San Funcisco

As a proud Canadian, I often find myself comparing my home and native land to our neighbours (yes, I said neighbOUrs) to the South. I devour beaver tails, end my sentences with "eh," and wear toques with pride. 

Fresh from our national day of bragging (July 1^st),  I traded in my Canadian gear to live life like a California girl—the Beach Boys type not the Katy Perry type. 

Our beach boys at Half Moon Bay

My family, and I mean the whole family, descended on Fremont, California for an engagement party of epic proportions. As they say, everything is bigger in Amurrica and in traditional American style, this reunion was supersized. 

My mother comes from a family of four sisters, one brother, and a whole lot of love. What this adds up to—aside from enormous phone bills—is family reunions that feel like an invasion of people of all shapes and sizes, ranging in age from two to 81.

We rode roller coasters on the Santa Cruz boardwalk, braved the hills and chills of San Fran and wandered into the fog on the Golden Gate Bridge, but the main attraction of this trip was the family. 

Getting that many people together is just a recipe for happy chaos. My little cousins made music videos on their iPods while my aunts chatted excitedly about any and all things at maximum volume. My uncles shared beers and business talk while first and second cousins crammed in as much catching-up as the night would allow. All together, the dull roar of conversations, laughter, and the occasional argument that accompanies our family get-togethers is a noise that can make anywhere, whether it's Canada, or California, sound like home.

A horror story

There's something about seeing a creepy crawlies that makes everything else look like it's creeping and crawling.

We have recently become hosts to a few unwelcome house guests, most notably, a growing family of silverfish. Now, don't be fooled by their name. These creatures are neither silver, nor fish.

No, no.

Silverfish are the stuff of nightmares. And once you see them, every spot on the rug, every piece of hair that tickles your shoulder, and shadow that moves across the wall will look like this:

Nothing bugs me more than bugs. 

Golden Oldie

I am officially half way to 50.

While many people recently partied in honour of the LGBTQ community or the birth of our nation, a few lovely individuals also added my milestone to their long-weekend celebrations.

Birthday bubbly (served right after the waiter asked if I was old enough to drink)

That’s right. I have reached my “mid-twenties.” I’ve always wondered why people say “congratulations” for birthdays when they are really just the fact that you managed to survive the passing of time, but looking back at my past two-and-a-half decades, I realized that I have accomplished a lot to get this point.

I've learned:

1. How to hold my head up on my own—literally and figuratively. 
2. How to talk, read, write, use the bathroom, and sleep through the night—although some of those I am more proficient at than others. 
3. Tying your hair back as tight as humanly possible is not a great look. In fact it makes me look like I’ve had a terrible facelift. 
4. Braces suck but they are totally worth the years of cut cheeks, awkward photos, and popcorn deprivation. 
5. There is no such thing as “fancy” sweatpants. 
6. Getting carded is not an inconvenience, it’s freaking flattering. 
7. Real life is way harder than it appears on Friends . 
8. Not everything has to be perfect all the time. For example, sometimes, you can live dangerously and list eight things instead of a classic ten. 

According to common estimations, reaching 25 means that I’m about a quarter-of-the-way through my life. But, looking ahead is much harder than looking back. I don’t know what the next few years will bring, what I will learn, who I will meet, or where I will end up.

All I can hope is that no matter what, I’ll never be too old to feel young.

Buffeteering

It's summer, and for some, with the warm weather comes a reaffirmed need to be healthy, and more-importantly, bikini-ready. Between vegetarians, paleolithians, and pescetarians, it seems like denying yourself of certain foods is a new religion. But, if there's one thing I have faith in, it's food. And for my fellow beef-lievers, the all-you-can-eat buffet at Mandarin restaurant is our Mecca.

For those who aren't familiar with Mandarin, think of it as less of a Chinese restaurant and more of a "best-hits" of North American cuisine. In addition to the classic Chinese stir-fries, teryakied meats, and sweet and sour delicacies, there is sushi, a diverse salad bar, pizza, pasta, french fries, and every dessert imaginable—including both frozen yogurt and birthday cake-flavoured ice cream.

Tackling such a spread is nothing short of an art because without the right finesse, gorging at the Mandarin can quickly feel like your last supper. The pros come dressed for success, ready with elastic waistbands, loose fitting t-shirts and appetites to match. These buffeteers know that the rows on rows on rows of food require strategy. Loading up a plate with everything from noodles to pizza to salad with a topper of cake and sushi is just a recipe for disaster. Getting the all you can from an all-you-can-eat requires time, patiences, and the ability to pace yourself.

My family ranges from beginner buffetteers to seasoned pros and after loading up our plates—and loosening our belts—we all made it to the finish line: the fortune cookie. My cousin Priya's 90-year-old Dadi (grandma) cracked open her trophy and shared the inside slip. It read: "You will soon create a favourable impression on someone."

