my sleeping baby.

I have never, never, never seen anything more beautiful.

one thing before bedtime

2 things:
(a) i'm slightly drunk off wine right now
(b) i've been mighty busy with school

but i have to say one thing tonight before i crawl my ass to bed for i do have class in 6hrs and 39mins.
(which means that i have like 5 hrs to get sober.)

THANK YOU GOD.
THANK YOU GOD.
THANK YOU GOD.

THANK YOU GOD FOR THOMAS.

i love my baby with all the life in me.
and if nothing else, i know i love him.

he is the bestest, most calming, loving blessing.
and i love him.
i love him. i love him.

Dear god, I can't even begin to fathom how much I love him.
I love him.
SO MUCH.

he's my universe.
i am loving him forever.
and then for forever after that.









and that.

Story of the Day

She learned to love him before he thought it was even possible, so he didn't have a chance to hide & mess it up & while it was a little scary at times, mainly he could not even imagine the world without her there.

A spoonful of violence.

Not only is the following funny, it's true. However, if you don't think it's funny, I extend my apologies. I'm not going to break every line down in painstaking detail and offer an elaboration. But I guess the important point to be taken home is that Thomas knows me pretty damn well.

ME: Oh my god, Thomas! I feel so fat!
THOMAS: Uh-huh.
ME: Ok, are you serious? Did you just say that?
THOMAS: What? It's nothing new...
ME: What?! You think I'm fat also?
THOMAS: Yeah. I mean you always feel that way..
ME: Ok what?...I said 'fat'. FFFAT!
THOMAS: Oh!!! I thought you said 'sad'.
ME: Ok what??..NO! I'm not sad. I'm really happy...but fat.
THOMAS: You're not fat.
ME: Well, I feel like it.
THOMAS: Well, you feel it but you're not.
ME: Yes, I am.
THOMAS: GODAMMIT THIVIA! YOU'RE NOT FAT!!
ME: Awww...really? Thank you.
THOMAS: See...all you need is abuse.

Manjan Masala

This is a pakora. Or rather, a plate of pakoras. A pakora is a form of Indian cuisine. It consists of ingredients such as onion, eggplant, lentils, potato, spinach, cauliflower, tomato, and chili. These are mixed in together and then dipped in a batter of flour before being deep-fried. They are usually served as snacks or appetizers and can be eaten as starters in restaurants. (I should say that this information is copied BUT because I cut out a few commas and dedicated some time to rephrasing and reshuffling words, I will not bother with citations. This is not plagiarism.) And now that we've all been educated, here's an excerpt from a phone conversation.

ME: This time we'll go there (Indian Restaurant) for a snack and you can order those balls that you like ordering.
THOMAS: Oh...you mean pakoras?
ME: Yeah!
THOMAS: You're the one who's Indian and you don't even know what they're called-that's like me not knowing what noodles are.
ME: Okay...WHAT?!

There're 2 reasons why this snippet was tremendously hilarious. (I have a feeling I'm the only one who thinks it's funny, which is why I am taking the initiative to compose an elaborate explanation. *Sigh.)

(a) For one thing, Thomas is not even Chinese. I mean he's part Chinese but that doesn't even account for anything other than the fact that he looks fly and loves dumplings. But really, he is about as Chinese as an oriental Barbie (for the lack of a better comparison). She looks Chinese but if you took a moment to turn her over, nudge that faux silk cheongsam up, and peer at her ass, you'll notice that she's been branded with a stamp: MATTEL. And that's what the plastic oriental goddess and my boyfriend share- (no, Thomas isn't branded on his butt) but while their appearances may be deceiving, they really are products of America. Which makes this whole pakora conversation funny because Thomas was trying to act Chinese! Like he was the epitome of a Chinese dude. I'm probably more Chinese than he is and that’s why he should sit his all-American ass down and stop making fun of me. Haha! Ha ha. No?

Well, if that didn't work. I'm sure this one will.
Take 2.

(b) Also, pakoras are to Indian food, NOT WHAT noodles are to Chinese food! I don't even think pakoras are famous. And even if they were, they wouldn't be as famous as noodles! So, it was all very adorable that he would even link the two. Hahaha!

Anyway, I recognize now that instead of amplifying the humor that was oh so apparent to me, I may have just killed everything. But that's ok. Because here are two things that you've learnt, nonetheless.

