on being inked

I woke up nervous as hell.

The horror stories about people ‘going under the gun’ were enough to scare me, but the horror stories I heard about my tattoo artist were pushing me over the edge.

I took a cold shower and unconsciously cleaned the upper right portion of my back more than usual. It was never going to be the same.

I walked up to the tattoo studio and some girl put some numbing cream on my back. I left and went to get a good healthy breakfast, think fruit juice, eggs, baked beans, potatoes and sausage. I ate like it was my last meal. The cream was numbing every bone in my body.

My closest girlfriend arrived and tried to calm me down. She laughed and joked and even sang ‘I feel pretty’, but I was a nervous wreck, no, wait, a numb nervous wreck.

As I approached the tattoo studio I got a phone call from them, I informed them that I was on my way, and they informed me that my parents were already there.

And from that moment, I was the calmest tattoo virgin ever.

My mother helped me fill a consent form, my father suggested colours and shading options, my best girl sang softly, someone took pictures and my tattoo artist dissipated all doubts that he was a maniac and made me feel most comfortable.

He talked to my mother who was very concerned with about the man who was going to ‘mutilate her baby girl’. He laughed when she told him she wanted to cut his hair and wash it.

The fact that my parents were there appealed to him on some level.
The fact that my parents were there calmed me down on many levels.

After the first half an hour the numbing cream wore off and I could feel the needle jabbing into me. Weirdly it was awesome.

I felt liberated, I felt a rush, I felt like someone who was doing what they wanted, I felt wild and free, I almost felt empowered.

I felt like an adult.

And throughout, all I focused on was my mothers reassuring smile.

i'm inked

I finally got myself a tattoo.

Something I have wanted to do for the last eight years. I remember checking out tattoo sites online when I was 17, and picking out designs and storing them for reference.

This year I finally decided what I wanted, I asked a very special person to design it for me and now, after about three months, it’s on me. My dragonfly.

Most people say a dragonfly is a clichéd design. But when I read about them, it occurred to me how beautifully perfect it was for me, right now, at this moment.

“The more you learn about this small but powerful creature, the more you understand that it is not merely a testimony to beauty, but also strength and most importantly, change.”

What amazed me, was that the dragonfly can spend three years in the nymph stage, living underwater, waiting to painfully morph into what they finally are. They are fierce, delicate, mystical and real, all at the same time. Native American astrology believes that every person has their own totem animal spirit, I’m not certain that mine is a dragonfly, but I am certain I love everything it stands for:

“The dragonfly spirit means you must consciously make an effort to express your hopes, dreams, needs and wishes. It is the essence of the winds of change; it carries messages of wisdom and enlightenment. It beckons you to seek out the parts of your habits that need changing, and then guides you to the path of transformation”

2006 has been a fabulous year – things have changed, I have changed - for better, not so much worse. I’ve travelled more than ever (two trips to Goa, two months in America and most recently Daman), I’ve changed jobs, and I am finally in an agency I have wanted to join for a year, My beautiful niece was born, I’ve met so many wonderful people, some who have changed the way I look at life. If I continue I might get into a whole barrage of reasons.

Honestly, I can’t think of a better, more beautiful way to commemorate the year.

Forever, I shall look over my right shoulder and remember.

Salute!

Not the best picture, but it'll do for now. Oh and look, the first picture I have of me on my blog. Talk about change and new beginnings, eh?

of bugs and boys

This weekend was a mixture of crazy fun and way too much stress.

And the reason is simple. I took a bunch of friends from work to my parent’s holiday home in the hills. I turned into a psychotic paranoid woman who was obsessed with cleaning - which left me with no time to really take in the fun.

We left on Friday night, three boys and me in a car bound for Lonavala. The rest of them, two guys and three girls arrived the following night. During the course of two nights, several glasses were broken, bonfires were made, food was copiously consumed and drinks were drunk – as were some of the drinkers.

But the funniest part of the weekend was the first night with just the boys.

On the way there, they spoke like manly men, grunting excitedly with talks of building a large fire and throwing large chunks of meat on sticks over it. Talks of trekking to the mountains and camping out. Talks of embracing the wild. I listened intently, trying very hard not to laugh.

When we arrived they ran around the house like little boys, up and down the stairs like happy campers. They got their drinks and took chairs outside so they could take in the breeze. The sun set. The single street light came on.

And that’s when disaster struck.

The creatures of the night, including big flying ones, appeared.

And our three manly men could not shake off their fear. They tried to pretend that those massive moths, bugs and crickets did not bother them until they started slamming up against the window, with loud thuds.

One of the boys swore he saw a bat. And in a matter of minutes these “cavemen” were grabbing their belongings and running for cover, a little short of screaming like girls.
This is when they realized that a huge grasshopper had made its way inside.

The boys huddled into a corner while I got rid of it. Alright, so I am exaggerating a little, they didn’t huddle in a corner, they just all stood like manly men on the other side of the room, while I tried to catch, scare and kick the creature out of my house, with verbal support from them, of course.

Bugs and the boys do not mix well. The next morning a panicked phone call was made to the people joining us. Several cans of bug spray were ordered to be brought. One of the boys wanted to spray the entire surrounding area with bug spray so he suggested about three or four large cans.

Still determined to get in touch with their inner caveman, the boys found some villager to get wood and build a bonfire for a small fee. They sat around the fire on chairs, occasionally prodding the logs while they ate the chicken that a nice little aunty to agreed to cook for them (on a stove, not a bonfire)

All in all the city boys had a blast. And I had a great time watching big hulking boys run for cover 'cause of big, hulking bugs.

the break up

I have been avoiding Satya, the guy who does my taxes, for the past month now.

I have been cheating on him with another accountant.

This other guy now has my papers. I have allowed this new guy to study my files, peruse my account and do my paperwork. I’ve even given him a Form 16, something Satya has been asking from me forever.

I have been with Satya for about a year now. We’ve gone through the PAN card process together, the TDS stuff and all the rest of it. Our meetings were brief but meaningful.
A signature here, a stamped paper there.

But it wasn’t enough. I needed more.
I needed someone who was passionate about my paperwork.
So I cheated.

Yesterday Satya called me and I did not pick up the phone because I knew I had to tell him.

I had to break up with the man who saved my money last year.

This is how the conversation went in my head:

Me: Hello?

Satya: Hi, It’s me… You know tomorrow is the last day right… (Voice trails off)

Me: Yea. I know… Listen, we need to talk…

Satya: Oh? What about? Are your papers not….

Me: Never mind the papers.

Satya: What?

Me: I’m getting my taxes done from someone else. I can’t do this anymore.

Satya: What?

Me: Listen, I needed to. He seems so much more into it. I know you have other clients….

Satya: What?

Me: Don’t do this! You know what I’m talking about!

Satya: But…but why? All I ever asked for is your Form 16, maybe sometimes too many times.
But, I did it for you..

Me: I know. I know. It’s not you. It’s me. I need more. I need someone who is into me.

Satya: I am into you. I’m the one that keeps calling. Do I even expect anything from you?

Me: I’m sorry. I really am. But I have to do this for myself. One day you’ll understand. We can still be friends and send each other Diwali cards.

Satya: (sighs melancholically)

So armed with what I was going to say, I called him back.
This is how the conversation went.

Satya: Hello?

Me: Hi, It’s me…

Satya: Oh hi...

Me: Yea. I know… Listen, we need to talk…(Voice trails off)

Satya: What about? Your papers?

Me: Never mind the papers. I’m getting my taxes done from someone else.

Satya: Oh ok.

Me: What?

Satya: Fine, I believe you owe me 1000 rupees for last year.

Me: What?

Satya: You can give me a check. Better still, mail it.

Me: What?

Satya: Ok. Bye

Me: Errm. Bye? Is that….

(click)




Arrgh.
Men. I despise men.

You know what I hate…

I hate it when you cannot be close to the people whom you care about, because of distance.
I hate distance. Both geographical and emotional – I hate it when you feel so far away from someone with whom you once bonded so well.
I hate it when two girls only start talking because you talk to both of them, and they end up bonding and leaving you out of most things.
I hate it.
I hate it when you are an afterthought, when you are called just because someone feels they should “do the right thing”.
I hate it when you know a situation is so bad for you, when all you’re better judgements scream “run, fool, run” and you don’t, instead you wait and take it all in.
I hate waiting. Waiting to be picked up, waiting to be met, waiting for a phone call, waiting for a plan to be made, waiting for results. I hate waiting.
I hate it when you get that overwhelming feeling that your friends are not telling you something.
I hate it when you think that overwhelming feeling maybe just your paranoia playing with you.
I hate it when people make fun of where you live. Whether it’s the distance or the name – Do they realise you had no say in the matter when it was ‘christened’?
I just hate it.
I hate it when people comment on what you are wearing when you just walked into a place.
I hate it when your so-called ‘girlfriends’ talk to you, then talk to each other online, minus you.
I hate being a third wheel.
I hate pretending I am happy for couples who are happy.
I hate happy couples.
I hate the fact that the friends I had in 2004 are not my core group anymore.
I hate it when the guys you hate give you attention, and the guys you like, don’t.
I hate the fact that friendship is based on time/place/circumstance.
I hate hating where you live.
I hate it when you’re sleep is ruined because of some random electricity cut.
I hate it when you have to pretend that all the jokes about where you live don’t bother you at all.
I hate that I am petrified of falling in love, getting married and having a baby.
I really hate it.
I hate that sometimes all I think about is doing all three of those things.
I hate being weak and cranky.
I hate negative vibes.
I hate it when you just stop bonding with the people you used to love hanging out with.
I hate feeling left out. And I’m beginning to feel it more. And hate it more.
I hate having to use humour as a defence mechanism.
I hate it when a once big group segregates into mini groups and you don’t know where you belong.
I hate it when you don’t want to belong.
I hate not telling people how I truly feel.
I hate not having a friend I can talk to. Someone who is not just around for the moment. Someone who will be there for me when I am sixty-four even.
I hate when you have nothing to write about and the one thing you decide to write about it how much you hate everything. I hate that ‘things I hate’ becomes a topic for my blog.
I hate hating so many things.
I hate when you bear your soul, and then wait for it to be stomped on over and over.

