we won't cry, because it could be fun

Well, I make a lot of mistakes, but somehow, I find a way to make my blunders tolerable. It is probably because of the plentiful opportunities I have to practice making lemonade from lemons (one of my mistakes was telling someone last week "to make lemon from lemonade"- I just had to own my stupidity on that one). Here are two examples from this weekend:

Mistake #1: buying blood orange juice from Trader Joe's
What went wrong: false assumption that, even though I only drink fresh-squeezed orange juice, everything at Trader Joe's tastes good.
Corrective action: mixing equal parts of Diet 7Up & TJ's blood orange juice makes a refreshing, Aranciata-like beverage.

Mistake #2: thinking I could make a sweater that fit perfectly.
What went wrong: overestimation of talents and blind ignorance of obvious size issues that resulted in a sweater that would be great if my arms were actual tree trunks.
Corrective action: rip apart sweater by pieces to start again with a better plan, make completely indulgent, small item to keep myself from falling into a rage:

Even though I seem to be on a soapbox lately proclaiming that I am not very girly, it's clear that I have certain domestic inclinations. And that I like a pair of socks with just a little percentage of cashmere in them. Thoroughly impractical, but that is exactly what makes them indulgent. I've also restarted kitchen experimentations, but will have to wait until tonight to see if those efforts turn out to be time well spent or not.

There has also been a bit of a Gift of The Magi incident up in this joint. Due to my grandfather's pleas, I booked a flight to Texas for the holidays. I was feeling pretty fine about that decision until my parents informed me yesterday that my grandfather is visiting EBF starting December 24th. When I called my grandfather this morning to confirm, he whined, "Well, you said you wouldn't be able to come anyways." Not true, but the gramps could not be bothered with details. Technically, it's not really that Gift of the Magi, since my grandfather is not flying to San Francisco or anything. But it remains a massive blunder. I have a few options and I am not sure which I will take:

• go with the original plan, spend 3 days in H-town, followed by 3 days in Austin, followed by 2 days in H-town. (this works out to spending about 1.5 days with the grandparents)
  
• spend 1 day in H-town, spending extra days with the grandparents in Austin instead, go back to H-town right after Christmas (or even on Christmas Eve).
  
• cancel trip altogether.

A part of me is really tempted to go with the last option. If my entire initial impulse to go was to visit the grandparents, and they plan to be out the door upon my arrival, perhaps it is better to put the whole thing off until another time. I am hoping to talk to my H-town connection K about it tonight, because I also don't know how tricky it is going to be for me to get from Houston to Austin. Holidays. It seems I really have a knack for complicating them.

Oh also, can I just mention one thing that annoys me? I don't understand one of my friends, who consistently calls on Sunday evenings. Almost every Sunday of late, she says she is just calling to see what is up. But why on a Sunday then? Why not call on a Friday, or better yet, meet up for a drink? Sundays are my evenings to unwind, to talk myself into going to work the next day, to make a pair of cashmere socks. Sundays are not my evening to get a phone call at 10:45 at night to recap the weekend for whatever purpose that might serve. This same friend also tried to whip me into a lather about SC- sometimes I think women are the worst people on earth to consult about men. And actually, I did not even consult her about it- I simply related the hilarity of my behavior in the situation. That was enough for her to start talking about where he could take me hiking. So maybe I am just a little hostile to her about that. But I think it's mostly the Sunday night thing, because it is so wickety wack.

lifetimes are catching up with me

Last night, MM and I went to Market Bar in the Ferry Building. I had hoped to take her to the Ferry Building to indulge in a little window shopping- the place is teeming with ridiculously expensive pastries, cheeses, wines, mushrooms, and JI had told me that on Thursday evenings, they usually hold a farmer's market with all sorts of overpriced and exotic produce. By the time we got there, near 7, the place was empty, most of the stores were closed, and there was no farmer's market to be found anywhere. There was also an event of some sort going on, so Market Bar was deserted.

The food was just what I wanted- everything tasted so good; even my responsible side dish of wilted spinach was delicious. MM even ordered a Kumquat Soda (wtf?!? I didn't even know what a kumquat should taste like) that turned out to be so tasty that I am considering hunting around for it in the local markets. And because I rarely see MM, and she had dropped the news that she was 7 months pregnant, we both turned a completely blind eye to the exorbitant cost of dining there, absorbed instead in catching up with each other's lives.

MM and I diverged somewhere along the way and wound up on completely different trajectories. And it is nice to know that, even when that happens, it is possible for two people to respect each other's choices and to be genuinely happy for each other. That sounds so obvious and so simple, but it is interesting how rarely friendships unfold in that manner.

It turns out we had not seen each other since February. That did not seem that long ago, not even a full year. Yet when we got down to the business of recounting what had transpired for each of us since then, it was rather overwhelming. We kept pausing and then saying, "Oh, and I don't think I told you this either."

I am not sure if it is evident from these daily ramblings, but I was on lockdown for quite some time, years. I had my nose to the grindstone, head to the stars. But as I started thinking of what has happened to me in the past year, I realized that this has really been a period of coming out of my cage, and I've been doing just fine. I am a little surprised at it, because I am still largely preoccupied by The Goal. So much remains uncertain and unclear. But I think at some now-unidentifiable point, I simply snapped and thought f*** it. Or perhaps it was not active. Perhaps it just happened to me. Certainly, a series of unpredictable events have occurred since the last time I saw MM. But I am not sure how much of it was just a bizarre alignment of the fates, and how much of it was what I allowed into my life. I have been just busy enough not to have the time to scrutinize and tease out such nuances- or maybe I have kept myself busy enough.

Just to make life even more unstable and uncertain, that job that got dangled in front of me? The fools are throwing a full-court press at me now. This is a really difficult call, and I am trying to be as level about it as I can. I have told the hiring manager that it is a tough call for me now. This current job is mind numbing and the suck but it's not killing me at the moment, and I plan to hand them my resignation as soon as they hand me my bonus. On the other hand, if I take the new job, it would be interesting work, but intense, would involve a lot of travel, and would mean that I would have to stay in Corporate America all the way to the summer, cutting into plans for a period of rest before embarking on the culmination of The Goal. Now I know why I struggled so much in multivariate calculus.

And let me leave you with more tales of 12-year old behavior:

Co-worker GBF: (looking out the window) Hey look, it's your favorite guy.
me: I have a favorite guy? Where?
CWGBF: There. (pointing at speck in distance in window)
me: Who is that?
CWGBF: SC.
me: Shut up!

Don't get me wrong- I can't think of a better way to end the week than sliding into pre-adolescent conversation.

still building and burning down love

Last night, driving to the gym, I caught U2 performing on KFOG's Live from the Archives. Even though radio stations around here generally stink, I still prefer the radio to anything else when I am driving. Something about the unpredictability of it and my short-attention span channel-changing appeals to me when I am on the road. When I used to drive from New Jersey to EBF, a 5-6 hour drive, I would pass through some patches where the only radio stations were country, but that just helped me to mark the distance I was passing, bringing me closer to my destination.

When I first caught U2 on KFOG, they were playing Mysterious Ways. Not my favorite song, but since I called a moratorium on Achtung Baby for a long while, it was nice to hear it after all these years. The line if you want to kiss the sky, better learn how to kneel never fails to evacuate the air from my lungs for a nanosecond. Next came All I Want is You, and I could not believe my luck (though I could not stop myself from considering the tragedy that the first time that song was used for dramatic purposes, it was in such a mediocre film). Bono might be a bombastic jacka$$, but the dude could write a song back in the day.

In the parking lot of the gym, just as I was pulling into a space, my heart just stopped. It only took about two seconds of a guitar intro to do me in. There was nothing to do but sit there in the darkness, listening. I have heard the song a million times. And yet, I may as well have been glued to the driver's seat.

if you twist and turn away
if you tear yourself in two again

And that is really all it took. Just a little guitar and two lines of a song, and I was floored. I cannot explain it properly, of course. The song is supposedly about drug addiction, and I have never struggled with that and have never known anyone struggling with that. As usual, I have probably completely misappropriated it for some other purpose. The problem is, I cannot even place it to a single person, a single event, a single anything. It is not a memory so much as a feeling. And I sit there in the darkness with it, trying to breathe, stunned by how this song still gets to me.

It was nothing a flailing run could not fix, but if I am being perfectly honest, I love feeling that way. One of the reasons I am so fond of music is that it can be that powerful, that it can stop you from all the banalities of the day and command your attention. And even though I have nothing specifically for which to feel melancholy, I must admit that a good dip into a pool of bad memories is sometimes just what I need. Because they are not really bad memories, they are bad feelings. And I prefer feeling sad over feeling numb.

