Ah, Irony

So I got this email, this obvious hoax, and I responded to it. Here's the original message:
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Date: Sun, 8 Jan 2006 15:34:20 -0800 (PST)
Subject: Yahoo is shutting down

Dear YAHOO User,
Because of the sudden rush of people signing up to YAHOO, it has come to our attention that we are vastly running out of resources. So, within a month's time,anyone who does not receive this email with the exact subject heading,will be deleted off our server. Please forward this email so that we know you are still using this account.

We want to find out which users are actually using their YAHOO accounts. So if you are using your account, please pass this e-mail to every YAHOO user that you can and IF YOU DO NOT PASS this letter to anyone we will delete your account.

From Mr. ALLEN SMITH
YAHOO Admin. Dept.

Our YAHOO system is getting to crowded!! We need you to forward this to at least 20 people. I know this seems like a large number, but we need to find out who is really using their account. If you do not send this to at least 10 YAHOO members, we will delete your account. Sorry for this inconvenience.
Sincerely, Director of YAHOO Services
BOB LOPEZ
* * * * *

Here is my response:

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Okay, I don't normally respond to all these messages, and certainly don't reply all, so sorry for the inconvenience. However, in light of the apparent panic that this message seems to be sending, I feel compelled to do so.

Let me ask you a question: If you worked at Yahoo! and felt your system was getting too crowded, that your company was "vastly running out of resources," would you then proceed to send out a mass email telling users to overwhelm the system with meaningless messages?

Secondly, I would hope that the Director of Yahoo! Services a) would refer to Yahoo! as Yahoo! and not YAHOO and b) would proofread his message (Our YAHOO system is getting *too* crowded) .

Hi, I'm on the subway, and it's totally packed, so could more people please come in? It's illogical, and a blatant scam.

Incidentally, Yahoo! already has ways of knowing whether people are using their accounts, and do regularly purge accounts that are not being used frequently. So if you are a fan of Yahoo! mail, and do not wish to experience temporary shutdowns due to system failures, I urge
you NOT to forward this message on, but perhaps simply respond to those who have sent you mail with a gentle reminder to research whether these warnings are real before passing them on.

Thank you.

* * * * *

So I sent this message out, and pretty much immediately afterwards, I got the following message back for 3 different Yahoo! Accounts:
* * * * *
This is an automatically generated Delivery Status Notification

Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:

haileykeaton@yahoo.com

Technical details of permanent failure:
PERM_FAILURE: SMTP Error (state 12): 554 delivery error: dd Sorry your message to haileykeaton@yahoo.com cannot be delivered. This account has been disabled or discontinued [#102]. - mta174.mail.re4.yahoo.com

* * * * *

Ironic, no?

I Want To Be A Maven

So my cousin loaned me the book “The Tipping Point: How Little Things Can Make A Big Difference” by Malcolm Gladwell. I’m not done reading it, but it’s definitely some interesting reading so far. Basically, he talks about what triggers an epidemic, be it a virus (like syphilis in Baltimore), a restaurant making it big, a sudden decrease in crime in a particular neighborhood, or even the popularity of Hush Puppies. What makes certain trends take off and others not?

Well, as I said, I haven’t finished reading it, but one of the chapters discusses three types of people: Connectors, Mavens, and Salesmen.

Connectors are those people who know everyone (Alok), who manage to remember everyone’s birthdays (and send email reminders – Alok), and manage to stay in touch with everyone. These are the people you would turn to if, say, you were heading to a strange city and needed a contact there. Connectors know people everywhere, and know the people to know. Paul Revere was a connector. When he rode from town to town, he knew whose door to knock in the middle of the night to get word out that the British were coming. The other guy who rode out in the opposite direction was not a connector, and thus nobody remembers his name.

Nobody, that is, except perhaps a maven. A maven is a person who knows things (Ketan). A lot of things. A lot of different things. He may subscribe to lots of different magazines, and he’s always sharing tidbits of information with you. He does this not to be annoying, or to be a know-it-all, but to be helpful. If you need to know where to go, say, to watch the shooting of Spiderman 3 in downtown Cleveland, a maven is who you would call. And if a maven tells you something, you believe him.

The final person, a salesman, is someone who can convince you of anything. A maven may have the information, but he won’t necessarily try to convince you to use the information if you don’t want to. A salesman can bring you to his side without even trying.

These three people – someone who knows lots of people, someone who knows lots of things, and someone who can convince people – are necessary elements in spreading an epidemic. And I, I have realized, am none of them. I know a lot of people, but I am not a connector. I am not very good at staying in touch. I am certainly not a salesman. This blog is not likely to change anyone’s behavior; how many of you even remember that August 19th is National Potato Day? And even if you remember, are you going to celebrate it? I think not.

That, incidentally, is discussed in the chapter I’m reading right now. The message has to be important; it has to have a certain “stickiness factor.” National Potato Day (sorry to all those potato farmers out there) – is not important. There will not be an epidemic of potato-eaters out there. Hot sandwiches are not likely to become the next trendy food. There will be no Chole Cookoff this summer or next. I know this, and I accept this. I mean heck, if I can’t even convince myself to implement a Chole Cookoff, what kind of salesman am I?

But maybe, just maybe, I had dreams of changing the world one blog entry at a time, but I know better now. I am not a person likely to start an epidemic. But, suppose that I came up with that great idea. I do know people. Maybe if I happen to pass on the word to the right people, I actually can start the epidemic. Word-of-mouth epidemics are, after all, the most powerful.

So evidently, I don’t want to be a maven. I just want to be a mastermind. Cue evil laugh… BWA HA HA HA! Okay, not quite a mastermind (though that would be cool too), but even just a mild trendsetter. Well, I guess I don’t have that coolness factor to set the trends, so I have to be more inconspicuous in suggesting the trends to those people who “have it.” In tenth grade, my spiked hair and Coca-Cola tie-wearing trend didn’t catch on. And even though Close Up toothpaste did turn out to be an excellent hair styling product (after countless experiments with other products), it’s just not done.

