Monkey In a Suit

So after debating suburb vs in-the-city endlessly, my sister and brother-in-law made their choice of potential neighbourhood based on rising gas costs + the sentiment that at heart they’re more city people anyway. They’re going to live in the city-most likely Charlestown.

Back when I lived in metro-Boston, Charlestown was like…a hole. Then again, I was shocked as hell when my friend kmm decided to live in Teele/Davis Square during our early twenties because surrsly, Davis square was like…a hole. Add Central Square to that. You could get shot in Central Square once-upon-a-time. It’s where we Lexingtonians went to feel “dangerous” (real dangerous was Roxbury, Mattapan and Dor-chestah, but C.S. would do in a pinch).  

Umm, that all changed. Davis Square had ALREADY changed by the time k took up residence there and Charlestown looks like it’s rapidly gentrifying.

So I was looking at some homeporn on RealEstate.com today and having all manner of jealous feelings that Bunsen and Beaker are going to get in on that lovely Paul Revere Wuz Here home action. So unfair! I know I won’t feel that way around October/November/December when I’m still jogging outside, but right now I’m imagining myself living back in my home city, having pretentious merlot liberal conversations and chatting with ghosts about the Merkin Revolution.  

I am highly irritated by the “Wimmin’s” section of WSJ online. I’ve made no secret of the fact that WSJ is, hands down, my favourite newspaper. Well, pre-NYT-purchased Boston Globe was awesome, like when they interviewed Mitt Romney’s wife and effectively shut down his attempts to become senator. But, for over 10 years I’ve loved WSJ and held a subscription on and off.

So WTF, WSJ, with your stupid “Ladiez Stuffs” section??? You know why I read WSJ? For the FINANCIAL NEWS and to figure out what’s going on with the mortgage meltdown and organic tofu from non-GM soybean issues in Japan. Stop patronising me with your Fashion and Exercise for the Bizness Ladiez shiz. I read WSJ to figure out what’s going on with TWO THINGS and TWO THINGS ONLY.

1) Money

2) Rich powerful people who have access to money 

Is nothing sacred anymore? Why do they have to turn WSJ into Redbook when REDBOOK ALREADY EXISTS.

So much hate.

Do you know what I think? I think that I am the only American federal worker on the face of the planet who is NOT a conspiracy theorist.

Today Alone:

1) Freak downtown rain shower explained away by co-worker in breakroom as resulting from “government chem trails.” This was in response to my statement that I didn’t get caught in the freak rainshower since I KNOW what inclement weather looks like, on account of all those years I spent in Not California (which is kinda how the natives think of the Rest o’ the World). These “chem trails” are apparently deployed by commercial jets, with government authority. Apparently there’s a lot of information on the internet that I can research.

2) Another co-worker saw me pouring milk into my tea (not five seconds after “Chem Trails” had taken himself off back to his cubicle) and felt the need to inform me that milk is a government conspiracy to cause autism. Really? Because I thought the webz told me that was vaccines or something. Wow. Science is really unpopular these days, you guys. Anyway, I told her a mild case of dairy-based autism would probably be helpful in allowing me to do my job the best I can.

3) THIS is the best one. One of the attorneys (I won’t mention who) sidles up to me to ask me who BB works for (as in, the name of the bank). After I tell her, I get a 20 minute lecture on said Bank’s connection to the Bin Ladens, the Iraq War, Iranian nuclear missiles and The Carlyle Group. Oooh, the best part…he/she asked me if poor beleagured Big Bird knows anything about what his nefarious employers are up to, what with running the world hand in hand with Dick Cheney and other paunchy white guys in ill-fitting suits. I was like, “NO, but he has told me that when the apocalypse comes that I’m going to have to take my chances up here with the proletariats while he retreats to the Sooper Sikrit Bunker for Upper Managment Finance Dorks. But he told me he’d follow my progress on camera.” Anyway, you’d think said co-worker would get the drift but the only response to this was “You think they have one? He said you couldn’t go with him?” 

So, I’ve abandoned the guitar guys, mainly because I’m busy. A while back I took a notion in my head to take up shooting. I told BB but he got a really nervous tone in his voice and was like “Can’t you focus on the guitar for a while longer?” and I was like “WHY AREN’T YOU SUPPORTIVE OF MY DECISION TO TAKE UP SHOOTING MR. “YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO TAKE YOUR CHANCES IN A POST-APOCALYPTIC WORLD WHILE I’M DOWNING OYSTER SHOOTERS WITH DICK CHENEY UNDERGROUND”?” and he was all “somehow I don’t think you learning how to shoot ends well for me.”

monkey out,

Monkey

PS: sorry, I just came back from Starfrocks and had to share this with y’all.

