LIFE.<br /><br />We have lost the spirit of all of the dreams and hopes that died that day.<br /><br />And those hopes and dreams were not of hatred. They were of lives unfulfilled, of dreams that did not come to fruition.<br /><br />Let's honor those dreams by not playing into the hatred and fear-mongering that so many moved towards in the days following that event.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;" class="body"></span><br />The video below is one that resonated to me. Sadly, unlike most things Jon Stewart, I did not laugh, only because it was too much of a reflection of what emerged by some the days following 9/11. This is WHY we can't forget though. Please DO NOT let these people become the self appointed voices for the victims of that day.<br /><br /><table style="font:11px arial; color:#333; background-color:#f5f5f5" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" width="512" height="340"><tbody><tr style="background-color:#e5e5e5" valign="middle"><td style="padding:2px 1px 0px 5px;"><a target="_blank" style="color:#333; text-decoration:none; font-weight:bold;" href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/">The Daily Show With Jon Stewart</a></td><td style="padding:2px 5px 0px 5px; text-align:right; font-weight:bold;">Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c</td></tr><tr style="height:14px;" valign="middle"><td style="padding:2px 1px 0px 5px;" colspan="2"><a target="_blank" style="color:#333; text-decoration:none; font-weight:bold;" href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-september-12-2011/coming-soon---the-daily-show-remembers-9-13-2001">Coming Soon - The Daily Show Remembers 9/13/2001</a></td></tr><tr style="height:14px; background-color:#353535" valign="middle"><td colspan="2" style="padding:2px 5px 0px 5px; width:512px; overflow:hidden; text-align:right"><a target="_blank" style="color:#96deff; text-decoration:none; font-weight:bold;" href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/">www.thedailyshow.com</a></td></tr><tr valign="middle"><td style="padding:0px;" colspan="2"><embed style="display:block" src="http://media.mtvnservices.com/mgid:cms:item:comedycentral.com:396367" width="512" height="288" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="window" allowfullscreen="true" flashvars="autoPlay=false" allowscriptaccess="always" allownetworking="all" bgcolor="#000000"></embed></td></tr><tr style="height:18px;" valign="middle"><td style="padding:0px;" colspan="2"><table style="margin:0px; text-align:center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" width="100%" height="100%"><tbody><tr valign="middle"><td style="padding:3px; width:33%;"><a target="_blank" style="font:10px arial; color:#333; text-decoration:none;" href="http://www.thedailyshow.com/full-episodes/">Daily Show Full Episodes</a></td><td style="padding:3px; width:33%;"><a target="_blank" style="font:10px arial; color:#333; text-decoration:none;" href="http://www.indecisionforever.com/">Political Humor & Satire Blog</a></td><td style="padding:3px; width:33%;"><a target="_blank" style="font:10px arial; color:#333; text-decoration:none;" href="http://www.facebook.com/thedailyshow">The Daily Show on Facebook</a></td></tr></tbody></table></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><br />Honor them every day. Not just on the next 9/11 anniversary. But in all of your humanity, every day.<br /><br />Humbly,<br />Kiran<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;" class="body">"If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.</span><span style="font-style: italic;">" - Mother Theresa</span>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-37299329039736805962011-09-12T22:35:00.007-04:002012-01-21T23:22:25.988-05:00Lost Treasures<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">When I first started blogging, a few ago (and much more zealously than I can pretend to keep up with nowadays) I made blogging friends with an incredible woman named Anna.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Writers connect, support and live alongside each other in the blogging world. Sometimes we visit each other because we love each other's writing. Other times we creep to each other's sites and just as silently creep away, keeping a vigilant eye on our friends, but perhaps not feeling worthy to comment on the particular post of the day.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">One of my first blogger friends was Anna See (a pseudonym) from </span></span><a href="http://aninchofgray.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">"An Inch of Gray."</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> She lost her 12 year old son last week, </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCjR3527vxVunIaQtm4mGssMOxFiAP67P0jAhfsx4KJYk3Pa4jdJ9Dw8o6eE_t5cYbVbACr-3E0-VOrb44mWummxCMsTLlXzvwZsF6QxXnhP69JMsUvYVyQowDeWJsWB7HV5gEjUjb7c/s1600/Our+Beloved+Son.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Jake</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">, during the floods that overtook Northern Virginia.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">I don't ask you to comment here today. I don't know what you believe in, but if you have faith in something, I would appreciate that you raise a prayer, a hope, a wish - a light for this young boy.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">And this lovely, amazing family.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Its crazy how quickly our lives change. A missed step, a road not taken. Life is full of sliding door moments that can change the substance of our lives in seconds. How I wish that those seconds were different.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">There is nothing to take from this post except an ask from you that you hug your children harder and say a prayer for a family that needs to be lifted right now.</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:18px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJiX-zJKSGaAPgGg50vVk2c0xjz966cmB3xLLjtlNIfTpuBFsbvusa-KyLKhtDuAd0KLO_XOmcTpb_1vr9CbNVVjRxhxXG42-nPWUCnL27aeDdAy1P_38IenfHIJRLHtlttfecHz26YPw/s200/jake.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5651671453766024226" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:180%;color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0); border-collapse: collapse; font-family:georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;font-size:medium;"><i>When someone you love becomes a memory, the memory becomes a treasure. ~Author Unknown</i></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:180%;color:#0000EE;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 0, 0); border-collapse: collapse; font-family:georgia, 'bookman old style', 'palatino linotype', 'book antiqua', palatino, 'trebuchet ms', helvetica, garamond, sans-serif, arial, verdana, 'avante garde', 'century gothic', 'comic sans ms', times, 'times new roman', serif;font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div>XOXO,</div><div>Kiran</div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. Comments are turned off. Please say a prayer instead. Thank you, so very humbly.</div><div><br /></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-67320537094008175732011-08-25T14:07:00.007-04:002012-01-21T23:23:49.641-05:00Just. Fine.Authentic.<br /><br />It's something I try to be, but sometimes I fail miserably.<br /><br />To truly be authentic, you have to not care about what people think, not care about how they might judge you, not care about how people perceive your words.<br /><br />I think of being authentic as just being me.<br /><br />But the reality is that it's hard to truly be "authentic." Its hard to reconcile that I do care what people think, I do care how I might be judged and I do want my words to matter.<br /><br />There are days when I write. And I re-write. And I backspace. And I edit.<br /><br />And then I dump the piece I wrote or just keep it for myself.<br /><br />I think, nobody wants to read that. Nobody cares to <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">know</span> that. And having an internet persona does not mean that you shouldn't have <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">some</span> boundaries. Right? I think. After all, we all have lives outside of blogging or social media - lives that are not made solely of ourselves, but friends, co-workers, family that all may have to deal with our need to be authentic.<br /><br />But its not just about writing. It's about how we represent ourselves everyday.<br /><br />Authenticity is rarely what you see on Facebook. It's rarely what you can uncover in that meal you are having with your girlfriends after <span style="font-style: italic;">finally</span> making time for a girl's night out after four months before you all rush back home to relieve the babysitter. It's generally not in the automatic response that comes to our mouths so often when we are asked how we are:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"I'm fine."</span><br /><br />Like an automaton, I find that the words, "just. fine." are how I feel I need to often justify my existence. I have family I love. I am well-fed, clothed, educated, and have more opportunities in this life than most people will ever see.<br /><br />So I <span style="font-weight: bold;">should</span> be fine, right? Why should I take that opportunity, even when its from a friend to say something like the following?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, damnit, it's been a freaking shitty, shitty month. Something is breaking in our house every day and I don't know what is going on with the kids, they have both been acting up so much sometimes lately and oh, my god, I just feel like there are days I want to yell and kick and scream and be like, leave me alone people! And there is other stuff going on, but I don't feel like I can talk about it so I am holding it all inside and one day soon, I will most likely release all that pent up anger and snap when the kids are watching an episode of 'Bubble Guppies'. Cuz that's how I roll these days, damnit!"</span><br /><br />But I don't. And I won't.<br /><br />So I say,<br /><br />"I'm doing just fine."<br /><br />There are days where I realize that what I say is often not very <span style="font-style: italic;">real</span>. It's far from authentic. It's far from true. And maybe those days, I truly don't feel that way at all.<br /><br />"I'm fine!"<br />"I'm great!"<br /><br />And then I smile and change the subject.