i hate the bus

Threw the rest of my heavy coats and boots into my too-small suitcase and sat on it, pounded it and wrestled the zipper closed, like me on my heavy days vainly wriggling into a pair of skinny jeans. Mercifully it did close. Let's pray now that it doesn't burst and splay my underwear everywhere, as was my unfortunate experience once when traveling from Naples to Amsterdam. And another time from Manila to Hong Kong. Hmm actually this seems to happen to me a lot, I wonder why? Hauled ass to the bus depot, only to be greeted by the door bitch, who, armed with her clipboard and a nasty sneer informed me that there was no more space for me. "But I'm on the list!" I wailed, racking my brain for names to drop and pulling at the metaphorical velvet rope. Flashing cleavage in this situation proved fruitless. Bye-bye bus.

Cursing under my breath, I walked 6 blocks to the nearest Starbucks, dragging my luggage behind me like a dead body. And since when did one have to walk so freakin far to find a Stabucks?! They're on every blasted corner when you don't need them. And I hate Starbucks. But I needed the wifi. At $6 an hour, mind you. Groan. All so I could scour the other rotten bus options for the day, because I need to be back in New York already. My roomie is frantically texting me non-stop that there is a, umm, rodent situation in the apartment that needs to be dealt with asap. Boy, I can't wait to be back!

So as I sit here on this generic purple Starbucks couch, using up every cent of the $6 I spent on stupid Internet, sipping weak and overly saccharine sludge, I choose to vent out all my frustrations now to you, my faceless internet audience, lest I murder my seatmate with all my pent-up aaaarrrhghhhh. I will probably have to pee all the way back, thank you Starbucks, and I pray to God that the bus bathroom is halfway decent, but that would be too easy.

Next time I'm taking the f-in train!

where were you when...?

On September 11, 2001... I was living in Washington, DC and working for a government office. It was early in the morning and my coffee hadn't kicked in yet, and I was getting thoroughly annoyed by my coworkers shrieking in the next office. I went to see what was going on and the guard's tiny black and white TV was tuned into live coverage of the smoking twin towers in NY. Then it split-screened into the smoking Pentagon building, which was alarmingly closer by to us. Rumors abound that the Capitol building was the next target, which happened to be conveniently located next to our own building. This rumor actually turned out to be true- but for better or worse, the plane intended for us crashed into a field in Pennsylvania instead. Half the crowd hauled ass outta there. The other half, myself included, loitered about in shock and indecision.

My cousin worked at Morgan Stanley, on the 60th floor of the World Trade Center's south tower. It was unreal to watch the flaming buildings on television, knowing that he was there, somewhere. Then it collapsed, and I almost fell with it. I wanted to vomit. I wanted to do something, anything, anything was better than that nauseous, helpless feeling of dread, disgust, panic. I couldn't reach my cousin's phone and I thought I was going to go mad with worry. So I hauled ass outta there too. The streets were pandemonium. Everyone blubbering about senselessly, running aimlessly, on their mobiles and jamming the lines.

He was ok (thank the Lord). He was in the 2nd tower to get hit. When the first one got hit, his building was evacuated, without any explanation. They sauntered down the fire exits grumbling at the disruption of another unnecessary fire drill. When they reached the 45th floor there was a guy with a bullhorn telling everyone that the situation has been resolved and they could return to their offices. So my cuz took the elevator back up. "How stupid were we???" he would later be quoted in the New York Times. He reached his office and looked out the window to see people in the north tower jumping out of the windows. That's when the second plane hit. A file cabinet fell on him. Then he hauled ass. It took him an hour to make the 60 flights down, made painfully slower because he was helping a crippled woman. On the 7th floor she stopped, claiming she couldn't go on. My cousin was aghast. "What do you mean you can't? Do you understand that we are going to die?" She refused and refused. He had to leave her. He was 10 blocks away when the tower came down. The trains weren't running or were otherwise jammed, and the streets were flooded with ash and panicking masses. There was no way he was going to make it home, so instead he met his dad at a bar and they got drunk.

Seven years later, and I am still thankful that my cousin is still here with us, but mourn those who weren't as fortunate. I still wonder what happened to that crippled woman.

in a galaxy far far away

As promised many months ago, here's the video of the downtime during just another day at the epicenter of gayness, my little office in Chiang Mai. (Again, please excuse my very extremely heinous laughter in the background. I could not control it!)



I miss these fools. I really do.

only in america

Where else but in America can an Amer-asian girl dress up in a sari and roll into an Indian engagement party in a Brazilian churrascaria with a carload of Filipinos, Chinese and Koreans?

Mat was one of my closest friends from my college days in upstate New York, and over the weekend he celebrated his engagement in a traditional Malayalam Indian dinner party. It was an intimate crowd consisting of family and church members and a few friends. Their pastors were present to lead the many Christian prayers and singing. The mood was conservative, but happy. An hour into the festivities, I felt happy as well, but something was missing. And then I slowly realized there... was... no... alcohol. OMG. I was at a party completely sober! Surreal. Luckily we were at a Brazilian bbq buffet, so I got intoxicated on meat instead, my drug of choice for the night. I inhaled 9 different kinds of bloody carnivore delights carved from sword skewers directly onto my plate, and finished myself off with 2 plates of leche flan for dessert. All I can say is praise the Lord my sari was adjustable. I had borrowed it from Nina in an attempt to be formal and culturally respectful... and also because this might be my only chance to ever wear a sari and their jewelry is crazy. Love it.

I tease Mat that his Indian traditions extend way beyond just his religion. His mother had set him up in what I affectionately termed a modern-day arranged marriage. Clearly mommy knows best. It's rare to see 2 people together and know that there could be no better match for each. After only 4 months of dating, he proposed. He said it was the easiest decision he's ever made. Isn't that how it should always be? :)