Me, standing in line.

Old Guy Behind Me: Y’know, Obama’s a muslim.

Me: What makes you think that?

Old Guy Behind Me: Well, his middle name’s Hussein or haven’t you heard.

Me: Hmm.

Old Guy Behind Me: Well, you’re probably voting for him, aren’t you?

Me: Why do you say that?

Old Guy Behind Me: Well, you look like you might be one of those Muslims.

Me: Okay.

Old Guy Behind Me: Well, are you?

Me: That’s really none of your business.

Old Guy Behind Me: I’ll tell you though, all that stuff his PASTOR says, it’s un-American. There’s too much of his influence on him.  

I don’t get it!! How can you be afraid that Obama is a MUSLIM GODS FORBID but at the same time be upset at his relationship with his PASTOR.

In other news, So You Think You Can Dance stars today so I can stop crying over NYTimes stories about China, Myanmar and how the food crisis is affecting Africa. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, I think China and Myanmar are kind of difficult seeing as the governments seem inclined to let everyone die…but I’d love to get involved with some sort of social agency to help…do something more with my life than be consumerist.

Anyone have any suggestions for getting into social work/organisations? Just keep in mind that if you throw out something domestic that I might have conflicts issues involved (very likely, actually), which is why I thought about helping out with some form of international relief. And obviously, I am restricted from lawyering for them. Anybody, really.

The inexplicable* Illinois chapter of my family’s life came to an end on Friday.

I guess you might have been able to tell from the way I described the school-but my sister just graduated from the Feinberg School of Medicine at Northwestern University. I feel okay revealing that since she and my brother sold the condo and are moving back East to another university.   

She barely made it to her own graduation. It’s a long story-but Friday saw her running in to the auditorium on Navy Pier (where I was sworn in, natch) clutching her mortar board, furiously trying to find the first letter of our last name. The Dean of the Medical School gave her a look.  I guess the fancy degrees don’t make much of a difference. Once a McWearingChaps, always a McWearingchaps.

Graduation Start Time: 3:30 p.m.

Time Graduates Had to be There: 2:45 p.m.

Time Bunsen got There: 3:28 p.m.

Oh well. She’s a WAY better doctor than she is at making it to graduations on time.  

Congratulations, Dr. Bunsen Honeydew M.D..

*Inexplicable and weird in that other than the fact that my dad has work in Aurora and I attended CHERUBS at NU as a teenager, we had no connection to the state, yet I ended up at UIUC and my sister at NU.

Hey Everyone,

I have some really important stuff to work on this summer (beyond the size of my ass) so I’ll be taking a leave of absence until the mid/last week of August. Don’t worry, I’m still going to make it to the international blogging snatchfest this summer-but for now, I’ve got to buckle down and do some serious work.

I’ll try to post once a week or twice a week depending on time/energy. I’m hoping to get into a schedule-like maybe I’ll post Wednesday and Fridays or something. Perhaps this is kind of presumptuous of me, but I figured some of you might want to know.

Monkey McWearingChaps

It’s amazing how particular I’m getting about clothes. And not clothes in general, I’ve always kind of been obsessed by those, but clothes I never gave a fig about.

Like athletic clothes. Ferinstance, I’ve located the source of everyone’s cute pants at the gym. Lulemon. I’ve passed this store in Pasadena plenty of times but I never go in. I’ve always assumed it was something related to maternity clothes. Apparently it’s high end athletic/yoga wear. The cute stuff.

Anyway, BB and I were in Diesel this weekend buying him a pair of jeans and I was looking at myself in dismay in the mirror while he was changing. My Blandana size 4 countour fit jeans that I bought just TWO MONTHS AGO slide down to dangerously low crotchtal areas sans belt. They are also getting too loose in the thigh and butt and no longer look that good. On one hand, it’s wonderful. On the other, I feel like an idiot for wasting money on stuff that I either need to give away, throw out or get tailored (I’m keeping my dresses). Granted BR sizes run big, but I’ve now gone from their runs-too-big-4s to runs-too-big-2s. I anticipate more of this as I lose the last bit of belly fat and tone up.

So I’m just going to keep my head down low and pass lulemon by. I’ve got a plan and they include these.