Think about it: it’s good for your hair (at least, I don’t think it’s particularly bad for your hair); it’s relatively cheap; you carry around a small travel-size tube in your purse (or man-purse, I suppose – or kept one in your locker or desk drawer), and you can have fresh breath all day; and if after half a day the hold lets up a little, you just reinforce it by adding a little bit of water (moisten hands then style – don’t add so much that it foams). Unlike other toothpastes, it won’t flake off and make you look like you have dandruff. I’m telling you, it’s the styling product to use. I mean, you gotta buy toothpaste anyhow, but you don’t need to drop $15 to $20 at a salon for styling products, except that the cheaper stuff doesn’t work as well. But now, here I am, telling you that cheaper stuff does work, but you’re looking in the wrong place.

Try it. Trust me. Go out there, buy a travel size tube of Close Up, and use it for one day. If it doesn’t work, stick the toothpaste in your travel case or in the guest bathroom. No harm, no foul. It’s not like you’re going to have to put it with all those other half-used bottles of gel and mousse or other products that take up half the available shelf space in your house because you’re too stubborn to admit you were wrong to even buy the cheap products, yet you’re too cheap to simply throw them away, thinking maybe, just maybe, you’ll get around to trying it again and it’ll work for you because your hair will somehow be “different” or, you’ll need to give your hair a break from the usual products.

C’mon, isn’t there a maven out there who could back me up on this?

Plagiarism

So Kaavya Viswanathan, this nineteen-year-old Harvard student, gets a million dollar two-book deal, and is now being accused of plagiarizing. I read the article in the New York Times about the case, and my first reaction was that the example in the article didn't seem so blatant. But I followed the link to the other examples, and yeah, it's a little too coincidental. I was ready to forgive this girl who’s got it all, and put aside my petty jealousy to support this fellow author, to shout out a “way to go” to a fellow Indian.

And then I read that other article, the other link in the original New York Times article, and it included a quote by her about her experiences during the college application process:

"People would ask, 'Who's writing your recommendation for Yale?' And they wouldn't tell you because it gives you a competitive advantage if people don't know."

Huh? This is from a Harvard student? A writer? Someone with ambitions to be an investment banker when she graduates? (Sorry, that last one had nothing to do with anything). So who's asking whom? And who's not answering whom?

Now, maybe it's just me being bitter that some 19-year-old can have a book contract (although apparently it involved paying $10K - $20K over her junior and senior years to get into an Ivy League school), but I'm really not impressed. And sure it's "just chick lit", but with the sheer number of chick lit authors and books out there, including Asian American ones, I would expect more from her - especially during an interview with New York Times.

I don’t mean to insult chick literature. In fact, I believe the easy readability of most books of that genre make it an exceptionally difficult genre to write. I would love to have that kind of voice throughout an entire novel (heck, I’d love to have an entire novel – you know, one that I came up with all by myself). I just know that it’s often put down as not a serious genre.

But then again, who am I to criticize how someone speaks during an interview. On my one television appearance (discussing picky eaters on the local news), I used the word "crapshoot". Around children. Talking about children. Oh well. It took me a while to live that one down. (And here I am bringing it up. Not too bright, am I?)

Baby Gender

There are various theories out there for predicting the gender of a baby. And this pregnancy, this third pregnancy, I’ve found myself rather amused by it all. Perhaps I could have played it up, tried to hear even more theories, but honestly, I only hang out with a certain number of people, so I had already heard all the theories I was likely to hear.

When I was pregnant with my first son, my hairdresser predicted I would have a girl, because she had found through the years that women coming in who were pregnant with boys tended to complain of more facial hair, or of thicker sideburns, or other side effects to – what she interpreted – as having more testosterone in their bodies. She was wrong, but her logic did make some sense.

During my first two pregnancies, I craved sweets. Actually, I craved tuna sandwiches and chocolate milkshakes (though not necessarily together). At the beginning of this pregnancy, I couldn’t handle anything sweet. Hmm, some people thought, I must be having a girl.

My mother surmised that because she had had two girls and then one boy, that I would take after her and have two boys followed by one girl. Or maybe that was just her desire. I mean, she argued the case quite convincingly that having children of both genders promised a well-balanced family and understanding children.

Some friends just “had a feeling” that this time I’d have a girl. Other friends pointed out that since my husband was one of three brothers, odds were really in favor of my raising three boys.

On our street, we have quite a few families with young children. And the majority of those children born have been boys (I believe birthrate over the past five or so years for our block alone has been 8 to 2 – technically 3 girls, but the couple with the third girl moved away before the baby was born). It’s almost as if there’s something in the water here that leads to more boys being born. So there are quite a few two-boy households, but no more than that. There hasn’t been a rule of three. The only two families on the block with three kids have had two girls followed by one boy. I thought maybe I would be following that rule. That was the theory I chose to go with.

I seemed to be carrying the baby differently this time, gaining weight a little sooner. My hair seems different, growing faster, or slower, or is shinier, or duller.

Are these really signs? Are these really valid predictors? What wonderful gems have you heard of to predict a baby’s gender?

As it turns out, we’re having a boy. Yep, three boys. And no girls. In this family, I will be the only girl. I find myself thinking often about the sitcom “Home Improvement.” And, of course, the countless stories I’ve heard about my husband’s own childhood.

Like how he and the second brother would lock themselves in the bathroom and pour different chemicals into the sink in their own personal Chem. Lab. Or how they would chase one another around the house, through the kitchen, living room, and dining room and back again, taking detours up and down the stairs. One time, after their mom had waxed the kitchen floor, one of the brothers ran out of the family room, skidded across the room, and banged his knee into the half-wall at the other end of the room, producing a hole that the family covered with a microwave. Is this really my future?

