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.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Monday, May 22, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, May 12, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
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?
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?
Thursday, May 04, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
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...
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...
Saturday, March 04, 2006
not a good thing
It's already March. How time flies. Even when you're not having the most fun. For a while now, there has been virtually nothing I could write about. Not only on the blog, but at work to. This is not a good thing. I am a writer, so writer's bloc for me is like hydrophobia for a diver, or vertigo for a pilot, or... you get my drift.
I have been stuck on this one thought for so long. Probably because I am not motivated by it. I have nothing to say about it. I don't relate to it, and I certainly don't understand it. This is not a good thing. Especially when I have to be creative about it. Especially because our new creative director and national creative director have joined us. So when we have these group meetings, and I have nothing to show, I end up looking like a complete idiot. "Who hired her", they're thinking. I'm sure.
To add to my stress, as much as I wanted a group change, it hasn't happened. I have continually asked and begged, so not my style, and when the list came out, I was still in the old group. This is not a good thing. Especially since my boss does not like me at all. And we are just civil to each other. Teamwork, commitment and vision, we have none of it. In fact those are just some of the things we don't have.
But what we do have in the office is a new girl. She has joined us in the client-servicing department. She spends at least three hours in front of the mirror everyday putting on her face. One inch of face. There is blush, eyeliner, lipstick and lots of bling. She has chemically straightened hair. She wears clothes so tight she puts a well-packed sausage to shame. And the boys love her. She has a silver handbag, and a mini-me of the handbag that carries her mobile. I'm serious. There is a tiny three-inch silver handbag, with a strap and buttons that she carries around because her jeans are too tight to stuff her prissy little mobile in them. I'm being a bitch again. This is not a good thing.
I think I have also been in this state of perpetual PMS for a very long time now. I have been rude, overly sensitive and highly moody. I have yelled at and hugged the same person in one day, leaving them completely confused and, I'm sure, a little scared. I have not been eating, then binging on something unhealthy like peanuts. I have lost my mojo. The thing that makes me want to wake up in the morning, and start a new day of my fabulous life. The thing that makes me want to live. I have lost it. This is not a good thing.
You know what else I have lost? The will to wake up at seven am in the morning and go for a nice, revitalizing walk in the mornings on Bandstand. Fresh air, sea breeze and aching thighs, that's what good mornings are made of. I haven't done it in so long, and now I feel fat. This is not a good thing. Because feeling fat leads me to think I am not attractive to anyone, which leads me to feel bad about myself, which leads me to not wanna meet anyone, which leads me to be all pissy. Which leads people into keeping away from 'that grouchy woman there'.
My tooth hurts. My weekend plans have been ruined. The new girl is pissing me off. My boss is an ass. My appraisal was bad. My head hurts because of my tooth. My fear is that all this is because of the chicken I ate last night. My hair is having a bad year. My desk is right under a loose light bulb, so it's going disco on me. My computer at work is too slow for even a blonde. I am too bitchy for my own good.
This is not a good thing.
I have been stuck on this one thought for so long. Probably because I am not motivated by it. I have nothing to say about it. I don't relate to it, and I certainly don't understand it. This is not a good thing. Especially when I have to be creative about it. Especially because our new creative director and national creative director have joined us. So when we have these group meetings, and I have nothing to show, I end up looking like a complete idiot. "Who hired her", they're thinking. I'm sure.
To add to my stress, as much as I wanted a group change, it hasn't happened. I have continually asked and begged, so not my style, and when the list came out, I was still in the old group. This is not a good thing. Especially since my boss does not like me at all. And we are just civil to each other. Teamwork, commitment and vision, we have none of it. In fact those are just some of the things we don't have.
But what we do have in the office is a new girl. She has joined us in the client-servicing department. She spends at least three hours in front of the mirror everyday putting on her face. One inch of face. There is blush, eyeliner, lipstick and lots of bling. She has chemically straightened hair. She wears clothes so tight she puts a well-packed sausage to shame. And the boys love her. She has a silver handbag, and a mini-me of the handbag that carries her mobile. I'm serious. There is a tiny three-inch silver handbag, with a strap and buttons that she carries around because her jeans are too tight to stuff her prissy little mobile in them. I'm being a bitch again. This is not a good thing.