I hate it.


I despise all of it.

time flew

The bean in the womb
The bean, three weeks old
The bean, 8 months old - and counting.


All I can say is : WHAT THE HELL?

qwerty and happy

I just downloaded the original Pac man game onto my home PC.

It’s quite a fun game really, it succeeds in getting the heart pumping and the energies flowing even on those particularly boring Sunday afternoons. But there in lies the rub, I cannot play it to save my life. And I have just realized why. I’m too neat. I have to eat all the little green globules in one area before I even think of moving to the next, which makes me inevitably have a fatal encounter with Blinky, Pinky, Inky or Clyde, that much more often.

Which explains why I have passed the ‘qwerty’ level and just barely made it to the ‘happiness’ level (ironic isn’t it? That this is in a game and not in real life?)

The masters of Pac man play a messy game, random green globs left for no reason lying around at every level, blinking strawberries and twirling cherries – the ones that I foolishly go back for even though Clyde is at my tail.

I realize have a lot of these little stupid things that I just have to do. Another one is eating French fries. I just have to eat two or three at a time. This makes sharing a pack with me very awkward for the sharer. If I am eating a fried egg, I have to break open the yolk and smudge it around the whole egg so every part has the yellow. I feel the need to brush my teeth in front of a mirror. I have to squeal while I stretch in the morning; a stretch without a squeal is no stretch at all. I have to put my alarm for half an hour before I actually need to wake up – this is my snooze time. I have to fold my underwear, not necessarily my clothes. I won’t even begin to get into the quirks I have with my arch-rivals, the ant world.

I’m rambling again. There, that’s one more thing I do. Ramble on when no one really cares to know what I do with my underwear and my fried eggs, in all honesty. I think I should go and master the art of Pac man now. Or maybe I should just give up and shoot some men instead.

In a game, not in real life.

As much fun as the latter sounds right now.

The way my life is going, I think I'm still at the ‘qwerty’ level.

double 'C' theory

I’m PMS-ing. There. I admit it.

My mood-swings, cravings and over-emotional behavior today has finally been justified. I almost cried several times today, once when I was really happy and once when I was really sad. Then some childish boy in my office threw something hard at my neck and that gave me an excuse to run into the ladies room and cry. That’s one indication of PMS.

The second was in the evening when I ate an entire bar of milk chocolate and then almost immediately ate bread dipped in really spicy chutney.

The third was when this sweet guy in my office asked me what was up with my life. Instead of smiling and saying everything was fine, I unleashed a bevy of reasons about why I am so incredibly depressed. I even told him that there was nothing wrong with me, and that I do not want to merely have fun any more, and I deserve a boyfriend.

At which point he said something that stumped me. He called it the ‘Double C Theory’

He said that the way men see me now is like this funny, sweet, bubbly little, ‘one-of-the-boys’ girl, which is all really good according to him. But if I want to snag one of the said men, I have to suddenly, when he least expects it, turn on the ‘Coy’ woman act.

Apparently what men like is this outward extrovert, but a closeted introvert. I found this most interesting. That is my key to snagging me a man. But this is just according to one guy. There are a million guys who probably like the opposite, right?

Oh, but the other ‘C’ is ‘cleavage’. According to him, you should show a little cleavage and be coy at the same time.

That would work, right?

a little more gaargh

I was reading some of my archives and i came across this post

It was then I realised to my utter horror, that my luck has still not changed. It has been almost a year and I have nothing to show for it.

How's that for a perfect end to a bad Sunday?

I need to weep into a big, fat pillow.

gaargh

Sunday is a good day.

Sunday is a day when I read a book, eat my father’s food, drink tea and generally relax while I mentally prepare myself to be pissed-off all week.
But not this Sunday. Oh no, someone up there thought they’d make me just a little bit peeved on my day of rest.

I woke up in the morning at ten with an alarm that I had not set. This is very annoying. My phone just seems to be on its own trip and it is out to get me. It dies when I am on important calls. It rings for no reason sometimes. It is possessed.

I was talking to my ex online and he asked me some very inane question. To which I said he should really pay more attention to when we are chatting because it’s just annoying to repeat stuff over and over. At this point the profanities began and I was left speechless. My first reaction was to yell back. In capital letters. But I realised he may be just a little on edge. Which he was, and soon after apologised and gave me a virtual hug. I accepted but refused to virtually hug back until he washed his mouth. Also I told him if he ever spoke like that to me, it would be the last time.

Then I went to my room and lay down, when I realised to my horror that there were two happy-camper ants running around on my pillow. I almost fainted as I frantically dusted them off and had visuals of them entering my ears and building an ant colony, eating away at my innards, while I suffer and die slowly.

Bloody damned ants.

Sunday is also a day when I wash my hair and do my complicated deep conditioning treatment. It’s not that complicated actually - wash, shampoo, wash, shampoo, condition, leave on for 1 hour and wash.

Today however, as I got ready for my bath, the water in my village went. I say village because the water went. Apparently someone forgot to pump. Excuse me? Forgot? I’m sure all this person has to do all day is remember to pump. How come they forgot? Their job description is “pumps water”. How can you forget? So there I am, semi-shampooed, trying to use whatever little water that is trickling out of the tap.

The water eventually came. So I quickly rush into the bath to wash off my conditioner. I’m not sure what would happen if I left it on too long. Then I get a phone call. So I run out, in my towel to answer the phone. I thought it was important. I don’t know why. No one important ever calls me.

It is a service provider woman. Not only is she high-pitched and annoying, she is calling me on a Sunday. Don’t these people have any respect for Sundays? I asked her what day it was and she bubbly replied, and then I told her never to call me again and banged down the phone.

It’s almost 8pm now.
The day is gone.

And I am just peeved.

my lost mojo

I have nothing to say.

It's rare and I am worried for myself. We had an office party last Friday and I was uninterested and all I could think of was going home. After a couple of Vodkas, all I could think of was more Vodka and going home. I finally left at 10pm. Under normal circumstances, I would have made plans to stay at someone's house or something. But I just didn't want to.

I had an all night shoot for my film on Saturday night. I was overtly stressed, on the edge and very unapproachable. Even the male model smiled at me occasionally and instead of giving him a nice flirty look right back I looked pained and frustrated. At the end of the shoot all I was thinking about was the hours of editing and voice recording that will slowly take over my life for the next two weeks.

Two people asked me to meet them during the weekend and I have made excuses. If this continues all I will have left are Internet friends who are satisfied with an occasional mail and a smiley emoticon.

At work I sit at my desk. This is a huge deal because normally the last place you look for me is at my desk. Which is probably why no one can find me any more. I eat lunch alone. Either reading my book or listening to my i-pod, both are deemed to be very anti-social.
More than one person in the office has asked me if I am okay. Are you sick? Do you need some medication? How come you're so quite? Check for fever.

Throughout my journey to work and back home I have my eyes closed and I listen to music that calms me. There was a fight in the train and I didn't know until someone pushed me and I saw two women tugging at each other. Not that I would intervene anyway, but under normal circumstances I would at least be aware.

My conversation is strained. My interest in things outside my own existence has diminished. I don't look at, let alone talk to the guy sitting next to me - so much so he has invested in a pair of earphones and bobs his head to his music while I listen to mine.
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, I guess.

People think I am just still stuck in vacation mode. Maybe. My body is here, but my mind is so far away it's scary. I think I have just changed. That's a good excuse isn't it?

I need to snap out of it. This is getting me nowhere.

It's ruining my mood. It's depleting my energy. It's robbing me of my personality.

In short, it's got my mojo.

myrmecophobia-ish

I may have it.

How else would you explain the screaming and the paranoia that “they’re on me”?

I have a couple of incidents that probably caused it. The first was in junior school when I stepped into a hill and they were all over me. And they were running up my legs and two boys from my class (both who liked me) were frantically trying to “rub” them off my legs and thighs. Then one of them tried to carry me to class. And I wouldn’t have it, instead I escaped running with them, still all over me, to the girl’s toilet to wash them off.

Another time was when I was in college. We were at a picnic and I was drinking something, with a cola in it. And I put the glass on the ledge of the balcony while I was talking to this friend. About five minutes later, I picked it up, without looking and put it towards my mouth. And then, through the corner of my eye, I could see movement in my glass. They entered my glass, swimming in my drink, thousands of them, now running up my hand out of the glass.

This morning, I had a nice bath. Clean and feeling pretty I grabbed my hot pink towel and wrapped it around me. And I felt a little bite on my arm. I saw one and screamed. I immediately took of the towel and saw about 35 of them all over my upper body. I quickly turned on the shower again and frantically washed them off me. And asked for another towel to be passed to me.

I heard a story about one falling into a girl’s eye from a tree and it bit her eye ball and got stuck. I have also seen a flying one. That’s right, people… the source of my paranoia now has wings. All the better to “get me” with.

I abhor them anywhere close to me. I think about them and my skin crawls, I feel a shiver and scratch the back of my neck, and rub my arms. If there is just one of them, I’m fine and I feel power as I crush it. But there is never only one. They move in large swarms.

There was even an animated film on them. Apparently it was very “cute”. I cannot bring myself to watch it. The name of the film creeps me out. My skin crawls, I feel a shiver and scratch the back of my neck, and rub my arms, again.

They’re ants. By the way.

Shudder.

what becomes of the broken hearted?

If love grabs you by the balls, this is my version, of what heart-break does to you...and, trust me, it's happened oh-too-many times:

You are sitting pretty in a big beautiful bubble, staring at the soap-watery colours of the rainbow that surround you, and life is blissful.

Suddenly a big, hairy fist appears, as if out of nowhere. It jabs the bubble and grabs you tight.
It reaches into your mouth, down your throat, clawing at your beating heart. You can’t bite down, you can’t breath, you can’t throw up, you can’t scream out. It wrenches your heart right out, through your throat and out of your mouth, throwing it violently on the floor. Another fist punches you in the gut, leaving you writhing and empty, staring at the blood-stained life-giver, struggling to keep its beat.