<br /><br />It would be one thing to say that you don't need to share everything with the internet community, be it <span style="font-style: italic;">5</span> or <span style="font-style: italic;">5000</span> readers you have daily. But its another thing when you realize that you have trouble being real with the people you love most.<br /><br />Authentic.<br /><br />Sometimes I fear being authentic. I feel like when I play the part everyone wants me to play, everybody is much happier. Why rock the boat?<br /><br />The reality is, the people who really matter, want us to be true to ourselves. I'd like to think that anyway.<div><br /></div><div>I mean, unless you're a total asshole. Then maybe you can just try and pretend just a <i>teeny</i> bit. Just like, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:x-small;">that</span> much.<br /><br />Here is to trying to be more authentic.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And for everyone who has ever felt just a tinge of jealousy when looking at an old friend's profiles on Facebook, here is a thought to make you feel a tad bit better.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoJWob3UPIhv2Ft-vkq2u_S0-AQ6Sqo5IuibVTAwiFvJGN1ToE8X3TwcEDnfh33fdVDnMWpiDQW3VdgvtL-5FCyOOR-UQ3pBnA2rz7alKfFLK626NcX4OvTIXHmAHWnZ5BjWfqwAIWHnQ/s1600/awesome+life.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 224px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoJWob3UPIhv2Ft-vkq2u_S0-AQ6Sqo5IuibVTAwiFvJGN1ToE8X3TwcEDnfh33fdVDnMWpiDQW3VdgvtL-5FCyOOR-UQ3pBnA2rz7alKfFLK626NcX4OvTIXHmAHWnZ5BjWfqwAIWHnQ/s320/awesome+life.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644866227755663858" border="0" /></a><br />Namaste,<br />Kiran<br /><br /></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-80897691501269829102011-08-18T10:36:00.008-04:002012-01-21T23:23:00.561-05:00Does Heaven Show Up in Your GPS?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnXK1Fi7mKGLaVeu1vxACn_L6GE8jmWfXxWfFXLIIb7-qTMsYXwgSCi2XcXvGCkedfM4CsROYo698a_SOfNGIOT6h1uubDlCF8RDuLDi2kac3XBlmfVqGbzNM2yGSF-CC0i-Shhon4TA/s1600/Stair_Way_To_Heaven.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKnXK1Fi7mKGLaVeu1vxACn_L6GE8jmWfXxWfFXLIIb7-qTMsYXwgSCi2XcXvGCkedfM4CsROYo698a_SOfNGIOT6h1uubDlCF8RDuLDi2kac3XBlmfVqGbzNM2yGSF-CC0i-Shhon4TA/s320/Stair_Way_To_Heaven.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642205102983101186" border="0" /></a>Today is a day that will forever hold a place in my heart.<br /><br />Last year on this day, we lost a boy that we cared about very much. His name was Declan Black Carmical. He had a brain tumor that was detected when he was 4 months old and he lived the remainder of his life mostly separated from his twin brother, undergoing surgical procedure - one after the other. He often had treatments or surgeries on the same day.<br /><br />Somehow through it all, his smile never went away. He continued to brave the pain and if you have followed his journey, you will see how often we continued to be blessed by his smile, his quiet laughter and the uncanny awareness that shown vividly behind those gorgeous blue eyes.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiqfQ080B82VF_chfw4s3osxJK3l1HaQQVn4Znx00HZc7DPD3kGMN85NhSy7_8K6YVjsjmAIObfsJ-uN5SQcVVZW9cHih-flsISw-7imflrmHKROYcStTmslh2QH4_kUozs56uLRc6WYo/s1600/Declan-smiles_317101.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiqfQ080B82VF_chfw4s3osxJK3l1HaQQVn4Znx00HZc7DPD3kGMN85NhSy7_8K6YVjsjmAIObfsJ-uN5SQcVVZW9cHih-flsISw-7imflrmHKROYcStTmslh2QH4_kUozs56uLRc6WYo/s320/Declan-smiles_317101.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642207622556258338" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yMGtyosyf5HTUwBQVa5u9luh3fYcJEIX9Tq_lpRJ4LOQjAXrQ6V5BD09knqEIgWicpCIOFx5ZRWrA2kLa4phka1krO7dsWkFtE6H2DmrY7z18ukZN_AfccBrjWIGC5U6ZuhO3zI6KYM/s1600/Daddy-and-Declan-playing2_41210.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7yMGtyosyf5HTUwBQVa5u9luh3fYcJEIX9Tq_lpRJ4LOQjAXrQ6V5BD09knqEIgWicpCIOFx5ZRWrA2kLa4phka1krO7dsWkFtE6H2DmrY7z18ukZN_AfccBrjWIGC5U6ZuhO3zI6KYM/s320/Daddy-and-Declan-playing2_41210.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642207733698904706" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxquPLGeejpFYclWhZVbgzABkVhUSKt2DYub0DnxyYL-tUY9B-VTpTS7QQ84jDPdK6v4H_xZH_18PqAn0LpDqhofWhwRy2JPbWl5zofAJ5u1gQxjq-88y2V9-2NymoNDev5jTrGQFu_uM/s1600/carmical-SP10-35-400x267.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxquPLGeejpFYclWhZVbgzABkVhUSKt2DYub0DnxyYL-tUY9B-VTpTS7QQ84jDPdK6v4H_xZH_18PqAn0LpDqhofWhwRy2JPbWl5zofAJ5u1gQxjq-88y2V9-2NymoNDev5jTrGQFu_uM/s320/carmical-SP10-35-400x267.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642207847517236674" border="0" /></a><a href="http://declansjourney.com/mommys-daddys-thoughts/august-17th-2010-your-last-full-day-on-earth-reflections-of-a-nightmare/">As Sherri posted in her blog today (please read to understand the strength of this family)</a>, there are so many images we can cling to. Images of bandages and open wounds, of the never ending tubes or the dire warnings that they continued to receive from doctors, who were unprepared to customize treatment for Declan because they just <span style="font-weight: bold;">didn't know how.</span> Pediatric cancer is often a black hole and there have been so few advances that can protect us the next time a "Declan," or a "Taylor," or an "Evan" is diagnosed.<br /><br />Last night, I was putting my four year old, Shaila to bed. She wanted to know if we could do some special things like go to the mall, go to the pool, paint the house pink and have her imaginary unicorn over for dinner the next day.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You know, normal things.</span><br /><br />I explained that today we would be working a large part of the day on getting our street prepared to honor Declan and give everybody a place to pay their respects to him. We would have lots and lots of balloons, lots of artwork and places for people to write their special messages to Declan.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">A tribute, not a mourning.</span> Though the lines are blurry for all of us on this.<br /><br />The following conversation was one I really didn't know how to steer.<br /><br />Shaila: <span style="font-style: italic;">Mommy, remember last year when we released all those balloons? Those were all for Declan right?</span><br /><br />Me: <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Yes, Shaila - those were for Declan, so he could see them from Heaven and know we were sending them to him.</span><br /><br />Shaila: <span style="font-style: italic;">Mommy, is Declan a baby?</span><br /><br />Me: <span style="font-weight: bold;">Well, Declan was a baby. And then God decided he needed Declan's company to be one of his angels. Declan is with God now.</span><br /><br />Shaila: <span style="font-style: italic;">Is he still a baby? Or does he look more like Cole now?</span> (Cole is Declan's twin brother).<br /><br />Me: <span style="font-weight: bold;">I'd like to think he looks the way God wants to keep him, and of course he has wings. Yes, he has wings. <span style="font-style: italic;">(This is really not my territory, people. I am feeling like a complete impostor on my theology lesson.)</span></span><br /><br />Shaila: <span style="font-style: italic;">Mom, I want to go visit Declan in Heaven. How far is it?</span><br /><br />Me: <span style="font-weight: bold;">It's a lifetime away.</span><br /><br />Shaila: <span style="font-style: italic;">Is that farther than South Africa?</span><br /><br />Me: <span style="font-weight: bold;">It depends on the length of your life and your mode of transportation. But yes, it is much farther than South Africa.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span>Shaila:<span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span> </span>Mommy, I miss Declan. I can go hug Cole, but its not the same.<br /><br />Me: <span style="font-weight: bold;">You SHOULD hug Cole. And you can send your hugs and kisses to Declan every day. Just look up at Heaven and know he can see and hear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Please note: I am neither a religious person, nor am I any expert on theology, however, I felt this was the best way to respond last night. If you have better ideas on what to communicate to your children, I would love your advice)</span><br /><br />The Carmicals are taking everything one day at a time. One step at a time. There is so little that I often feel like I can do. But can't we get them to the lead in the Vivint challenge so that they have this one victory, one that would mean so much the day after Cole and Declan's birthday?<br /><br />Please, please, please - gosh I will beg and ask for this favor tirelessly. Please vote - www.vote4acure.com. Please ask all your friends. Please ask your neighbors, your church members, your family, your entire Facebook community.<br /><br />Last year, when the Carmicals were going through this nightmare, thousands of supporters on the <a href="http://declansjourney.com/">"Declan's Journey"</a> blog and fan page asked "What can we do?"<br /><br />There were <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">thousands</span> of people asking.<br /><br />And we are struggling to get a thousand people to vote a day.<br /><br />Please, remember what you felt the day you offered that help. Of course we move on, of course we get a little less teary as the days pass. But the Carmicals are not asking for money. They are not asking you to run 50 miles.<br /><br />Just click on the vote button, every day. Now until the 27th.<br /><br />www.vote4acure.com.<br /><br />So humbly asking you.<br /><br />Love,<br />KiranMasala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-4607603353329913362011-08-16T22:47:00.006-04:002012-01-21T23:31:52.902-05:00Baby Declan Carmical 08/26/09-08/18/10<p>Before I say anything. blast this. Would you?</p><p>(glad i got that out. Clearing my throat to be polite now)</p><p><em><span class="fbUnderline"><strong>Dear All,</strong></span></em></p><p>It's crazy to think its been a year. A year of sadness. Of rebuilding. Of re-prioritizing.</p><p>A year of inspiration as we have seen an amazing family who has touched us all take something SO, SO hard and turn it into an opportunity.</p><p>An opportunity to help us all comprehend that we have to do more, to recognize <strong>how</strong> precious life is.</p><p><em><strong> </strong></em></p><p><em><strong>(Am I projecting? Doubtful. I think you all know what I mean).