Ahoy readers! I’m back from my speshul birfday weekend.

I know my birthday was yonks ago but between irritating suitors, B’s eyeball popping work schedule and his intense desire to have a particular room, we weren’t able to coordinate celebrating it till this weekend. Oh yeah, there was also the part about how it was going to be a big surprise but you totally know I’m that girlfriend. The one who has to know and will not rest until she worms it out of her hapless beau.

Totally worth it. BB took me to a ritzy resort in Santa Monica where we ended up trapped comfortably ensconced in a Restoration Hardware ad gigantic luxurious oceanfront suite bigger than my freaking apartment. Complete with four poster bed, optional add-on trust fund and boat shoes. I am not kidding when I say that I’m almost positive we were the only colour in the whole place, if you know what I mean. By the end of the weekend I was almost ready to adopt a poodle and change my name to Miffy.

Have I mentioned the robes? They felt like hugs. The only thing that makes BB’s hugs better is that I get to smell him and he can hug hard. But you know, wearing the robe could be a pretty good replacement for when he’s gone. I’m pretty certain that I want to quit my job and professionally wear that robe. And live by the beach, where the only thing I’d have to do with my time is work out and be catered to by obsequious room service attendants.

The whole thing was a little mouth-hanging open googley eyed for me, especially the long suffering pianist in the lobby and the shellacked blonde trophy wives. However, I began to get into the swing of things nicely by Saturday afternoon. That’s when I was lying on the couch being hugged by the Robe of Magic, reading WSJ’s weekend edition (best newspaper ever!). I couldn’t help telling BB that I guessed this is what it must feel like to be rich, powerful and white. A sentiment I’m almost positive amused him greatly since he came over and kissed my forehead when I said it.

It was one of my favourite birthdays ever. Not because of the whole luxury resort thing-just because he made the effort to think of what I’d really like-which is to enjoy something wonderful together.

Thanks babe! 

To the fold, my fellow barracuda.

All jokes aside, the bar is difficult to pass and I always feel proud of my fellow attorneys when they accomplish this task.

Congratulations again, Rayne!

If there’s one thing this relationship has over all the others it’s that I simply don’t have to pretend to be some sort of Good Indian Girl and spend my money unhappily purchasing things I don’t like from J. Crew anymore. The whole issue over my wardrobe, especially with my parents acting like one stupid unfashionable FOB from a year ago making a comment about my knee-high boots makes me some sort of ho-of-Babylon has bugged the heck out of me. It bugs me more that SINCE my sister met my brother she’s been sallying about in miniskirts and lowcut tops and they don’t say a thing about that but everything I wear is about whether or not an Indian man would approve. Why, why do I need their approval? These are the same twits who spend most of their free time downloading kinky internet pornography but the girl they want to date has to dress super insipidly? If she wants to dress insipidly, that’s one thing, but what’s so freaking difficult about a girl who wants to dress a little flashy while she’s young? 

It’s not just about the clothes. I mean, I like that we can have a debate about something without it turning into me treading on his ego. BB’s Ego, capital “e”, is large enough to handle it.

But getting back to the clothes. FINALLY. FINALLY, I can wear my fashionable Bebe clothes without someone getting all ripped up about it and questioning my Indianness, or apparent lack-thereof. Oh, and the best part? He’s an aspiring metrosexual and our tastes make us look like we match (I say aspiring because he spent 10 years buried under a mound of reports, so perhaps I mean “emergent”). But he seems to have emerged…in a pair of very hot dark dark grey jeans that show off his long legs to great effect. Oh, and lots of sexy button down shirts.    

Honestly, it’s such a breath of fresh air. Going to school at McGill, I developed my sense of style pretty early on. And yeah, it’s fairly predictably Montreal-esque. I enjoy urban eurotrash clothing. I do not like any of the following:

• Pastels
• Pleats
• Patterns
• Heels shorter than 3.5 inches
• Straw purses
• “Natural” beauty (come on, I’m desi, I NEED makeup. Strong features necessitate strong makeup)
• Head-to-toe Anthropologie
• Cardigans
• Long skirts

Things I like:

• The colours black, grey, white and blood red, and sometimes magenta
• O.P.I.’s “Lincoln Park” nail polish
• Anything embellished with grommets or brushed steel
• Jewel toned items that borrow elements of traditional clothing from Asia
• Five inch heels from Aldo or Bebe (what? When I can begin to afford Stuart Weitzman, I’ll be sure to buy)
• Ounces and ounces of bangles
• Big earrings
• Also big hair
• Lots of makeup

The thing is, when we got together, I actually would TRY to tone it down once in a while. You know, put together an outfit that I think would pass muster with female fashion advice columnists or Stacey & Clinton.