Allergies Suck

Allergies suck. My allergies started the night before my first day of ninth grade, and I showed up to my first day of classes with puffy red eyes (that were sealed shut by eye boogers all night and that my mom stayed up at night wiping off with a warm, wet cloth – by the way, thanks for that, Mom). That was the year I got the perfect attendance certificate, and I’m not really sure why I bothered, or why it mattered so much to me that year; perhaps it was then that I learned to truly embrace my inner nerd, but since I still wasn’t a great student, I don’t think I truly ever acquired true nerdiness. Nope, I was a poser nerd.

But anyhow, as I was saying, somehow, I would have allergies every other year just in the fall, from right before school started until the first frost (making me forever wish for an early winter). My major allergy is to ragweed, and evidently they grow well only every other year. So on the one hand, I consider myself quite fortunate that my allergies only bug me every other year. But on the other hand, no medicine seems to have any effect, so I suffer through allergy season drug-free.

I know a lot of people have it worse than I do, and I appreciate how lucky I generally am, but evidently, I now also have allergies in the spring! This is a new discovery, and I figure at the age of 34 I should not be picking up new allergies. At least I don’t wear contacts anymore.

So why am I talking about allergies? Well, I’ve mentioned several times throughout this blog how lazy I am. So it seems kind of ironic, then, that my immune system is working needlessly, reacting to stimuli that aren’t supposed to make me sick. But then again, being a mom of two toddlers, I guess I do have a tendency to overreact to little things, so maybe I’m allergic to my kids. Hmmm…

So my purely non-medical mind thinks, then, that there should be some way to channel the power of allergies to fight AIDS and other immune deficiency ailments. Think about it: AIDS is when your body fails to fight off diseases. If you could inject allergy-fighting cells into the bloodstream, cells that could be programmed to be allergic to actual diseases (instead of wasting time reacting to ragweed and cat hairs), problem solved. A bit simplistic, maybe, but it sounds good, right? Of course, the medical-mind of my husband points out that they are completely different mechanisms and don’t inter-relate. Of course, I took one class of Biochemistry, and that was four days a week at 8:30 in the morning, while I commuted forty minutes each way (did I ever mention that I’m not a morning person?). Oh, and I squeaked by with a C. And then I changed majors. So clearly, my grasp of biochemical processes of the human body is not so strong.

But you know, being married to a doctor works for me. I can hear his stories, listen to his descriptions of the research he’s doing, and actually use the part of my brain that was stretched a bit during my pre-med days. And, if I don’t get it, it’s okay. I’m not going to fail, nobody’s going to die, and my husband doesn’t mind. I will never claim to have “special powers” or any extra medical knowledge just because I’m married to a physician, as some other people do. I mean, I am a more relaxed mom because, instead of calling my pediatrician every time my kid falls or bumps his head (which is, sadly, quite often), I can just ask my husband. “Do I need to go to the ER? Is there anything wrong? Should I give him some medicine?” If anything, I’m actually less capable of learning because I know I have this great resource for information. Part of what I learned in school is not just to memorize a bunch of data, but rather where to find information when I need it. And that’s what I do.

So I read the paper every day, usually just the Arts and Life section, starting with the comics, and moving on to the celebrity gossip, Dear Abby, and other fluff pieces. Then, if I have time, I move on to the front page section, and maybe even Metro, to learn what’s going on locally. Well, once a week, they have some little article about medicine, or home remedies, or something like that in the Arts section. And last week, it was talking about allergies. It mentioned that one thing you shouldn’t do is over-expose yourself to the allergen in the hopes of desensitizing yourself, because it doesn’t work. Okay, I could see how if you’re allergic to peanuts you shouldn’t eat a whole jar of peanut butter because it could kill you. And logically, it does make sense. But the problem is, if I’m allergic to something outside, it says I should stay indoors and run the air conditioner.

I have two problems with that. And I’m not even counting the fact that we don’t have central air, because I don’t really want to have air conditioning. I have a friend who keeps his house refrigerator-cold in the summer, so when we go over to his place, I have to take a sweatshirt along. Seriously, a sweatshirt on a 90-degree day! But, it’s his home and he gets to keep it like he likes it. He probably hates coming over to our house where we barely run our window units. No, my problems are that 1) I spend months of winter waiting for the warm weather to return. The number of sunny, 70-degree days in Cleveland is quite limited, and I’ll be darned if I have to miss them by sitting inside. It’s not like I have a job that requires me to go sit in an office all day; I’m a stay-at-home mom, for crying out loud. One of the perks is that I get to be indoors or outdoors whenever I darn well please (and I’m sorry about the use of the word “darn”; as I mentioned before, I’ve got two toddlers at home, and if talking like Ned Flanders keeps me from being a bad influence, since I can’t – and don’t want to – control the language of others around me, then it’s what I’ll have to do; besides, as a writer, I feel that using profanity is a crutch, and that a writer should be able to express strong emotions in a more creative manner, though I’m not claiming that “darn” is very creative). And 2) last summer, my husband and I built a playground for our kids in the backyard. It took about a month to put up (you know, from one of those kits you get at Lowe’s that you should be able to put together in a weekend), and it’s got a rock wall, two slides, and two swings (with room for one more that we’ll put in next summer). Leaving kids unsupervised for too long is a bad idea, so I kind of have to spend some time in the backyard with them. Oh, and we have a dog that needs a walk everyday (although he misses them if it’s raining). And we have a nice grill that we like to use when we can.

So really, it’s not practical to completely avoid the outdoors. Nor, I believe, is it healthy. We can’t really open up all the windows and let all the allergens inside, so our fresh air intake is limited to when we’re actually outside.