</strong></em></p><p><em><strong> </strong></em></p><p>How many of you can say that you don't look at things and nuisances just a little bit differently? How many of you can say that there haven't been nights where you hugged your kids that much harder? Because they CAN be a pain in the ass. Because you <em>have</em> the privilege of them pissing you off. And giving you deepest sense of contentment as their arms wrap around your neck before you put them to night.</p><p>Because they ARE there. In their glory, in their honesty, in there very being.</p><p>Thursday night marks the one year anniversary of Declan Carmical's passing. To say that it was premature is an <em><strong>understatement.</strong></em></p><p>To say that his passing hasn't changed the way many of us look at the world, our children, OUR lives is an greater understatement.</p><p>Let us honor Declan. Let us honor the Carmicals. Let us honor every child who can't BE while our children ARE. Life turns on a dime. We have to care.</p><p>Please come out friends and family.</p><p><strong>Here's what's going down on the 18th: </strong></p><p>1) At <strong>6 PM, Thursday the 18th </strong>- we will all meet on Withers Grove Court, Ashburn VA.</p><p>2) Parking should be plentiful on Ridgeway but if you are here early - there will be space on Withers Grove Court.</p><p>3) Please wear Yellow (Pediatric Cancer colors) and/or Blue. When Declan passed, we released yellow & blue balloons and wore blue ribbons so it is a symbol of what we remember. If its a Journey 4 a Cure shirt or Declan's Journey shirt - that is great. Get creative!!</p><p><strong>What do you need to bring?:</strong></p><p>1) Your love</p><p>2) Your support</p><p>3) Your hope</p><p>4) Your encouragement to the Carmicals and families who have to face this.</p><p>Basically - just you, your family and your hearts.</p><p><strong>What will we be doing?:</strong></p><p>1) Our neighborhood will be decorated by the children of our street to mark their love of Declan. If you would like your children to participate, or would like to help yourself, at 2 PM, we will begin blowing up hundreds of blue and yellow balloons (not for immediate release, but to decorate the street).</p><p>2) We ask you to think about what you would like to say to Declan, or to the Carmicals. There will be something for you to sign to commemorate your participation, support and love, which none of the families affected by pediatric cancer take for granted.</p><p>3) Bring your creativity and love.</p><p>4) After everyone writes there individual messages to the Carmicals and/or Declan, you will be given a balloon. It is your choice to release or not. There is beauty in either and all we want is your presence and love.</p><p><strong>What won't be there?:</strong></p><p>Because we don't yet know how many people will be attending, organizing food, beverages, etc. will be a challenge. We encourage everyone to come with drinks for you, your children and snacks. Once we begin festivities at 6, we expect everything to "wrap" by 7 PM.</p><p>THANK YOU.</p><p><em>For being part of this journey.</em></p><p><strong>What if you don't live near us in Ashburn, VA?</strong></p><p>Please put together a similar event. Wherever you are. However large or small.</p><p>If you can't do that, please say a prayer for the children of the world who don't know what opportunity is because they hear the word "cancer" so young.</p><p><em><strong>Say a prayer that no child should ever, ever, EVER have to comprehend those words.</strong></em></p><p>We CAN stop this.</p><p><strong>VOTE FOR A CURE</strong></p><p>Every day from NOW until August 27th.</p><p>Look - I don't care if you are worried about putting too much "noise" in your facebook feed.</p><p>You can vote EVERY day without reaching into your wallet.</p><p>You can help find a cure for pediatric cancer.</p><p>You CAN educate friends. You REALLY, REALLY can.</p><p>Please.</p><p> </p><p style="font-weight: bold;"><em>For Declan.</em></p><p> </p><p>Love,</p><p> </p><p>Kiran Ferrandino<br /></p><p>(on behalf of the Carmicals and the extended family on Withers Grove Court)</p><p><em>(Who am I? an overzealous friend and neighbor of the Carmicals - in case you were wondering ;-)</em></p><span class=""><img class="photo_img img" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc7/294294_10150267655828562_737188561_7617336_2777191_n.jpg" alt="" /></span>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-76309156231255068892011-07-17T14:20:00.008-04:002012-01-21T23:34:38.598-05:00Thinner.I have struggled with food my whole life. <div><br /></div><div>When I was little, I didn't want to have anything to do with it. It was more of a nuisance that interrupted the time I would rather spend playing.</div><div><br /></div><div>As a pre-teen I abused it and found comfort in it, mistakenly thinking I could fill the empty places in my heart with another bite.</div><div><br /></div><div>My junior year in High School, I walked away from it and found power in turning my back on the calories and embraced the solace in running. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I often didn't know what I was running from. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Or to.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>In college, I mistakenly followed what I jokingly called the "Sorority Girl Diet," eliminating fat but eating my fill of jelly beans and bagels and ensuring that beer was part of the regimen (at least from Thursday - Saturday nights).</div><div><br /></div><div>I would like to say I found my way in my 20's.</div><div><br /></div><div>But as I sit here in my 30's, with two impressionable children who I have the power to influence, I realize I am just as messed up today in how I view food as I was in my teens. Not much has changed.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't remember a day when I thought I was "thin enough." Even as I look back at pictures of myself when I was my fittest, I try to remember what was going through my head at the time the pictures were snapped.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Not <b>good</b> enough.</i></div><div><i>Not <b>pretty</b> enough.</i></div><div><i>Not <b>thin</b> enough.</i></div><div><i><b>Ever</b>.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>My husband asks me to acknowledge this strange relationship I have with food. Perhaps he didn't want me to write it on this blog, but oh what the heck. It's hard to admit to crazy, but I can truly say that when it comes to food, I have always been a nutjob. Completely.</div><div><br /></div><div>Utterly.</div><div><br /></div><div>I sometimes feel shame that as someone who has seen poverty first hand, in such extreme circumstances in the villages of India, that I would reject or abuse what so many people don't have access to and are literally starving for.</div><div><br /></div><div>I bought a magazine at the store the other day. Like a junkie being pulled in by a vial of coke, I found myself adding it to my cart.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Starving to Be Sexy" the cover said, showing images of celebrities who have fought their battles against any body fat and appear to be successful, flaunting clavicles, pelvic bones and ribcages that defy any unwanted calorie to even try to slip by.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Isn't this crazy?" I showed the magazine to my niece when she came to visit me.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Yeah, but it's what people expect. Of course they feel the need to be thin."</div><div><br /></div><div>As I found myself being drawn back to the magazine, I realized that it's not so much that I think those celebrities are crazy. The rational part of me does, of course.</div><div><br /></div><div>But there is also this part of me that relates to them. And where I have never been able to get "thin enough," these celebrities have.</div><div><br /></div><div>And it made me <b>jealous.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>How does this happen? I ask. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think of myself as intelligent (reasonably). Not vapid (most of the times). Rational (cyclically).</div><div><br /></div><div>The irony of one of the images actually made me laugh. One of the celebrities on the "Starving to Be Sexy Cover," is reality show actress, Audrina Patridge. Wearing the <b>same</b> bikini that she recently wore on this month's cover of Shape Magazine, a fitness magazine. One of the other celebrities touted as "too skinny," Leann Rimes, just appeared on the cover of Shape Magazine, perhaps five or six months ago.</div><div><br /></div><div>So let me get this straight. On the one hand, we look at these images and are being told that these women have gone to an unhealthy extreme. At the same time, we will see these same women highlighted on covers of purported "health" magazines. </div><div><br /></div><div>It's confusing, right?</div><div><br /></div><div>I realize that the things I say glibly around the house are making an impression on my daughter. And that I need to ensure she doesn't have this same messed up relationship with food that I feel like I have had.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I try not to say things. I try not to show her just how preoccupied I am with food labels or show her any of my insecurities I feel when I look in the mirror.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I hope she never goes through these mindless cycles that I have gone through. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Self-loathing when I "cheat." </i></div><div><i>Hunger when I punish myself for not being strong enough. </i></div><div><i>Judgement when the scale taunts me with a number I want to deduct another 10 pounds from. </i></div><div><i>Or maybe even 15.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I am writing this post to say that I am one of many women who is too hard on herself. Too quick to judge myself. Too quick to punish myself. Insecure enough to buy in to the images that are telling me what society values in women. </div><div><br /></div><div>But one thing I am NOT is a woman who plans to keep her subscription to <b><i>Shape</i></b> Magazine. </div><div><br /></div><div>After years of trying to embrace healthy, I think that it's time to acknowledge what "healthy" really means. And its not about the photoshopped celebrity on the cover.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's about acceptance.