bag lady

If you've got it, put it in your handbag.

That is the philosophy I live by. Everything that passes through my hands has a very strong possibility of going straight into my handbag, and almost never coming out.

It's true, mine is, what can be called a "black hole of handbags".

It is only in the unlikely event that it changes (due to weather or wear and tear) that things actually might see the light of day.

Not all of it is rubbish though. I have a lot of very essential stuff –well, stuff that I think is essential, anyway. Lets see, lip balm, a toothbrush, toothpaste, mouth wash, face wash, face cream, hand cream (a lavender one – yummy), house keys, an i-pod USB cable, my i-pod, sunglasses, an umbrella (when the weather demands it), a pocket-sized mirror, a novel, an idea book, printouts from work, a bottle opener (don't ask),an extra keychain, tissue, mints, four or five pens and lots of credit card receipts.

I also have a make-up pouch that contains three types of lip gloss, mascara, eyeliner, lipstick and a locket with me and my dad's picture in it.

In addition to this, I also have a big, fat wallet that carries everything from tummy tablets and band aids to visiting cards and crocheted flowers (oh, and money too).

You'd think with the amount that goes in to it, it would be a rather big bag. On the contrary, my brand new, sky-blue beauty fits neatly under my arm and has great storing potential ( read: it's still rather empty).

Bags are probably my most favourite accessory. And aren't always bought based on need. I have to literally chastise myself from buying every handbag that "speaks" to me. (My newest favourite formal bag is a cute little bronze pouch, with a metal handle – but that's another story)

My old everyday-bag was a large rugged, khaki Diesel bag. I could stuff virtually anything into it. When the zip broke, so did my heart. I spent weeks looking for a new one. Why weeks you ask? Because I am one of those people for whom buying a bag is not just a shopping issue, it's a very emotionally-charged experience. You can't just go out and "buy" a bag. The bag needs to sell itself to you.

A bag has to speak to me; it needs to talk to me from a shelf to grab my attention. It doesn't need to shout, it needs to flirt subtlety with me.

And when I put it on my arm, I need to feel like it's mine – and not just some bag on my arm. It needs to be a part of me – an extension of my body. It doesn't have to be branded or expensive, it just needs to speak.

For weeks I did not find a single bag that spoke to me. Then suddenly this blue one just grabbed my attention from an array of bags on a shelf.

My new boy waited patiently as I preened and posed in front of the mirror and then, without hesitation paid for it and happily stuffed everything from my make-shift plastic bag, into its welcoming, water-proof lined depths.

Yay :)

Luna-tic

I’m going to go ahead and blame it on the moon.

The 13th of September was probably the worst day in the history of my life. I literally felt like I would have a sudden shooting pain in my left arm and my life would briefly flash before my eyes while I passed into…well…the other side.
Alarms that didn’t go off, mad men on the road, never-before traffic jams and intense heat - after which, I finally step into my office.

I walk in and before I even put down my bag, this servicing guy parks his pillar-like body in front of my path, looking at me with lunatic eyes, asking if I had a goodnight. I ask him if he has any work with me and why he is following me around like that big black slab in Kubrick’s 2001 Space Odyssey. He doesn’t get it. I walk passed him and when I reach my desk – he is there again. Freakin’stalker dude.

Then the most annoying woman in the office, the stick-figure, walks up to me and starts yelling that I have to do some work for her and she doesn’t care how much work I have, she needs it and she wants it by 4:00pm. This is when I lost it. This is when I thought I would have my first heart attack of the day. In short, I yelled till my eyes were blood shot. I told her to piss-off and come back when she learns how to talk to people. She didn’t.

Then as I calmed down with lunch I noticed that one of the guys in the office was very obviously ignoring me. I asked him if he was and he curtly replied, that he was. I asked him why and he yelled that he didn’t want to talk about it right then and stomped away.

In the evening I was sitting outside the office when he marches up to me, Red Bull in hand, saying he wants to talk about the Tuesday night office party. So I say, okay, talk about it.

He then begins to accuse me of starting this little tit-bit of gossip involving him, an annoying girl in the office and a Swedish condom. Apparently he was reaching this woman home to one end of the world when he stays in another end, and when he told some office guys, they drunkenly teased him and one of them handed him a condom – instead of throwing it back at their faces there and then, he keeps it and leaves. Then when the party is almost over, I notice he is not there so I ask where he is. The drunken boys tell me he’s gone to drop the annoying woman home – at which I say –Why would he drop her home? He stays no where close to her. At which the drunken boys giggle and tell me he took a condom too. Now, because of office grapevine, the ugly annoying girl walks in on Wednesday and the whole office is whispering that this guy took a condom and dropped her home.