And you lie there, trying to breath. And just when you start again, you allow yourself, dim-wittedly, to be consumed by another blissful, soapy bubble.

picking up the pieces

Jetlag is killing me. I have been up most of the night at the computer, or tossing and turning in my bed. My bed. I haven’t slept in it for over eight months. It needs to get my shape again.

My room was so clean when I arrived, thanks to my wonderful parents. But it is now a mess again with everything pouring out of three suitcases.

The flight did not seem long at all. I guess I wasn’t as eager to come back as I was to get there. Luckily I did not have anyone sitting by me through the entire trip, so I could stretch my legs across three seats, listen to my ipod and reminisce about the most amazing holiday I have had in a long time. Missing the faces that kept me company for two whole months.

I met my niece, who as soon as I arrived from a long flight and an even longer immigration wait, gave me the most beautiful toothless smile I have ever seen, that it made everything worth while. Through out my trip she made me fall deeper into love with her, with everything she did – even poopie in the potty.

I met my sisters, who tried their best to make me have the best time ever – taking me out, exposing me to fantastic cuisine, making me stuff, buying me stuff (aren’t sisters fab?)

I met new friends who showed me a great time everywhere we went. Who were older than me by years, but never once made me feel uncomfortable, who were nice enough to make time for me, to get to know me, even though they weren’t on holiday.

I met a girl friend I have known for nine years, my best friend in college, and I realized that even after not being together everyday for almost three years, we picked up exactly where we left off. She showed me a super time in New York, that happy hour was the happiest.
I totally trusted her, again, with my thoughts. And I realized that she is and always will be my best friend- even if we don’t say it all the time like corny sisterhood women.

I met a guy friend from school. He was one year my junior, and was, as my memory recalls a short blue-house boy, with thick glasses, who giggled in the line going to assembly in the mornings. He’s no longer short, he doesn’t have the glasses (well actually he does, but contacts have prevailed), but deep down, he is still a little blue house boy – with traumatic childhood stories that end in him crying.
He picked me up and reached me home, introduced me to bolis and fishbowls, took me on midnight walks in a park, introduced me to trespassing on private lakes, long walks on the beach and a whole new vocabulary. And, just by being him, made the last few days of my trip, the best.

I feel as if I left bits of my heart in Staten Island, Connecticut, New Jersey and Georgia.

And now I am back in Bombay. Picking up the pieces.

crikey!

I heard on the news yesterday that Steve Irwin died because a sting ray jabbed his heart with its poisonous barb. That seems to me like such an unbelievably ironic thing to happen. This is the guy who used to wrestle crocs and play with pythons. What a way to go.

It’s like when the headlines said that Superman fell from his horse and broke his back - it could never happen to Superman. Steve Irwin was the “superman” of the wild, I thought.

He was one of those guys who could go out and do that and people would stand on the sidelines, biting their fingers, but always reassured that this guy knew what he was doing and would be safe.

And now this. That’s just how much life really sucks.

Small consolation, but at least he died doing what he loved – even though, reports say, it hurt like hell.

R.I.P Steve.

the electronic garden of eden

It’s finally here. It’s black, it’s sleek and it’s beautiful. It’s my new prized possession.

My iPod.

Assembled in China, it traveled on a long and perilous journey across the seas to the Artic and then on it’s way to North America, where it stopped in at California before finally making it to my sister’s doorstep in Connecticut.
I know this because my elder sister, who actually bought me the iPod (bless her heart), tracked the FedEx package.

It was ordered from the Apple store and it came with a touching personalized engraving and a card from my sister. These Apple guys go all out to make receiving your pod an extremely joyous occasion.

I have dreamed about this. I have spent time thinking about where I would use it, how I would flick it out at work, so all my iPod-less friends can silently ogle. I have thought about the pictures I am going to put on it, the videos, and the songs- 7,500 of them to be exact. Oh the joy. Oh the beauty. My life is suddenly filled with music. I feel elevated. Floating on a light cloud of my favourite tunes. Light.

I now know why they call the store ‘Apple’ – it goes back to the beginning of time when Adam and Eve walked the garden of Eden and happened upon a juicy red apple – yes the fruit that cause the fall of man – temptation, lust, desire, empowerment – everything I feel when I hold this shining black beauty in the palm of my hand.

My brother-in-law tried to tell me that there were other mp3 players that were equally good, if not better than the pod. But I wouldn’t have it. What’s an Mp3 player if it is not an iPod? If it doesn’t have the little circular dial? The white earphones? Ahhh… those snow white earphones.

So despite his words – I got it. And I think I made the right decision.

I think. Therefore, iPod.

sisterhood of the...sniff...sputter...weep...

The movie is about these four girls who grow up together, after their mom’s meet at a birthing class. They grow in to totally different individuals but are still as thick as honey.

The one summer, when they are sixteen, they don’t spend together is what the movie is essentially about. Their only contact is letters and a pair of jeans that they buy from a thrift store. The jeans travel through their hometown to Greece and Mexico. Each girl learns some sort of life-lesson and passes on the jeans and the knowledge to the next.

Why do I like this movie? It’s sweet, it’s teeny and it’s not quite me at all. More importantly why did I cry? I actually have some thoughts on that.

First, they get to travel to places that I can only dream of going to with the money I earn. Greece for example. It is just so beautiful and she gets to just go there for a summer? Is that fair?

Reason number two - The girl who goes to Greece meets this incredibly hot Greek student called Kostas. He saves her when she accidentally falls into the sea from the pier.
Note to self – must fall in sea when visiting Greece so as to be saved by hot fisher-boy.

Three, the girl who goes to Mexico is insanely hot. She is tall, athletic and has perfect hair. And on top of that, she plays a forward in a girl’s soccer team. Something, again, I can only dream of doing. A good reason to cry, yes?

Fourthly, those damn jeans fit all of them so frikking perfectly that it would take me half a life time and a lot of trial rooms to find any pants that fit me so incredibly well. And they happen to find one at a thrift store? Meaning someone actually had the stupidity to give away a pair of perfectly fitted pants? What the bloody hell is wrong with them… pass on a couple of hot pants here why don’t you…

Number five, the movie is actually quite poignant. They grow through divorce, death of parents and friends, love, parting, family feuds and a whole lot of stuff – that could make anyone cry. Really.

Six, I have never had a friendship so strong, that it lasts for sixteen years, maybe even more (if the movie had a sequel)
Sure, I have had good friends and people I have known since school. But have I grown up with someone, changed with them, spent every day with them and told them everything about me. No.
My first best friend was in the second grade. She left school in the 5th and I have never heard from her again. I had an amazing group of friends in college – we were ‘the five of us’ – but that soon changed when people moved away and others started not caring anymore about anyone except them selves. I have had good friends at work too, but moving agencies doesn’t help keep a friendship alive. So...I guess I also cried ‘cause I never had a sisterhood of friends.

Which makes me think that there is something wrong with me – not having a childhood friend? Doesn’t that qualify as serial-killer behavior?

Hmmm….Did Hannibal have a best friend?

Yes, I’m sure he had his. (we serial killers are a riot.)

Sniff.

Anyone want to watch the trailer again?

i, softy...

I have become a complete softy. I have been getting teary-eyed at the drop of a hat. It’s not comforting because I hate being all wussy, choked and mumbly – which is how I get when I cry.

I cried when my parents left Atlanta. Which does not really qualify as a good reason to cry because, I am going to meet my parents when I go back to India. But I cried nonetheless.

I was talking to my sister on the phone and she was telling me that she gave my mom and dad going away presents and wrote little notes to them from my baby niece. And my brother-in-law gave my mom an envelope with some money and a letter – thanking them for making the first few months of his daughters’ life so special, and that the money was a contribution to their tickets, so they could come again as soon as possible.
When my sister told me that, I got all teary-eyed and choked up again and promptly told her I had to pee so I had to go.

Whenever I think of not seeing my niece or sisters for another couple of year’s maybe – it happens again. I cry like a bumbling idiot on a bad soap opera. It is just annoying.

I wasn't always like this. I remember when my eldest sister left India for good, six years ago, everyone cried as they hugged her, except me. Soon after, my second sister left, again everyone cried, except me. I was sad – but I wasn’t soft.

So now I am soft. And I know it. It annoys me.

Like yesterday I was watching a movie called ‘Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants’ – as the name probably suggests it is one of those teeny-chick flicks that no man would be caught dead watching. I cried again. (Dammit, even this trailer makes me a little cranky. Arrrrrrggghhhh.)

Will tell you why in my next blog.

Because there are quite a few reasons and I don’t want my blogs to be too long so people just skim through them and don’t really read.


Don’t shake your head – I know you do that.

gasp. sniff. snort.

I have just been enlightened with some catastrophic information that has the capability of ruining my ever-shrinking prospects of finding myself a suitable partner.


I snore.

I am devastated.

I never thought I would be the one who snored at night. I always thought I would be the sufferer of someone who snores – because I despise any noise when I sleep unless it’s music playing in the background.

What’s even worse is that I don’t merely snore apparently. I bellow.

How very warthog-esque of me.

There is even a Museum of Snoring where snorers used to be treated worse than criminals. Snoring soldiers would have canon balls stitched to the inner side of their uniform so they could not turn over to their backs and disturb the others.

Another anti-snoring torture tool was the mask – a leather mask that straps the chin so the mouth remains closed – this is probably what it felt like to be Hannibal.

Yet another ancient remedy – “Pins”– they stretch the nostrils to a point when the sleeper gets more oxygen. Well he may have more oxygen – but will he get any sleep with pins in his nose?

Should I take comfort in the fact that many famous greats snored their heart out?

The likes of Winston Churchill, Brahms, Albert Einstein, even the mighty Greek God of wine, Dionysus.

Of course not. Because clearly only fat, old, fanatical men with bad-hair lifetimes snore.