I think I have also been in this state of perpetual PMS for a very long time now. I have been rude, overly sensitive and highly moody. I have yelled at and hugged the same person in one day, leaving them completely confused and, I'm sure, a little scared. I have not been eating, then binging on something unhealthy like peanuts. I have lost my mojo. The thing that makes me want to wake up in the morning, and start a new day of my fabulous life. The thing that makes me want to live. I have lost it. This is not a good thing.
You know what else I have lost? The will to wake up at seven am in the morning and go for a nice, revitalizing walk in the mornings on Bandstand. Fresh air, sea breeze and aching thighs, that's what good mornings are made of. I haven't done it in so long, and now I feel fat. This is not a good thing. Because feeling fat leads me to think I am not attractive to anyone, which leads me to feel bad about myself, which leads me to not wanna meet anyone, which leads me to be all pissy. Which leads people into keeping away from 'that grouchy woman there'.
My tooth hurts. My weekend plans have been ruined. The new girl is pissing me off. My boss is an ass. My appraisal was bad. My head hurts because of my tooth. My fear is that all this is because of the chicken I ate last night. My hair is having a bad year. My desk is right under a loose light bulb, so it's going disco on me. My computer at work is too slow for even a blonde. I am too bitchy for my own good.
This is not a good thing.
Saturday, February 25, 2006
the fists around my heart
My parents have left for the States. They arrived safely and called about two hours after they landed at my sister’s house. They called to tell me how absolutely beautiful my little niece is. My father has not carried her yet, he says she is too small, so he stares at her from a distance. Like the proud grandfather he is. I miss my family terribly. I wanna cry every time they call me, because I wish I were there too. I miss my mother’s smile and I miss my daddy’s cooking.
And I miss my sister’s faces.
I read this blog about how one can literally feel the love for your siblings, like it is a fist wrapped around your heart, which tightens at their every joy and their every strife. I have had this fierce protection for my sisters, these two fists around my heart, for as long as I can remember.
When my sister Nicole was in college, she used to go for those extra classes and my dad would pick her up everyday. One day he didn’t and she said she would come home by bus. She was walking home. It was about eight pm. And some guy tried to kiss her. We were watching television, and from our seventh floor house we heard her cry. My dad, my mom, Vanessa and I ran downstairs. Between tears she told us what happened, and my dad ran to beat him.
I, all of 8 years old, ran with him. To kill him. To kill the guy who made my sister cry.
Every time she gets one of her asthma attacks, I get so paranoid, because I don’t know what to do, so I end up yelling at her to “breath goddamnit!” Which doesn’t help. It only makes her cry. And then I want to kill someone all over again.
My world crashed when my favorite doll, Gillian’s head fell off. Nicole ‘operated’ on her and made her all better.
She is so talented and has more creativity in her little finger than I have in my whole body. She is the fashion guru in my family. She gave me the first crochet flower she ever made. I carry it in my purse till today.
Nicole always thought she was the ugly one from the three of us, cause she did not have the light eyes and the light hair. To me she always looked like Snow White. With the fair skin, and the dark black-as-night hair, and deep brown eyes.
My eldest sister Vanessa looked like Cinderella. Eyes of the bluest skies, and brown hair. She is the most intelligent person I know. She works her ass off, she strives to do better, she gives great advice, she cooks amazingly, she is a perfectionist and she loves like there is no tomorrow.
She was like my parent growing up. She showed me how to put on a sanitary pad. She washed my bum when my dad was not around to do it. She taught me math. No, she tried to teach me math. I still can’t solve those stupid ‘trains-traveling-in –opposite-directions’ problems.
She was Nessa.
Nicole and I were once messing around with her hair. We combed it all in the front, covering her face. Then we put on some glares and moved the hair away from her nose so she looked like cousin It. We laughed so much at our “creation” and we could see Vanessa’s shoulders shaking. We moved the hair away and she was crying. She had had a very bad day. But she never stopped us from having our fun.
Nicole will agree that Vanessa is the best eldest sister that anyone could ever have. With just the right balance of fun and seriousness, and gives us unconditional love that I hope we never take for granted.
When I was little, I wanted to become a bus conductor. In support of my dream, my sisters, who used to travel to college then, collected their bus tickets and from their friends too, so that my dad could make me a conductors bag (out of my grandfathers old cigar box) and my mum gave me an old stapler as a clicker. I charged them to enter and exit rooms.
My mom once bought us all shoes from Bata. One pink, one green and one red pair. We created a S.O.S Treaty (share our shoes). We all signed it, and my mother was the witness. I still have that treaty paper.