So, I’m sitting there as he accuses me of “getting the ball rolling” and how “at my age” I should know better than to “blab” at office parties about things I don’t know. This is when I truly lost it. I told him he had no right to talk to me like that, and that how can someone “get the ball rolling” by asking about the whereabouts of a friend at a party? Further more, if he had no intention of doing anything with the condom, why walk away with it? And if he were to drop me home, would he even think twice about giving the condom back? No? Which means the drunken boys were completely justified in thinking something might ensue between annoying girl and boy?

There was a lot of yelling and crying (yes, I cried) and eventually he wanted to make up because he realised he was being rash, but I just can’t go from yelling to being bum-chums again. And honestly I don’t think I ever will get back to thinking he was anything more than a colleague.

The day was awful and I thought maybe I should go out dancing to relieve stress. We went to our usual adda and start dancing when this normal looking couple walk up to her boyfriend and say hi. But it ended there – they only looked normal.
She made intensely happy smiling faces and mouthed an “I love you” to me. She popped out from nowhere as, I walked to the loo, and danced with me. We tried to escape them and go upstairs and she followed us. We hid behind pillars and made our way to the exit. And we were free.

I went home and the heat was unbearable. As much as I wanted the day to end it just wouldn’t. I tossed and turned in bed and finally fell asleep at 5am.
What a day. I’m going to blame it on the moon.

in the name of loving

I have always been interested in law. In fact, I thought I would make a very good lawyer, I even used to pen out mutually-benefiting treaties between my sisters and myself. I also used to watch Ally McBeal, L.A Law and the like, to see how lawyers manoeuvre arguments in their favour. Anyway, my argumentative dexterity is not the point.

Yesterday I was surfing channels and BBC World was airing a program about the Lovings.

For those of you who haven’t heard about Mildred and Richard Loving, let me give you a low down. They were married in 1958 in Commonwealth, Virginia – it was love, if there ever was such a thing – only there was a rub – she was black and he was white.

By making their love public they broke one of Virginia’s vile rules – no inter-racial marriages. Sentenced to imprisonment, denied bail and forced to leave their home town – they took on family, home town and state all for love – and what’s even more ironically, their name was Loving.

In one of the most racist comments I have ever heard – the judge presiding their first case, found them in violation of the ban against inter-racial marriages – he said –

“Almighty God created the races white, black, yellow, Malay and red, and he placed them on separate continents. And but for the interference with his arrangement there would be no cause for such marriages. The fact that he separated the races shows that he did not intend for the races to mix.”

June 12th of every year is celebrated as Loving Day. A day that celebrates the fact that we’ve come a long way since then – or so we claim.

This was a time when racism was at its peak. It inspires us because it is two people fighting for what they believe in. It was the simple struggle for a basic civil and human right. Sure America accepts inter racial couples now, but what about culture? Isn’t there still a prejudice between a person practicing Islam and a person who is Catholic? Or a Hindu and Muslim?

Give youself a pat on the back, because we have risen above the bigotry, and we have looked beyond the colour of our skin when it comes to love.

So far beyond in fact, we’re now looking at our Gods.

update

I have often been told that heart break makes for great copy.

I think I finally realised that this, is indeed true.

For the past four months or so, I have been happy. Satisfied. Pleased, contented even.

And it’s scaring the crap out of me. The unrelenting cynic within me occasionally creeps up like a little ugly thing. And then I push it back down, with the help of a sweet, gentle man.

Here are some confessions:

I turned 26 yesterday
I’m smitten
I have a feeling he is smitten too
I’m not sure where it’s going, but I’m happy
I’m so happy; I haven’t written a blog in a month.
I don’t think I’m used to being “taken”
I find myself not staring at the hot guy in the gym.

I’ve been reformed. I’ve been changed.

And what’s more, he’s so gosh-darn pretty

:)

jitterbug

There I was, microphone in hand, looking upwards. The disco ball made pretty, comforting patterns on the ceiling. It calmed me a little, but for the most part I was a barrel of nervousness.

Welcome to the Corporate Karaoke championships.

I know what you’re thinking, how can a little singing cause so much anxiety? Well let me tell you, it’s not just the singing, it’s the performance pressure, the stage fright, and to top it all, the strangers, who’d probably pay good money to watch you screw up.