As Anthony Burgess once wrote,
“Laugh and the world laughs with you. Snore and you sleep alone.”

I’m devastated.




I snore!

the nubileus hottitus

I have less than a month left for my fabulous holiday to end and I have to go back and work. Life can be drab like that. But so far I have thoroughly enjoyed my self – to the point of actually thinking of coming here for good.
As previously mentioned I am in Georgia’s small town of Athens. It’s beautiful, a perfect blend of country and city. Rolling, green hills and behind one of them you’ll find a Wal-Mart or a salon and spa.

It’s mainly a college town, seeing as the University of Georgia is the center of downtown Athens. This brings me to my first point. School begins in about five days and downtown is brimming with life – the tall, blonde, leggy sort of life.

Wherever you turn, whatever street you are on, you will find, at the least, three nubile, pubescent (god forbid, pre-pubescent) women. She will be manicured, spa-ed and salon-ed to perfection. Four just four, strands of hair will wispily fall across her face as she glides across the street in her three inch wedge heels and a summer dress.

That’s another favorite, the Summer Dress. They are so incredibly feminine and flowy. They shape the leg as one walks. They blow where the wind blows. They look like what the girl on the cover of a lascivious romantic she-will-drive-him-to-the-edge-of-desire kind of novel.
Dammit. And there I sit in my jeans and T. They aren’t flowy. And no woman on the cover of a romance novel will be caught dead in jeans, whilst in the throes of a passionate embrace with a hunky stable boy.

This brings me to my second point. Athens is a candy store for men, as one of the men who actually live here so eloquently put it. It’s not fair. Why don’t women have a candy store? Why can’t we drive around a town where every second man is a topless hunk doing push up’s or, I don’t know, drilling? It’s not fair.

We were at 283, a pub in downtown Athens and yes, the ‘nubileus hottitus’ swarmed there too. But while we sat there in deep discussion a guy walks up to our table. He interrupts the conversation, looks at me pointedly and says, “Excuse me for interrupting, but I just have to say that you are the most beautiful woman I have seen since I got back from Iraq”

Sufficiently flattered, I secretly thought, hell this guy hasn’t seen a woman in a while so he can’t be counted as a reliable informant. Which brings me to my next two points. I do not take compliments really well. And thankfully there is one living male in Athens who thinks that a girl who is not in a cookie-cutter, floral dress-wearing, wedge-heeled woman, is still attractive.

This is a good thing. It’s a yayayay moment. It lifted my sprits and gave me faith.





Although deep down I am thinking that maybe one returned solider is not good enough and maybe I should get me one of them damn cookie cutter flowery dresses. Let me at ‘em.

Dammit.

very very very

It was my birthday on the 31st of July and thanks to some good planning and timing I was with my whole family after about 6 years celebrating my 25th
My sister who stays in Georgia (where I am now) organized a sort of a dinner party for me and called some of her friends. Very fun.

The next day we drove up to Cleveland in Georgia, the home of the Cabbage Patch Doll. We visited the Babyland General Hospital which is a museum of these incredible dolls. About every half hour or so, a new little baby cabbage patch is born – I saw two deliveries. They do it so cutely saying things like “Mother cabbage is dilated ten leaves but she needs a shot of TLC”. Very cute.

We then went to Helen and walked up to the Anna Ruby Falls. My little niece was fascinated with all the water, she was cooing at the trees and the gushing water. Everything was so green and beautiful. Very lush.

My eldest sister her friend, Henrick and took us to downtown Athens to a bar called 283. I had two large Cosmopolitans. They were also having a Ms Pacman contest. We then moved to Allgood lounge where we had two more Cosmopolitans. I also miraculously beat Henrick at pool. And he didn’t even suck… he was actually good. But I beat him anyway. I’m so proud. Very happy.

Today we went to Stone Mountain National Park for a laser show they do on the mountain to some pop music. But as we reached there (it was one and a half hour away) a storm began in a big way. So it was cancelled. Waste of a long journey but I guess it was good that we saw the giant rock mountain. Very cool.

It’s now about midnight and I have just finished my corn dog dinner. Very tired.

Good night

big nectarines, big smiles and big apple

My weekend in New York City. Oh yes, I’m living the good life.

20th July

So we took a train from Stamford to Grand Central Station and it was and express, so we reached in about 45 minutes. (The fun about the trains’ here- they are air conditioned! If only the trains in India were as cool.)

Grand Central Station is gorgeous. It’s bustling with life. Tourists, commuters, people just hanging around (‘cause it’s air conditioned too!)
And the food is great there. There are stores and stands of all the cuisine one can imagine- Mexican, Italian, Middle Eastern and Chinese- oh and cheesecake!

We walked from the station to Bryant Park, where WLTW 106.7 LiteFM presented Broadway in Bryant Park. The original troupes from the actual Broadway plays performed four songs each live in the park! I saw Shout! The Mod Musical, The Phantom of the Opera, The Colour Puple and Wicked. All phenomenal performances and all absolutely free, as part of summer in New York City celebrations.

After we walked a little more and had some NY street food, a jumbo falafel and grape Snapple from Moshe’s. Yum!

We ate at a little park on one of the streets – there were tables and chairs, so several people stopped and were having their lunch their. Including a group of three girls who were having avocado sandwiches and salad – Ugh!

Before taking a cab to the station, I entered this shop – Build a Bear. It’s a kiddy store where you pick the kind of bear you want, then you follow the trail and pick a sound you want in it – like a song or a giggle – then you stuff it with fluff and choose it’s outfit. Once done, you make a birth certificate for your baby bear and go to the counter and pay for it. It was so fun to see all the little kids running about picking and choosing bears.

The cab ride was fun, only because I knew I was sitting in a New York City cab. I hailed it too! We went to the station and took a train to some station- can't remember which one - but it took us straight to the Staten Island ferry port. I went on the ferry, which is a free ride cause it is government transportation - and i saw the statue of liberty and the Manhattan sky line and Brooklyn bridge and all - for free!!

After our ferry back, we walked to South street sea port – Pier 17. There was a River to River festival going on presented by 98.7 KissFM. The Sugar Hill gang was performing. Apparently their song, Rappers Delight was the first rap song to ever hit the top 40 charts. And I saw ‘em live and again for free!

I love this city.

We heard a couple of cool songs, danced a bit on the Pier and then left. We took a train Grand Central and then went to the hotel room – Eastgate Tower on 39th and 3rd. On the 20th floor.

Changed and freshened up and made our way to Jaiya – a Thai restaurant known well for it’s food. And rightly so- the food was just awesome. After a nice leisurely stroll down the streets of New York and to our hotel – I was glad to see my bed.


21st July

Woke up nice and late to a hot cup of Starbucks’ best. Showered and dressed and made our way up town to the Guggenheim Museum (89th street, Fifth Avenue). Six floors with a mixture of modern and classical art. I saw paintings by Degas, Picasso, Gauguin, Pollock and Kandinsky. The work of Zaha Hadid – painter, artist and architect. As well as paintings by Harold Stevenson, Jim Dine and John Chamberlain.

It took about two hours to finish the entire museum after which we planned to walk in Central Park. As we exited the Guggenheim, we realized that it was pouring – it rained so much that there was a crowd outside the museum waiting for it to stop. A man, capitalizing on the unexpected change of weather was selling umbrellas at a premium. We hailed a cab and took it back to our hotel.

We only ventured out again at about 8pm. Libertto’s, a pizza place, typically Italian with a man making coal oven pizzas. I felt like a New Yorker as I sipped on a Bud Light, ate a piece of my Italian sausage pizza and watched the Mets play a game on the tele.

Good sleep again.

I was glad to be back in Stamford on Saturday. My brother in law was having a barbecue and he is the best cook ever. He invited a lot of friends and family and we had a blast. My niece welcomed me back home from my city excursions with a big smile and a little spit-up on my face. My brother in law welcomed me with the fruit I love but seldom have – nectarines. It’s good to be home. But I can’t wait to go back to the big city again next week.

Yay.

bon voyage

Alas the moment is upon us. I leave for my mystic travels to the west on a big flying machine. I have my documents in hand and baggage filled with treasures from the east for my kith and kin in the new world.

It is with a happy heart and an eager disposition that I make my way alone to the air base where the big flying machine takes off (at about 3:40am..Yawn). My stop over is the land of the Queen. But unfortunately I won’t be meeting with her.

I have made sacrifices and conceded that I will not watch the big match – viva Italia, no doubt. And Luca Toni, may your first child be a masculine child. France can pepe la poo-poo their way back home.

Good-bye my lovers. Good-bye my friends.
You have been the one; you have been the one for me…

(Isn’t James Blunt very melancholic?)

I hope I have a safe trip. I hope I have fun and though I will post from the Americas,


I hope ya’ll miss me.

home sick

It’s raining non-stop.

I woke up this morning, my cell phone alarm ringing loudly next to my right ear. I put it on snooze. Fifteen minutes later it rings again. Snooze.

Fifteen minutes.

Ring.

Snooze.

This happened 6 times till about ten in the morning when I dragged my self out of bed.

Nat calls, asks if we should even venture out to work. She has been watching the news for half an hour and she things it’s ‘not wise’ to go anywhere in this rain. I agree whole-heartedly.

I call my over enthu art partner, with whom I don’t quite get along much. I ask him if he is going to work and he says yes.
Crap, if he goes I gotta go cause I need to mail him the line.
I try to convince him to stay at home, else he gets stranded. No luck. Stupid enthu.

I call the Grinch (my boss) and tell him that my road is flooded with knee-deep water and it seems pointless. He tells me to chill. Stay at home. Don’t worry. It’s all good.

He has had a morning drink. I’m sure.

After about an hour of calling the office, calling bosses, calling art partners and calling secretaries, it was decided by someone that the office shall remain closed today. Yay! I get back into bed and start reading my book.

It’s almost lunchtime now. And I have a mouth-watering craving.

My dad’s chicken biryani.