I know. I could get a mask, or some sort of air filter helmet that I could wear when I am outside. Yeah, that would work. My husband is allergic to cut grass, so for a while, he would mow the lawn wearing a surgical mask he got from the hospital. I figured it was a small sacrifice for me to make to actually mow my own lawn, so I did it for a while. It was kind of fun, making different patterns in the grass – diagonals, spirals, stripes in all directions. But then, mowing the lawn when seven months pregnant isn’t so wise, and then trying to find the right time to mow when you have a kid around is also tough, and even harder when you have two, and so we hire a company to come do it for us now. It is, as my husband says, why we make money. Because really, you can only buy so much stuff. After a while, you’re going to run out of places to put it. You may as well make your life easier.

So while my eyes may itch, and I may sneeze every now and then, I refuse to let my allergies control me. I just better learn what the heck ragweed looks like; for all I know, I’m probably letting it grow in my garden or eating it in some mixed green salad (for those who know me, you know that’s highly unlikely, considering how little salad I eat).

My Car Has A Name

I am not a religious person. For those of you out there who are, perhaps I should preface this story with a disclaimer: all musings contained herein are meant to be obnoxious, or maybe just a little annoying, but are not meant to insult. If you are insulted, perhaps you and the guy who played Chef in South Park should get together. Of course, I am not trying to compare myself to the writers of South Park, but I do think if you can’t take a little humor at the expense of your religion may need to look inward to the source of the discomfort (are you offended at my ignorance or your own doubt in your faith?).

So anyhow, sometime this past Friday, Good Friday to be exact, I last drove my car. I suppose my younger son had played in it for a while, turning on and off various lights and messing with the wipers. Well, Saturday, it wasn’t driven. But today, on Easter Sunday, I had to drive my cousin to his friend’s house so they could drive back to Kentucky (where they go to college). We needed to get to his place at 3, so at 2:15, we loaded up the car and I went to start it. I got in the driver’s seat and found that the clock and odometer were blank (normally a digital display).

Uh-oh, I thought. That’s not good. And sure enough, my car wouldn’t start. Great. We let the kids play on the playground while we tried to use the battery-powered jump starter that my dad got me sometime in the past year and that my husband had mocked. Unfortunately, neither of us was entirely sure how to connect it, and with that doubt, we decided not to proceed. Research was in order.

I looked through the manual. Nothing. I looked online. Nothing. I went inside and found the receipt for when I got the battery last summer. I tried calling the place, but they were closed. Argh. My patience grew thinner and thinner. I grew more frustrated with each passing minute. My cousin called his friend, who agreed to come pick him up, so at least I wouldn’t be making him get back to college too late. A few minutes later my husband came home from work and, after changing out of his shirt and tie (his “fancy clothes”, as my elder son likes to call it), jump started my car.

And now, it works. We had to go to dinner, but after returning, I took it for a drive, and it is fine. I know, not a very exciting story. Rather ordinary, in fact.

But here’s the thing. My car died on Good Friday and came back to life on Easter. Does that sound familiar to you? You may say that it was just a coincidence, but was it really? Or was it a sign that my faith has been misguided (or, well, non-existent) for too long. And a savior has been born (again).

And so, from now on (or at least until I get my minivan), my car shall be called Jesus. Or maybe just J.C. Believe!

p.s. I know I haven't posted in over a week, and you're looking at this and thinking "THIS is what she came back with?!" Sorry. I promise to do better next time.

Car Buying 101

Well, I’m not getting a Tribeca. Friday morning, after getting the e-Check done on my car, I had an hour to waste before taking my little one to a makeup class at the Little Gym (a class he didn’t want to attend and that he ended up leaving early). I had planned on visiting a couple of furniture stores between the e-Check place and the Little Gym, but unfortunately, nothing was open. So, as I approached the Subaru dealership where I purchased my current car, I noticed they were open and decided to stop in.

We had seen an ad or a commercial or something about the 7-passenger Tribeca, and being quite satisfied with our current Outback, I thought it was worth considering. Apparently, some major traffic jam on 271 caused all the salespeople to come in late, so I waited around for ten minutes just wandering around the showroom, looking through the brochure, and playing with my son.

Finally, a salesman came in and made his way over to me. Now, I’ve been through the car-buying experience several times now, and I’m not saying I’m a pro, or necessarily very good at getting a great deal, but I do have a personal pet-peeve list about sales tactics. A few months after getting married, my husband and I went around looking to get a second vehicle. I was 22 years old, and probably looked younger, but I was looking to spend a decent amount of money (more than a cup of coffee or a meal). So I expect to be treated as, say, an adult, especially if I go unaccompanied by a parent. So when I went to the Nissan dealership and the salesman kept referring to me as a “kid”, yeah, I was kind of turned off. As we walked around the lot, he asked if I minded if he smoked. I admit, I did say no (even though, honestly, I did), but when we stepped into a car and I took it for a test drive, I really didn’t like the overwhelming smell of smoke permeating through the car. That really affected my impression of the car. In the end, we leased a Saturn from the “no haggle” dealership across the street from a guy named Jody who, although he laughed too much, treated us with respect.

So much of the car-buying experience is emotional. It is. You research the car, get the numbers, and order the Consumer Reports car report. You go in and negotiate, but really, the salesmen have the upper hand. They see people day in and day out, know which person is emotionally vested and which is not. They know how to pull your emotional strings and convince you, with “facts” and statistics, and some good acting, that you are really getting a good deal. I’m sure they have to go back to the finance manager “for that extra discount” not for approval, but to get the laughter out of their system before they get you to sign a contract that shows what a chump you are. In return, they offer you the emotional satisfaction of driving away in a pretty new car with the new car smell sprayed in, in the color you want, with the extra features you overpaid for. And month after month, as you sign check after check (or file statement after statement if you sign up for auto-pay) for your car, that emotional rush fades a little more, and you convince yourself as you drive your car just how much you love it and just how much it was worth how much you paid for it. And you are resolved that next time, you’re going to get a better deal.

So yes, I am shopping not only for a good car, but also for a good shopping experience. I’m dropping a good deal of money, and expect to come out of it without any bitterness toward the dealership where I purchase or lease my car. I don’t want that negative emotion accompanying me every time I look at my car.