Sure, we have had fights. Taking sides, pulling hair, crying, screaming, vowing never to talk to each other forever… forever being all of ten minutes. I have hit Vanessa, and then cried instead of her while she consoled me. I have said evil things to Nicole, and she has taken it.
But if anything happens, if anyone hurts these two people, I would hunt them down and torture them. If there is anything that they need, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to try and give it to them.
To the two greatest women in the world: I love you eternally and unendingly.
The fists only get tighter.
And I miss my sister’s faces.
I read this blog about how one can literally feel the love for your siblings, like it is a fist wrapped around your heart, which tightens at their every joy and their every strife. I have had this fierce protection for my sisters, these two fists around my heart, for as long as I can remember.
When my sister Nicole was in college, she used to go for those extra classes and my dad would pick her up everyday. One day he didn’t and she said she would come home by bus. She was walking home. It was about eight pm. And some guy tried to kiss her. We were watching television, and from our seventh floor house we heard her cry. My dad, my mom, Vanessa and I ran downstairs. Between tears she told us what happened, and my dad ran to beat him.
I, all of 8 years old, ran with him. To kill him. To kill the guy who made my sister cry.
Every time she gets one of her asthma attacks, I get so paranoid, because I don’t know what to do, so I end up yelling at her to “breath goddamnit!” Which doesn’t help. It only makes her cry. And then I want to kill someone all over again.
My world crashed when my favorite doll, Gillian’s head fell off. Nicole ‘operated’ on her and made her all better.
She is so talented and has more creativity in her little finger than I have in my whole body. She is the fashion guru in my family. She gave me the first crochet flower she ever made. I carry it in my purse till today.
Nicole always thought she was the ugly one from the three of us, cause she did not have the light eyes and the light hair. To me she always looked like Snow White. With the fair skin, and the dark black-as-night hair, and deep brown eyes.
My eldest sister Vanessa looked like Cinderella. Eyes of the bluest skies, and brown hair. She is the most intelligent person I know. She works her ass off, she strives to do better, she gives great advice, she cooks amazingly, she is a perfectionist and she loves like there is no tomorrow.
She was like my parent growing up. She showed me how to put on a sanitary pad. She washed my bum when my dad was not around to do it. She taught me math. No, she tried to teach me math. I still can’t solve those stupid ‘trains-traveling-in –opposite-directions’ problems.
She was Nessa.
Nicole and I were once messing around with her hair. We combed it all in the front, covering her face. Then we put on some glares and moved the hair away from her nose so she looked like cousin It. We laughed so much at our “creation” and we could see Vanessa’s shoulders shaking. We moved the hair away and she was crying. She had had a very bad day. But she never stopped us from having our fun.
Nicole will agree that Vanessa is the best eldest sister that anyone could ever have. With just the right balance of fun and seriousness, and gives us unconditional love that I hope we never take for granted.
When I was little, I wanted to become a bus conductor. In support of my dream, my sisters, who used to travel to college then, collected their bus tickets and from their friends too, so that my dad could make me a conductors bag (out of my grandfathers old cigar box) and my mum gave me an old stapler as a clicker. I charged them to enter and exit rooms.
My mom once bought us all shoes from Bata. One pink, one green and one red pair. We created a S.O.S Treaty (share our shoes). We all signed it, and my mother was the witness. I still have that treaty paper.
Sure, we have had fights. Taking sides, pulling hair, crying, screaming, vowing never to talk to each other forever… forever being all of ten minutes. I have hit Vanessa, and then cried instead of her while she consoled me. I have said evil things to Nicole, and she has taken it.
But if anything happens, if anyone hurts these two people, I would hunt them down and torture them. If there is anything that they need, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to try and give it to them.
To the two greatest women in the world: I love you eternally and unendingly.
The fists only get tighter.
Saturday, February 18, 2006
the abc of my weekend
A research got three girls in a Tata Innova bound for Pune.
Before reaching we stop for chai, coffee and Kotimbirwadi. The best thing you could possibly have in that Highway food deli.
Chalu Shiners. A term used, by our focus group (girls from 16-20) to describe girls who hang out with boys, are attractive to boys, and have no morals whatsoever. All of us fell under this category.
Daft. The weekend was daft.
E is for Elevator. Where L is for lobby and C is “obviously” for coffee shop. We couldn’t find the coffee shop, to Noojes, it was obvious that C was for coffee shop. She will agree that this was her “blonde” moment.