I rarely stay at home from work, so when I do my dad cooks what I love. And the one thing he knows I love is his chicken biryani. On rainy days when there is just no way I can leave home and reach office in one piece, I sit in my room and read. And at about lunchtime there is this wonderful aroma wafting in from the kitchen. It’s chicken biryani in the making.

He makes it in a pressure cooker and when the lid is removed, you just see steam for ten seconds. There is a layer of rice, slightly coloured with red food colour. Then a big steel spoon digs into it and reveals more steam and a layer of succulent meat and perfectly cooked rice. Not to mushy, not too grainy, just melt-in-your-mouth good. And because the meat is pressure cooked, it is so soft, so delicious.

My dad serves it with a salad (chopped cucumber, tomato, onion and chilly in a light vinegar dressing) homemade pickle and roasted papad.

*Drool*

I want that biryani. I need it. I miss my dad.

I’m going for lunch now. I’m sure it’s not anything like what I am dreaming of. But it will have to do.
‘Cause I’m frikkin’ hungry right now.

Dammit.

in love with kaka

30andhappy has written a fascinating blog, or shall I say a ‘thesis on faeces’. After which my blog seems rather gross.

I really am in love with Kaka, but not the kind she speaks of, this kind is the tall, dark and yummy kind. Ok that doesn’t sound too appetising, does it? This is not going well.

Let me just show you who I’m talking about.



Lets meet Kaka, a 24-year-old mid fielder for his country Brazil and his club, AC Milan. His real name is Ricardo Izecson dos Santos Leite, which is a nice name, but for some reason, his little brother, Rodrigo couldn’t, or wouldn’t pronounce it properly. So he called him Kaka, which, in native Portuguese is a shortened form of Ricardo. Little did either of them know that in some parts of the world ‘kaka’ means defecation. Ugh.

This beautiful piece of human flesh once suffered a serious accident when he jumped of a diving board and had a fractured vertebra. This could have meant him never playing football again. But Ricardo, as I fondly call him, believes that Jesus got him through it.

Yes, Jesus. He is a devout Catholic. Every time he scores a goal he points his fingers to the sky as a sign of thanks (It’s better than Crouch’s robot dance by miles) In 2004, when AC Milan won the Serie A title, Kaka sported a t-shirt saying, ‘I belong to Jesus’. Unfortunately for me, in 2005, he sported a wedding ring that probably said ‘ I belong to Caroline’

Yes, Kaka is married. Which is the reason for this post and my acute depression. I found out too late. The love of my life and the fire in my loins is gone. He is the one that got away.
Sure, I like Freddy Ljungberg. Sure he is hot as hell. But did I want to know him, talk to him and have coffee and cake with him? Not really.

There was a cosmic connection with Ricardo. I got a number 8 jersey thinking I was going to support Freddy. Freddy turned out to wear 9 for international games. Who do you think came running onto the field, making the sign of the cross and wearing 8?

Kaka.

When I did find out about his marriage I almost cried. No wait. I think I did a little. There were tears. Then I saw a picture of him kissing his wife and there was a giant barbed wire that tightened around my heart. The pictures I had of him and me walking on the beaches of Rio, hand in hand, vanished.

I had had an imaginary relationship in my head. And seeing that picture on the net was like finding out he was cheating on me. For about a year now. It was like I had to stop answering his calls, miss his matches, and give him dirty looks through the television. Just out of spite.

I think I was certifiable for a while there.

I’m still a little depressed. And I still don’t like Caroline.

I still love Kaka.

He is the one that got away.

Sniff

balls, blocks, breakfast, bonding, banking and betrayal...

Not to make excuses, but every time I have something to write about, it gets too late and I'm too tired or I just can't get connected to the Internet. So before another month goes by- an update on the stuff that’s on my mind.

Weather - After my monsoon post, it has rained violently only once. Mostly it’s hot, humid and very annoying. I guess I posted too soon. I guess the rain gods aren't quite ready.

Work - I have had writers block for a while now. And though they say it happens to everyone, that fact doesn’t help at all. Everything I write seems contrived, and I believe I am not keeping up to the high expectations that my boss has of me – he has used the word ‘disappointing’ in my presence a lot. Which is not a good thing for a writer to hear.

Party - I haven't gone out dancing in a while. I have been using my weekdays to sleep, catch up on reading or watch soccer. My weekends are spent shopping for my sisters and my trip. I think I need to dance and release some creative juices.

Soccer - The season is in full swing. And everybody's got the fever – to borrow words from Madonna (it’s Madonna right?) The boys from my office decided to take part in a corporate soccer tournament on the 10th of June. I, being the only female fan, woke up at 7am and went to the stadium to cheer. Unfortunately the boys had no practice or strategy, and with bellies full of beer we lost all the matches. But it was fun and the boys had a lively cheerleading squad of 6 girls for their final match.

Fifa Soccer - The games have begun. It’s all very stressful. The good teams aren’t performing and the teams you’d normally overlook are playing like gods. I’m supporting Brazil, Argentina, Portugal and Sweden- in that order. But if it comes to a game between any of these guys – I think I might have a nervous breakdown. What’s a total bummer is that I am going to be in the airport on my way to America on the night of the finals. Ain’t life a kick in the Fifa balls?

Girls- On the 9th of June, the first game of the world cup, two girlfriends and I went to this coffee shop just to kill time until the game. Not only did we stay there for over four hours, I ended up missing the opening match and bonding quite a bit. We made a plan that we'd go for breakfast every Monday morning, form a film/travel club and join salsa. So far the Monday breakfast is the only thing we have done. Girls rock. Who would have thought?

Boys- The amount that girls rock, is directly proportional to the amount guys suck.
Oh yes. I had gone out with this one guy. We had good conversations and dinners for about two weeks. I kinda-sorta-maybe-mighta have liked him. Then one day he tells me he has to tell me something. So I get nervous and stuff. Then he stalls telling me. We go out, I ask him, and he changes the topic. Then on MSN yesterday, he tells me he really likes me and really loves spending time with me – BUT, and this is a big one, he has a girlfriend, but he still wants to be buddies, no doubt.
Damn does that jerk have a hope in hell.
Oh and you know who else has a girl? My Chicago boy. What I thought would be a dreamy week was a 'pat-me-on-the-back-buddy-'ol-pal' week. She is a blonde singer who dances and has a heart of gold.
Question -How is a cynical, brunette, writer ever to compete?

Money - I have been shopping for my sisters and myself for the past two weekends. And the more I buy the more I feel that I cannot afford to live. Speaking of not wanting to live. I don’t wanna go back to live far away when my parents come back. I can’t bear the thought of travel and smelly trains. I have become a spoilt suburban. And my parents don’t know it.
And having no money I need to file my returns quick – but laziness prevails and I cannot bear to think about taxes and banking papers. I am avoiding my accountant’s calls like he is an ex-boyfriend. This is not helping my lavish lifestyle.

All said and done, I have decided that I’m going to enjoy my moments in Surburbia, get over the whole writers block thing and kick some advertising ass. Enjoy all the matches I can and pray there is a TV in the airport waiting room. I am going to plan a night of dancing, make more girly bonding time, and make time for my banking.
And while doing all that, I shall steadily reaffirm my lack of faith in the male species.

Wish me luck.

monsoon too soon

It’s raining. It’s pouring. Somewhere, some old man must be snoring.

It’s the thirty first of May and it’s already here. The days of monsoon have arrived. It’s wet and it’s cold. The roads are slippery with water and mud. Cars speed past you raising a wave of brown water on your newly ironed clothes. No matter what shoes you wear, your toes inevitably get pruned.

The day starts out sunny, so you decide not to take your umbrella. And then it rains. And suddenly you find yourself huddled under a tin roof with some other souls who had the same thought as you. And the rain doesn’t relent. The heavy drops amplified, as they lash down on the tin roof.

You wash your hair everyday because if you don’t it gets that stale wet smell that is disgusting. Your clothes get soaked through to your underwear and if you don’t have a change you might be at risk of catching a rare pelvic cold.

It’s humid. It’s sweaty. Trains are filled with partially wet passengers, all breathing the same stale air, because all the windows are tightly closed for fear that the rain water lashing in will wet them further. You become so obsessed with not getting wet, you find anything remotely wet annoying.

You hate getting out of the house, but you have to go to work. The traffic is killing because three cars in front of you, someone has driven into an open ditch and can’t move. You see people on the street with plastic bags on their heads. Everyone in your office has a nasty cold.

The street vendors wash their used dishes with rainwater collected in an old dirty green bucket. And even though you know this, you still cannot resist the urge to have a nice warm chai or a wada pav. Or a plate full of hot onion bhajyas.

Everything is flooded over. Street drains overflow because they are clogged with leaves. A municipal worker wears a bright sunny yellow hooded raincoat and tries his best to unclog them. Frogs look like moving pebbles on the street. Toads croak all night.

The sound of rain makes you want to pee. Looking at the rain makes you want to sing love songs. Taking a walk in the rain takes you back to when you were nine and you picked tadpoles from the far corner of the school field. The drops on your face make you think back to the first time you were kissed in the rain. Then you try to sing Diana Ross’ ‘Kiss me in the rain’, but your voice is gone from the cold that that colleague gave you. So you stop singing and daydream instead. About a warm bed, hot chocolate and a nice comfy someone to hug when the wet wind blows through the sheer curtains.

But inevitably there is no one you can hug. So you get a really fluffy warm blanket and wrap yourself five times in it, and like some kind of giant pupae you wait. You fall asleep, the chill clean air has that unmatched smell of fresh, wet mud – deep breath. And another.

And another.

And then you wake up, and it’s a monsoon day all over again.

die with a 't'

That’s what a diet means to me.

And since I have started gyming in a big way (it’s been two weeks, thank you very much) I have actually been watching what I eat. No carbohydrates in the night, no colas, no aerated drinks and no desserts.

Things were going so well. Until I chanced upon hell’s own little shop of temptation. I was eating a nice tossed salad at a restaurant on Sunday evening with a friend. The dressing was low fat and all it had was lettuce, olives, peppers and tomatoes – all things right and good. We left, me, feeling very satisfied that I kept to the regime.