Of course, I will take feeling happy over both. And that is just what I will be when I see my friend MM tonight, one of two friends I have retained from my university years. A week ago, when she told me she was going to be in town again and urged me to meet her for dinner, she casually included the news that she is 7 months pregnant. Difficult to fathom that a girl that once burst into tears because she thought two guys were cheating against us at a game of Euchre will be a mother in just a few months.

forgive me for forgetting

Sorry that my posts this week will probably be revolving around grandparents, but it is far better than the other things I might whine or rant about. My grandfather and I talked last night. We usually have this standard routine when we talk: he asks me when I am coming to visit him, I respond with a vague "we'll see" in Gujarati, he makes a "hmmmppph" disapproving grunt, and it is left at that. I know that the "we'll see" thing sounds noncommittal and unsatisfying, but it is actually a family tradition. Our whole family generally responds with "we'll see." In some ways, it is a sign of adulthood. Growing up, I was always on the receiving end of the "we'll see." Can we go to the zoo next week? "We'll see." Can I have a Rubik's Cube for Christmas? "We'll see." Can I get a Cabbage Patch Kid? "Hell to the No." Okay, so I didn't always get "we'll see." But in general, in my family, you get a no or a maybe. There is no getting to yes.

Maybe it's because we take yes very seriously. Or maybe it's just because we are a bunch of fools. Either way, as aggravating as it might sometimes be, we have all gotten used to the response. So, I was taken aback when my grandfather's reaction strayed from our established script. He burst out, "So you're not coming for Christmas?" with such disappointment that it was jarring for a moment. I assured him that nothing had been decided. That was not satisfactory. Next, I tried misdirection, and pointed out that the bro-seph was a firm no. This just seemed to make my grandfather sad, so I decided I had better stop, telling him I would try.

In all honesty, I was frustrated with the conversation because it uncovered how much my command of Gujarati is constantly deteriorating. While I understand it without any difficult, my spoken Gujarati must be like nails against a chalkboard for my grandparents. They are, of course, extremely understanding because:

• When I was nearly 3 years old, I went to India, and left speaking pitch-perfect Gujarati. When my father picked me up at the airport, he asked me questions in English, and I kept replying in Gujarati. Even though that should be ancient history, it somehow secured my grandparents' favor.
  
• If you give me enough time, I slip back into a closer semblance of fluency, and my grandparents know this.
  
• I try to speak to them in Gujarati, which is a rarity amongst their American-born grandchildren.
  
• I am also the only American-born grandchild who learned to write in Gujarati, so they have misplaced faith that I will one day regain full fluency.
  
• They are my grandparents, and they have no other choice.

Probably the most comical part of my language issues is that, occasionally, I throw Spanish into the mix by mistake. My grandfather speaks English, and my grandmother understands basic English. But neither of them knows a word of Spanish. So when I start babbling in Gujarati and pick up real speed, I inadvertently drop in a Spanish word, and confusion ensues. Likewise, when I went to Peru, every so often, when I was finally feeling confident that I could converse with a local in Spanish, a Gujarati word would find its way out of my mouth, and a perplexed que??? would follow.

Anyway, I guess I have to hunt down some flights now. I am actually going to try to hit two cities in Texas in one trip: H-town and Austin. Oh, and I have to get a ticket to Cleveland for January. I really know how to pick my destinations, don't you think?

going back to my own ones

Even though I am not a religious person, I guess I have a sense of faith. It comes at moments like this. It came to me young, when I realized my immediate family was never going to be idyllic. Just as I realized that my little family unit was never going to live in perfect harmony, a large segment of my family swept into my life and filled the void.

When you have that many people genuinely vested in your well-being, you can feel it, and you know that ultimately you will be okay. My extended family lets me down all the time- they do not understand me, they have that special knack that family has of saying exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time, and my, are they demanding. But I cannot hold it against them for long, for two reasons. First, they love me, and in a way that no one else ever will. Second, every so often, one of them comes through, and always in such a spectacular fashion that I feel like I am going to burst.

My cousin A emailed me yesterday pleading with me to come visit for the holidays. I was resolved to begin a traveling embargo that would not be lifted until 2007. But a constellation of symptoms has me reconsidering. There is the email from A, which had his signature sweetness dripping in every word. But there was also, last night, a voicemail from my grandfather. My grandfather has been calling me a lot lately, and this is not a good thing. He has been lonely and generally unhappy of late.

And something about listening to his voice last night on the answering machine calmed me down from the unsteadiness and annoyance I had been experiencing intermittently the past few months. Co-worker GBF noted yesterday that everyone wants a piece of me. That is not really true- as I have mentioned before, co-worker GBF is prone to exaggeration. But I have been feeling pulled, I have been feeling unable to meet the demands that people have been making of me.

You would think that my family pulling at me would just exacerbate that feeling, but it did not. It snapped it all into focus. It made everyone else's expectations all the more impossible and yet so much less troubling. I cannot meet everyone's expectations. I cannot even meet my family's expectations most of the times. The difference is that my family's demands are easy to handle; even if I disappoint them or let them down, we will still be family, we will still be bound.

I sometimes think it is easier for me to let go of friendships because of my relationship with my extended family. Even though I value my close friends immensely, and in some ways am closer to them than my family, I do not do much in the way of striving to mend a broken friendship or to tolerate the drama that comes with some friendships. And I am fairly certain it is because I am spoiled, incredibly spoiled by my family.

Even though I know this betrays a lot of shortcomings, for some reason, it makes me feel quite a bit better about life. I was getting to the point of feeling universally reviled, so just now, it's good to hear a message from your grandfather scolding you for not calling him, scolding you in that loving way that only grandparents can. For all its flaws, which he knows all too well, my presence is wanted. And actually, with all its flaws, my presence is wanted. Maybe that is what makes his voice enough at such a moment.

it ain't me babe

Even though I was all set to start off the week with a hissy fit about how I do not understand women, and how I've come up with a new rule (the rule is- if I'm not getting any action from you, I am not putting myself on the receiving end of histrionics, drama, or pissiness), this morning a metaphorical bucket of water was thrown into my face.

I had brashly prophesized in September that the clowns were on their way, that there was undoubtedly one in my future. What I failed to realize, of course, is that I am, in fact, the clown.

It dawned on me this morning in terms of equilibrium. Every system has a point of equilibrium, but that equilibrium is not consistent or uniform. It is not smack in the middle, sitting on the fence. It's just innate- a point of comfort, a point you reach after the backwards and forwards of life shifts you from one extreme to the other. You reach an equilibrium point that is your center, not the center, if that makes any sense. It is the point where you are you, and things make sense, and you can get through the day without feeling in some excitable transition state.

People have frequently asked me why I am single. It is a question which always irked me, because, to me, it seems like asking, "Why do you have black hair?" But maybe that's just it. Being alone is my equilibrium, my natural state. I have good evidence to back this up. I'm never more neurotic, insane, unsteady, uncomfortable than when I am trying to navigate sharing a space for a minute or two. And even though I get thrown a few right hooks from time to time, I manage to feel mostly grounded when I am by myself.

I have been in equilibrium for so long that it is no wonder that the thought of shifting into unsteadiness fills me with dread. Molecules can exist on their own peacefully, but they can also find a state of equilibrium when combined. The problem is that you have to knock the individual molecule out of its comfort zone to get it to that next point of stability. This is particularly difficult because a molecule does not know what lies ahead. It does not know that there may be another trough ahead- all it sees is the upward climb of anxious energy. One has to take it on faith that something calm may lie ahead, but there is no guarantee.

So I hold that lack of faith directly responsible for my behavior this morning, when I boarded an elevator with SC and acted like a 15-year old, making small talk and shifting my eyes nervously to get out of the situation as quickly as possible. This is after getting about five different lectures from friends, strictly instructing me to be friendly to SC the next time I see him, because he is a nice guy. And as a nice guy, he deserved an olive branch, a flag wave that signalled that he could proceed without fear. But I just could not do it. The fact is- he should tread lightly, he should be cautious, he should be afraid.

stranded at the drive-in

I am marooned at the airport, but it has been kind of a surreal day. When you find yourself deep in conversation with a Mormon kid who dropped out of college to have a daughter, you have to think you might be bent. But next best, I talked to a woman who had anger management problems in high school and had to be sent to a separate school as a result. That's when I started to wonder if it's just th way people relate to me. The comfort of invisibility is that people feel bizarrely fine with sharing personal details with you.

SP says I am a fake, because I carry myself like I am a working class stiff, but don't get paid like one. But old habits die hard. And one of the advantages of my childhood in EBF is that I figure out ways to find common ground with unexpected people. Of course, one of the disadvantages is that I don't relate to people who should be considered my peers.

Anyway, I am just babbling because I will probably be at the airport for hours. When I tell you where I was, some people are going to think less of me. I should have attempted to see them, but time won't give me time these days.

are you for real or are you bluffing?