</div><div><br /></div><div>XOXO,</div><div>Kiran</div><div><i><br /></i></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-49752469709046428192011-07-06T22:09:00.009-04:002012-01-21T23:35:26.946-05:00Humbled<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I'm the person at parties telling jokes. I make people laugh. I find comfort in being self-deprecating and if I cannot make people snort their beer out of their left nostril at some point, even if it comes down to mocking myself and own faults, I feel useless.<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Because you see. That's my job. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I bring the funny.</span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sometimes, but not lately. And Masala Chica, my alter ego, has just been a hot mess. If you haven't seen that, make yourself a drink and have a little think about that. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Obviously, lately I have not been funny. Probably a bit sad, a bit depressing. After all - who really wants to talk about cancer? Much less baby cancer.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yes, baby cancer. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">There. </span></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I said it.</span></span></b></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Not funny, right?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Pediatric cancer is cancer that affects babies, whether they are one day old, one month old, 5 years old or entering their teens. Do you have any kids that age or who fall in between? Gosh, do you have any kids on your street that age or in your family?</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">God, it's just asinine, right? Why the hell should we talk about this when we can talk about the really, REALLY important stuff? Like what sunscreen we should be using (ironically to later prevent cancer, right?) or how to buy the best organic meat? Let's talk about how great Jennifer Aniston looks past forty or if she is on again with that guy whose name I can't ever freaking remember.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(All important, thank you very much).</span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A week ago, I did something I usually don't do. I humbly opened myself up and sent a letter to some bloggers that I consider to be friendly with. Some are real life friends, some are friends who I have gotten to know online.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I say "humbly" because I hate to ask for help. Seriously. Like if I have ten bags in one hand, my screaming son in the other, my four year old daughter kicking me with her tap shoes and my phone ringing in my purse, if someone tries to hold the door for me, I will feel guilty taking up their time.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I don't know why and I don't know how, but I feel unworthy oftentimes about asking for anything.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So last week, I sent out an email asking for support for the <a href="http://www.vivint.com/givesbackproject/charity/1262">Vivint Gives Back Project</a>, where I have been very personally and actively trying to raise awareness for pediatric cancer. The cause is to potentially raise a quarter of a million dollars for Journey4aCure. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">If you haven't heard of them, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/Journey4ACure">please look them up.</a></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Of course, I did not expect everyone to respond. Nor did I expect all the bloggers to post the banner for Journey4aCure on their site. If they did, I was ecstatic and said thank you once they responded that they had. I was not planning on going to look on anyones' site afterwards to see if they did, it was just a very simple "ask."</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And I get it. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I understand that people might be concerned about linking their readers up to an organization that they don't know that much about. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Totally understand. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I also understand that people's blogs can be "sacred." I learned this from my mother, who now has a blog. And her next door neighbor's dog, who also has one. Oh yeah, and the ant that resides up that dog's ass who also has a blog.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Everybody's got a blog these days. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They are kind of like assholes except they are generally not as exciting.</span></span></i></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I also understand that people might be concerned about how their information can be used. Maybe you don't know this about me, but I spent the past 6 years of my life working in the web analytics industry helping Fortune 100 companies figure out how to use customer channel (web, demographic, multi-channel, campaign) data to better market to their customers.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">For good, not evil, of course. </span></span></i></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Some people might even say I am one of the more experienced people in the web analytics field. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Anyway - for the past few days, a blogger who has been a personal friend for quite some time has been vacillating about putting the banner up on her blog. Several questions had been asked and there was some back and forth. I found myself just wanting to say - it's ok - you don't HAVE to do this. I almost was sorry I asked and wanted to retract my request for help.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It was a big leap for me to have requested it in the first place.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Today, I was officially sorry that I asked.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">After being sent a very detailed message about why she and her blogging partner did not support Vivint </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(</span></span></b><i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">which I honestly will tell you - I don't know much about. I can tell you that they do security. And they are giving away 1.25 million freaking dollars to charity. Journey4aCure is not that far away from winning $250K if we can mobilize quickly enough),</span></span></b></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> I just told her I was disappointed.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Not because I think her blog would "make" or "break" this competition. Not because I don't get that she is "branding" herself in a particular way.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">But because if she had never ever said anything, I would have never even cared.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The reality is I didn't need an itemized list of why she felt her brand </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">could</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> or </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">would</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> not put up a banner for something that I HAVE become so personally affected by. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Do it. Or don't.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">To ask me if it is worth "damaging our friendship for a few f'in clicks" tells me that </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">she really doesn't know me at all, even after many years of "knowing" me.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And you know what? That sentence (you know, about the <i>f'in clicks</i>), was preceded by several others which reduced me to wanting to retract a whole lot more. They made me cringe that I had ever asked for help for something that was beyond me, that meant something so grave, that is more than just a quarter of a million dollars for pediatric cancer research.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This contest has <b>never </b>been about clicks.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It's also never been about whether people will like my blog more or not. At this stage in my life, I could give a rat's ass if you like my blog or not. If you do - I appreciate it. if you don't, I also understand. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">You know what it's about for me? </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:georgia;">Last year, this boy who I loved DIED.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">His parents are two of my best friends.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">They live with their grief every day.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I can't do enough. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Not hardly enough.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">These words don't matter. At the end of the day, my blog is just a blog. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And so is yours.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My kids are healthy. I pray they always will be.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Perhaps I have channeled more into this "contest" than most people think is normal. Perhaps some of you think I have gone off the deep end.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i>It's never been about "f'in clicks."</i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Thank you so much to those who have helped. I really appreciate it. I know what it means - surprisingly (given that I probably have like 3 readers) - I get emails every day from people who think I am much more influential than I am - asking to review a product, support a new service or post a video for marketing purposes. And I can't always say yes or even respond.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">So, thank you. It makes me realize that even if its hard, its worth it to ask for help. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And for that, I AM humbled.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I know its not easy to say "no." Granted, I also don't ask these organizations for a detailed business justification and go back and forth six times. I usually just say, "No" or don't respond, especially if its a mass marketing thing.