Dee, my friend, wanted some dessert so we popped over to the next spot. I vowed that no matter what happened I was not going to touch anything sweet.

The place is called Amore. (When the moon hits your eye like a big scoop of yum that’s Amore!) People were pouring out of it like it was a fast train to Virar. Millions of hands reaching with money to the counter. Millions of little spoons with minute amounts of gelato and sorbets in them. Millions of drooling people flocked the counter.

I nudged my way to the front of the crowd following Dee. And then I fell in love.

Beyond the lightly frosted glass display was creamy heaven. Tiramisu, Belgian chocolate and Baileys gelatos, hand-made waffle cones and Kiwi, Fresh Strawberry sorbets.

I clutched Dee’s arm in a panic. Suddenly I was in Diet’s Garden of Eden and a luscious, big, red, juicy apple stood before me, tempting me. My mind swirled in a beautiful gooey chocolate frenzy, and I was abruptly shoved out of it by a heavy man in a green shirt asking for a taste of the Blueberry Cheesecake Gelato.

I don’t know what came over me next. Everything went into slow motion. I reached into my bag for money and whispered to the man to give me a cup of the Belgian chocolate gelato. And as he passed it to me I could feel my tongue licking my lips.

I took a little portion in the mini plastic spoon and I allowed the sin to melt in my mouth. I took a bigger portion and allowed it to slowly slip down my throat. I closed my eyes and I got lost in cold, delicious, creamy pleasure.

Before I knew it, the little cup was clean. And I sat there, spent, sinned and satisfied.

I have decided to stick to my diet. But on occasion, I am going to indulge in life’s big pleasure, cause I now know, that happiness comes in waffle cone, or a paper cup - that’s entirely up to you.

hypothetically...

If ‘A’ had a thing with ‘B’, and that thing sort of dies down but then sometimes gets rekindled if the catalyst is right. And then ‘B’ has a change of heart about certain things and starts pursuing ‘C’ who is supposedly a friend of ‘A’s’.

Now ‘A’ gets incredibly angry seeing both ‘B’ and ‘C’ sort of flirting, especially in front of ‘A’ and other friends. So ‘A’ confides in ‘D’, who is part of the friend circle, and ‘D’ says that ‘C’ is not reciprocating any of ‘B’s’ advances. So ‘A’ sort of calms down, and realizes that maybe it’s just ‘B’s’ way of getting back at ‘A’.

Then on location ‘E’, ‘A’ notices that ‘B’ is constantly passing and asking ‘C’ to go chill with it. And ‘C’, lacking the necessary brainpower to realize that this is bugging ‘A’, who is supposedly ‘C’s’ friend, accepts.

So ‘A’ is in a state of complete jealousy. ‘A’ pours its heart out to ‘D’, who again says that ‘C’ “would never do something like that” and that ‘A’s’ imagination is running wild when it sees ‘C’ and ‘B’ holding hands.
So, one night, ‘A’, ‘C’ and ‘D’ go out.

‘A’ decides to ask ‘C’ exactly what is going on, and if there is anything between ‘B’ and it. And if there was, ‘A’ would be fine with it, but ‘A’ needs to know, before it bursts.
‘C’ claims there is nothing, and it has no interest in ‘B’, but has a lot of interest in ‘X’. ‘A’ breaths a sigh of relief and resumes talking to ‘C’ as if nothing happened.

Weeks pass and ‘A’ is noticing that a lot of times, it isn’t ‘B’ asking ‘C’ to hang out, but ‘C’ walking up to ‘B’ asking it to hang out. ‘A’ resumes the silent treatment. But ‘C’ has too thick a head to get it. So what happens is that ‘A’ ends up going crazy and lunatic.

What’s more, at an outing, where all three are present, along with ‘D’, something nasty happens. ‘A’ does something stupid, which it thought was funny at the time, ‘B’ gets angry and yells and ‘C’ quietly looks on.

Now on location, ‘B’ stops communicating with ‘A’. No hellos. No goodbyes. And ‘A’ being equally stubborn, does the same. So ‘A’ and ‘B’ haven’t talked for a while. And ‘B’ and ‘C’ are constantly hanging out. So ‘A’ gets, as usual, incredibly angry and one morning decided to confront ‘C’.

“See, the thing is ‘C’, ‘B’ and ‘A’ used to have something. Now for whatever reason it’s not happening. But what ‘A’ cannot handle is ‘B’ flirting with ‘C’. And ‘C’ letting it. And what’s more, ‘B’ has not spoken to ‘A’ since the outing. All ‘A’ asks, is that if ‘C’ doesn’t want the advances, stop them. So why won’t you, ‘C’?”

Besides, isn’t there an unwritten rule that one doesn’t hit on ones friends you-know-whats? Is ‘A’ and ‘D’ the only people who know this? Does ‘C’ have no clue? But then again, ‘C’ is a supposed friend.

‘C’ looks at ‘A’ and says it will not do anything to reject ‘B’. ‘C’ says it did not know that ‘A’ liked ‘B’ (lie # 1). And that it will not ruin that over something ‘A’ thinks is happening. ‘A’ is dumbstruck. And say’s well, thanks for talking anyway.
Even after the talk, ‘A’ sees ‘C’ asking ‘B’ to hang out, and they hang out alone together.
And when ‘A’ sees that, it also looks at ‘C’ straight in the eye.
There is nothing there. Nothing but, what ‘A’ can best describe as, pure evil.

Now for the questions:
Why won’t ‘C’ let ‘A’ like it?
If ‘B’ and ‘C’ do get together, does ‘A’ have a right to be angry?
Does ‘C’ have any concept of the unwritten rules?
Should ‘A’ break the ice with ‘B’ and talk to it?
Is ‘B’ just trying to piss of ‘A’?


And remember, this is all just hypothetical.

t-time

There is a game going around Bloggersville. It sounds like fun. You ask for get a letter of the alphabet and you have to write ten words beginning with that alphabet and the significance of those words to you. I asked Noojes if I could play. She said yea. So, here goes nothing.

My letter is ‘T’.

T for Truth – I’m not much of a liar. I hate it when people lie to me because I can tell when they are. Whenever I have lied, it has come and bitten me in the ass. I cannot lie – I look like a guilty fool if I do. Can anyone picture a face of a guilty fool? ‘Nuff said.

T for Trains – They are the fastest form of transport in Bombay. They get you from Bandra to Church gate in less than twenty minutes. They are crowded, sweaty and I despise them. I am dreading travel again after my six-month stay in Bandra, the queen of the suburbs. Dammit.

T for Time – My time is precious. I hate being late and I hate being kept waiting. My ex used to keep me waiting all the time. Forty-five minutes outside a seedy theater was the record. I never understood why he just didn’t leave earlier. It drove me mad for three years.

T for Tomboy – I have always been one of the guys. I get along with guys much better than women. I used to climb trees, take snails home and catch tadpoles when it rained. When I was little I had a Rambo gun – it shot out arrows and made a nasty rat-a-tat sound. But, I am girly too, I love pink and pretty skirts – but I would kick, punch, push and shove all in my pretty pink skirt.

T for Travel – My dream job is to become a globe trekker. If I could travel the world and get paid for it, it would be ideal – because it’s going to take me a while to accumulate enough money to do that on my own. But in that time, I hope I find a keen travel buddy – I’m not the loner type.

T for Tequila – I once had about 6 shots of tequila. Needless to say I was out cold by the end of it. Tequila is the devil you love to love. One tequila. Two tequila. Three tequila. Floor.

T for Tease – I have always been teased. In school I apparently walked like Donald Duck. I was teased with several boys in my class. I was teased in college cause of my weird haircuts. I am teased at work because I talk too much. I am teased about my bye-bye flab. I’m teased about my white legs. I am teased when I use wrong grammar cause I am a senior copywriter. I am teased a lot. And sometimes, I do a bit of teasing too.

T for Taxes – I am finally in that dreaded bracket. I have the government on my tail. I have to pay income tax for the next year. And to evade some of it I have to invest. I don’t know what to do. I am in a state of complete panic because of it. I hate being a grown up because of taxes.

T for Tea – The only tea I enjoy is my father’s tea. He makes the yummiest tea ever, but he does nothing special to it at all. I have never voluntarily had a cup of tea outside home. I despise tea anywhere else. It’s coffee I love. The smell, the taste and the pick-up it gives you early in the morning. And I would like to thank my big sister for introducing me to it.

T for Think – I have been told more often than not, on various occasions that I think too much. And you know what? I think that isn’t as bad as people think it is. My mind is never blank. My thoughts are always on overdrive. I ponder, contemplate, deliberate, reflect, mull, ruminate, wonder, speculate, question, doubt and hypothesize my heart out. Every single day.

I think, therefore I am.



I think.

butt of course

I’m so excited. It’s that time of year again. It’s time to get ready, choose your colours, choose your team, root your heart out, and be damned if you loose. You know what I’m talking about - its soccer season.

It’s the season when all the yummy hotties, from around the world, get out their tiny shiny shorts and chase a ball for some ninety odd minutes, it’s the season when it’s ok to stare at the television set without blinking, and yes, ‘tis a season to be jolly. Very bloody jolly.

Without a doubt soccer is my favourite sport. And not just for the obvious reasons. My fetish for tight male posteriors is just one of its fascinating aspects. And boy, are they fascinating.
*Day-dream break please* “Oh Rio, your so strong”

Ahem, the second most fascinating part about soccer is the fact that you cannot bear to fall asleep, switch the channel or even take a pee break, for fear you will miss an unbelievably crazy goal that some mid-fielder shot in the 73rd minute of the second half. And if you do miss it, you will beat yourself silly- vowing never to pee again.

This is where I do not understand the passion for cricket. Cricket, where it is easy to fall asleep during a match, or maybe even the days in between a test series, is the slowest game- third only to golf and chess. I may very well be lynched for saying this, but the only cricket match I will watch is one between Pakistan and India – because that’s the only time when the damn game has some spice.