Brooklyn Brown's post on movies today started me thinking about one of the most nefarious aspects of good movies. Yes, there is a dark side, an underbelly to fine film fare. And here it is: a well-crafted film can trick you into thinking actors have talent that they do not actually possess. You may think this is a side effect of a good script or a good director. But it is a serious problem. Because I have wasted hours watching those actors in other movies, hoping that they will live up to the glimpse of greatness I caught in them once. Here are my examples:

• Front and center, and by far the most egregious example is Out of Sight. This immensely watchable movie is responsible for duping me into believing that Jennifer Lopez has the makings of an actress. Pretty much every movie she has subsequently made proved that belief to be completely misplaced.
  
  
• Since I swore off the new Star Wars movies until the very last installment came out (and even that, I only endured on television), I went into Shattered Glass with an open mind. It had two actors I am especially fond of- Peter Sarsgaard and Steve Zahn. However, the main role was played by none other than Hayden Christensen. I know you are probably wondering how I managed to sit through an entire movie that revolved around him, but he was perfectly cast in it. He was the perfect whiny, entitled b*tch who had no concept of telling right from wrong. It took viewings of Life as a House and the Star Wars movies to realize he may not have been acting.
  
  
• Richard Linklater owes me a lot of money. See, he made this fantastic movie a while back. No, not that one. I'm talking about Dazed & Confused. Endless supply of quotes perfect sense of time and place, oh, nostalgia. Problem? The introduction of one Matthew McConaughey. He played a lovable sleaze who trolled around trying to relive his high school days and hit on teenagers. McConaughey really pulled a great snow job, because the next time I saw him, he had popped up in a John Sayles' film- Lone Star. He was only in it for about 10 minutes, which is probably why I didn't realize he was soon to become an unwashed generic actor. That was a big disappointment.

I know you all can probably come up with even better ones. These are just the ones that led to viewings of particularly horrible movies.

In other news, do you know that you can download a free Lily Allen song from iTunes this week? You really should indulge- infectious little Smile has been just the thing to keep me from losing my mind today.

blowing every time you move your teeth

This probably makes me the odd one out, but I really do not feel like writing much about the elections. The media frenzy makes me a bit ill. Here is what I do have to say about it:

• JP, last night over dinner, asked, "That Vangelis, did he beat Schwarzenegger?" I think it took me at least two minutes to stop laughing about that one.
  
  
• Even though Clinton was all over the television with the thoroughly stupid slogan, "if Brazil can do it, so can California" regarding Prop 87, it failed to pass. Initially, I thought if you were going to be silly enough to go with this tagline, it should be "even Brazil can do it." But now, I guess it ought to be: "even though Brazil can do it, we still can't." It is really disappointing that the proposition did not pass in California, though I suppose I should not be surprised when the governor drives a Hummer.

I do not think I should write anything about the national results. I have my opinions, but outlining them would mean getting ridiculously high and mighty about things I only barely understand. The days of getting really excited about any outcomes have left me behind. The federal government is currently a massive morass, and I remain skeptical as to how a changing of the guard is going to miraculously transform that. What's more, this seems like something that happens at work. Someone b*tches about how badly a project is going, they are handed over authority on the project, but the project is already so FUBAR that it's nearly impossible to turn the tide. And guess who gets blamed? The person last in charge.

Lucky for me, I did not watch the results trickle in for very long because a) watching the media try to analyze the public is always infuriating and b) JP and I had plans to go out to dinner. Even more fortunate for me, he picked Tokyo Go-Go. And let me tell you this: one cup of hot sake + one vodka tonic + unusually adventurous rolls of sushi (asparagus, avocado, salmon and lemon?!?) + really neat light fixtures + seeing JP after nearly 2 months equals one happy customer. JP totally does not believe that I am capable of anything radical, so when I unveiled to him my plan for what happens if The Goal fizzles, he gave me that patient, tolerating look that indicates no confidence. All the same, as predicted, he did take pity on me and invite me to Thanksgiving dinner at his friend's house. Yes, I am a pathetic leech.

We walked home, and it was a perfect San Francisco evening. I have to say that I feel most San Franciscan when walking around the Mission with JP. We are always a little buzzed, he always runs into people he knows, and the Mission has the grit of reality obscuring any glaring evidence of gentrification. This particular evening was even more San Franciscan. Hints of fog that never really materialized wafted around us. The moon was large and glowing, but every so often clouds would lick it, blur it, dim its light. You leave a loud and warm restaurant into the cool evening and it does not matter that you are in the heart of the Mission: you have to inhale deeply. You have to drink the night. You have to drink it all in, because if you live in San Francisco, you know that more likely than not, it is not a permanent gig. You close your eyes and capture it like you are snapping a picture. I walked the last two blocks home alone, thinking with amusement that what I cherish most about San Francisco is what most people consider the least aesthetically pleasing.

it's okay, I know nothing's wrong

Whereas in September and October I was rather enthusiastic about crossing the country repeatedly, I have lost the will to get onto an airplane. Silly really, because this time, I am just landing in the middle, half the distance at most. But somehow it feels more daunting. And not just because my bank statements of late look alarming compared to usual.

I know for certain that I am not going anywhere for Thanksgiving. Sometimes, this time of year, I make plans to go visit family, and spend my Thanksgiving taking requests in absurdly spacious kitchens in Texas, while mamas give me lectures about getting hitched. This year, I am crossing my fingers that the original G, JP, will tolerate my presence at his table. Last year, after he cooked a mouthwatering meal at Thanksgiving, I further coerced him into hosting Christmas dinner at his house, because his place is the Breakers to my cardboard box.

It feels a bit like I am begging for my supper. Then I must remind myself that I create these situations of solitude. They are all of my own making. My parents would have liked me to go back to EBF, the rest of my family would welcome me in Bush country. It is my choice to stay here. But during the holidays, everyone scatters back to the places they call home. And what's more is that I get these idiotic visions of what I want the holidays to be. I somehow wind up buying into the whole turkey, pumpkin pie, watching some lousy movie notion of what Thanksgiving ought to be.

I am whining about all of this now, but I know I am actually quite fortunate. More likely than not, JP will take pity on me, and he will cobble together a strange bunch of foreigners, locals, and maniacs. He will forgive me for not meeting him in Madrid last month. He will say, "You are ess-stupid. I don't like you." And I will apologize profusely. He will then deliver an unintelligible lecture about how I need to "just shine" (seriously, he's done it before and I still haven't figured out what he is talking about). And finally, he will threaten to force me to do a line of cocaine, while I shake my head at him. Hey, I never said he was perfect.

Speaking of JP, I am supposed to meet him for dinner tonight, and made a typical miscalculation today at lunch. I could not resist the call of the burrito. Oh, will I be sorry tonight, because JP almost always suggests that we hit his favorite tacqueria. Two burritos in one day- I might be heading to the ER by this evening.

Can I ask you all a Guju question? Here is the thing. I have been doing a lot of traveling lately, and I am starting to feel like I am hemorrhaging money as well as vacation time. I am not sure if I should indulge in a splurge or not. I have to choose between this place and this one. The problem here is that one is $110 more expensive than the other. If I posed this dilemma to the broseph, he would undoubtedly respond with his signature, "you're worth it." But frankly, I am not sure I am worth it. And I am also worried that I am becoming some pampered wuss who cannot handle one night in a lousy hotel room. But then comes the other factor- I have to don a suit the next morning and look professional, so it would behoove me to be well-rested. I don't know. Help me, people, I'm holding out for a hero.

my feet don't touch the ground

Though I do not often remember dreams, I know that I have many that fit into the same basic theme. I had such a dream this weekend, more than once. In the dream, I am running. I am not running from anything. I am not being chased. I am just running. And in the dream, when I am running, my legs are moving in perfect rhythm, and I feel no fatigue. I do not have to catch my breath. And often during the dream, I am running with such ease that, quite naturally, my stride gets paced such that I am actually leaping from one step to the next. Eventually, each leap is actually a bound, and I am taking flight. I can feel the sensation of soaring. It is not frightening. In fact, I feel a bit giddy.

In my waking life, I am a crap runner. Actually, let me rephrase- I am a crap jogger. I doubt what I do on a treadmill would be considered running by any true runner's standards. And in my waking life, I rather loathe running. Since I have allergies and lousy lung capacity (and also because I have no concept of how to establish and maintain a pace), I have to run indoors. And at most, I run 2.5 miles when I am at the gym. During those 2.5 miles, at least 2.3 miles are spent trying to talk myself out of stopping. The other 0.2 miles are spent walking.