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">And to anyone who thought that anything I have written about in these past few posts has been about a few <i>"f'in clicks,"</i> I am glad we got that out in the open. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Life is too short. </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Sometimes, breathtakingly, heartbreakingly so.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This year has taught me that much, if nothing else.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Humbly yours (with a bit of an attitude tonight)</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i>(And perhaps with a few less Facebook friends than before.)</i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Kiran</span></span></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-41815677324233856272011-06-29T21:32:00.008-04:002012-01-21T23:36:17.933-05:00The ties that bind.I have not always been a good friend. In fact, I would say that I have been fairly selfish at points in my life and unable to relate to grave situations that my friends were in. I would stick it out until my emotions went past a comfort level I deemed acceptable before I responded in the only way I knew how.<div><br /></div><div>retreat.</div><div><br /></div><div>My close friend in college, Lauren, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer as we were moving into our Senior Year apartment together. She had to move back home while the other three roommates got used to the fact that one of our party was missing, for all the wrong reasons, as she battled aggressive, progressive and every possible form of treatment back home in Boston.</div><div><br /></div><div>Times like these can bring out the best in people... or they can bring out the worst. In our situation, while the three remaining roommates were all good solid people in our own right, the weight of the situation coupled with other key transition points in our own lives created a really shitty and unsupportive environment as we all struggled to make sense out of what was happening.</div><div><br /></div><div>We found ourselves arguing about inane things. We would gossip when there was no place for gossip and create alliances (easy to do when there is an odd dynamic of women), leaving the third one out. It was so "Survivor-esque before any such show existed, and while we may have been battling the gentrified battles of UVA, knowing one of our own was battling an obstacle with odds of survival so low, we should have been above that. This news we received the day before we went down to school hit us like a ton of bricks that none of us expected our 4th year of school.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't say that it didn't make sense that I ended up being the odd man out that first semester - I was going through a myriad of my own issues and was very self-absorbed. I will admit that, though I can't say that I was the cause of all of it. However, there came a point where a series of misunderstandings lead to this imbalance in the house and I just felt better off alone. So a cycle was created and communication reached new lows for all of us.</div><div><br /></div><div>When Lauren returned second semester, dedicated to beat her prognosis and battle her cancer so she could graduate - a weight was lifted in our apartment, but not for long. Things continued to bubble beneath the surface and while we tried to shield Lauren from the tensions that had been growing in her absence, we did a shitty job of hiding it and she was more than aware.</div><div><br /></div><div>When school ended that year, I could not run fast away from the University that I had adored from afar and that I had embraced with so much might when I entered its grounds 4 years earlier. Me, a little Indian girl from NJ who made it to Thomas Jefferson's center of excellence had kicked some ass for sure. I should have been proud. Instead, there was a stain on my soul and the experience I just couldn't wash clean - I needed to leave.</div><div><br /></div><div>After graduation, we moved up to Arlington, VA. Lauren moved back home with her family in Boston. My ex-roommates (continued to live together still) remained friends and settled a few miles from me in Arlington, but our relationship had become so strained and I was neither mature enough or strong enough at the time to address it. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I did neither. </div><div><br /></div><div>At a time where I should have said, "Screw it. Let it go," I instead was proudly holding on to my place as a victim, in a situation where there was no place for a victim. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because really, the only victim was Lauren and she never, ever acted like one. Not once.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I started to avoid Lauren because of her ties with my ex-friends, pretending it was for selfless reasons. When she came to visit - I excused myself, saying I didn't want her to be caught up in our drama. It was best if I just disappeared and allowed her to seek comfort with them.</div><div><br /></div><div>I ignored the other two if I saw them downtown. I would pretend I didn't see them as our hands accidentally brushed over the same sweater in Banana Republic. They did the same, but it didn't make me happy and it wasn't something I was proud of.</div><div><br /></div><div>In 1999, I was told by a friend that Lauren had passed away and had succumbed to cancer. I was told that one of my ex-roommates wanted to get in touch with me but didn't know if I wanted to be reached.</div><div><br /></div><div>I called her that same day. She picked up her end of the line.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Rachel? It's me. Kiran." The phone was quiet and I was certain she was ready to hang up ...</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hi. I am so glad you called me."</div><div><br /></div><div>"What happened? How was she in the end? Was she in pain? What was...?" The tears started rolling down my face and Rachel answered all my questions as best as she could.</div><div><br /></div><div>My questions were endless.</div><div><br /></div><div>Rachel could have used this time to tell me what a coward I was. Instead she told me everything about Lauren's last few months and her ultimate rejection of later treatment so that she could live her last few days without needles and any more pain than her little body could bear.</div><div><br /></div><div>While Rachel and I had lost touch on so many levels, one of the kindest things that she ever did to me was say that Lauren had picked pictures of her friends and family that she wanted to be buried with. </div><div><br /></div><div>"Kiran, you were in two of her pictures. She did not have many. She always knew you loved her. She understood."</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know if that was the biggest load of crock from my former friend, semi-former frenemy and now borderline savior, but I took it that day.</div><div><br /></div><div>We can't change the past. We CAN change our future. I feel that I failed Lauren at a time when she just needed constant love and support should have said, "grow a pair" to my own discomfort at the situation.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will tell you this. There are days, where I think I am a pretty crappy friend to the Carmicals. I don't always know what to say or how to comfort them and I feel like maybe I am not the best to give advice, especially when I was tested before and failed, failed failed so freaking miserably. </div><div><br /></div><div>But I try - and sometimes that just means accepting quiet silences, drinking a glass of wine and enjoying the sunset together or watching our children run us ragged while still keeping each other laughing.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think of Lauren's smile and I believe she knew what was in my heart though I feel I failed her. And for the angel she was, I have to bless her heart and take that as my own inspiration.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will NEVER retreat again. <a href="http://www.blogger.com/Journey4acure.org">Journey4acure.org</a> is my journey now. It is not just for Declan or the other children I mention every day. It is for my beautiful friend who still haunts my dreams every so often with her long flowing brown hair and gorgeous grey eyes and all the serenity in the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>She was a child when she developed cancer, at the point they detected it, she had been living with colon cancer since she was 14 or 15 given the rate of metastasis. She used to joke with the 1 in a million odds she had to get this, why hadn't she tried a tad bit harder to have tried to play the lottery, with potentially better odds. After all - couldn't it work both ways?</div><div><br /></div><div>Lauren is one of the lost children and she is part of my journey. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Lauren if you can hear me in any way, I love you old friend, and can never forget your smile. I still think of you often. Please comfort Declan if you see him and all the others who are gone too young. Tell them that they are still so very loved.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>As are you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Love,</div><div>Kiran</div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-58280008577656924392011-06-20T20:04:00.014-04:002012-01-21T23:37:01.000-05:00Broken.<div style="text-align: left;">It was a fairly unremarkable day last year, in August 2010. Like most days in August in Northern Virginia, the humidity was palpable and I had retreated for cover in our home, deliberating whether to just go through with it. Not wanting to think about it any longer, I pressed my foot down on the garbage can and threw the stupid thing away before I could vacillate any longer.</div><div><br /></div><div>A few minutes later, John walked into the kitchen and got out some orange juice from the frig. He stepped on the garbage can to throw out a wrapper. I knew what he was going to say before the words were even out.<div><br /></div><div>He looked up at me. <i>"Did you throw away the..?"</i></div><div><i>"Yes,"</i> I said, before he could get the words out.</div><div>He looked dumbfounded. <i>"Why?"