It’s not that I have a bad voice or anything, it’s more that I have bad stage presence – think – making imaginary doodles with your toes and twiddling thumbs.
So anyway, there I was – spotlight on me, my team uneasily cheering me on – their thoughts were screaming out at me – ‘We know you’re a first timer, you better not make us lose’.
The song was a sappy, love ditty – not one I would be caught dead listening to, but a safer option compared to my alternative, out-of-the-box tastes.
The calming ceiling patterns, the muted cheers and the sound of my voice– which didn’t waver, crack, or mess up, not even once.

I won.

101st post

Finally.

After all the complaining, whining, nit-picking, thinking, grumbling, over criticizing, rethinking, hair splitting and denouncing.

After all the quarter-life crisis’s, the ends of the world and the manic depression. After all the mood swings and emotional roller coasters.

After all that messed up nonsense, I’ve finally figured - I am completely incapable of happiness.

Shit.

paani

The person you love is 74.8% water

Think about it. More than half of the person you cannot live without is made up of a colourless, tasteless liquid. More than half of this person is something that is so common, it’s hard to see why you love them. And more than half of this person is something we take completely for granted.

Isn’t that something? Makes you wonder what the whole ‘love’ thing is anyway. What does it feel like? How does it manifest itself? And, have you ever felt it?

I think I’m too cynical to ever get answers to any of these questions. Which kind of sucks, cause I wouldn’t mind knowing.

Really.

yeah

Have you ever walked down the street, staring pointlessly at the nearly-melting tar road, hoping and praying that a big, freakish bolt of lightening would just strike you, singeing you to the bone, just so you don’t have to walk another step or live another minute of this crappy existence you call a life?

Yeah.

sammy update

This past Saturday, I and a friend went to visit Sammy for the first time after he came back from brain rehab in the States.

The whole visit was almost surreal. I couldn’t believe that this guy, sitting in a wheelchair in front of me, was the same guy who used to be the one person who’d dance behind me every time we went out. I couldn’t believe that it has been almost two years, and the progress is still slow – he is improving, but it’s going to take a long, long time for him to dance behind me again.

We had lunch with his parents and his brother, who is the strength that has gotten Sam this far, when doctors said he would never speak, walk or understand anything ever again. We shared stories and I learned that Sam was a man of many secrets and a genuinely naïve guy, who may have been taken for a ride, more than once.
It made me want to beat up all the people who have ever hurt him. I was always overly protective of him, I’d snap at anyone who said anything about him or his art – so much so, when the accident happened, people in the office came up to me to ask if I was ok.

When I saw him, my heart broke into a million pieces, and I thought about what a waste of talent this was. How a stupid split second mistake can affect someone’s entire life and family. How you can curse Fate as much as you want, but still nothing changes what has happened.

His dad had phoned me a week ago saying Sam was slowly coming out of it and getting more and more depressed and needed people around him. He’s not talking much because his jaw is still messed up so he can’t really articulate – it’s mostly sign language and mumbles that only his family understands.

His legs are still weak and he was made to do some physiotherapy while we were there and the screams of pain were even more heartbreaking.

I’m not sure if he recognized me but I did get a thumbs-up when I asked if he remembered the club we used to frequent.

It took everything I had not to cry and be positive and tell him that I wanted him to have that poolside party as soon as possible. His parents have been so strong and his brother is just amazing.

It’s possibly the most difficult thing to come to terms with the fact that he is not well. But to still be positive about his progress and know in your heart that he is going to be better is comforting.

I have that feeling. I’m positive that he will be able to dance behind me at that smashing pool party we will have. Positive.

heart breaker

mcshit with a side of lies, anyone?

I can blame it on the fumes from the fireworks at New Years. I can also blame it on my biological clock that seems to be stuck in a metal box that is amplifying the ticking and making it really, bloody annoying - driving me to lose all better judgement. I can also blame it on my complete lack of judgment. But then why play the blame-game? Especially, when it’s me I’m playing with?

This is in reference to The Guy I was supposedly, sorta, kinda seeing in the beginning of the year.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen he turned out to be a McShit with lies on the side, and Lady Luck decided to super-size me.

Not only did he put me through immense mental trauma (I’m talking about the jealousy-kind) he has now decided to bad mouth me to his posse – within ear-shot of mine – just so I can find out the nastiest way – through the grapevine.