(1) Noodles, dumplings and floppy dark brown hair (he'll swear it's black but that's him trying to be Asian again) aside, Thomas is so Indian at heart.
and
(2) Really, Barbies are stamped on their booty. I think that's pretty funny. I mean, who would have thought that those shiny, lined eyes, apricot blushed cheeks and rose tinted lips hid a deep, dark secret- the pain of having been branded?

Fluff-Syndrome

Qn: How much does a feather weigh?

Ans: A gram? Less than a gram?... I don't expect to know the accurate answer but I imagine I can't be far off when I predict that it weighs very little. Very, very little. Which all makes sense if you've ever paid any attention to the way a feather falls. It almost seems to defy gravity when it doesn't come sailing straight to the ground. Instead, it kind of swishes to the right and then to the left all the way as it makes its journey down. This shows us how very wispy and sylphlike a feather is- it's almost weightless

And yet how is it that at many, many thousand times heavier, I feel like a feather? That's right. I feel like a feather. Not feathery, though. That would imply I'm sprouting feathers, which would be a positively unsightly eyesore. (It's already pretty unfortunate that as a mammal of this world, I've been cursed with an outer covering of hair.) Grooming myself is already a riot- a riot that my timetable usually has no room for. (My unshaved legs bear testimony to this.) Therefore, I already have quite a handful to deal with. Or should I say a headful? (I shall seize the moment right here to inform you that while I have one head, which is a blessing of course (nobody needs to feel the weight of 2 heads on their shoulders), I have enough hair for 2 separate heads!) That's quite a lot of hair I have in bloom upon the crown of my head. If my head were a garden (and it does sometimes feel like it), I'd speculate that flowers would grow on it sometime. It only makes sense. My head is lush environment for that type of floral activity. But never mind all that. The pressing truth remains. I feel like a feather.

I feel light and airy. I don't walk. I glide. Or something along those lines. Except its not along any line because I don't travel straight. Like a feather, I drift in zigzags, swirls and patterns of zero conformity. I float in somewhat of a hazy daze. My body feels flimsy like translucent tracing paper. The kind where to hold and to crush it are synonymous in meaning. I feel so delicate. Not that I look delicate. I run 3.5 miles (5.6km) on a treadmill almost everyday. I am strong. I mean, I could deceive you into believing I'm strong. To say the least, I look strong. But we're talking feelings here. And feeling wise, I feel no steadier than a tiny scrap of sheer chiffon fluttering in the wind.

Which is all drastically alarming because I've actually been taking vitamins! Not even regular ones but 'ALL-DAY ENERGY' ones! 'FOR AN ACTIVE MIND AND BODY', it says on the label. Lies! Where is my energy? My mind is active at a mediocre level. After all, I am blogging right now and blogging requires me to stay mentally alert. How else would I be coining some of the sentences in here? But still, I am not active enough. You only get to view the finished product of this entry. What you don't get to see is the backstage drama and action. (Backstage being my bed.) You don't realize that it takes me 5 hours to write an entry because my head sporadically throbs. Every few sentences, being a good rough estimate. So, I retire to my bed for a 'rest'. As for my body, it is without a morsel of a doubt, highly inactive. Lugging my own weight is a chore. Lifting a glass of water to my lips is grinding. Walking to the kitchen to get a snack is backbreaking labor. To lean backwards and attempt a stifled stretch is a workout on its own!

Where the hell is all that iron, calcium, magnesium, iodine, vitamin C, D, E and a capsule full of other goodies I'm supposedly ingesting? More importantly, why aren't they working? Is this a deficit on my part or my vitamin? Has my body deteriorated to a point beyond the help of any energy supplement? I blame Arizona. I blame summer. I blame the weather! The stronger the sun shines, the swifter the rate at which my energy evaporates. It's simple science, really. The inner core of my body is parched and the sun's at fault. Even the sparse amount of sunlight creping in through the blinds, blind me.

Oh...and there's this other revelation. Whenever my tummy hurts, it's as if fireworks are going off inside me. Except, unlike actual fireworks, they don't go off in bursts. The ones in my stomach are simultaneous. It’s pretty funny sometimes. But sometimes not. I don't know. I guess I don't mind this phenomenon, though. It's not painful. I should probably relish this while it lasts.

Beats feeling fat, frumpy and ugly.

Gorgeousness has a face.

Long winded as I am, I can't think of a single elaborate way to express how much I love this dopey baby. (And I've been tossing around in bed for 40 minutes now beating myself up over this.) Therefore, tonight I will settle for something less than extraordinary. Tonight I will just say I LOVE THOMAS. SO MUCH. SO MUCH.

More than yesterday. (But surely less than tomorrow.)