So anyhow, the salesman at the Subaru dealership greeted me, and I told him I was interested in learning more about the Tribeca. Mind you, the salesperson who had sold us our last car, and had sold our friends their car shortly afterward (in a show of great customer service, since the sale occurred right around the time my friend went into labor) sent us a letter after this dealership underwent new ownership, stating she had left to go elsewhere. So I was talking to someone completely different, the first guy that happened to show up at work that day. And he proceeded to open up the brochure (that I had been looking through off and on for the past ten minutes) to the last page, and began to read off the colors in which I could get the car.

I’m not one to be rude. Really. I will not talk back to an elder (okay, except my parents, and I know I ought to cut back on that). And even on my worst days, even if I am horribly offended, I will recite what I ought to say, figure out the perfect words to convey my disappointment (or whatever) and end up leaving without saying a word.

I let him read (yes, read) about four colors (including obsidian, which he kindly translated as black for me, in case I couldn’t figure it out by the accompanying color swatch). He only had about three more to go, so I could have kept my mouth shut.

“Honestly,” I said, “the color is probably the least important thing to me right now.” Honestly, I’m kind of surprised I actually said anything. What’s happening to me? I mean, I still had about 40 minutes to waste; what’s the hurry?

His response? “Oh, you just want to take it for a drive.”

Again, wow. Has this guy been to a sales seminar ever?

“No, I’d just like to take a look to see if it’s a practical upgrade for me.”

Since it was a rainy day, and I had my kid with me, I really was in no mood to move a car seat in order to take the car for a spin. I figured I could look inside and get a good sense of whether three car seats would comfortably fit inside. So he pulled up a five passenger Tribeca. I’m pretty sure I had mentioned that I was looking at the seven passenger one, so he really wasn’t getting very many points on receptiveness at this point.

I looked inside, and he confirmed that it has no third row of seats. “Okay, can I look at a seven passenger one?”

We went back inside. I waited while he wandered outside to pull up the car (which turned out to have a dead battery). I waited for about five minutes or so, during which I was tempted to leave, but didn’t (having nowhere else to go). The guy at the front desk, a burly, friendly grey-haired man who had welcomed me initially, talked a little to my son. Finally, I said something.

“You know, you may want to mention to the salesman that he shouldn’t start off by reading off the color choices of the car.”

That’s it. I didn’t go into how insulted I was by it, not only by the assumption that that’s all I would be interested in, or that I couldn’t read that in the brochure by myself, but also by the fact that since he came after I had looked through the brochure for ten minutes, perhaps I might have already looked at that page (and was capable of reading it). I don’t know. Maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was less.

I talked to the receptionist guy about how I don’t know if it’s even a practical alternative to a minivan, something I mentioned to my salesman as we walked to the car. He mentioned that minivans don’t have all wheel drive (and asked me if I was familiar with the Subarus; I’m pretty sure I had already mentioned that I’m looking to upgrade from my Outback, but I mentioned it again anyhow). I let him know that a couple of the minivans actually have all wheel drive options (don’t know why I felt I needed to share that information with him, but it felt good). In any case, he was talking apples to my oranges.

I looked inside. It’s nice, but it would never work. To access the back row, the seats in the front row would have to fold down. With car seats, that’s not so easy to do. And having my five year old have to climb over the folded-down middle seat every day is just impractical. As it is, I feel bad that he’s going to probably have to sit in the far row.

He showed me the engine (by then, I really didn’t care. But I thought, sure, what the heck. Let’s just keep this experience alive. What else can he add to my blog entry (yes, as I lived it, I knew I would be sharing it, and that was my silver lining)? So it turns out that the Tribeca is built in the same plant as some Porshe, and in fact has a Boxer engine.

Under the hood, the Tribeca is a nice looking car. Inside, it’s decent. On the outside, I don’t know, it’s a little weird, but I could have gotten used to it. And later, when we’re out of car seats, maybe I would consider it (although by then, what’s the point? Make them sit next to each other in one row in the backseat of some sedan). But on a purely practical standpoint, the Tribeca is not a feasible alternative to a minivan.

And I have to say that, in the end, I am happy to know that I am capable of judging a car purely on its merits (or lack thereof) and not on the sales experience. But I’d be lying to say I’m not a little relieved that I won’t have to go back and deal with this guy again.

National Chole Day

I made meatloaf for lunch today. It was actually pretty good, a Santa Fe Southwestern Meatloaf that was spicy (minced jalapenos) and the boys actually gobbled up with some ketchup. I hadn’t eaten meatloaf in almost twelve years, when I had eaten it on an RV with ten other people on the way to Alaska. And normally, we don’t like to eat that much meat.

But you see, April 1st was Meatloaf Appreciation Day, and it made me think I ought to give it a try. As it turns out, pretty much every day in April has some reason to celebrate, some special meaning to make every day special. Perhaps this is to make up for the fact that four days after wearing shorts, a tshirt, and sandals, we have snowfall.

http://www.123greetings.com is where I go to find out about what special days are coming up. For example, April 6th is Animated Cartoon Day, California Poppy Day, Caramel Popcorn Day, Ram Navami, International Fun At Work Day, Tartan Day, and International Special Librarian’s Day. Whew! What a busy Thursday. I could start the day with a poppyseed muffin, have some caramel popcorn as a mid-morning snack as I drive to the library. I’ll wish all them Hindu’s out there a Happy Ram Navami (the website’s spelling, not mine), and watch a rerun of the Simpsons, all while wearing a kilt. The 15th: Bengali New Year, Tax Day, Malayalam New Year, Fast Food Day, Rubber Eraser Day, Freak-out Day, and Leonardo da Vinci’s Birthday. Busy, busy, busy. On the 17th, be sure to appreciate a nosy neighbor. On the 20th, Respect Lima Beans. Check it out for yourself.