But- when I finish running, when I descend from the treadmill with my legs feeling like rubber, when I splash off the sweat from my face, when I leave the humid air of the gym for the cool fog of the evening air, I do attain a strange sense of peace. It is good evidence of my stupidity that I cannot seem to hold on to this feeling, that I cannot seem to remember it. I spend the hour before I am supposed to head out to the gym inventing excuses to squirm out of it. And I am miserable for most of the run. Yet, every time, at the end, the tranquility washes over me. Every time, and still the cycle always proceeds in this manner.

Maybe the dream represents what I want to have, but do not. Maybe the dream represents what I think I can achieve, but actually can not. Maybe it has nothing to do with running whatsoever. To tell you the truth, I do not spend too much time thinking about this dream, because it is not at all jarring. It is an exuberant dream filled with potency and possibility that only exists in dreams. Maybe it is just my brain's way of coaxing myself into believing, contrary to the data stacking up against believing.

Or maybe this is just what happens when you feel a little ill, and make really foolish decisions, like taking a dose of NyQuil after three vodka tonics. Yeah, apparently I lose my scientific reasoning abilities at 1:30 in the morning on the weekend. It has been over 24 hours, and I still feel groggy and disoriented- which is why I will put off gushing about Chai's bachelorette extravaganza until tomorrow.

if the fates allow

I am a little surprised that no one was horrified that I conjure up images of Keanu Reeves in my head to calm myself down. But, because I cannot seem to stop talking about the morbid movie I saw on Wednesday, I have to share this next bit. Co-worker GBF called me the next morning to commiserate on how damaged we were from the film and he confessed this: "Listen, if you tell anyone this, I will deny it and tell everyone you are on prescription pain meds, but do you know what I had to do to fall asleep on Wednesday night? I had to listen to Amy Grant's Christmas Collection." Come on, that sh*t is funny.

After the GBF's admission, I have been indulging in more holiday kool-aid than is appropriate for this time of year. It is not even Thanksgiving yet, and I have become irrationally distracted by thoughts of Christmas (which is even stranger when you note that I have no religious connection to the holiday at all). Most of this revolves around baking, I think. Unlike last year, this year I want to avoid the mad scramble by having a plan. But it means I need some time to myself to catch my breath. And that does not look like it is going to happen for a bit.

That is fine as well. I have noticed that often I am devising some game plan subconsciously. In the back of my head, little daydreams allow me to think about things, things that will need to be more tangible and defined some day, but not today. Even some larger realizations just push themselves forward from the back of the crowd. My brain forces it front and center as if to say, look what I figured out while you were determining how to renew your vehicle registration.

The only important aspect, I suppose, is to take that moment to recognize what has been sussed. I definitely figured something out today, and though it does not need words, it does need time to take more form. The trick is keeping it inside my head, so that the realization does not slip away like sand through fingers.

Rundown and grumpy, I had maisnon for company last night, much to her misfortune. I am sad to report that I was really no fun at all. All I could offer up was Borat being interviewed by Jon Stewart. Even though I had very little to do with that, it was sidesplitting entertainment. Someone needs to explain Sacha Baron Cohen's new fascination with poking fun at Madonna. I feel like there is some backstory I am missing, given that Ali G appeared in one of Madonna's videos before Cohen had much of a following.

Tomorrow- it's Chai time.

tamper if you like between the doors

My friend RR is one of those office comrades that makes it possible for you to get through your work week without burning the building down. He is a partner-in-crime. If you took away all hints of romantic chemistry or tension from Jim & Pam on The Office, you would have something resembling me & RR. He's also the master of the one-liner. For example:

me: What are the clinical signs of diabetes?
TY: Why do you want to know?
me: I got a headache the other day when I ate too much sugar. I think I might be developing diabetes.
RR: I think you might be developing hypochondria.

For the past two days, I have been more shaken up than I would care to admit, just by virtue of having watched The Bridge. It is too much of a visual assault. I have not slept well the past two evenings because the disturbing images of people hurtling themselves off one of the most beautiful bridges in this country were too fresh in my head. Every time I closed my eyes, there they were. The whole film was too geographically close. And so much else about it was too close.

The first night, I finally cajoled myself to sleep by replacing the vision in my head to Keanu Reeves. Yes, you read that right. It is embarassing, but he was the only person I could think of that had absolutely no complexity, no nuance, no trace of anything but serenity. People that are too cheerful are scary; people that have a palpable dark side are too real.

Last night, I received an email from RR. His wife had gone in for an emergency c-section. They had a premature baby boy, and his email perfectly captured how uncertain he was about how the baby was going to fare. Focusing on hope was a better way to end my evening than the previous night. I went to bed with fingers crossed, hoping the baby was going to be okay. I had to fight off all the awful scenarios of bad outcomes, but it was still better to think of a little life fighting for its first breaths than it was to ponder a life that was unnecessarily discarded. And so far, it appears that the baby is going to be okay.

But I, for once, am not comfortable here in the extremes. My head throbs from the thoughts surrounding births and deaths. I want to turn my attention back to the simple act of living each day, each week, each month, each year. I need to make lists and plans. And I will.

like a good book, I can't put this day back

Dudes, I have to tell you that Ashvin deserves a big round of applause today. He saved you from me writing a disjointed post describing how disturbed I was by The Bridge, or from having to read more about my tendency towards irrational flight from good situations. I've been tagged on the book meme that's been circulating.

One book that changed your life-

This is weird, because one of the books that changed my life was a book I never actually read: Out of My Life and Thought by Albert Schweitzer. But that is a story for another time. A book I have read that changed my life was Beneath the Wheel by Herman Hesse. It was one of the first books I read as a teenager that was non-required, non-fantastic, and absorbing. While I could get lost in C.S Lewis, Frank L. Baum, and Judy Blume books, there was never much danger of me identifying with a troubled character. On the other hand, I got thoroughly lost in Beneath The Wheel. It was the first time the predicament of the character put my brain into overdrive, or that words from the book would rush back into my head over and over.

One book you have read more than once-

It’s hard for me to pick one, because I develop deranged attachment to certain books. I went through a phase during which I read The Little Prince frequently (and yes, I was an adult at the time). In college, I went through a The Sun Also Rises phase, which shows you that I was prone to misguided dramatics back then. But when I am really looking to retread familiar steps, I read Bellow. For a while, it was Theft, but I think that is because it is a novella and therefore a quick read. The one that stands the test of time is Henderson the Rain King by far. When I am feeling unsteady, I can read that book, flawed as it is, imperfect as its hero is, and suddenly know that everything is going to be just fine.

One book you would want on a desert island-

A 1000-page blank moleskin.

One book that made you cry-

The Kite Runner. And not in a good way. More like- here, let’s club some baby seals to death, how are you going to stop the waterworks now? I call this the Terms of Endearment technique. It doesn’t earn the sucker punch it delivers, but I don’t know anyone who managed to get through it without their eyeballs sweating.

One book that made you laugh-

Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris. On an airplane. In general, it is folly to read Sedaris in public, confined places, unless you do not mind being regarded as a potential lunatic.

One book you wish had been written-

I wish J (formerly of minerva26 fame) would write a book, as I feel certain that it would make me laugh while also capturing her inimitable insights. And it would fill the void in my heart from her departure from the blogosphere. Since I feel certain she spanked her qualifying exams, I am hopeful that the world will be blessed with a book by her at some point. I wouldn’t mind if my cousin K followed suit. It must be something about Houstonians.

One book you wish had never been written-

The Da Vinci Code so that I could have lived out my last several years peacefully, without everyone and their brother asking me if I had read it, or telling me that I have to read it. And before anyone asks, no, I still have not read it, and have no plans to at any point in the future. Let’s never speak of it again, agreed?

One book you are currently reading-

Sarah Vowell’s Assassination Vacation. Picked it up in an airport bookstore. If anyone can get me to read about Presidents McKinley or Garfield, it’s Vowell.

One book you have been meaning to read-

It is embarrassing that I have not read Paul Farmer’s Pathologies of Power yet. I bought it over a year ago, but I never mustered up the required energy to pick it up. I have this problem with substantive, non-fiction books. It might be because I quench my thirst for that sort of reading by perusing journals. However, Farmer’s work is impressive, and I believe the book is probably quite enlightening. Now, I just need to strong arm myself into opening it.

I think everyone’s been tagged already. I want to know how SJM would answer, but I know he can’t post a non-vitriolic entry on his blog. But hey, dude, there’s always email. I’ve already forced Abhi to fill out a meme once, so it would probably be pushing my luck to tag him. I’d like to tag Saheli, since she’s always sending over book recommendations. And I would tag V because she has not posted for a while and her blog has an Annie Dillard quote on it.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to conjure up mental images of Gael Garcia Bernal and Borat to distract me from the visuals in The Bridge. Bunnies and unicorns just aren’t going to cut it.

more than any ghoul could ever dare try

Tonight, co-worker GBF, knowing I am an utter grinch about Halloween, suggested we go see The Bridge, which should be fairly disturbing. It's not necessarily scary, but a documentary about suicides is definitely spooky.

