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.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Sunday, March 18, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
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.”
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.’
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.’
Sunday, March 04, 2007
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.
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.”
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.
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