Here's an apology to you fine people for depriving you of my irresistible charm and inimitable wit.
I have no real excuse. I really don't. I find that at the ripe old age of 24, my Internet trolling has reached it's peak. I honestly check maybe 10 websites regularly, and once I've made my rounds, it's off to checking my email for the 21348th time that day. I can't explain why this is true.
But, my lack of browsing-savvy did pay off in one very crucial way: my housemates and I have finally decided on our Halloween costume. And I must say, it's completely and totally BAD ASS. I, of course, can't tell you what it is. You'll just have to wait for the photos.
One other update on my life: it was my housemate's 25th birthday this past Friday. And in true frat fashion, the Southern Belles hosted "The Dirty Dirty," complete with 2 kegs, tray upon tray of jello shot, and of course, unending debauchery. I would venture to say that at it's peak, the guests numbered over 125 . Not bad for a few law ladies in the Midwest, eh?
The party went off with a hitch, except for some d-bag from the Social Work school who was SITTING ON MY KEG. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he was SITTING ON MY KEG. WHO DOES THAT? SERIOUSLY?! And, he was making the ladies at the event supremely uncomfortable by leering at them and asking them to "pump his keg." UNACCEPTABLE.
I kindly asked him to remove himself from MY keg. 3 times. And it didn't work. At this point, the Shweenerator got pissed. I mean REAL pissed. And for those of you who know me, ol' girl don't play. (DMA/Tommy: remember the incident with your brother at Buffalo Billiards? Yeah, that was me on Friday night.)
After some serious verbal exchanges, Sitting Guy started lurching toward me, at which point I was about to slug him. Instead, he put flipped me off and screamed some choice profanity. But there was no violence, and the partygoers (who were invited) were appreciative.
Bottom line of this silly story: should law school not pan out, I definitely foresee a career in bouncing.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Why I've been MIA
Thursday, July 5, 2007
Stupid Desis...
Yes, I am one of them. And yes, I just might smell like them. But. I. Want. Out!!!!
As most of you know, I just returned from a blissful five days in the great Lone Star State. I had not a worry or care in the world. (Oh, except for the series of mini-disasters that plagued our Team Awesome on Friday...but that's another story.) After less than 24 hours back in D.C., I realized why most of us are absolutely, positively, completely OUT OF OUR MINDS FOR LEAVING TEXAS!!!
I could rant for pages, which I have before. But I'll spare you and instead just regale you with a few juicy tidbits from this year's 16th Telegu Association of North America Convention, or TANA. (No, I'm NOT Telegu. I'm Marathi. But after today, I'm not sure how much of a difference it makes.)
So I heard about this guy, Vinay, who was diagnosed with leukemia a few years back. He's stopped responding to chemotherapy, and now his friends and family are trying frantically to find a bone marrow match. Not surprisingly, a match is most likely to come from a donor of South Asian descent. So TANA seemed like a logical place to look for potential donors.
Many people I approached were perfectly polite, even if they had absolutely NO intention of ever donating. Hearing "bone marrow donation" can be frightening. And people are always wary of any kind of medical commitment. Yet what struck me the most was how dismissive many of the young people were. I mean, I was talking to my peers, trying to get them to donate on behalf of a guy just a couple years older than them. And they seemed so bothered. I had 2 guys, dressed in Fubu and S. Carters' actually turn their backs to me when I was mid-sentence! What the hell is that about?!
Maybe it was just the event, or just those guys. Whatever it was, I've noticed a peculiar trend among young folks in the Indian community that drives me batty. At any given cultural function, there are 4 discrete groups: the adult men; the adult women; the FOBs (Fresh Off the Boat); and the ABCDs (American Born Confused Desis). Each group will occupy different areas of the banquet hall--and sometimes different halls--to engage in a unique kind of socialization.
The men will discuss politics, whose kid got into what school, who has the best investment portfolio, etc. The women, of course, busy themselves with talks of engagements, weddings, and everything in between. And then there are the young bucks.
You recognize the FOBs by their slicked hair, gold medallions, sequined shirts, and linen suits. (Sidenote: The MC of my cousin's wedding was actually wearing a shirt that had sequined palm trees and pineapples. I went up to talk to him just to confirm that there were just pineapples and not other fruits of the tropics. But I digress.) FOBs sometimes attempt to mingle with the ABCDs but generally with very little success. They are usually shunned as unhip country cousins sent by your mother to embarrass you in front of the hot ABCD girls/boys.
I am an ABCD. That means many things, but for the purposes of a function like TANA, it means distancing yourself from the culture far enough to seem above it. You have to pretend that you are as white (or in most cases, as black) as you want to be. You're too good to be attending this event. You're too popular to deign to mingle with other nerdy Indians. And no that wasn't your mother talking about how you won a full ride to MIT on an engineering scholarship. No, no. You're the dude with the fly jeans, Movado watch and 2-carat pinky ring.
What's sad is that TANA is probably the one place that these cats can bust out the "too cool for school" routine. I have no doubt that they'll go back to their respective hometowns (probably all in Northern Jersey) and resume their roles as the braniac next door. But for these blissful three days, they're as bad as they wanna be.
And I'm perfectly fine with that. It's just that I would rather that they let me finish my damn pitch! Or just let me stick a Q-Tip in their mouth for a few seconds and then run like a bat outta hell...