If that wasn’t enough, I have to deal with his smug ‘I’m-so-super-cool-with-my-long-bloody-hair-and-my-big-bloody-Mercedes-and-my-bloody-tattoos’ attitude every bloody day.

Apparently I sure know how to pick ‘em. In fact I think I am like honey to the B’s (and F’s and C’s and M’s – and all the other nasty words you can think of)

Just for once I would like the big deli in the sky to give me my order.

Super-sized McNice - Happy Meal, hold the nasty.

you know you’re ready to mingle when…

You overhear some management colleagues talking about hiring a new account director and you ask if he is cute, rather than qualified.

You are almost willing to forgive all the crap that someone put you through, just so you can snuggle.

You are on the treadmill and a foreigner hottie is doing crunches on the floor behind you, and you peer at the mirror in front trying to get a glimpse inside his shorts.

You think your taxi driver has nice eyes. And you justify it by exclaiming “they looked really intense through the rear-view mirror, okay!”

You think every guy is hitting on you. It’s not true, you’re just hormonal.

Some grey haired man in the gym seemed cute to you. When you mention it, your gym buddy thinks the blood has rushed rapidly out of your head.

You flirt with a child-man in your office – he’s a summer trainee for god’s sake, Mrs. Robinson, you.

You have train acquaintances – because you’ll go home at the same time everyday. Indicating you have no life.

You go for an exclusive launch party and the waiter slips you his number.

You contemplate swinging over to the opposite sex. Just so you can snuggle. It’s all very pathetic isn’t it?

You start making lists of why you are ready to mingle, hoping some smart, intelligent, stud reads it, finds you insanely interesting, comments and the both of you meet, have instant connection, love each others company and make sweet history together…

Crap.
Woe is indeed me.

me fair lady

Yes. Another weekend hit me in the face. And, as usual, I had nothing to do, no plans at all. Until yesterday –a guy from my office asked me to accompany him to the racecourse. One of our client owns a stud farm.
It was supposed to be a formal occasion, so I donned my little summer dress and looked absolutely fabulous.
I pretended I owned one of the horses and elegantly clapped when it raced – and spoke loudly of its winnings. Needless to say, the guy with me regretted taking me entirely.
I’ve never been to the races, so this was fascinating. I realized that there’s a certain pleasure that goes with dressing up all good ‘n pretty on a Sunday afternoon. I attended the high tea afterward also, and I wore my sunglasses throughout – I was pretending to be someone who didn’t want to be recognized – Incognito, as I told my colleague.
Nobody cared if I was ‘cognito’ anyway – either way, it was fun to pretend.

Some facts about the races and life in general:

I thought the racecourse would be crawling with young eligible stud-farm owners, whom I could rake in and start a stud-farm of my own, if you know what I mean (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) Unfortunately, there were only old bookies and older stud farm owners – and although it did cross my mind that I could be an Anna Nicole and marry a rich old man and get all his money… I also thought, it was important to have standards.

Indian women are so much more attractive than the paunchy, old farts they have on their arm. While I was stuffing my face with finger food at the high-tea, my companion was having a visual treat of all the PYT’s that flocked the place. He even saw a bunch of, what he termed as, “yummy mummies”.

I am one of the guys. Even in a pretty little summer dress and a little bag, with my hair all up in a French bun, I am one of the guys. My colleague slapped me on the arm several times to point out a hot chick. This is very bad news. Even in my dolled up state I am a buddy. (He only said I was looking elegant when I prompted him in the car)

Men who own horses dress badly. Unless they are the sons of men who own horses, then they dress like something out of a Chirag Din ad (read even worse) And, if you’re not betting, a horse race is boring – except for the part when they gallop past you. See how this little metaphor translates wonderfully to life as well?

Thank heavens I did not wear a hat. Apparently, they only wear hats at the Derby. Imagine how lunatic I would look dolled up in a hat at some random race! (This is not a fact, I just thought about it)

All men suck. Oh come on, I wouldn’t be myself if I didn’t grumble a little on my blog, now would I?

Anyway, it is way past my bedtime and I have had a tiring day at the races. Pretending you’re rich is a tough job. Sunday was good and Monday promises to be better – it’s a holiday. Three days of blissful R&R.

And then came Tuesday. Sigh.

love and anti-love

Love:

She tries to breathe through the smoke. Another chicken burnt to the bones.

Damn, she should’ve learnt to cook from her mother.

She opens the window to let out the smoke - he’s going to be home any minute.