I cannot figure out if my sympathetic and parasympathetic systems are pulling Freaky Fridays on me, or if my sympathetic system just chooses poorly. As most of you know, the parasympathetic nervous system encourages your body's rest and digest function. And I'm sure you also know that the sympathetic nervous system triggers the fight or flight response.

Conflict or strife seems to encourage my parasympathetic side. I grow weary, I want to sleep. Meltdowns are met with calm. Temper tantrums do not raise my heart rate. I'm all about diffusing a bomb.

But put me in front of a perfectly well-adjusted person who is sincere and kind, and my first instinct is to run as quickly as my legs can carry me. I cannot figure it out. Technically, it is just a case of bad decisions. The sympathetic response pumps the adrenaline and whatnot, but it gives you a choice: fight or flee. I have to learn to take a breath and clench a fist, instead of preparing for wind sprints.

It seems right to discuss this on Halloween, because to some extent, fear must be pushing me towards flight. On Friday, co-worker GBF orchestrated a situation that wound up somewhere completely off the reservation. He suggested meeting up for drinks. I was asked as GBF's sidekick; we were to be chaperones for a set-up. For the record, this GBF's set-up skills are really suspect.

Nothing seemed to happen according to plan on Friday night. GBF was running late, so he dispatched me to the bar, so as not to leave JI & SC without nary a wing-man or woman to quell awkwardness. Half way to the bar, I realized that I forgot my ID, as I had spent the morning switching licenses. Even though I am not delusional enough to think that any bartender would doubt my legal right to drink, I worried that there might be a bouncer at the door. So I trudged back to get my ID.

When I finally arrived at the bar, I was late, out of breath from both rushing and climbing hills, and sweating. I had never met SC before, and as I explained to JI that I'd forgotten my ID, SC interjected, "there's always hope that you might be carded."

I narrowed my eyes at him in confusion. Was he being funny or did he just insult me? Then I remembered that I was playing chaperone, and accordingly made some self-deprecating remark about being grateful when bartenders do card me (although, in fairness, that is true, I really do practically hug bartenders when they ask me for ID). Situation neutralized.

Co-worker GBF finally showed up, and a rhythm seemed to be establishing. The weirdness was starting to dissipate, since GBF was the thread connecting all of us. But a few nervous glances at his cellphone later, GBF announced that he had a date. I gave him the glare of death, the dude, you are not just leaving me here to be a third motherf*cking wheel, b*tch. He pretended not to notice and vaporized a moment later.

I dangled my empty glass in my hand for a few minutes, kind of teetering indecisively as to what to do next. SC asked if I wanted another drink. I turned him down. JI, SC and I all regarded each other tentatively for a moment. I thought this would probably be the right moment for us to all head our separate ways, especially because JI was not showing a whole lot of warmth for her potential future husband (joking, joking).

Instead, SC suggested we get something to eat. Here's the thing. This SC fellow is a good guy. He is gainfully employed, he is smart, and there is something just generally nice about the dude. When I got the sense that JI was going to give him the cold shoulder, I started to think of other friends who might be interested in him. I'm sure my mother would be so proud of the GBF's ability to imbue me with matchmaker tendencies.

None of this is scary. Like I said, SC is responsible, smart, nice- not a hint of a$$hole about him, clearly not a threat of any kind. Except that yesterday, GBF called me for an emergency lunch conference. At lunch, he notified me of an overturning of the laws of physics. JI told GBF to give SC her number. SC politely declined, and this is where GBF might have hallucinated: SC, allegedly, said he was interested in me, and inquired after my "story." Allegedly.

During lunch, I gaped at GBF, salad inappropriately hanging out of my mouth. But, as soon as he asked how he should handle this turn of events, restless leg syndrome kicked up in full force. At that moment, I feel certain I could have run a 5K without stopping. Even a day later, the thought of this whole high school drama playing out into some potential dating situation makes me want to join witness protection, never to be heard from again. I wanted to tell my co-worker GBF to tell SC my story. My real story. I would think that would be enough to stamp the fright with a big, red return to sender.

But I am contributing to the juvenile nature of all of this by having such a ludicrous reaction. The last time I checked, I am not 16. In fact, I think I might have handled this situation better when I was 16. Yesterday, I spent a good chunk of the afternoon rationalizing it all away to RR- most of my theories revolved around pheromones that are emitted when you have one foot out the door. RR pointed out that my jibber-jabber was bordering on idiotic. He is right, and yet, remember, the fight or flight response is an involuntary one. At some point, I am going to have to get this wiring fixed.

In the mean time, you can find me fetal under my desk. Or bolting down the nearest alley.

don't look at it like it's forever

sour times

You know the old saying- when maisnon gives you lemons, you make lemon bars. Actually, my reasons were two-fold. First, D really did, rather inexplicably, bring me a singular lemon last Sunday. I found this charming, because this might be the first time I have ever witnessed D sans an accompanying backstory or anecdote in tow. Of course, I am known to be a space cadet since moving to San Francisco, so it is also possible that D did explain the lemon to me and I simply blocked it out of my memory (in which case, sorry, D!).

The second reason has to do with stretching. I feel certain that there is a lot of baking in my future in the next month or so, and I really need a warm up period. I expect the first several forays to be failures, and, wow, am I really living up to my expectations. The oatmeal cake from last week was mediocre. D made an icky face when she tasted the lemon bars, then asked me if there was cardammom in them. This was funny, since I suspect she thought I was trying to go all desi on lemon bars. In fact, I had tried to make the crust ginger-flavored, because I like the combination of lemon and ginger. Clearly, it had failed to translate.

Luckily, I had also picked up some brownie mix from Trader Joe's, so desserts last night were not a complete fiasco. You know what was a complete fiasco though? Last week's episode of Lost. We both lost the will to snark, so horrible was the episode.

After over a week of phone tag, my cousin K and I finally caught up last night. She advised me against entertaining the offer to switch jobs. She is the best person to attack these sorts of dilemmas, as exemplified by her reasoning: "there is too much risk switching jobs will convince you to stay at this, when you know that, no matter what else happens, you need to quit next year." She was not only right, but also calling me on my bullsh*t with one well-hurtled stone. I keep saying that, regardless of The Goal, I need to stop with the corporate slavery next year. Switching jobs might make work just tolerable enough to get lulled into staying at it for another year. And given my track record, the next thing I know, I'll realize five years have passed by and I still have not made the bold moves I claimed I would.

K is also taking a writing workshop right now, and would likely be horrified if she knew what I am up to over here with my nonsensical ramblings. And that's just how it seems to go. No one knows me completely, but everyone gets a different piece. It does not bother me, but I think at times it bothers my confidantes.

What with the disappearing act some people have staged of late, and the imminent self-inflicted changes to come with life, I have been relating to love songs for all the wrong reasons:

On the morning when I woke up without you for the first time
I felt free, and I felt lonely, and I felt scared.
And I began to talk to myself almost immediately
not being used to being the only person there
- The Mountain Goats

The you is missing, but the experience is otherwise exactly the same. The art of losing isn't hard to master. I have been through it before, which is the comfort of age- knowing that, even if there is impending heartbreak, you will pick yourself up and emerge once again to walk through the rest of your days.

right back where we started from

Here is a fine example of my commitment issues. This morning, after over four years of living here, I finally became an official Californian. Okay, perhaps this is not just an example of commitment issues- certainly, my laziness, procrastination, and blatant disregard for the law issues are also wrapped in there. But it really does have something to do with commitment too, I promise you.

You see, until this morning, I have only carried a license from one state since the age I learned to drive. I have lived in many other states. In fact, I have not lived in the state where I learned to drive since I graduated from high school. But I always maintained my driver's license from EBF. I maintained a semblance of residence in those states (thanks mom & dad!) because I was always convinced that my moves were temporary.

I always figured, just another year. At any moment, I could disappear, and no one would notice really. So I went for years carrying around a license from the other side of the country. Every so often, my friends would spy me slipping the license to a bouncer, bartender, or store owner, and would ask why I was holding onto it. Didn't I know it was illegal? How had I managed it all these years?

There is a lot of irony in my resistance to discard my license, honestly. I never much cared for EBF. When I am there, I do not feel a profound sense of home, or attachment to the place. I can appreciate the beauty of its roads and its colors and its landscapes, but I never feel I have come back when I am there. I never feel those open arms of welcoming- which is not unusual, actually, because where I grew up was not such a touchy-feely sort of place. Sure, it is somewhat fun to proclaim my home state to people, since it usually causes a mixture of surprise, fascination and a look of wtff?!?. Still, it's not out of some sentimental attachment to my home state that I have held that license for the last 15+ years.