Priya: "Dadi, does this mean you'll be getting married again?"
Dadi: *grins cheekily* "Well, I do have many suitors!"

Lesson learned: In love and buffets, the pros are always ready for more.

50 Shades of Brown

I may be brown but I was not born tanned.

It’s a curse overlooked by many. As the seasons change from summer to fall to that frigid bitch of a winter, my colouring changes just like Momma Natures. I go from vibrant healthy exterior to almost monochromatic. If you’ve ever stirred sour cream into chile or seen that mix of gravel and dirt on the roadside, you know the colour I'm talking about. And I wear that special blend of pale brownish-grey all winter. 

Unfortunately, during my prolonged hibernation, I apparently also forgot just how quickly my skin goes from raw to broiled.

This spring, I emerged from the shadows at the very first sign of the summer sun. I grabbed a book and ventured outside, ready to greet the happiest of seasons. The sun’s warm rays wrapped around me like the winter blankets I had gotten so used to snuggling. Twenty minutes and one chapter later, I was completely asleep, baking under the summer sun. 

I lay there on my porch, sweatpants rolled up to my knees, t-shirt scrunched just above the leftover rolls of my winter stomach, and mouth agape as if I was shocked at the concept of warm weather. All I needed was a red cup and I would’ve been a portrait of a college kid who went too hard.

I awoke to a slobbery cheek and new fears about just how many colours I had become. One thing that people tend to forget is that while Indians are not "born tanned," we are basically professionals at it. One time, during university, I walked across campus to my class and by the time I arrived, I had permanent pale backpack straps tanned into my shoulders. 

And now I had fallen asleep, like a summertime rookie. Had Mother Nature punished me for my over-eager sun tanning by baking my uncovered shins into permanent brown leg warmers?

Thankfully, a pale watch strap was the only mark from my mid-afternoon reading/nap session.

Lesson learned: Reading in the sun will result in 50 shades of brown. 

Guess who's back?

Since my last post, a lot has happened. Google got glasses. The world welcomed a royal baby—which, according to your idea of “royalty” could be either Prince George, Blue Ivy or North West (Lord, I hope that kid is not directionally challenged). And, I survived grad school.

After 24 months of papers, assignments and multiple after-school beers, I received my $24,000 receipt: a master’s degree in journalism.

With my purchase complete, I am once again facing the question that haunted my undergrad: “What’s next?” Every wedding, family reunion or casual run-in seems to bring up this query, but no matter how many times people ask, I still have not figured out the answer.

I thought maybe I could put my newly-minted reporting skills to good use and write for a major publication. Or I could fly out to the India and freelance the tales of my motherland. Or maybe I'd just end up in my parent’s basement for a bit.

It's been seven months since graduation and so far, I have checked off every one of these "maybes."Step one of "figuring out real life" complete. 

Step two is to get back to writing for fun, not for grades or a paycheque.

And that brings me to step three. Hope you’re all ready for A Little (More) Ish.

Feelin' famous

I guess this is what people in the industry call "a big break".

Read my first scoop which incidentally is my first story to get officially published, my first story to run on the website of a major newspaper and my first story to make it to print. They're all one in the same, folks.

Read the full length article on J-Source: "It's beyond just any broadcast"





The shortened version can also be read on any of the following:

• The Province
• The Vancouver Sun
• The Windsor Star 
• Edmonton Journal
• Montreal Gazette
• Ottawa Citizen
• Leader-Post
• Times Colonist
• Canada.com

Though the story itself wasn't the happiest of tales, I couldn't help but get swept up in the whirlwind of press.

4am before a deadline

Sometimes I just stare at the blank white page,

With it’s stupid stick line, impatiently flashing and waiting for direction,

But offering not assistance at all.

Sometimes I just stare at it, hating that it won’t find the words for me,

Because time’s blinking away, and I need to fill this goddamn page.

…  

Turkey time

Thanksgiving dinner was not always a tradition in my family.

There was once a time when the only exciting thing about my October long weekend was the fact that I didn’t have to go to school on Monday. Oh how times have changed.

After months of subsisting on Kraft Dinner and Nutella sandwiches, the thanksgiving menu comes as more than just a feast for the eyes – and I have learned to come prepared.

I have long since abandoned the fancy attire for thanksgiving dinner. Instead, I arrive prepared to eat, outfitted in stretch pants with the necessary elasta-waist to accommodate obscene amounts of consumption. At my house, thanksgiving is not about looking good, it’s about eating so much that it takes you 364 days to be able to look at another turkey dinner. 

This year, gluttony was taken to a whole new level with a Saturday morning turkey feast followed by Sunday all-you-can-eat sushi and to cap it off, a full Indian spread on Monday. The dining trifecta gave me a food baby with disturbing staying power, but at least I know I’ll be well insulated this winter.

So from my couch to yours, I hope your weekend was one of big bites and full nights.

Happy thanksgiving Canada!