A dilemma..

Decisions involving people you love are always the hardest to make. I'm having trouble with such a decision myself right now.

I've written something about someone I love, something personal. Not about how I feel about this person so much, but about an illness that has changed my life, his life, our relationship, my view of the world, of life and death. I've never written anything this difficult, I broke down twice during the writing, but it was cathartic. And it was written from very deep within me.

I shared the piece with a few people, including a professor -- a professor who thinks it's publishable material. But...I haven't shared it with this person I love. And I'm not sure I want to. Not because it says anything intentionally hurtful. But because it unearths some uncomfortable truths about how this illness and its treatment has made me feel (although it does end on a positive note). And I'm...almost scared about how he'll react. And yet.. I can't even begin to think about publishing without telling him..showing him...first.

But is it worth it? Is it worth maybe upsetting him and making things between us worse? Or is it worth taking the chance to see if a view into my heart will help him understand me better? And most of all, is all of it worth it to see my work acknowledged? I know this is a piece I can be proud of... one of the few that I don't feel tentative about (all writers have self-doubt otherwise). Or is it worth keeping it private because publishing could feel like an invasion?

Sigh, I don't know yet what I'm going to do. But, a word of advice: don't ever write anything really personal if you care about people's feelings. It's a very awkward position to be in.

Published in Pakistan

[This post was all screwy the last time -- let's hope the link works this time around]

Sundays are usually good days anyway. But yesterday was particularly good because I got published in Pakistan for the first time! A class assignment turned into an article that a newspaper wanted to use... which is always nice! So, indulge me while I post the link to the piece here. I'm like a little girl with a 6-scoop icecream...

Here it is.

(Does this make me "internationally published" now??)

Women gone blind

So, what is up with the run of losers with either a) hot women or b) multiple women? Seriously.

We were at Haru tonight, all dolled up in our New Yorker finest, impractical shoes included, downing green tea margaritas and saketinis as the music pulsated and trays of uberfresh raw fish landed rhythmically at each table.

In the booth across from us, was a guy, just an ordinary-nothing-special guy, seated between two fairly attractive women. One disappears part way through the meal and Nondescript Guy starts making out with the remaining one. Then, about 15 minutes later, Makeout Girl disappears, the other one comes back and he starts to make out with this one too. So, now we have Makeout Girl Parts One and Two. This alternation carried on one more time and then they -- thankfully -- left.

It was like Dinner Theater, mystery story and all. Why would these two women be making out with this guy? But, like bad Dinner Theater because you already know the answer.

Anyway, side-bar entertainment aside, was a really good night. With just one caveat: tempura cheesecake does not work!

Ah Brown..

Have had a very Brown weekend... it's nice to know that, deep down, none of us has changed a whole lot. It's easy to revert to being "so Buxton" again. So Buxton, so Brown, so... us. The comfort zone returns, eventhough I haven't seen some people in a long long time.

My flakiness returned in full force tonight too. I'm telling you, it's all their fault -- my friends! (Yeah, Nans, wipe that innocent look off your face!) So, here's the embarassing Rhea story for the night. We were standing around, waiting for a table at a Peruvian restaurant on the upper eastside when this fancy Mercedes convertible pulls up. The guy driving it was the most non-descript man ever -- oldish, short, balding, bad fashion sense. And the girl was young, Asian, pretty, well-dressed and tall. We looked at each other and reached a conclusion quickly: it's got to be about the car! (what can I say, we get bitchy around each other!).

This is all fine until we wander about two feet away and start talking about this other guy we knew at Brown, trying to describe him to the one non-Brownie. Suddenly, I'm inspired by an illustrative description and, pointing to the Mercedes, cut in loudly with: "He's like that guy, only without the Merc!" I see Jaewoo's expression and know, instinctively, that Merc Guy is standing right behind me.

I thought I was going to die! The only saving grace is that Merc Guy and his girlfriend were just picking up food and left about 3 minutes later. But not before he shot me the dirtiest look. Ouch! I did feel bad though. Especially because I think we were right on the money (literally) about why that girl would even date him (trust me, he didn't look like he had personality either). And it can't be nice to have uncomfortable truths pointed out by strangers.

Yeah, Brown reunions bring out the bitch in me. Most of the rest of the time I'm really nice. Really.

Chicken or the egg?

.... And speaking of things we inherit from our mums, I finally got permission to use a particular photo on my blog (had to go the permission route or incur the wrath of the mums)... the photos do speak for themselves at some level. But, the question really is, who went wild first?

The mothers? Or the daughters?

What kind of wife are you?

How come plans inevitably revolve around food?

Thurs: Ethiopian (and tequila and comedy)

Fri: Dhansak and kababs (and wine and girls)

Sat: Pizza and peanut butter (and poker -- made it all back and then some again!)

Sun: French toast (and mom-time)

Is the need to feed one of those things we just inherit from our moms? At the end of Friday night, I got told that I'm all ready to be a "good corporate wife" -- throwing dinner parties, entertaining... Have to say it gives me great pause to be considered wife-like at all. Though, I am getting pretty good at the domestic goddess stuff. Then again, people have been telling me what sort of wife I'm going to be right from when I was 19 (note: being told you'll make a good "trophy wife" is not a compliment!) and I'm nowhere near being one yet, so I guess it's not really an indication of anything.

Besides, my good corporate wife image holds up only as long as mum will still make the kababs!

On writing...

Papers lie scattered all across the table. Notes scribbled in blue, black and pink on sheets lined and unlined. A bottle of water, a take-out cup of coffee, a porcelain cup of chai teeter on the edges of books.

I sit down and read. I stand up and pace. I sit back down to write. I stand up again.

Time has no meaning. I can't feel the seconds go by. Nor the minutes, nor the hours.

I am hot and then cold and then hot again. The sweater comes on and off every hour. I want my hair tied back, I want it piled on my head, I want it hanging to my shoulders.

Everything is hazy except the words on the screen. The blank white space filling with words. Words arranged a certain way, words that say a specific thing. Voices of people I've talked to jostle for space in my head. Their words are wild, unmanageable. I need to restrain them and force them onto the white space. I can't sleep till there's no more words left to say what I need to say.

I love it. The total absorption of creating. The hot and the cold, the coffee and tea, the restlessness and ensuing calm.

The day floated by in a state of semi-consciousness. I am spent. Now, I can sleep.