There is even more irony in establishing myself as a California resident today, when all signs point to me living here for longer than another six to nine months. It was strange, last night, studying for the driver's license exam (shut up, the Cali exam is hard, and a lot of my friends have failed on the first try), when I have been feeling increasingly like letting go of the west coast and returning to a more solid place. Four years, and only when the winds of change are starting to swirl again do I get my license.

I occasionally have to ask myself if I really want not to belong anywhere. It certainly seems like I take a lot of steps to keep myself from settling in, integrating, incorporating.

And crossing the Golden Gate Bridge today, the city was bursting. The sun sparkled against the water, silenced even the suggestion of fog, and seemed to clean the city off into a shiny gem. It was all so beautiful, and it used to make me catch my breath. Nowadays I breathe it in, I pay the city its due respect, and think to myself, I will always have this.

When I got home, all of that peace from feeling sure of where I was headed was jostled. I should know better by now. Whenever I make peace with life, it picks a fight. Some time back, I had made amends with not switching jobs. I was offered a job, I thought about taking it, I decided to take it, and then, because of some office politics, the job disappeared. And even though I was disappointed, I had come to terms with it. I called a truce. This afternoon, of course, all this time later, I got an email informing me that the job has materialized again. Just when I thought I was finally going to have a weekend without introspection.

uncertainty can be a guiding light

When the broseph was taking mathematics, he would call me to ridicule his instructor, mimicking her accent, "You see, negative, negative.... is positive. And positive, negative... is negative. And positive, positive... positive. Okay?"

So, in my head, whenever I start in with some classically faulty logic of mine, I use that mantra for support. I realized recently that I am drawn to scoundrels because of all of my many flaws. In my head, I am convinced that I am a big, unmanageable, unstable mess. And as a result, I somehow sussed out that two wrongs would make a right. Negative, negative... positive.

And of course, I am repelled by kindness, by seriousness of intention of any kind. Instinctively, I think, "oh, no good can come of this." And it must be because- negative, positive... negative. Those good folks are destined for other good folks. Together, they make apple pie and rainbows and bunny rabbits (except the kind that potentially play dead when their cages are rattled on strange islands).

But there is a lot I seem to have overlooked in my simple little equations. This is typical. I was never all that good at math, not beyond the most cursory level. Calculus was fine, but as soon as Multivariate started up, I got the queasy feeling that I was stumbling in the fog. I took a graduate class in Kinetics once, saw a triple integral sign, and nearly hyperventilated.

But chemistry, I understood much better. Yet somehow I overlooked the negatives and positives in chemistry, as they applied to life. In chemistry, they refer to charges on atoms or ions or molecules. You can think about it like magnets. Like repels like. Positives attract negatives.

It's not that simple though; that is what chemistry spells out. I know this; not all bad guys go for the goodie two-shoes. But on a normal, neutral molecule, it is not that simple. It does not appear to be charged necessarily, but it leans one way or the other, its charge distribution a little more positive than negative, or vice versa. And it is attracted to other molecules because of those tiny inclinations. Even then, the environment around the molecule exerts its forces, keeping molecules apart or encouraging them together. It's the opposite of straightforward. In fact, I find it nearly miraculous in its complexity.

Sometimes I think I get tired, and I want everything to be black and white. And so I like to make sweeping statements, such as- I like jerks. But all of the nuance is lost in such an uninteresting remark. It is not that I like jerks, or even psychos, as I sometimes claim. In fact, I tend to have no tolerance for such behavior (as my posts probably often point out, no doubt tediously). It is more that I am drawn to what is not obvious. I am just a neutral molecule with a little hint of negativity, waiting to be drawn in the right direction. Whatever that might be.

and I got ready for the future to arrive

Something I neglected to admit about Sunday is this- knowing maisnon was coming over, and realizing that it has been a light year since I regularly turned on my oven, I toyed with making some confection. There were a few problems. First, it was about 80 degrees outside as we were having our annual October Indian summer weekend in San Francisco. Second, it was about 95 degrees in my heat-trap of a crack shack. Turning on my oven struck me as an extra-large sized pair of Bad Idea jeans. Third, my attempt to make no-bake pecan bon bons failed miserably. Really miserably. So miserably that I cannot even offer up photographic evidence.

But the heat wave is dying down, and it is getting to be the right season for regular baking. I realized last night that the last time I had dipped a toe back in the baking pool was mediocre at best. It was also two months ago. I am suddenly aware that, in the big push towards The Goal, I left a few things behind. And without those things, I become disconnected from myself.

Also, on Monday night, I had a typical response to disappointing news- I tried to eat the contents of my refrigerator. So, last night, I took Coach Taylor's advice, and tried to channel my disappointment into a more productive pursuit than that of sending myself into a diabetic coma. I decided to bake the contents of my kitchen. Okay, maybe it was not that extreme. Still. During the commercial breaks for FNL, I surveyed the kitchen, taking stock, figuring out what I had and what was missing, what I absolutely needed and where I could compensate. So, after FNL, I set about making this:

This is supposedly an oatmeal cake. I tried to spice it up with a good amount of cinnamon, ginger and allspice, but I still got the sense that it was a little bland. I was preparing to chuck the whole thing. I am okay with that, and don't consider it wasteful. Here's why. I consider it wasteful to throw away food that you made for the purpose of consuming. However, I was baking for experimentation purposes, for the soothing nature of the process of it. Sacrifices have to be made in experimentation, failures have to be discarded. You move on. But. I deemed this to not be an incomplete failure. I diagnosed the problem as potential blandness. Solution: more cowbellspice it up. Implementing this solution involved concocting a way to make cinnamon frosting. And so, I wound up with this:

As you can see, I was still unsure of myself. Usually, I just bring in what I have hatched in the kitchen and unleash it on my coworkers because I do not care for the majority of them and they seem willing to eat pretty much anything left in the break room. However, I really did not know what to make of this. The cake part of it was a little crumbly, and tasted a little like the inside of a cake donut. The cinnamon frosting, on the other hand, was exactly what I wanted it to be.

RR tasted it this morning. His evaluation: "not your best work". I agree. But it did not feel like a fiasco.

It did not feel like a fiasco because last night I had a modest dose of good television. Last night, I tinkered in the kitchen until the whole apartment smelled of cinnamon. Last night, after all of that, I walked to the grocery store because I had run out of milk. And last night, I slept like a baby, and woke up prepared to deal decisively with all the unnecessary drama and disappointment that comes with waking up every morning.

and it's been such a lovely day

Wow- Office Space moment to the infinity power: today, I had a phone interview with consultants who are trying to figure out what in the world it is I do for a living. I thought it would be funny to yell out, "I have people skills, damnit!" I refrained, because I know there is the life I lead and the sitcom I write in my head to quell the absurdity of my days.

Tonight, I get my happy pill for the week- watching Friday Night Lights. It is absolutely foolish of me to watch this show. I am so enamored of it that last week, unable to watch while at my parents' house, I eagerly purchased it from On Demand first thing upon returning home. But this is all ill-advised. This is like dating a guy because he's everything you ever wanted, but he's already told you he doesn't want a commitment and he's contemplating moving to a foreign country. Friday Night Lights is that doomed. I just want to point this out- if the monkeys that run NBC decide to pull FNL and not SportsNightStudio 60 on the SNL SorkinSunset Strip, then I will demote them to molluscs. Even a monkey can see that FNL is 100 times more engaging than Studio 60.

Not to mention that FNL has this guy:

Whatever, dudes- happy pills are not made of good writing and pacing alone.

I should mention that there were also a lot of genuinely fantastic aspects of my birthday, although apparently, a lot of you think that many of the aspects of last Friday night were pretty fantastic too. If for no other reason, I should mention it because I got some disappointing news yesterday, and it's important to note at such moments that there are plenty of reasons to be grateful. First, a few of my friends took me out to Chez Papa on my actual birthday. I have been wanting to go there for quite some time, and the food was just perfectly what I was craving. Before and during dinner, my masis and mamas and cousins all called one by one to wish me a happy birthday, which was really thoughtful. In a bit more of a mortifying turn, the waiters brought out my creme brulee with a candle in it, gathered around me, and started singing Happy Birthday. Three French waiters singing Happy Birthday: vaguely embarassing but charming. The entire restaurant raucously joining in after the first line: cheek-flushing, heart-stopping, trying-not-to-pass-out but amusing.

Also, there were sincerely kind birthday emails from both J and TMB, so I am now officially banned from making any disparaging remarks whatsoever about both Southern California and Houston. That is going to be a tough resolution to keep up.