He smells the smoke, and smiles, “I’m too tired to eat, let’s just watch TV, ok?”




Anti Love:

She makes another one of her mother’s speciality recipes.

It smells good – so what if it’s taken over two hours of her time?

Table laid, she waits for him to walk in– any minute now.

He slams the door shut.
Walks into the bedroom saying, “I’m too tired to eat, im just gonna watch TV.”

addiction to fiction

It is my new addiction. Thanks to Wiseling's whimsical offer I am now a part of a new 55 Fiction blog.
What is 55 fiction? It’s telling a story – in fifty five words.


(1)

They sit in a park, watching kids play.
She looks endearingly at him. He looks fascinated, at the children.

Without looking at her, he says, “I want to have a bunch of them, someday.”

Her hand wanders over the flat stomach she took years to attain.

Still looking at him she says, “Yeah. Me too.”


(2)

“She's a wonderful person. Hardworking, intelligent…"- I said to him – "She is one of those people who's really dedicated to what she's doing. She's good that way, I think."

His eyes continued to watch her as she walked down the corridor - "Yeah, she's got great breasts too…"

"Really?" I said questioningly, "I hadn't noticed."


(3)

They rented Before Sunrise.
He watches it in bed with her - his girlfriend of three years.

Jesse to Celine, “I know happy couples... but I think they lie to each other”

Movie ends. He waits for his girlfriend to fall asleep.

Gets his mobile phone and texts someone- ‘Wish you were here. Goodnight.’

spit sucker

I had a dentist appointment yesterday. I have proximal cavities. One is now filled. The biggest one I am told. And I can’t stop my tongue from fiddling with it.

I hate going to the dentist. I feel violated. Some masked someone gaping down your orifice with whirring tools and a spit sucker. I hate the spit sucker.

I think going to the dentist would humble anyone. You have no control over your drooling. You’re laying flat, a big, harsh light pointed right at you. Your mouth wide open – exposed – a probing so deep, it makes you wonder if he can see your thoughts floating around in there – and with that thought you quickly stop thinking.

Thankfully my teeth are not in as bad a shape I envisioned them to be. I was diagnosed with proximal cavities about two years ago. And for two years I’ve had on and off nightmares of my teeth crumbling when biting on something hard. It wasn’t pretty.

Speaking of strange dreams, I had a bizarre dream the other night. While I was sleeping in my dream, someone rearranged my toe rings. When I woke, in the dream, I couldn’t figure which one went where and it made me very anxious – to the point where I was screaming down at my feet – Who did this? Why did you do this?

Shudder.

I used to have this creepy recurring dream. My second sister and I would plan to throw my eldest sister out of the window. We’d carry her and dump her over the balcony. In five minutes, my eldest sister would walk back into the house – all bruised. I, being very nervous, would plan to help her throw my second sister over the balcony. After which, my second sister would walk back – again all bruised and battered. Both of them would then realize that I was the common denominator and would throw me out of the balcony. I’d never return.

I don’t have that dream anymore. But I do get recurring falling dreams.
Maybe it’s the sequel.

Basically I think I need a spit sucker for my dreams.

reality check

I sat in the office canteen, picking at the putrid looking Chinese food that lay before me. I made a mush of the rice and the gravy and then mutilated the vegetable balls.
The girl sitting next to me, realized my day wasn’t going well.

Out of concern she asked, “What’s up? How’s it going?”
Without looking up I muttered, “Life sucks. And then you die.”
She looked straight at me and sighed, “And what’s more… we live in a third world country.”

I looked at her in shocked silence. She masticated nonchalantly on her noodles.

Damn.

shouldive, wouldive, couldive

I was reading about quarter-life crisis in the newspaper today.

Apparently, it’s a phenomenon, especially amongst young working women. It all goes back to the pressure of what “should” be happening in your life.

You should be working, you should have a great job, you should be putting one hundred percent into what you’re doing, you should have a great friend circle – no, not one or two friends, like a group of confidantes who you should have amazing after work hours with. You should have an active social life – parties, weekends away – if not with your friends then with your should-have significant other. And if all that wasn’t enough – you should have a great slender body and be fit and active – especially because you should be having an active sex life.

It’s true. The pressure is immense. Thinking about it I don’t qualify for a lot of the ‘should’s’ listed – but that should be alright, right?

I mean after a long work day, you can’t be expected to transform into a stiletto-wearing, pub-hopping woman of the night – we don’t all live on the sets of Sex and the City.