Now, admittedly, I’d like to attend the Chocolate Festival in Illinois on the 28th, and while I do appreciate the ingenuity of the Zipper (Zipper Day, 29th), I have to wonder. Who came up with all these days, and why? I’m sure it wasn’t all the same person (Hot Dog Day, Jelly Bean Day, 22nd), and maybe I just lack that true devotion to something, anything, that would drive me enough to push to get a day to commemorate it, but I just don’t understand.

I mean, I celebrate the standard days: New Years, Valentine’s, Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas (although, since I don’t observe it religiously, I’ve been pushing my family to switch to celebrating Kwanzaa, since it would make dividing days with the in-laws much easier). But beyond that, well, I don’t know. Wasn’t Sweetest Day created by chocolate manufacturers and greeting card companies? I’m sure many of these days have corporate sponsors. And yes, a Festival is different from a “Day” since it’s an event celebrating something, usually to raise funds for some organization.

You know, I’ve had a couple of ideas of events that the Indian community could organize to spread awareness and/or raise funds. And I would organize them myself if I had any real interest in getting involved. But as an idea girl, I’m willing to share these gems with the public purely for the sake of seeing them done (and gloating when they succeed).

Now, I’m sure you’ve all heard of the Chili Cook-off. Restaurants and individuals pay a fee to compete and present their best chili recipes to be evaluated by a group of judges, and people show up, paying for tickets to buy small samples of all these different chilis. It’s great for advertising, and with money coming in from competitors and attendees, I reckon it raises a decent amount of money, too. Well, how about a Chole Cook-off? It’s the same concept, but with Indian food. Everyone’s got a slightly different recipe for chole (Indian chili made with garbanzo beans instead of beef or beans). Someone could have a stand selling various flatbreads (I prefer Batura) or rice, and maybe even stalls selling lassi and other beverages. But aside from that, different Indian restaurants from around town (and as the event grew bigger, from surrounding towns), as well as ambitious Indian Aunties, would bring out a large vat of their best chole, and compete for the title of Chole Cook-off Champion, not to mention bragging rights. I would hold it in late Spring, preferably on the grounds of the local temple (so it could be outdoors). It’s completely vegetarian, so I don’t see how they would have a problem with it. It could be a temple fundraiser, perhaps. I once went to a Chili Cook-off in a parking lot. Heck, that works too. Doesn’t really matter where it is, as long as the proper permits are acquired, right? Advertising would be very important.

The key, I believe, would be to draw in a non-Indian crowd. Because, admit it, an Indian family showing up to this event would 1) eat before coming, 2) find the stall that fills the Dixie cup up the highest, and 3) come to get a cheap meal. Yes, it’s a horrible stereotype, and I’d love to be proven false, but c’mon.

In Cleveland, we have a community center that’s not fully utilized. It’s a nice space, with a large kitchen and a larger open room with a sound system. And so, it made me wonder, why isn’t the space used as a chaat house? When I went to San Francisco, I ate at a Chaat House, a restaurant whose main dish is chaat, which is a simple dish, originally served in roadhouse dhabas, or stalls, with flat fried puris topped with a tangy, spicy mix of potatoes, lentils, garbanzo beans, yogurt, tamarind sauce, onions, and other stuff that I’m forgetting at the moment (or maybe not). Evidently, there’s a bunch of chaat houses in California (as googling for chaat house will reveal), but the phenomenon has not yet spread to Cleveland (please, hold back your expressions of shock). I heard about one place that was basically a warehouse with folding tables and chairs, sold plates of chaat on paper plates, and was so crowded that you’d often have to sit outside on the curb to eat. Chaat is the ultimate fast food. Most of the ingredients are raw or require very little preparation. Heck, a Subway store could theoretically be converted very easily to a Chaat house since the ingredients would be all laid out and you could let the customers choose what they wanted or didn’t want. It would probably do well in a food court.

After coming back from Paris last October, I also realized that what Cleveland needs is a creperie. We ate some of the best crepes (having at least one almost every day we were there) at a roadside stall, where, again, the toppings were in little steel containers, and a stack of crepes was kept warm. You would order, and the guy working the stall would grab a crepe, slather it with the toppings, fold it into a wax wrapper, and hand it over.

My local bakery needs to start selling sandwiches made just of their focaccia split in two with sliced tomatoes and mozzarella in between, and perhaps fresh basil. Or with sliced proscuitto and arugula for meat-eaters, I suppose. For that matter, since the owner’s son is in my kid’s school (just down the street from the bakery), it would be nice if she took orders and brought lunch orders to the school to distribute while we all waited to pick our kids up from preschool. Personally, I think it’s a market she’s missing out on, but maybe that’s just me being a little lazy.

And there it is. There’s the reason I’m such an idea person. Because I’m too damn lazy to act upon any of these ideas. Well, that and since I have absolutely no business sense, it wouldn’t really make much sense for me to start a business. Well, that and I have no desire to give up the little free time I do have. Not yet, anyhow.

Before I had kids, I considered starting a business. A coworker friend and I were going to quit our jobs (after we got the business going – we even had a name and everything) and start this business. It was a good idea, and we thought through what it would entail. And for Christmas that year, my husband even bought me a book about starting a business (see, he has always been very supportive of my crazy endeavors, choosing instead of discouraging me to let me figure out on my own that I really don’t want to proceed). Well, I ended up returning the book after a couple of weeks, when this friend and I took the quick Are You Ready To Start A Business quiz and failed it miserably. See, neither of us was the least bit inclined to relinquish our treasured free time. He was married with two young kids (or at least one with one on the way, I can’t remember now), and I, well, let’s just say I didn’t want to offend my good friends, the television and the couch. I liked working and being social, but sometimes, it was nice to know I could leave work and not have to think about it.