And finally, to wrap it all up, not only did maisnon save my candy a$$ on Friday night, but she also took me out to dinner on Sunday night. We wandered around my neighborhood, found her a hipster hat, had a wonderfully satiating meal, and returned to my crack shack. See, D is going to keep me honest on my resolution to keep the shack presentable, because we are supposed to have a weekly viewing of Lost. Viewing it with her was exactly how I imagined it- very MST3K. It's a good thing too, because that was the only thing that made it watchable. Maybe I can sucker her into a Friday Night Lights addiction instead?

freak out

It is a bit frightening to see how easy it is to let go of the whole concept of blogging. The writers of other blogs I read do it all the time, often citing being busy as their excuse. I have been really busy, but I know that is not the absolute reason I have not been writing. You get separated from it and you do not know where to start up again. It happens with friendships too, especially those over distances- too much time passes, you sit down to write a letter, but you do not know where to begin. You put it off, and the next thing you know, another month has passed you by.

But I know if I turned this into a permanent hiatus, I would be sorry later, so I shall attempt to get back into the ring. But I am afraid I shall have to resort to the in media res approach to storytelling. Much has happened, and it seems, all of a sudden, after a long span of waiting, events are finally unfolding at an accelerated rate. But, nothing definitive has occurred, so in some ways, there is not that much to tell.

Instead, I will tell you what happened on Friday night. In some ways, this is actually just a lame attempt to write a public apology to some unsuspecting victims of a poorly orchestrated happy hour. Here's what I think of as happy hour- a few hours of happiness, facilitated by pleasant beverages, involving good conversations with friends new and old. Apparently, some of my friends do not agree with me on that definition. Namely, my friend KL.

Here is where I make my PSA, brought to you by Whitney Houston: Crack is Wack, y'all.

Allow me to explain. KL showed up to the bar a little too chipper, for starters. I wrote this off as Marina Girl behavior. Even though I play up my affection for the Mission, I try to give everyone a chance. I try not to let a person's neighborhood define them. Still, I'm just saying that there was a lot of Marina Girl kissing and giggling before any alcholic beverages had been purchased at the bar.

Less than an hour later, KL officially crossed over the line from happy to crazy. It started innocently, her dragging random people onto the dance floor. It morphed: she started dragging a male coworker onto the dance floor. Then the train to Crazy Town arrived, as she was hitting on men and women alike, and shoving her entire body into anyone who wasn't quick enough to block her.

Let me repeat: Crack is Wack, y'all.

Anyway. I have to admit that I wigged a little. KL invaded my personal space three times too many, and that's three times more than I usually allow. Also, I was inundated with questions or comments from the innocent bystanders:

Coworker guy: Dude, I'm a guy- I can only take so much of this before I will take it seriously. What should I do?
Innocent bystander: Oh my god, your friend is out of control.
Innocent bystander #2: Dude, your friends is attacking ads- you need to rescue her!

And then of course, there was KL, her crazy self, asking what she should do about Coworker guy- as if the dude had immaculately conceived the notion that she was into him. Um, I hate to point this out, but generally if you announce to a bar that a guy has soft lips, and grind your goodies into him repeatedly, it is a fair bet that the dude is going to think you are somewhat interested in him.

This is when I did something utterly cowardly and lame. After two and a half hours of this getting progressively more annoying, I could not take it anymore, and fled the scene of the crime. Maisnon assisted with my departure significantly, especially when she gave KL her patented oh no you di'nt look when KL attempted to drag me back into the bar for a drunken conversation about her feelings. I might have feebly said a quick goodbye to everyone, at best.

This was particularly wimpy of me because I was the one that suggested everyone meet up. I was the one that invited the possibly drugged out KL. Not only did I fail at preventing KL from molesting ads, but I also had a little meltdown of my own and left everyone else to clean up my mess.

And I assume more of a mess followed, because Crack is Wack, y'all. And also, my friend PG text-messaged me three times on Saturday asking for KL's number. So clearly, some more freaky-deaky happenings occurred after I left.

motoring

Short trips home are always the best. Right now, my parents are grasping for more to talk about, and I am all talked out. All my petals are curled up into a tight bulb; of course, this would presume that I am a flower, and oh, I am so not. I am more of a prickly thorn.

It rained, and then it rained some more. It rained the entire three-hour drive home. It's still raining. The good part about the rain, though, is that the hours preceding it were slightly warmer than normal, which made braving a Vermont morning in a suit a bit less daunting.

The thing is, my parents and I have this strange relationship, which has a very distinct shelf-life. It is approximately 24-48 hours. After that, they lose interest in what is going on with me (and I've been stuffed with food as if I was a refugee), and my mom goes on her kick about informing me of the big three: marriages, deaths, and births. Since they are always pertaining to people I have met less than three times in my life, that gets old very quickly. In the next stage, the phase where my parents start chatting with each other about me, while I sit nearby. Now, we're in the final stage, where my parents hover nearby, not really doing or saying anything, just simply occupying space nearby, as if this somehow brings us closer.

So, yeah, we're a little dysfunctional.

But tomorrow, oh tomorrow, damn the rain and the rush-hour traffic. Tomorrow, I am flying home. This weekend, I stay in the city, the whole weekend. This suddenly feels special to me. What's even more special is this- next week, I do not have to travel anywhere either. I will be spending most of that week cleaning and decompressing, and figuring out my next game plan, how to rebuild it- better and stronger.

Off-topic, I've never taken a drive in New England when the radio station has neglected to play the following two songs: Sister Christian by Night Ranger and Over the Hills and Far Away by Led Zeppelin. It's nice to see some things remain constant after all these years.

I'm never in one place, I roam from town to town

Greetings from beautiful New England. I have been doin' a little East Coast swing, starting with a less-than-18-hour stay in Philadelphia. Oh, and I did just quote Boys II Men b*tches... how are you going to deal with that (you have to picture me saying that to you with Ben Stiller karate-chop gesticulations for the words to have the desired effect)? The cool thing about the East Coast is that you can hit a lot of states in a short amount of time. The not-so-cool thing is that I've already visited these states many, many a time.

Still, today's drive to Vermont was a nice trip down memory lane. Peak foliage season has passed, so some of the trees, the birches especially, seemed to shiver, embarassed at the leaves they had recently shed. Still, the panoramic spans of hills and mountains, the tiny farm houses a mere speck against the pastures, all of it was a reminder of something I thought had ceased to exist. Then I got to town, and it was a reminder of everything I knew would continue in EBF- amongst these people, I would always feel apart, alone.

Growing up in EBF, I always knew this, innately. No one was particularly mean today; only a few were particularly malicious when I was younger. It is a reaction to an unknown quantity. When I was younger, I was acutely aware that my actions were shaping people's feelings towards an entire population. That is probably why I was overly polite when I was young, why I took everything so seriously. But it's funny that, even after all of these years, put me into a Norman Rockwell downtown and I revert to the same habits- more judicious driving, the extra smile, the self-censorship.

The most absurd part of all these wasted efforts is this: in the end, what this gets you is not acceptance, but invisibility. If you are meek and affable and polite, you simply blend into the background. In some ways, I guess that is what I was going for. In other ways, it has a strange effect of making me wonder if I am really here, if I really do exist.

Anyway, I have also been thinking, and I think it's time that I need to get back to basics, guess I'll start it up again. Dudes, I have to tell you that it has been a rough couple of months. I have lost some friends, and have had some general instability and awkwardness among people I was previously close to. Some of it is natural and unavoidable. But I have figured out some things, as a result of all of this upheaval.

First, this space needs to change a little. I've always boasted about the way this blog is not for you, but even as a personal venting space, I think it's unnecessary for me to rant and rave the way I have for the past several months. Even though I was vomiting all over my co-worker's Organizational Development-speak about finger-pointing (i.e. the whole "when you point at someone, three fingers are pointing back at you" zen speech), it is true that I need to turn inward again. When I do that, I can start determining what about myself I want to change and how I can go about doing it. I have always wanted to be someone who doesn't get lazy, who doesn't give up and shrug off my shortcomings with the excuse of what I am is what I am. So, the blog needs to get a little kinder and gentler, and it needs to get its brain back. The latter requirement could take a while, judging from my current mental state, though.

Second, I have been watching my parents the past few days and I am reminded of something I want again. I had it for a while, I dispensed with it when I moved to San Francisco, and now I want it again. My parents have this bizarre social life that I can't compete with- they're far more popular and socially active than I could ever be. But what I absolutely adore about being at home is that there is a constant stream of visitors to our house. Yesterday, one masi visited at 11:30 a.m., dressed in a frighteningly bright orange salwar (for Halloween, she explained). My parents and I went for a brief walk around the neighborhood afterwards. When we got back, my other masi and masa showed up and spent the next few hours chatting with us. My parents and I then went out for dinner. When we got back, my mom's cousin, B masi, arrived with her husband. Here, I must veer off course to note that my masi's husband, J masa may well be insane. My father served him a Michelob Lite, and J masa sent it back, sticking out his tongue in displeasure. Then he yelled at my father for fixing B masi a G&T, complaining "you favor her over me." Then he offered to take me out for a margarita upon my return to EBF tomorrow. So. Anyway, they left at 10 p.m. After that, we got a phone call from another friend of the family. He & his wife showed up at 10:45, and stayed until midnight.