</i></div></div><div><i>"It was broken.</i>" I said.</div><div><i>"Broken?"</i> he asked, fairly dubiously.</div><div><i>"Yes. Broken."</i> My tone must have implied that I didn't want to talk about it anymore, because he let it go.</div><div><br /></div><div>Our baby video monitor, which we had spent so many hours of our lives losing sleep over as we watched out children NOT sleep at night, was finally being retired as it lay in our kitchen trash.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>(August 2009) One year earlier . . .</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>I was reaching my 36 week mark of my second pregnancy. I was on bedrest, exhausted and still extremely jealous of all the women who wore their pregnancies with so much more grace than I ever seemed to pull off. I was never one of those women who could wear stilettos till the moment of delivery. </div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>After the second trimester, I have historically been more of a Crocs kind of girl.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Across the street, my friend Sherri is one of those graceful women. Pregnant with twins, she was due a few weeks after me. On hot summer days, I would find myself outside, sitting in front of her house as our then two year olds would cavort in the inflatable swimming pool and water slide she still had the energy to set up.. Exhausted from just watching her do so much labor, I would retire on a chair beside her and admire my cankles and talked about missing beer and cold cuts and sushi - what seemed like such great sacrifices to us at that moment in time. We did not even pretend that I could keep up with her and I tried not to feel too guilty as she kept up with our older kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>We talked about our deliveries, our doctors, how much fun it was going to be for all of our kids to grow up on this cul-de-sac, the lasting friendship we hoped our children would have together in this neighborhood. A neighborhood that feels more like family and good friends than just people who share houses on the same road.</div><div><br /></div><div>I went into labor shortly after, and Nico was four weeks early. </div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieJFc1LT44KVTy4E9VmsCbBCFZG75hkJeNhO8iexeH7WTO_0GvjknwyJwxJvQvBAxsx4QoDRlVtIn35LGJPYJi6ulV_wQP6mrl-w9-YzjApjalG7CxQCayM7RktkIK3tja4OTOdt0ybgo/s320/Nico_Painting" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620497466752620402" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">John, Nico and me</span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></div><div><a href="http://masalachica.blogspot.com/2009/11/thank-you-letter-to-my-son.html">Everything went well until at 5 days old, we had to bring Nico back to the hospital where he was diagnosed with spinal meningitis. </a> Our world had been turned upside down for the five days we spent in the hospital and I made so many promises and prayed so hard to a God I very fickly admit to believe in. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since I was raised Hindu, I thought I would leverage the plural use of God(s) in this case since more could not hurt.</div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>When we returned from the hospital, it was not long after that Sherri gave birth to her twin boys, Cole and Declan. It was truly a joyous time for all of us.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY7TOJ1jolIf6zSaEbZZ33r1ubog7Z-Dc6NuLW3mLngbnTYRPpgEYx15IrALFeXgVByIfAGskUT7vnnqMD2GxIKKw0ZpeDkC31SCTsCN8TlatLvnVLW_WeaOQ7lcbJBOGSClk6dF6BUD4/s320/sherri+and+boys" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620496639167305986" style="display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 320px; " /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Sherri, Cole and Declan</span></span></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Night Vision</b></div><div><br /></div><div>At night, I would watch Nico very closely in his crib over the video monitor. Given the fear I had of almost losing him during that early reality check we had in the hospital, I was overly cautious and perhaps a bit more connected to the video monitor than I hoped to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>I lay in bed and would just watch him, sometimes just to make sure I could detect movement or hear the reassuring coos he would make.</div><div><br /></div><div>The monitor, at this point, was two years old, already put to heavy use with our eldest, Shaila. It would sometimes do some random things. You would be watching your kid flopping around in their crib and suddenly see it cut out to another crib or bed before switching back. </div><div><br /></div><div>These moments were infrequent, but they did happen.</div><div><br /></div><div>I let most of our neighbors who had kids know about this freaky video camera/channel thing, just to make sure they were aware. Nobody reported having any issues on their end with their video monitors.</div><div><br /></div><div>But over time, things got a little less clear on our monitor. It would switch out more frequently and the image of our own child became more blurry when it was focused on Nico. </div><div><br /></div><div>When I would sleep at night, I would often go to bed looking at the fuzzy video of Nico. As I drifted in and out of sleep, the picture would somehow switch to Cole and Declan, sleeping wrapped as two brothers who knew the comfort of each others' heartbeats.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was no longer disturbed by these video "interruptions."</div><div><br /></div><div>Until the larger, unexpected interruption occurred with our lives.</div><div><br /></div><div>Declan was diagnosed with cancer. AT/RT, a rare brain tumor.</div><div><br /></div><div>I tossed and turned many nights those months. The video camera would hold still on Nico and had increased the frequency of its "switches." I would often catch a image of Cole sleeping alone in his bed, no longer with the comfort of his best friend. These glimpses were for a few seconds, but I would lay in bed, unable to sleep.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Unable</i> to breathe, it felt.</div><div><br /></div><div>Where was Declan sleeping tonight? How was the family doing? How much longer would all four brothers in this family need to be apart?</div><div><br /></div><div>Deep breath.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Fast Forward.</b></div><div><br /></div><div>May.</div><div>June.</div><div>July.</div><div>August.</div><div><br /></div><div>In August, a few months that felt like a lifetime later, our Au Pair, Fe, complained about the monitor as well. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that was it. I could go and hug Nico a few rooms over. I did not need that monitor anymore. I would never have that stolen image again.</div><div><br /></div><div>The day I realized for real, in my heart, that Declan would not be coming home was the day I threw out the video monitor. I could no longer bear to see it. </div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>I could no longer bear to ACCEPT what I would no longer see.</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>This takes me to my conversation in the kitchen with John in the kitchen in August 2010, just days short of Declan's passing.</div><div><br /></div><div><div><i>"<b>Broken?</b>"</i> John asked.</div><div><i>"<b>Yes. Broken.</b>"</i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>****************************************************************************************</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Please help us fix this. That video monitor is gone along with the smile of a boy I loved. But we can fix this.</div><div><br /></div><div>Vote.</div><div><br /></div><div>Journey 4 a Cure with us.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yours,</div><div>Kiran</div><div>(Masala Chica)</div><div><br /><a href="http://www.vivint.com/givesbackproject/charity/1262"><img src="http://media.vivint.com/www.vivint.com/en/images/givesbackproject/givesback_banner_468x60_version_1.gif" alt="Vivint is giving away $1.25 Million to charities. Help us win!" width="468" height="60" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-45463011447149342642011-06-19T20:25:00.014-04:002011-06-22T12:20:41.821-04:00A Journey<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_bUpW6E4C2gCiHCXgMzFPg3QvECHmZn8XbSojyjIzmxWWYAEKPk1aklDqIiDKauaD9FlEfPP795hJE34Y3_rF0NbU_EK_QOh8WGlEazFmVsGVIqmjZeNwziGSmlBX3KKBV_DVo1ZpAo/s1600/Declan-smiles_317101.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:medium;">This blog has gone through an identity crisis since I started it.</span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">This is not to be confused with any loss of identity or confusion on the part of its owner.</span></i></span></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Nope. <b>None</b> whatsoever.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was very obviously on the "mommy blog" track when I initially started. Then I started to pepper in my Indian heritage, making it more of a "mommy blog with some curry." Then I kind of ranted and raved about whatever pissed me off that day (this can still occur, though I try to reel it in).</div><div><br /></div><div>And then last year, everything changed.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Everything.</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>As a result, I changed. This blog changed. My focus changed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Things that seemed important, no longer seemed that way to me. Things that previously seemed like the largest injustice didn't piss me off quite so much anymore, and things that I may have overlooked in the past now mattered to me in a new and re-defining way.</div><div><br /></div><div>I guess death does that to you . . . . :(</div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:18px;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovTx_SH6kukkZ0wSHXtUtSo_yB8m9wzzH3rBvfvHHl-zy8Bfnr6OsTPO4xK6buamBE2eociYtJHaz6BMX3JraXfiM6q0U0kj4sbehksXSMfJJtWzItgl7LkxhBGkrKt-DVCXfGVZ_Ab8/s200/Mommy-Declan-Will.