It’s still a belief I hold onto, that home is no place for work (well, unless you’re trying to be a writer and have young kids sleeping and you would like to go to the coffee shop to write but could be arrested for doing so if you left them under the care of your dog). I mean, of course there’s the housework, and lawn care, and home improvement, but when that’s all taken care of (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha), it’s a place to forget work. I’ve never had an office job since having kids, but my goal is to one day acquire one, and while there, I’d like to think that I can keep my home life (other than a few cute photographs in my cubicle, and, I suppose, an anecdote or two) out of the office. Work at work, then leave. I’m a good worker bee that way.

And that, I suppose is why I’m hoping some enterprising individual out there with the personality and drive to actually act upon these ideas will do so. I’d like some credit, of course, since I did suggest the idea. For now, though, I’d like to start a petition (someone send me a link to a website that creates and manages them, please) to create Chole Day. Send me your chole recipes (well, wait until I put together or find some website where you can submit your recipes online) and I’ll compile a Chole Cookbook. Then again, maybe the cookbook should be compiled from the winning recipes at the Chole Cook-off. Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.

So, is anyone good at organizing events? Oh damn, that’s me. Umm, anyone know anyone involved with an organization around Cleveland that might want an event organized? Damn, again, that’s me. Umm, ooh, here’s a good one. Anyone interested in pursuing this for real? Contact me. We’ll talk. I’ll help get this thing moving. Really. Seriously. Why don’t you believe me?

Prison Retreat

I don’t remember exactly when I heard the news story, sometime in the past year (though definitely before December). But just today, I came across this little tidbit I wrote in reaction to it. Perhaps you remember the story…

“So I was listening to NPR this morning. I wasn’t having a particularly bad day; in fact, the day promised to be quite relaxed and enjoyable. But I heard about a French journalist who had been held captive for five months and I have to confess, part of me was jealous. I thought, wow, five months without diaper changes; laundry; dishes; cooking; deciding what to cook; feeding a husband, two kids and a dog; running errands; and all the other stupid stuff that fills up my days. In five months, as long as I have access to paper and pen, I could probably write a novel. Sure, the food wouldn’t necessarily be good, but then I guess I could lose those last five pounds.”

So then that just begs the question: does that little glance into my psyche indicate that I’m an optimist (seeing the best in an obviously horrible situation) or a pessimist (seeing what’s sucky in my life)? Then again, does it really matter? (Does that make me a defeatist?)

Thinking more deeply about the concept of imprisonment, especially in light of the recent journalist that was kidnapped in Iraq, it’s really got to work out for writers. Instant bestseller, and it hasn’t even been written yet, or even completely conceived (unless she needed something to think about while she was imprisoned). Everyone will buy it, or at least feel guilty about not buying it. I’ll make millions. I mean, you know the quality will be good; I’m a writer after all. And if I do something a little different, like tell it from the kidnapper’s point of view, or write a how-to survive a visit to a war-torn land, then maybe I’ll even get invited to the Oprah show.

I just heard about a nineteen-year-old girl who has received some incredible advance (over a million dollars) for her novel. Nineteen! On the one hand, good for her. On the other hand, grrr. So I’m on my kick again to get a novel written. Apparently this blog just isn’t good enough for me. And I’ll use this little tidbit of info to motivate me. If some nineteen-year-old can get published (no, I’ve never read her writing, and yes, she could be a brilliant writer, and yes, I did write some damn good stuff in high school, but still), then so can I. I’m almost twice her age. Surely the knowledge and maturity I’ve acquired in that extra lifetime counts for something (like not getting all jealous over someone else’s good fortune, perhaps? – don’t you hate it when you talk back to yourself?). I can do it. I can write a book that’s not just drivel (like this blog generally is). Let’s assume all my crappy writing has been punted out of my system and onto this blog (don’t you feel special reading this now?). All the good stuff can go into my novel. And it will. It’s in me, and now that I’m in the habit of writing (thanks to this blog), it can come out. So, some time in the next couple of years, expect to hear something about my novel.

And hopefully it won’t just be another blog entry, written from prison, talking about how I used to be moronic enough to think I might one day actually publish a novel.

Just Another Day

Do you believe in fate, karma, and all that stuff? I don’t. I think things just happen, or you make things happen. Some events are just random and can’t be made to be more than that. Some days, good things keep on happening and in the end it’s a crappy day, and other days, despite getting crapped on, you can’t shake the smile from your face.

Thursday night, at 11:15pm, my husband got a call from work. The guy who was supposed to work the midnight shift had to leave, because his partner had gone into labor. This meant that my husband, who was scheduled to work at 7 the next morning, had to get up immediately, jump in the shower, and hustle to work the midnight shift. Normally, he takes a two-hour nap before going in; this time, he couldn’t.

So Friday morning, since keeping the boys quiet inside the house can be quite difficult and rather stress inducing, I decided to take the boys out to breakfast at Tommy’s. Since it was so nice out, I ran into the attic to try to find sandals for the boys (hoping in our outgrown stash the little one could use a hand-me-down; no luck). And, since it was so beautiful outside (sunny and 65 degrees), we decided to then walk to Turtle Park, a little playground about a mile away from Tommy’s specially designed for kids 5 and under.

Breakfast went well, and the kids ate up their pancakes topped with strawberries, bananas, and whipped cream. I even got to eat my French toast and bacon. But then, as I reached for the bill, my hair got a little too close to my plate and was syruped. And of course, I had just washed my hair that morning.

Syrup in the hair was annoying, yes, but not horrible. The waitress saw what happened and immediately brought over a glass of water for me to dip my hair into, so no harm was done. The cosmic balance had been restored. We left the restaurant. My younger son got in the stroller, my elder son walked, and his friend (who had joined us as we were finishing up with her mom and younger sister) walked with us (while her mom and sister drove to the playground). For a moment, I contemplated driving over, since the diaper bag was in the car, but I decided it was too nice a day, and besides, I probably wouldn’t need to change my son anyhow.