Now, I'm not saying I want a cavalcade of visitors every weekend, especially on Sundays, the day I usually want the most solitude. But I do like the notion of people feeling comfortable stopping by my place at any old time; I like the idea of people having no occasion to visit, but visiting anyway. And even though I know my time in San Francisco is limited, I have not given up on making my little crack shack just such a place. To achieve this task though, I need to do three things at the very least:

• Clean the forsaken crack shack and keep it tidy enough that surprise visitors could pop in at any time.
  
• Keep my cell phone nearby and actually pick up my cell phone when people call (maisnon is somewhere yelling "um, thank you!" right now in response to this, I suspect).
  
• Start inviting people over for random things, like brunches. I used to do this some time back, but The Goal kept me from having the ability to continue.

I am not sorry about losing the friends I have lost. And I am not really regretful that I have not done any of these things sooner. I have had to make sacrifices in the name of what I have really wanted. But I want to appreciate the time I have left in San Francisco, and I want to appreciate the people I have met in San Francisco for the time I have left in the city. Okay, this is starting to sound like a eugoogaly, but I think you get my drift.

In other news, I still have not figured out where I am telling everyone to meet for my birthday. I am angling for a low key evening, as long as the flow of Grey Goose is not constrained.

p.s. My dad told me his favorite show is Dr. Phil. I think we are going to have a battle royale about this when I return home tomorrow since I made my patented channeling my teenage years look of utter disgust when he revealed this to me.

another season passes by you

Here is a secret about me, something many of my friends do not know. I actually enjoy birthdays. I enjoy the passing of time, the ticking of a milestone, the celebrations, the family phone calls, the warm fuzzies, the whole production. This is strange to admit, because what I really loathe and avoid is being the center of attention.

Here is another secret about me. I have held it against friends that, since moving to San Francisco, my birthdays have been blah at best. At first, I thought it was just that I was getting older, and so, naturally, the hoopla was supposed to subside. However, it was never about the hoopla. That is not what I had enjoyed in past birthdays.

But, as one of the annoying facilitators at work said earlier this week, when you point at someone else, three fingers are pointing back at you. Yeah, I don't get it either. Still, this year I am taking matters into my own hands. I am planning out my own birthday celebration, and, while that may strike some of you as pathetic, it is exactly as I want it to be. Of course, since I am darting across the country again starting tomorrow morning, it is likely I will not actually send out an invitation to my birthday until everyone has already made other plans. But this way, I only have myself to blame for that.

Why bring all of this up? Because today is a different kind of birthday. This is the day we put an end to the sophomore slump up in here, because this blog has survived for two years. That is quite something, considering I seem to cycle through some crisis of conscience every so often questioning whether I ought to be polluting the internets with all my little words. There are still days when I wonder why I started blogging, why I enjoy blogging, and why I continue blogging.

I can tell you this much. As much as I ramble, rant, and rave about the need to write, the need being personal and inward, as much as I try to remain self-contained, I doubt that I would have kept at this were it not for those of you who have left comments, dropped emails, connected with me in person. Sometimes, even your silence has had an impact, makes me reconsider my otherwise irrational fury. And often, just knowing that you have read something I have written has kept me honest, kept me to my word. Or shamed me, forced me to face up to wrongdoing.

Some people make their list of resolutions at New Year's. Some people make them in September, a habit from their school years that they cannot break. I have always made them around the time of my birthday. October is always an introspectful, but hopeful time for me. Very soon, I'll be making promises I know I'll never keep. But some, a select few, I will make good on, thanks to you and thanks to me.

everybody's talking and no one says a word

Phew. Well, watching Friday Night Lights last night cured me of my big bowl of wrong. So I seem to be over my discontent and I am just enjoying going solo at the moment. I am at work today, but at least I can shut my office door, and am not forced in a room with 65 other people, listening to vision statements and building a sustainable culture. The worst part about company retreats is that it isn't enough to spend all day with each other- no, there is an insidious insistence that you must also go get sauced with your coworkers after the work part of the day is over. It is a bit unrelenting, to say the least.

Still, some of the corporate absurdity is too good not to point out. For example, each morning at the retreat, we would arrive to ridiculous music blasting on the loudspeakers. Unfortunately, the playlist appeared to only contain a handful of songs, and so we had to listen to them over and over again. Of course, there had to be a theme involved. I'll let you guess the idea from a few of the songs that were part of the nauseating loop:

• Stand by Me by Ben E. King (I pointed out that this song gave me nightmarish memories of junior high school dances, but no one seemed to relate- is this only an EBF thing?).
  
• We'll Be Together by Sting (thanks for ruining a perfectly acceptable song).
  
• We Go Together from the Grease soundtrack. Seriously.

I know- you are feeling a little ill just reading the list. Now picture listening to it every few hours.

Because I cannot resist being a wisea$$ at such events, I came up with some alternate suggestions that went over less than swimmingly:

• Don't Stand So Close to Me by The Police
  
• Get Off of My Cloud by The Rolling Stones
  
• We're Not Gonna Take It by Twisted Sister

Well, I thought they were funny. Besides, I didn't suggest the one song I really would have had blasting if I had my druthers: Take this Job and Shove It by Johnny Paycheck.

if you were wrong, it would still be the same fade to black

After three days around coworkers (if I had a video camera, I could have posted an Office spoof on YouTube, so eerily did the last few days mirror such hell), and what feels like three years worth of relentless uncertainty, I have to say something. It will be a little raw and brutal, but then, that's not all so unexpected coming from me. I do not mean to unleash, but sometimes, I just get tired of putting on an even-keeled expression. And I do not write to celebrate myself.

I am weary and worn down, and when I am weary and worn down, I just want to be alone. But that is the thing. I do not really want to be alone. There is a very specific type of person I want to be around right now.

And it is not necessarily my closest friend. Right now, if W lived in this country, I would still stay miles away. And it is not some ex-boyfriend from a tortured relationship. Q would drive me to drink (more than I already do) at this point. It is not a big loan from the girl zone, either.

I know it sounds like I am a small child kicking and screaming, throwing a tantrum without a point. In your head right now, you're preparing to tell me, "Use your grown-up words." Articulation, always a problem for me. But, in this case, it's something, someone very specific I am thinking of.

And because I can't put my finger on it, I describe through a process of elimination. Not a witty person- I am too tired for a quick wit, for tireless teasing. It usually makes me laugh, but right now, it feels hurtful. Not a bubbly person- medicated people scare me, because it seems inevitable that they'll come off the high, and I will have to be there to clean up the crash. Not a cynical person- I am plenty pessimistic without an assist from anyone else.

No one like me. No one exactly opposite to me. I think I might know what I am craving right now, but it sounds thoroughly hypocritical to admit it. And, strangely, I associate it wholly with the east coast. It's so strange to me that San Francisco, a place I adore so completely, where I feel so at home, nonetheless seems to be lacking in one important aspect. Reliable, solid people seem nowhere to be found.

It's probably as much my fault as it is any San Franciscans. It is likely not fair for me to indict an entire city, when I have not made the necessary effort. Half of having reliable, solid friends is being a reliable, solid friend yourself, and investing the time to make that happen. But the other half is the part I can't get out of my head.

You see, I always had one foot out the door in New Jersey. Most people who knew me there were aware that I was restless, a molecule in some uncomfortable, unstable, excited state. In other words- not that unlike who I am today. Yet, I had a ride to the airport. I had a friend who would change a flat tire in a middle of a hurricane. There were people who took me in and fed me. Yes, people were living perhaps a conventional life, walking a well-trod path. But they had their feet on the ground. Drama was a fairly foreign concept.

My friend JS, just such a solid person, was someone I only spent time with at work. But he was probably the most good-hearted, the most real person I have ever met in my life. I am known as someone who begs off compliments- it is actually not a hallmark of modesty, but rather skepticism. But when JS would say something nice to me, well, I still get the warm fuzzies thinking about that, because he is sincere, he has absolutely no agenda, and he expects nothing in return. When he said something comforting to me, I could feel how rarely good he was.

So I know it sounds ridiculous, it sounds cheesy, and it certainly would get me kicked out of my hipster, jaded neighborhood. But all I really want right now is to be around a good person. Go ahead and throw your tomatoes. You needn't worry, because here's the rub: I do not deserve that which I demand.