And outside of work, which is about nine hours a day for me, where is the time to catch up with a circle of friends – who also may have lives outside of you? No, unfortunately we do not live on the sets of Friends either. Everyone needs to get home, everyone has to travel, it isn’t realistic to assume that people can just meet and chat for an hour, unless you live five minutes away from them.

And the significant others. Considering we have no time outside our nine hour days, we rarely meet people outside of our immediate work place, or outside our profession. Which limits the possibilities a tad, doesn’t it? Are we all expected to hook up within the circle like some kind of inter-career marriage ritual? Besides, what if you meet a teacher, and his work ends at 5 in the evening, while yours goes on for another four hours, by which time he is already home and uninterested in moving, or has made other plans?

And the body bit. How are you expected to keep a fit body when you have to eat whatever your canteen offers because you have no time to dictate your diet? How do you make time, 2 hours a day to go to the gym?

Note - people with fabulous bodies make it their life’s mission to have fabulous bodies.
You think those damned Pussycat Dolls do anything but yoga, gym and pilates?

Real woman have bodies dammit!

I feel for working women going through all this pressure. And the sad part is it’s not going to stop just because you’ve identified it. Apparently you should make a list about what you want to achieve before a certain time – in order to be happy in your life.

I almost made a list.

Then I realised it was just another ‘should’ – which really should stop, shouldn’t they?

buffalos don’t have wings

Isn’t it amazing? I let an entire Valentine’s Day pass without ranting and raving about my crappy luck with love?

Surprisingly though, I had a very nice Valentine’s. No, I did not find the man of my dreams nor did the current man in my life turn into a knight in shining armor.

I have been working with my ex art partner on this website design and concept. We work really well together and it was kind of sad when we parted ways. Now that we are back in the same office, we try to do stuff together as much as we can. She and I have been going crazy figuring out how this website will work and how it will look. We spent days thinking of a concept – and eventually we fell in love with what we got.

So on the 14th we had to present it to my boss, who would approve it or not. And he loved it. Our hard work was appreciated and he was very liberal with the compliments – which trust me, is not usually. He even called some other people to check it out. And when she and I hugged, he joined it – to her surprise and my horror.

Post work I went for a drink with a couple of friends to a place called 'Brew Bar' (Note - Long Island Ice Tea is the bomb). I did have a fight with the waiter though. He tried to pass off Chicken lollypops as Buffalo wings. And when I insisted that what was on the plate was not Bufflao Wings, he looked at my half finished glass of Long Island Ice Tea and said patiently, “Madam, Buffalos don’t have wings.” How can you argue with that? I won't even get into the Fish Fingers thing.

Post that, some of us went dancing. I was happy. I didn’t miss anyone. I didn’t pine for love. I didn’t feel sad for that entire day. The next day I was at work bright and early – worked a little more on my website, my baby and went home.

For a change it feels good not to be all messed up because of some stupid commercial holiday that is only for losers and victims of filmy crap.

I think if I did receive a stuffed animal, a heart shaped box of saccharine sweet candy or a bunch of vegetation, I’d run screaming in the opposite direction - probably to the nearest bar to get me one of 'em Long Island Ice Teas.

certifiable

After going to town to meet a friend who was leaving for the States, I took a cab to my old school. My mom, who was a teacher there for almost thirty-two years, was invited to an alumni function. There were mails going around for the last two months about this big function, but I was totally uninterested in going.

Thinking I would just pop in to tell my mom I was outside waiting for her, I ventured in, dressed in old jeans and a ratty black tee and my big basket bag. I walked around aimlessly looking for my mom, and looking to see if I recognised anyone from school. Some guys did look familiar – you know, just older with facial hair, the girls were dressed up to the nines. I looked completely out of place.

I found my mum surrounded by a group of big hulking men, all asking “Miss, do you recognise me? Class of ’89?”. My mother was in her element – it’s amazing how much she remembers. A man walked up to her and asked if she knew who he was – she looked at him and said – “Ali, Blue house, in the second grade, you looked up Mrs Wilma’s skirt and yelled out what fat thighs she had!”
Needless to say, Ali, now an airline captain and his wife were both amused and suitably embarrassed.

I told my mother I was going to wait outside for her, cause dad was coming too and we’d have dinner together. As I talked to my mom, I heard a table whisper my name, when I turned around I did not recognise any of them, “Juniors”, I thought, smugly.