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620112279238708802" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></span><div>I know that some of you have read about my posts on <a href="http://declansjourney.com/mommys-daddys-thoughts/as-i-type-this/">Declan Carmical</a>, a young boy who lived on our street and succumbed to cancer just days before his first birthday. The journey our good friends, the <a href="http://journey4acure.org/">Carmicals</a>, have taken since the day Declan was diagnosed at four months of age and the long climb they face to bring awareness and support to pediatric cancer has been an emotionally uplifting, inspiring and amazing thing . . .</div><div><br /></div><div>. . . While simultaneously being <i>emotionally draining, discouraging and completely overwhelming. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>And the thing is, I am just a friend of a family that has to deal with this every day. To see what my friends have gone through while still maintaining focus, dedication and passion to fight pediatric cancer is a truly humbling thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>To realize that there is not ONE Declan, but so many more has been a huge punch in the gut. To hear stories of children like <a href="http://journey4acure.org/declans_corner_aiden">Aiden</a>, <a href="http://www.taylorlove.org/">Taylor</a>, <a href="http://journey4acure.org/declans_corner_brooke">Brooke</a>, <a href="http://journey4acure.org/declans_corner_carson">Carson</a>, <a href="http://journey4acure.org/declans_corner_shea">Shea</a>, <a href="http://evybeatscancer.blogspot.com/">Evy</a> and TOO, TOO many others - who are bravely battling cancer makes me want to mobilize and move my butt in gear to do something.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I just can't move fast enough. And for someone who hates to ask for help, this is one of those times where I really, really need to shout from the rooftops that your help is needed.</div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:18px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_bUpW6E4C2gCiHCXgMzFPg3QvECHmZn8XbSojyjIzmxWWYAEKPk1aklDqIiDKauaD9FlEfPP795hJE34Y3_rF0NbU_EK_QOh8WGlEazFmVsGVIqmjZeNwziGSmlBX3KKBV_DVo1ZpAo/s1600/Declan-smiles_317101.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr_bUpW6E4C2gCiHCXgMzFPg3QvECHmZn8XbSojyjIzmxWWYAEKPk1aklDqIiDKauaD9FlEfPP795hJE34Y3_rF0NbU_EK_QOh8WGlEazFmVsGVIqmjZeNwziGSmlBX3KKBV_DVo1ZpAo/s200/Declan-smiles_317101.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5620114257586240162" style="float: right; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiovTx_SH6kukkZ0wSHXtUtSo_yB8m9wzzH3rBvfvHHl-zy8Bfnr6OsTPO4xK6buamBE2eociYtJHaz6BMX3JraXfiM6q0U0kj4sbehksXSMfJJtWzItgl7LkxhBGkrKt-DVCXfGVZ_Ab8/s1600/Mommy-Declan-Will.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAdr1ZpO2DCB8BaOzJES_xIH4q-E29SRWGicZqJdOiwZFYQvSCQYRux6z38bd88tjfTqrhyphenhyphenyVNOC7cAtkPJlDSCvpQ-YLMikKPMRdZiKmhbN5pUTQtIRuO7MiuYmuGCQElN085bElm72o/s1600/Declan-smiles_317101.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div></div></span><div><br /></div><div>Statistics are hard to look at. They are even <b><i>harder</i></b> to believe. And they give a whole new perspective to where our children might be most vulnerable.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Reality</b>: Pediatric Cancer is the #1 disease related killer of children in the United States.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Reality</b>: Only 1 drug has been approved by the FDA in the last 30 years to fight pediatric cancer. In comparison to the 50 medications approved for adult cancers in the same time span, we are looking at a truly crippled treatment process for children.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Harsher Reality</b>: Childhood cancer research is not only underfunded, but funding has declined.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>WHY?</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Really, really crappy reality: </b> It's a numbers game. With children cancer comprising only 5% of all cancer diagnoses annually, pharmaceutical companies don't see a business case to fund treatment research. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:AvenirLTW01-65Medium, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;font-size:7;color:#75787B;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 24px;font-size:28px;"><br /></span></span></div><div>No family should hear the words, there is no known cure. </div><div><br /></div><div>For <i>any</i> disease.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sadly, too many parents will have to hear those words in our lifetime if we don't mobilize.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Journey 4 a Cure is dedicated to seeing beyond the business case and working to build a case around the lives of families that need the research, that are praying for their children, and who are bravely fighting the odds to keep their journey going.</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>This post is a request to help Journey 4 a Cure to meet their goals. Ways you can help:</div><div><br /></div><div>1) <a href="http://www.vivint.com/givesbackproject/charity/1262">Vote for Journey 4 A Cure every day on the Vivint </a>project page. Vivent will be giving 1.25 million dollars to worthwhile causes, and we are trying to win our regional grand prize of $250,000 - 100% of the proceeds will go towards pediatric cancer research if we win.</div><div><br /></div><div>2) <a href="http://www.vivint.com/givesbackproject/charity/1262">Did I mention voting EVERY day</a>? Oh yeah. I think so. Please keep it going until <a href="http://www.vivint.com/givesbackproject/charity/1262">August 27th</a>. This is only one day after Declan's birthday (and his twin Cole's birthday). What an amazing thing that would be to see as we celebrate Declan and Cole's second birthday . . . </div><div><br /></div><div>3) <a href="http://www.vivint.com/givesbackproject/charity/banners?id=1262">If you are a blogger, can you repost one of the badges from the Vivint site in honor of Journey 4 a Cure? Would you ask other bloggers to support the cause?</a></div><div><br /></div><div>4) Would you post the project in your <a href="http://www.vivint.com/givesbackproject/charity/1262">facebook status?</a> I cannot stress how much winning this money would do towards the fight against pediatric cancer.</div><div><br /></div><div>5) Hug your kids. Love them. And pray that they never have to face cancer or any other disease that can rob them of the youth they all so deserve.</div><div><br /></div><div>6) Beyond praying, please join us in our journey. Even if its just a vote.</div><div><br /></div><div>We journey. Every day. </div><div><br /></div><div>And we will journey however long it takes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you for your support. </div><div><br /></div><div>Humbly Yours,</div><div>Masala Chica (Kiran . . .)</div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></i></div><div><a href="http://www.vivint.com/givesbackproject/charity/1262"><img src="http://media.vivint.com/www.vivint.com/en/images/givesbackproject/givesback_banner_468x60_version_1.gif" alt="Vivint is giving away $1.25 Million to charities. Help us win!" width="468" height="60" /></a><br /></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-41970892252797994322011-04-12T15:20:00.007-04:002012-01-21T23:37:52.557-05:00One World. No, Really.In a world where tragedy seems to be around every corner, it feels like we often are biding our time until the next natural (or unnatural) act of devastation leaves us reeling from the evening news.<div><br /></div><div>It's almost an expected outcome - as the world spins on its axis - we hold our breaths knowing that its just a matter of time when the cadence of all the moving parts, pieces and souls on this planet will lose rhythm with the ground below us.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whether its the dynamic whisper of a dance between two tectonic plates that gets interrupted as one steps on the others' toes beneath the ocean, to set off the chain reaction of events that culminate in enormous waves overtaking one of the world's most powerful cities.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whether its the devastation that is left behind by two planes colliding with the tallest buildings in the financial capital of the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>Whether its a debilitating earthquake that leaves thousands of people dead, injured, orphaned and hungry.</div><div><br /></div><div>As we all seem to know - it's generally not a question of "if," but a question of:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"When?"</i></div><div><i>"Where?"</i></div><div>and <i>"To whom?"</i></div><div><br /></div><div>While many of us pray for those who are affected, send money, organize fund raisers, bemoan the sadness of these events on Facebook - while our hearts and minds are affected, we can generally turn off the sounds of the cries, the wails, the collateral damage with the flick of our remote controls or by closing our web browsers.</div><div><br /></div><div>We gain a whole different perspective. We applaud our corporate matching programs and rally up our families funds to send on - to help some of the nameless children who we see Christian Amanpour covering or to help make the devastating living conditions that Anderson Cooper tells us about, just that much better.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because we want to help. Most of us genuinely do. And, if you are anything like me, every time something like this happens - you think to yourself:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"My God. This puts things into such perspective."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>And then time passes. Anderson Cooper leaves the devastated area. The news crews withdraw while aid agencies continue to ensure their resources can assist for as long as they can, but funds dry up and there is too much need to address and not enough money in the world or enough resources to fix some of the larger problems.</div><div><br /></div><div>We, who vowed to hug our kids a little harder - and not sweat the small stuff, may still hug our kids pretty tight - but we go back to the small stuff. And we DO sweat it and let us derail that perspective which we just gained.</div><div><br /></div><div>When the tsunami hit Japan, my heart stopped beating and I could not take in what had happened. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't find much solace when I went online - in addition to the growing catastrophic impacts being reported - the asinine, ignorant - and completely inhumane comments I saw appear in my news feed (comments on my friends' statuses - thank god none of these commenters were my own "friends") made me want to shut that channel off as well.