NO RESPONSE.

Then I put on a miniskirt, off the shoulder top from Bebe and very very high heels and my Laura Mercier blood red lipstick and I get an instant “woooowwww, you look hawt” comment.

You’re so predictable…I tell him in an amused-annoyed voice.

On the inside I’m crowing. With my new confidence in the relative sanity of Indian men (Tally: 2, but maybe there are more out there), I feel free to dress in Bebe, graduate to Cache, and eventually be buried in Chico’s.

It’s where elderly tarts go to die, you know.

My whole life I’ve wanted to give birth to children au naturale. By which I mean, sans “le good stuff”.

Don’t get upset, okay, I’m gonna essplain it all Loooocy.

I don’t really have all these deep philosophical sentiments about unmedicated childbirth vs. c-sections vs. epidurals vs. a v-delivery (sorry, I’m on my work computer). I mean, I have no shame in telling you that I find pregnancy, the actual pregnancy part to be positively terrifying and if I had an option to grow Posterity in a little tank filled with primal goo, I would be on it stat.

Then my Long Suffering Husband* and I could come home to peer into the murky birth tank every night and be like “aww, there lies a future partner at Skadden Arps,” or maybe, “Look, it’s the head of Citigroup!” And then we’d hold hands, look lovingly into each others eyes and toast to the Evil we planned to wrought upon the world. I’d sew it a little Zegna-style business suit as its ”leaving the birth tank” outfit.  

Anyway, the thing is, science doesn’t seem to have progressed that far in that direction. We’ve sent people to the moon and to orbit the earth but we have yet to find a way in which I am not obligated to house Posterity for, a frocking YEAR or something. So I have accepted this (begrudgingly, however, I mean, I refuse to share apartments, why on earth am I obligated to share my WOMB?) and have decided that when the time comes (not looking good, we’ve descended to ovulating Brown U. babies majoring in Philosophy recently), I’m going to have a “natural” birth. By which I mean an unmedicated birth.

When it comes right down to it, I want to beat my mom. My mother, who delivered 3 babies on the Mothership after being given rounds and rounds of pitocin. I’ve had to hear about it for the last 29 years of my life so I figure that

a) Unmedicated childbirth = everlasting guilt trip

b) Do not want to hear that my birth was harder because it was unmedicated and oh you second gennies have it so easy these days etc. etc..

ALSO, New Girl (cripes, we’re going to have to give her a name soon, aren’t we? I really like her, guys. She was a good addition to our crew) had an unmedicated birth too and she’s a big proponent. Except, I was all, “so what does it feel like” and she said

It feels like you’re being ripped apart at the seams, but seriously, it’s awesome. I took a shower 30 minutes after I squeezed the baby out. But yeah, it’s basically the most painful thing ever. Pretty much.  

But really, it’s just about beating my mom. I’m very Flick-ish when it comes to these random things.

Except, all the best laid plans of mice and monkeys aren’t looking too hot these days because I just got googley-eyed screechy lying on the floor of my office clutching my YouTuberUs figuring out when 4 rapidly inhaled 220 mg Aleve were going to take hold and frocking DO SOMETHING ALREADY. And you know, I may or may not have also been clutching the bottle in my hand, nosing at it like 8 Belle trying to get that last rattling pill down my gullet except I was writhing around in too much pain to really effectively get at and would someone from the Kentucky Derby please come euthanize me already? 

I mean, come on, I can’t even sit through 5 minutes of menstrual cramps and I’ve been assured that those are just like a WARM UP to labour. Of note, even the word sounds portentous. Labour. Yours truly really hasn’t done too much of it in her life. 

Maybe I should go back in time to Dostoevsky’s Russia and live like a serf for a while. To prepare and all.   

*I’m only saying this because my brother-in-law, who never drinks, promptly downed 4 glasses of champagne right after marrying my sister. With trembling hands. Keep in mind, she was not the one who pushed for marriage at the time. He was. Yet, n’er was “OMG WTF HAVE I DONE THEY’RE ALL CRAZY” so apparent on anyone’s face. He does seem to have settled down in the two years since, though. I mean, they’re buying minivans together, aren’t they?