As I was leaving, clutching my big bag, trying to look down and hoping against hope that no one would recognise me, being grossly under dressed and all, I looked up for a minute and was met with a big smile.

He used to be in the green house. Never tall. Always cute. I had a huge crush on him for a while. He was in my mother’s class when he was in the first grade. Now, twenty seven, dressed in a white shirt and grey trousers, he looked, well, smashing.

We talked for a while, he met my mother and we talked a little about what we were doing now. I sat for a while at his table, with all his batch mates. He then asks, “Remember when we were in the first and we had a full day of school, and you were in the nursery, and had only half a day? You used to come and hang out in our class with your mom... you were so cute”

I didn’t remember that detail. I didn’t know if I should laugh or cry. This guy was talking about me like I was a bitty baby in bloomers. I did wear bloomers at that time, cream and white chequered bloomers. I think he had that image in his head. The horror.

As we talked he asked me for my number. This was a good sign. It meant he was not thinking about the bloomer story anymore. Then he dropped another bomb. Turns out he knows the current guy in my life – although he doesn’t know about me and him.

He said we should all go out together. And I grunted a disillusioned ‘uh-huh’. But he took my number, So mixed feeling were running through my head– messed up about the new guy issue, and really giggly and gawky at the old guy.

Later, giggly and gawky prevailed. He said we should definitely catch up and go out sometime. I sputtered a “sure, that would be awesome”. He half hugged me and then left.

Damn he was cute.

I think I can definitely be classified as boy crazy.

Yup. Definitely boy crazy.

Ten things you need to know about pandemic influenza

Oh come on.

Like you actually thought this was going to be about pandemic influenza? This is about me.
It’s always about me. And anyone who comes here thinking – ‘why doesn’t she write about something less shallow than her life’ – Go away. Be gone. Get lost.

I’m not here to please you. You are here to humour me.
If you have no time for my ramblings, I am more than dandy with that.

It’s almost 3am and I am at work. Pretending to work on a pitch. No, not pretending, trying. Really trying. I’m nervous in this office. I can’t stop thinking about when I will get to go home. This is my first night here – I’m not sure where to sleep, or whether I should sleep at all.

I can’t believe this kind of trivial crap goes through my mind most of the time. It’s like it’s on over-drive but no one really cares.

I feel low.

I’m going through one of those recurrent quarter-life crises. Almost 26 years old, single, no life partner on the horizon, stuck in a full time job, getting paid chicken poop, living in the back of beyond, a victim of public transport, no social life, no time for hobbies, no time.

Weekends are longed for and when they begin, you cram them so full of things to do, that you end up being tired the rest of the week. Weekdays can’t be messed with because your new job demands you not to make plans and leave early enough to do something fun, before you head back to the village.

All men suck. The ones who don’t have girlfriends or wives or are gay or are pretending not to suck, until you fall into their trap and they divulge how hideously sucky they really are.

Money is being made everywhere you look. Smart individuals with zero talent are raking in the cash. Why? Because they have foresight and are bold enough to make the money that is there, waiting to be made. There is so much money in this city and none of it is in my bank account.

There are so many things I want to learn – pottery, salsa and capoeira. None of which I can do – don’t ask me why. And don’t tell me I could if I “really” wanted to.

Did I mention how much men suck? Especially the ones I happen to be so lucky to encounter. It’s almost as if this secret manual, a code on how to piss me off, is passed amongst them. Like a little all-mail underground cult with an evil agenda, dedicated to making me feel crappy. Maybe I’m giving myself way too much importance.

What am I doing? Am I happy with the direction my life is going? Where will I be in five years? Those are the deep questions that plague my mind now. You’ve got to admit they are deeper than - when will he call me? Who is he with? Why do I want to kill that stick-figured chick?

This makes me a tad pleased.

I’m older, and deeper, and wiser.

Ok maybe just the first two... Hey, two outta three ain’t bad.

toothpaste for dinner

Courtesy – www.toothpastefordinner.com – for getting me through boring work days.

FW:

I've realised that I’m too messed up to be in any sort of relationship. One needs to have a lot of patience and time to even consider me as a “better half”. I’m demanding, possessive and a tad insecure. And if one gives me reason to be any of the above in excess – God help them.

I’ve decided this, whatever I am so called into, vis-à-vis my previous post, isn’t a major relationship – I’m talking long term. Cause if it were one would try and calm me down about issues I have with stick figures.