We walked. It took a little urging to get the kids to keep walking, what with all the fascinating leaves, sticks, and blades of grass to examine. But, soon enough, we could see the girl’s mom and sister waving to us from inside the fence. My son and his friend rushed ahead as I strolled past a tree a few yards behind.

That’s when I felt it. Splat. A small, wet, cold sensation drew my eyes to the back of my right hand. Less than half an hour after getting syrup in my hair, a bird pooped on my hand. I grabbed a stick and scraped off what I could, then wiped my hand on the grass. After getting inside the fence and letting my younger son go play, I proceeded to clean myself off more thoroughly (with my trusty companion, Purell), only to discover that the splatter had hit my shirt, my jacket, and my purse. I cleaned the best I could, and decided to just deal with it later when I got home.

So then, a few minutes later, I watched my younger son standing in the sandbox, straining his face as he – give yourself five points if you guessed it – pooped. If you recall, I had decided AGAINST bringing the car, with the diaper bag, to the park. Fortunately, my friend had her diaper stuff in her car (just in front of the playground) and let me borrow it. So, we were able to stick around and let the kids actually play at the playground.

The afternoon was forecast to by rainy, so my husband had asked me to walk the dog early. My plan was to come home, change a diaper if necessary, switch strollers, and head out. But, the kids were hungry, so we ate what I hoped would be a quick lunch before heading out (of course, that never really happens). So finally, we got out, and we started walking. My elder son actually held the leash (handing it over if we ever saw a dog or squirrel) for half the walk, and I half-wished I had the camcorder to record the two of them running side by side (the other half realized I had enough on my hands with two kids and a dog). Well, we were about a mile away from home when the droplets started. We sped up. Then finally, about five houses away from our house, the rain started. Now, I know that a little rain never hurt anyone, and normally, I wouldn’t have cared. But the smell of wet dog was not something I really wanted to face, especially since I had neither the time nor the inclination to bathe the dog.

The little one took a nap – in his brother’s bed – and I went to my bedroom to change out of my bird-soiled clothes. Now, despite knowing that I had just seen a particular pink shirt of mine the night before – and discussing it with my husband when we’d had a conversation about how so many of my clothes don’t fit me very well, a conversation that he took quite a surprising bit of interest in – I couldn’t find it. Odd, I thought, but just put on another top, trying to dress somewhat nicely since my husband’s cousin and his family were also going to be at my in-law’s house for dinner that evening. I headed downstairs, where my son and I hung out until my husband woke up an hour or so later.

So as of this point, my mood was still good. Other days, less than that would totally set me off, so I’m not really sure what kept my spirits up. Perhaps it was the fact that it was warm and sunny out, and that I got to enjoy it for as long as it lasted (and then some).

Well, the big one (my husband) woke up, the little one woke up, and the boys and I packed the boys’ suitcase while my husband showered. My firstborn started wavering, saying he didn’t want to sleep over Grandma’s house, so I reassured him that he didn’t have to; that we could just as easily bring the suitcase back, but if he decided when he was there that he wanted to stay, he should have some clothes. And, of course, once we got there, he announced to Grandma that he was sleeping over. Such is the mutability of a child’s mind.

My husband said he’d go back to the car and get the suitcase in a few minutes, which I thought was a little odd (considering we normally let the boys drag it behind them) but then, sometimes he is a little odd. I went in and started feeding the little one dinner (when he walked in, he headed straight for the dining room and climbed right into the high chair). My husband disappeared for a while, and I simply presumed he must have decided to go put gas in the car – while he was out there – and would be back shortly. Finally, my elder son couldn’t stand waiting anymore, and went upstairs to look for him. I kept sitting, starting the little one on his second rotli.

A couple of minutes later, my son runs downstairs calling, “Happy Birthday!” Now, my birthday isn’t for a few weeks, so I don’t think it registered. But I took the paper from his outstretched hands and read the receipt for two tickets for that night’s performance of “Bombay Dreams.” I looked up and saw my husband wearing a suit and green shirt, which was one of the several shirts he had ironed the night before. He sent me upstairs to change, and there I found that he had picked out two outfits for me, including matching shoes and the proper strapless bra. He had packed the garment bag with his clothes the night before (and left them in the attic, where I didn’t even notice it when I went up earlier that morning) and, after I headed off to Tommy’s, he had packed my clothes and shoes.

I got dressed, thrilled that my dress still fit me, and rushed downstairs. The whole drive over, and the whole drive back, I wanted to call up someone, anyone, and tell them. I had completely written off getting to see the show. It was unfortunate, I thought, since it occurred over Spring Break, when babysitting shouldn’t be an issue, but my husband’s work schedule, plus the need to actually do our taxes, and the timing just wasn’t working out.

I rationalized. It’s not like I really get to go to that many shows anyhow, and I could always go to New York sometime to see it, and I just went to see Coldplay, and what I really want to see is Wicked, so it’s all right. And it would have been all right. I’m not a child; I wasn’t going to pout and hold a grudge or insist I get to go no matter what.

So instead, I had the most marvelous evening, sitting fourth row center (!) and having a ton of fun. The lengths that my husband went to, the way he pulled off the surprise, and how he’d thought of every single detail, the fact that my in-laws agreed to watch the kids instead of going out with their friends on a Friday night: wow. (Incidentally, as he was getting dressed before leaving our house, I had asked him about the missing shirt. He smiled a half smile that told me he was up to something. Then he laughed and changed the subject, which confirmed he was up to something. But in my wildest dreams – and maybe that should tell me something about my ambitions to be a writer – I couldn’t figure out what he was up to, and decided he’d tell me when he was ready and I dropped it.)

My husband doesn’t believe in holidays, works most of them, and is too busy to celebrate or shop for anything, even if he were so inclined. He stated that he had effectively lowered the bar for years, so now he can make a simple gesture and it is well received. I suppose that’s true, but I certainly won’t let that diminish how great I feel. Of course, now I have nothing to look forward to on my actual birthday, but really, it’s just a day.