I cannot claim to be a huge die-hard soccer fan. I do not know all the names of all the players in all the teams. I do not know their best and worst game. I do not know their coaches names. I don’t know my Arsenal players numbers –(yes, I am an Arsenal fan – so all you Man U fans can kiss my a**.) In any case, when I say I love the game, I mean I love it. There is no other sport that I would willingly watch or pay to see other than soccer.

And I would pay more if Fredrik Ljungberg were bare bodied.
*Day-dream break please* “Oh Freddie can you bend over and pick up that pen, it fell by ‘accident’…”

The World Cup is my favourite. I whole-heartedly support my home country Brazil, and if they get out in the semi’s then its Portugal. And if this year, as some suspect, the World Cup is rigged by Germany, I will murder the lot of them. Shove schnitzel up their butts. If any of the countries are willing to rig this game, they do not deserve to play. This is an honest sport. This is a righteous sport. This is a good sport.

The fever has hit my office too. Some of the have started playing soccer on the beach every Saturday. (Including my national-treasure-butt boy, what a yummy treat it is.) I have volunteered to be a mascot and a cheerleader and a water girl if they need one. Apparently they don’t need any of the above. But I am going for the next practice anyway. They may take my life, but they will never take – My football.

I’ve got my Brazil top, my yellow and green face paint ready, the new 40” Flat screen in my uncles house is awesome, I have rested my eyes for some earnest butt watching - I’m all geared up for some serious soccer mania.

So join me, when I say, Olay, olay, olay, olayyy.

P.s: I have decided I have to marry a football player. Anyone know any single ones?

jinxed cloud of crap

Things have been actually going well for me. I hate to say it because I have this acute fear that everything good will eventually blow up in my face, or, to put it crudely, I anticipate the sh*t hitting the fan, before it actually does.

Unlike most people who look for the silver lining behind a dark cloud, I lookfor the dark cloud behind the rainbow. Am I a cynic? Probably. But it's better to be warned than not, don't you think?
This year alone has been great. I made a decision not to quit my job, and I patiently looked for the dark cloud, but nothing. Nothing but sunshine.

My first meeting with my new group I cracked a film idea that went to the clientand it got through in one shot, so my ad film is going to be made in the next month or so. My boss took me aside and told me that I have great potential and he is quite pleased with the quality of work coming from me.

I have been to Goa twice in one year. This is always a good thing. And the second time I was in Goa I got a call from my ex art partner telling me that I won a silver advertising award at the AAAI ad festival. There I was, standing onthe white sands of Palolem beach at 2:30am, screaming in disbelief on my mobile phone. Sure, it's not a huge award, but it is something. I will go on to bigger and better soon enough. Maybe a Cannes Lion, maybe a Gold Pencil. Maybe.

I'll tell you what this does for me. My agency was so hell bent on not letting me quit my job. They promoted me, they gave me more money and they gave me opportunity. Now I have shown them, that it was all worth it. I'm worth it.

What is also great is that I might meet Chicago boy again in June. Then maybe again in August or September. I haven't met him in 14 years, but yea, three times in one year is a just that possible.

I'm also going to be with my family on my birthday. My whole family. For the first time in almost 7 years I will have all the people I love in one room. It makes me want to cry. Out of joy of course, not because they smell or anything. Giggle.

Sunshine continues, and maybe instead of enjoying it I'm keeping one eye on the now-stationary sh*t.

Waiting for it to rise up and do the inevitable.

Hit the fan. Sh*t.

2016 and magnificent

Anyone will tell you that getting a United States Visa in Bombay is the most stressful and painful procedure that you might ever have to go through, probably second only to donating your liver while you are still alive.
Once you pay an obscene amount to get a form and the “pink slip”, you are made to wait, if your lucky for about three months until the your interview date arrives.

I had my interview on the 17th of April at 8:15hrs. I was reminded of this date about one million times by my mother and father, because for some reason they thought I would either wake up late, or forget.

With all my papers in order, I arrived promptly at 8:00am only to find a long line outside the consulate office. People, families, with their pink slips and their interview time at 9:30 were already in queue. It was then that I realized that there are people more paranoid than my parents.

Clutching the pick slip in my hand, along with several papers and documents, I too joined the line. Ten minutes passed and a loud voice screams, “those who have food coupons, only 8:15 interview time please” Roughly translated to ‘eat your breakfast, cause you must get into the bus now.’

In my head, the voice of my mother rang clear, ‘your father paid money so you can have a snack before you go in. Do not forget the snack. If you go late you won’t get the snack. If you are late, ask for the snack later. You paid for the snack.’

I ran ahead of the line, I must have the snack, I thought, it is my right as a Visa applicant.
I felt brisk and independent as I passed people. Everyone else had a spouse or a child with them, which arrested their movement into the ‘Stars and Stripes Lounge’.

Yes, that’s what they call it. I had a spicy cheese sandwich and a coffee at the Stars and Stripes Lounge.
Another loud voice screams, people with the 8:15 time needed to run outside and get into a mini bus that will then take you to the main Visa office. Again, I briskly walked ahead of the crowd.

Once we reached the office, a man entered the bus and gave us instructions. No cosmetics, no cell phones, no CD’s, keep the pink slip handy, give the wooden token back, keep the passport ready, know how to give a finger print etc. The usual.

I entered and was immediately frisked by an unattractive female security guard. She looked through all my papers, messing the order in which I placed them. And as if that wasn’t enough, she opened my wallet so hard that it ripped beyond repair.

The office was so quite, I could hear my heard beat, loud and embarrassing. I got myself fingerprinted and took the pink slip and made my way to the seats.

In about ten minutes my number was called. Please come to counter number three.

I walked in and gave the man a big smile. He asked me how I was feeling, I almost said: I’m frikking scared, just give me my damn visa and stop this bloody torture why don’t you? Instead I just mumbled a shy, I’m fine.
He asked me some vague questions and told me he went to college in Georgia and always wanted to be a writer in an advertising agency and then without blinking he said that me and my magnificent smile are going to the United States.

At that moment it took everything I had in me to not jump at the glass counter and kiss it. I smiled, my magnificent smile and left.

A day later I got my passport all stamped and everything. This magnificent smile got me a 10-year visa to the States. I can visit my niece and sisters till the year 2016.

I only hope my smile lasts that long.

kamikaze chicken

So I did not take the new job. Yes, I may have lost out on a great opportunity to work with a great individual. It may have been a horrible decision on my part. But who's to tell.

Decisions. Decisions. The things I dread. I hate making them, I hate having discussions about them. I hate dealing with the consequences of them. I can't stand the millions of opinions, the advice and the suggestions you get. Especially when you don't want to hear any of it.

I got a lot of advice and I took a lot of opinions and I was swayed more than once in several directions. I lost sleep, appetite and I'm sure hair, in the past few days. Things were offered to me, things were asked by me. Negotiations and discussions ultimately landed

And now the decision has been made and there is no going back. There is no changing this pendulum of a mind I have. There is no more oscillating left to do.

Decisions. I hate decisions. I hate the word. I almost hate the consequences. Because after the decision, inevitably comes the 'what if'. What if I had ordered that instead, I would have enjoyed my meal more. What if I bought that top, then I would have looked so hot today. Ok, so these are trivial. But trust me, if I go to the life altering decisions I have made, I will probably break down and cry with all the 'what if's' running through my head.

Will I have a better sleep tonight, knowing my decision is made? Hell no. Cause now the what if's are kicking in. Already.

I'd like people to make my decisions for me. Like a professional decision maker.

No, it's not cause I am a submissive little thing. Far from it. It's cause I would love to have someone to blame if it ever blows up in my face. How could you tell me to do that? It's all your fault. I wanted to do the other thing!
Damn you. I hate you. You have ruined my life. Fix it! Now!

Ladies and Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Tantrums. Decision's evil twin.

So my previous post on living life and doing what you want and being passionate and living every second as if it is your last, is a cart full of crap apparently. Cause I did not take a risk and plunge into the unknown. I chose, Ahem, I made the decision to be safe. I cautiously backed away from a risk, never taking my eyes off it for fear it would consume me. I stayed in my little comfort, risk-free zone.

I chickened out.


But in my defense, I really did get the ear-piercing.

stud guru

I feel awakened. I think I am close to reaching this personal nirvana. No, I am not going to publish an art of living book, self help, I'm ok, you're ok book. Trust me. Not yet anyway.

All I am saying is that I am beginning to actually appreciate my life to the fullest. I'm doing things I would have never normally done, or just shrugged off as a stupid idea. There are some thoughts that are beginning to consume my mind, thoughts like: life is too short for us to be sitting around on our arses waiting for our lives to get better. Or for some excitement to miraculously fall into our laps. It ain't gonna happen, folks.

I know, I'm beginning to sound like some sort of born-again, freak guru. Bear with me, I'm certain this is going somewhere. So almost a week ago, last Monday, I did something very unlike me. I was passing a jewellery shop and I stopped to see some thing in the window. I'm not sure what I asked the salesman, or where the conversation went, but in a flash I was getting a second ear piercing in my right ear.

Yea, so to most people this is not something completely outrageous, but for me, it is. I'm the kind of person who would be tempted, but then tell the salesman that I would "come back later for sure".

And the whole Goa trip, I would have thought about it and been so skeptical about going only to miss out on the best holiday I have had in a long time. And the fact that it was so impromptu made it so much sweeter.

More recently, I quit my job. I am joining another agency, despite people telling me I am virtually committing suicide. But I decided that it is better to get up everyday and want to go to work, than wake up dreading the thought of seeing your boss's face every morning. So I put in my papers (they haven’t been accepted yet, but I put them in none the less). I walked to my boss and told him that I am leaving. He did not seemed phased at all. He probably knew it was coming. Or he was too distracted by his shiny new trophy on his desk.

If there is one thing I have learnt, is that people really don't care about what you do. They will give you advice and pretend to care, but no matter what you do eventually - they don't give a tiny rat's hiney. And this is not some bitter, pissed-off statement. This is truth. And the sooner we realize that we are virtually alone in the world, the sooner we shall live for ourselves.