I’m treating this undefined thing, like a fling. I like flings. I am good at flings. I’m old enough to have a couple of flings. And if I define it like a fling – I become less messed up in my head. This is a good thing. It’s psychology.

I’ve realised I am the jealous type. And the more I try and hide it, the more it eats me up inside. So if I have murderous feelings towards more than one woman – I’m going to show it. So the man in question better deal.

I’ve realised that it is in my best interest to keep myself happy and free of stress. And if that means I am never getting married, having a relationship and a family and ending up living alone with cats and a bitter disposition, so be it.

I have concluded that I am an attractive woman. As Maya Angelou would put it, a phenomenal woman, and if I am to emanate this belief, I have to believe it first.

Lastly I have realised that this post is turning out to be one of those “I’ve realised” forwards that circulate the net. So I’m going to stop.

in other news...

I’m kinda, sorta, maybe, not-too-sure, perhaps, possibly seeing someone.

We met in December 2006 – which was still the “good” year technically, so I’m a little relieved about that bit. But we are “getting into something” in the New Year – which is scaring the beejeesus out of me – cause of my super superstitious odd-numbered-bad-year-luck thing.

I have met everyone that is possibly close to him from his parents to his dogs to his building’s watchman and he has met no one of mine. This is fine by me, because the whole “meeting the parents” bit freaks me out a little.

Now, I have been single and mingling, with no good results, for the better part of two and a half years. And suddenly, bam, I find myself in a relationship quandary.

We call each other, he cares about where I am, we go out and his arm is around me, His hand reaches for mine in a crowded club, I’m the one he calls before he goes to bed, I’m the one he messages in the morning and I’m the one who gets to sit in the front seat of his car.

This is all new. It’s all good, but it’s all new. And I am baffled. As if I did not think enough. My mind is now on overdrive. I’m constantly preparing myself for inevitable disaster.

The day before yesterday was supposed to be the day he’d walk up to me and say whatever this is, it’s over. Yesterday was the day he was supposed to call me and tell me that he’s met someone, or that his ex is back in the picture. Today was the day he just gives me the cold shoulder and doesn’t return my calls and text messages.

Last weekend was our first out of town trip. It was not exactly a romantic get away or anything. We went with some thirty-five people to his friend’s dad’s farm. Some fifteen friends were there with twenty parents.

He was introduced to some elderly man as himself; I was introduced to the elderly man as his better half. My feminist instinct was under check, or else I would have demanded an apology. In fact, my 50’s, apron-wearing, home-maker, house wifey side, absolutely loved it.

As usual, the pessimist in me is waiting for the bubble to burst, constantly thinking that it’s never going to work, before it has even begun. And I think, assuming that each day is going to be the end is making me miss out on a lot of good things.

That, and the intense jealousy I am feeling toward some of his annoying, ditsy, Paris Hilton-esque female friends, who probably eat a single pea for every meal and think the weighing scale goes only to about 40kgs. Bloody damned stick figures.

On the 31st night he took me out to this club and we celebrated the New Year together. Before he dropped me home we discussed “us”. I asked if it was a fling, he said no. I asked if we were seeing each other, he said yes. I asked if we were exclusive, he said as exclusive as I wanted us to be. He told me if there was anyone else, I’d be the first to know.
(Insert romantic ‘sigh’ here)

If this is just another one of the big man upstairs’ sick jokes, I swear, somebody’s gonna get hurt real bad.

And it better not be me.

happy frikkin' 2007

Remember how I was hoping and praying that this year was as good as 2006 and not as completely awful as 2005?

I'm guessing the hopes and prayers didn’t quite work out.

My car was stolen today.

Four years we parked our red Hyundai Accent at that spot next to the train station, and today when my dad got back from the train, it was gone.

It was bought as a surprise for my sisters when they came down from the states. It was a beautiful red, which my mum and I chose, as opposed to an old-fogey silver model. The music system was a swanky one – something my dad wanted to splurge on, ‘because we all like music on the road, especially me – he got those ones with a remote so I could DJ from the back seat.

Dad just got back from sitting at the police station for almost three hours filing a FIR, so he can give it to the insurance company. If we don’t get the car back, at least we get the money. It’s naïve to even think we will get the car back in one piece – especially in this country.

Anyway, it’s been a lousy day.

Hopefully this run of crap will not continue. Hopefully the rest of the year is better and brighter. Hopefully the insurance covers us. Hopefully my mum and dad are not too upset over this thing.

Hopefully the testicles of the asshole that stole my car, fall off.