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Do you think the Japanese prayed for us when it came to Pearl Harbor?"</i> one commenter asked a fellow Facebook friend, after she had put "Prayers for Japan" in her status line.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was so disturbed by the comment, I didn't know how one should respond. "<i>Crawl back in your hole, you snake</i>" seemed like it lacked some maturity, while "<i>Are you the spawn of satan, you little m%^%^fer?</i>" also seemed fairly juvenile.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did not realize that there were lots of comments like <a href="http://www.unitedatheistfront.com/GodBlessAmerica.jpg">that one. </a> I didn't even know people still thought that way. </div><div><br /></div><div>But then again - I never knew that there were people who thought Haiti deserved to be struck by earthquakes because of its historically documented (hmm, hmm) <a href="http://articles.cnn.com/2010-01-13/us/haiti.pat.robertson_1_pat-robertson-disasters-and-terrorist-attacks-devil?_s=PM:US">"pact with the devil."</a></div><div><br /></div><div>The reality is, when the world encounters devastation - we can act in many ways. One would hope that we can rally together to offer hope, prevent further tragedy and save as many lives as we can with whatever resources we have. We can offer prayer, money, assistance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or we can respond with fear, ignorance, and arrogance.</div><div><br /></div><div>But in a world where some of the boundaries and identities we have built for ourselves seem to blur <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">more and more</span></b> as we truly become an international community, I think people need to think <i>just a little bit harder</i> about holding onto belief systems that are <b><i>as terroristic</i></b> in many ways as some of the evils most Americans have been raised to decry. An international community, which in many ways, supersedes ethnicity, geographical boundaries and religions - assisted by technology which ties unknown people together in ways which were never foreseen.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know where I was going with this piece. But I figure since I didn't know know where I was headed when I started, I might as well end with this little story.</div><div><br /></div><div>When John and I were in Hawaii for our honeymoon, we had a conversation with another couple at our hotel pool at a resort on the Big Island. The couple had just been to Oahu and had gone to visit Pearl Harbor. I won't even forget one of the things he said to us.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"It was crazy being there. Very emotional and powerful. But it also made me angry,"</i> the man said.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Why?"</i> I asked.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Because of all the Japanese people there. It made me want to turn around and say to them - you DID this. Why are you here?"</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I was flummoxed. Not because on some level I couldn't understand perhaps some of this man's instinctual sentiment. But at his association that generations later - the people of Japanese origin standing next to him HAD DONE THIS. </div><div><br /></div><div>As an American, I will tell you the following:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b>I</b></span> didn't bomb Hiroshima. Or Nagasaki.</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I</span></b> didn't put a single Japanese American into an interment camp.</div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">I</span></b> <i>never </i>declined refuge to a Jewish person seeking amnesty in the United States during WWII who may later have died in the horrors of those godforsaken camps.</div><div><br /></div><div>I NEVER did ANY of those things. </div><div><br /></div><div>But as an American, I accept those facts as part of my history. Just as I embrace the parts of it that make me proud - I accept the blemishes which are my birthright as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I think of the people who have been devastated in Japan - I do not see myself as an American offering my prayers to a country which is disconnected from me. We are all connected and interwoven in ways that ignorance can do little to compromise.</div><div><br /></div><div>For now, I think I will find my faith in the humanity that I <b>have to believe</b> outweighs the ignorance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Namaste,</div><div>Kiran</div><div><br /></div>Masala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9199765814601282547.post-37924419005719614432011-03-01T10:08:00.003-05:002012-01-21T23:38:24.188-05:00Repost - Thank You, India<span style="font-style: italic;">Today on my Facebook status updates, I saw my cousin's birthday show up. He passed away in late March, 2010, so it gave me a jolt. When I went to his wall, I saw that the last post on his wall was from me last year wishing him a Happy Birthday . . .<br /><br />In loving memory of my cousin, Mukesh Bhaiya . . . .<br /><br />(This post was originally published on April 1, 2010.)<br /><br />**********************************************************************<br /></span><br />A few weeks ago, my family (in the United States) got word from my family (in India) that something terrible had happened.<br /><br />A cousin of mine, whom I call, Mukesh <span style="font-style: italic;">Bhaiya (Bhaiya means brother)</span>, had passed away.<br /><br />His death was a tragic one. He was a cameraman for a news crew and on the way back from an assignment, the car which he was traveling in (along with a reporter and driver) was in a terrible, <a href="http://www.orissadiary.com/Shownews.asp?id=17102">terrible accident.</a><br /><br />He left behind a wife and a one year old son.<br /><br />Two weeks later, my parents called me to tell me that another uncle of mine in India had also passed away.<br /><a href="http://masalachica.blogspot.com/2010/03/repost-story.html"><br /></a><a href="http://masalachica.blogspot.com/2010/03/repost-story.html">My parents did not cry as they told me the news on the phone. But I could tell that they were devastated by the loss. The distance. The memories.</a><br /><br />I didn't cry either.<br /><br />Not because I'm not sad. <span style="font-style: italic;">I am terribly, terribly sad.</span><br /><br />It's more because I<span style="font-style: italic;"> don't feel like I have the right to cry.</span><br /><br />In many ways, I feel like I have let my family in India down.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Actually, it's not something I feel, it's something I know.</span><br /><br />I have cousins I have not seen in years. However, some of my happiest childhood memories were spent with them during my summers in India.<br /><br />I have aunts and uncles who I ran to with open arms as a child, who showered me with love and candy and sunshine and laughter.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">But I can't remember their faces anymore.</span><br /><br />I have family in India, who don't have "much" if you just consider possessions. My family is from the Northern villages of the state of Bihar, which is known to be one of the poorest areas of India.<br /><br />Which, I guess you can imagine, says something.<br /><br />However, they would give you the shirt off their backs if you went into their homes. They would feed you food that would not be easy to afford for them, but they would do it with joy and love and complete and utter affection.<br /><br />Even if it meant they might have to go without something later that week, to give you something they could be proud of today.<br /><br />My sister, her husband and my niece recently came back from a trip to India. They had a whirlwind trip, but they made an effort to see ALL of the family, which means a whole lot of travel and a lot more hecticness.<br /><br />But my sister thought it was important. She wanted to make the time.<br /><br />To make the effort.<br /><br />As she told me about how everyone was, emotions swept through me and clenched my heart tighter than I knew possible. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />How was Lal Didi?</span> I asked. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Did you get a chance to see Hema and Reshma? Did you see Mala? Are they still as beautiful as I remember?</span> The tears had started to fall.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">What about Nidhi? Is she going to college? She was always so smart!</span><br /><br />My sister answered all of my questions. I could tell how much the trip had meant to her too. She answered as I asked about everyone I could think of. <span style="font-style: italic;">What were their children like? Were they happy?</span><br /><br />She told me that she had never laughed harder. That she forgot how much joy our family had in them.<br /><br />That she laughed and laughed and they laughed and laughed and she will never, ever forget that sound of their laughter.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I have never forgotten the sound of their laughter.</span><br /><br />My children will know where my parents come from. They will know their distant aunts and uncles. Maybe not today, but I have to do this, not just for me, but for them.<br /><br />They will understand the opportunities that they have. That perhaps their own cousins have never had.<br /><br />They will understand what it means to have plentiful food, heat and air conditioning.<br /><br />They will understand what it means to love with such openness and joy that it could make your heart break.<br /><br />I can't wait to take them to India. It is one of the strongest legacies I can give them.<br /><br />To my family in India - you may be far, but I will never, ever forget you.<br /><br />You are a part of me. You are a part of my children.<br /><br />I am humbled. And I <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">will </span>see you soon.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Thank you.</span><br /><br />Namaste,<br />KiranMasala Chicahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04713762033892464889noreply@blogger.com5