Do exactly what makes you happy at any given moment and I can bet that you will be a happier individual.

Which brings me to another point. Why diet? Why go through life eating all the right food, without any taste when all you end up with is just a smaller coffin? I say, if you feel like it, go and have a bag of Lays Salted chips in the morning, or go eat that New York style cheesecake, or have extra cheese on your pizza.

Ok. Again, this is turning into a self-help book. I feel like Baz Lurhman is going to walk in any moment talking about sunscreen. Unintentional. I promise.

I guess it's triggered by just the thought that all our lives are too short to waste a minute of it.


* This post is dedicated to Mahesh, the creative guru, who died of a heart attack, My friend Sammy, who is back in Bombay, recovering, and the boy that lived down St Paul's, who died in a freak accident on his way back from Pune a couple of weeks ago.

paradise found

Oh my gosh. I suck. I said I would never and I did it again.

I have been gone for too long again. I am not worthy of this blog. I should stop writing. Ha. Sure I will. Just as soon as I throw away all the pink things I own. Which is never. In case you missed the sarcasm.

Ok so the fun thing is I went to heaven and back for the weekend. Yes, I took a bus to Goa on Thursday. Now for those of you who have not heard of Goa, you should be ashamed of yourself. It is the closest you can come to a beachy Paradise. And if you go by the cheap and comfy bus, Paradise is just 12 hours away. We reached early on Friday morning at 6:30am and went straight to the inn we were staying at.

It was at a beach called Baga. This is in the north of Goa, where the locals have an English accent and the beaches are full of white men and women. The young women in bikinis, the men in bermudas and tanned skin, and ironically, and quite sadly, all the aged are naked or in g-strings.

But I say, don't let a little saggy skin get your eyes off the gorgeous beaches, the blue water, the white sand and the fabulous sunsets.

At Baga, we stayed in a little room with three single beds and a small toilet and a balcony that faced a quaint little house, where, during lunch time, the smell of home cooked food wafted out of the little kitchen window.

Goa is also an amazing place to eat. Gorge more like it. Consume large amounts of the world's best food. There is something called a Goan Sausage. It is a long string of pork sausages that are especially flavoured by Goan women. They are pre flavoured so cooking them is no biggie... But the result is divine.

Also, if you go there you have got to taste the goan fish and prawn curries. They have a taste that is unmatched. And what just makes it all so perfect is with every spoon full of Heaven you can dig your toes into the sands of Paradise. There is just something about good food, great weather, a sea view and a cold glass of King's beer. (only brewed in goa)
Yummy.

We rented bikes, well the two boys I was with rented bikes and I was a scrub, hanging out the back seat, letting the wind catch my hair and the sun tan my back.

The boys were on a mission to pick up some foreigner chicks. And I mean serious mission, there was a lot of riding slow while passing some hotties, and stopping to ask some women for directions, who could not speak English and did not know Vagatore Beach from Anjuna Beach, or the back of her hand for that matter.

Of course, after meeting a girl who was very itchy and coughed a lot and kept scratching herself (ewwww is right!!), they gave up...And at my advice, they left her to smoke herself silly. I on the other hand met with a man in a bar, while I was trying to leave, who thought I was Spanish. Now this is not Spanish for a very corny pick up line. I did not fall for it, probably because he wasn't that cute anyway. So that was my male encounter for the weekend.

Oh yea, that is besides sharing the room with two burping, snoring individuals.

We rode to about three different beaches and went to about 5 different shacks in two days. So we were in Goa from Friday morning to Sunday evening.And when my bus chugged out of the city borders my heart sank. I wanna go backand get a house and live like I am on holiday for the rest of my life. But then,doesn't everyone? Everyone I know at least.

What was the best part was that I did not shop. Purely because I was with two anti-shopping people. This is good cause instead of wasting my time on the main road shopping for things I can get in Bombay also, I was at the beach, eating food and sipping beer, that I wouldn't get here. So in short, I have realised-

If you are willing to forgive the burps...- 'tis better to go with boys. Really.

My weekend was fabulous.
To Goa and back - Arrgh, back! Back!
Back to reality.
Jobs. Big shiny toilets.
Crummy food. No sand.
Rickshaw rides.


Paradise Lost.

random

It's been a while, I know. To all of you who missed me... Awww.

To all of you, who didn't, suck it up, cause I am back.

Safe to say, I am off my Christmas Poopie phase. Do I hear a couple of sighs of relief? Anyway, I think I should just do a quick recap of days gone by.

March 8th, Woman's Day. The office chickies went for a buffet lunch and donnedtheir pinky-est of pink outfits. I wore black. But I accessorized with a nice hot pink scarf. A couple of posts ago, I mentioned the new girl, and how the guy with the national treasure derrière can't take his eyes off her? Well Women's day was worse. She wore a little pink skirt that went ching-ching every time she walked. And I watched his eyes follow her everywhere. Damn her ching-ching skirts. Post this poopie-ish moment, my women's day turned out to be quite nice after all - I went out dancing with five boys. Happy Women's day to me!

March 10th - Friday. I went out with a huge group of people from the office.First to a cowboy themed restaurant called U-turn. They served us drinks and chilly cheese toast, and we wore the cowboy hats, and I occasionally yelled,"Nasty Jack, you didn't go up there to go fishin'" - A la Broke back mountain.
We then went to a place called Shooters, which usually is quite nice, but that night, the dregs of society were bumping into us. On purpose. This ended in one of my friends almost getting into a fist fight, until we got ourselves into a rickshaw and left.

13th March Monday. Normal boring workday. Went home, freshened up and got mentally prepared for a dinner with bloggers Noojes and Harjee. We went to this lovely place called Out of the Blue, one of Noojes' haunts. They all know her there, except for this one new hostess, we nicknamed her V for Vendetta. Cause we are sure she has something against the two of us. After about 2 bottles of wine between four people, a yummy fondue and two beautifuly cheesy pastas, and of course, Noojes acting like a Japanese tourist, randomly clicking picture after picture, my 'Meet Harjee Nite' was over.

14th March Tuesday. The day was blah. Then lunch came. Four of us decided to skip work and go for a nice long lunch. So we went to Independence Café. After about a three and a half hour lunch, we strolled back into the office, picked upour bags and left for the day. But first, I went to the Hyatt to say bye to Harjee, and to meet his hot little friend. Now this friend is a budding model/actor, and get this... he thinks I am hot. Hahahaa. Me. Wow. Happy Women'sday to me! No wait, that was last week. Smiles. So later the office gang kind of converged at this girls house, we played truth or dare and sang karaoke until about 12:30, when I left for home.

15th March Wednesday. Holi. Colour. In my hair. Everywhere. Crazy office boys pouring buckets of wateron me. Crazy office girls putting colour, where colour shouldn't go. Coloureverywhere, pink, orange, blue, purple, crap.. some black oily thing!! Crazy boy makes Bhang. Crazy me, decided to have some. Crazy fun. Yummy South Indian food.Crazy taxi and rickshaw ride home. Slept like a log.
Oh yea, and the new girl came, she wore white. Arrgh. Her top clung to her.Arrrgh. She did not want any colour on her face or body cause she breaks out inlittle feminine rashes. Arrrgh. So my national treasure boy was more than happyto slap the colour on her ass! And I watched. Drenched. Purple. Dammit.

17th March Friday. Wedding. I looked fabulous in straightened hair and borrowed garb.

18th March SaturdayLeft by boat for Alibaug. Eleven acres of a gorgeous resort to our selves. , with a rather questionable pool, that had a lions head spouting water constantly. Very weird. But we got into our little tankinis and stayed in the pool from seven in the evening to about one in the morning. So much fun, so much madness. Some one even stole my blue osho’s. Not to panic, I got them back in the morning.

19th March Sunday. Got on to another boat and headed across very choppy seas back to Bombay. I kept yelling at ships to move out of our way cause 'We're gonna crashhh'. I think i seriously scared some people on that boat, especially the sea sick ones. And to keep you fully up to date, now sitting, groggy eyed typing what may be one of my worse written posts.
Feel free to jump in about now, saying something nice ;)

Anyway. That's about all for now. I promise not to be gone for so long again, do I hearsome sighs of disappointment? Come on now, admit it...


You missed me.

quantum leaps and christmas poops

In the year 1913, physicist Niels Bohr coined the term Quantum leap. It was used to describe how the electrons, which zip around in atoms can instantaneously switch from one orbit to another without physically passing between them.

This is how I switch moods. I've been switching from happy to sad without actually realizing what physical or emotional element has caused my mood to change, and if I can't figure it out, who will?

Now I am not no physicist. But in the year 2006, I have a theory. It's a theory of Christmas Poop. I feel like Christmas Poop. When you feel so happy, full of the spirit and the love and the warmth, but the next day (it need not be a 24 hour interval) it's all poop. I feel happy one minute and I feel like shit the next minute. Christmas has always been a fun time for me. I love the season. Poop, I am not so fond of.

I had such a great time when I went out with some ex colleagues and current colleagues. I danced my ass off, and jumped and requested songs. It was Christmas. Then the guy whom I had a crush on in my ex office, told me he was seeing someone, as he dropped me to my gate. I felt like poop.

I woke up in the morning feeling great, refreshed. I wanted to shop. I decided to help my aunt with some craft. I cut and stuck and I was covered in gold paper. Christmas. Then mid afternoon I had a major headache, I took an Asprin and went to sleep and woke up when the day was over and wasted. No shopping for me. Poop.

I walked into the office in the morning, looking pretty in a little skirt and pink slippers. I got many compliments, even a whistle. Christmas. Then I worked till about nine thirty and went home, still pretty, but who cared? Poop.

This is not a usual thing. I am not perennial Christmas poopie. I do believe the moon and the stars and the galaxy and the nebulous are all aligning in a particular angle to make me feel like Christmas poop. This probably also explains the quantum leap of my moods.

Ahh the physics of me...