Fondu, oh the amount of cheese I had this weekend is not funny!!
Garlic Bread, Nachoes, Barbecue Chicken….
Hom, the way our waiter pronounced Ham. My club sandwich contained Hom and Baacone (Bacon) We could not stop laughing.
Indonesian Nasty Rice that is to die for!!
Koregaon Park. We shopped for silver and slippers. And passed the luscious German Bakery.
Lush. The club we went to. Packed with hot, stiletto-wearing, college girls, all drinking Bacardi Breezer, while we sat in our jeans and pink pajama’s
Moustaches. There was a longest, darkest, thickest competition going on. The parlours in Bombay are gonna make a lot of money on hair removal.
Natata Wada. It’s too much to explain.
Pune. What a city. I really wanna go there more often. Rent a room at Central Park. Have a yummy bubble bath, shop at Koregaon Park, and eat in Malaka Spice.
Red Wine. A bottle was ordered and brought to our room. Then we had more at dinner. Then more at the club. And more at lunch the next day.
S is for Swiss Cheese. The restaurant that we went to for dinner. We had white and red wine. And conspired against our driver.
To total wasted weekends. Pretending to work, but having a ball!
Underwear. And lacy, silk nighties…
Weekend party.
Yummy food.
Zzz catching up on some, Except for someone snoring in my ear. ;))
Before reaching we stop for chai, coffee and Kotimbirwadi. The best thing you could possibly have in that Highway food deli.
Chalu Shiners. A term used, by our focus group (girls from 16-20) to describe girls who hang out with boys, are attractive to boys, and have no morals whatsoever. All of us fell under this category.
Daft. The weekend was daft.
E is for Elevator. Where L is for lobby and C is “obviously” for coffee shop. We couldn’t find the coffee shop, to Noojes, it was obvious that C was for coffee shop. She will agree that this was her “blonde” moment.
Fondu, oh the amount of cheese I had this weekend is not funny!!
Garlic Bread, Nachoes, Barbecue Chicken….
Hom, the way our waiter pronounced Ham. My club sandwich contained Hom and Baacone (Bacon) We could not stop laughing.
Indonesian Nasty Rice that is to die for!!
Koregaon Park. We shopped for silver and slippers. And passed the luscious German Bakery.
Lush. The club we went to. Packed with hot, stiletto-wearing, college girls, all drinking Bacardi Breezer, while we sat in our jeans and pink pajama’s
Moustaches. There was a longest, darkest, thickest competition going on. The parlours in Bombay are gonna make a lot of money on hair removal.
Natata Wada. It’s too much to explain.
Pune. What a city. I really wanna go there more often. Rent a room at Central Park. Have a yummy bubble bath, shop at Koregaon Park, and eat in Malaka Spice.
Red Wine. A bottle was ordered and brought to our room. Then we had more at dinner. Then more at the club. And more at lunch the next day.
S is for Swiss Cheese. The restaurant that we went to for dinner. We had white and red wine. And conspired against our driver.
To total wasted weekends. Pretending to work, but having a ball!
Underwear. And lacy, silk nighties…
Weekend party.
Yummy food.
Zzz catching up on some, Except for someone snoring in my ear. ;))
an introduction
This, my blogger friends, is Danielle Ria Patrick D'silva (bottom)
My neice, born on the 12th of Feb 2006.
Say hello everybody!
And this, for the purpose of some of my blogger friends, is Freddy Ljungberg (top)
Arsenal mid-fielder and sex -bomb extrodinare...
Say hello everybody!
Sunday, February 12, 2006
cool beans
I have had just three hours of sleep. But I have not felt this energetic and happy for a long time. Early Sunday morning, the 12th of February, 2006, I became a very proud aunt.She is seventeen inches long. She weighs five pounds and six ounces. And she’s got curly hair. She is a month early. So she is tiny. We don’t know her name yet. But I’m sure it will be a pretty one.
I know she will be a cool kid. After all, she is related to me. Yeah baby!
Yesterday I went for an office terrace pot-luck party (that would explain the three hours of sleep). The place was in the middle of Dadar, but you’d never know. It was so gorgeous. The perfect party place. We danced, I learned how to salsa a bit. I must admit I am quite good.
We sang. I played the guitar. I sang in public, this is the second time this year. I’m getting quite bold really. But I was damn good. I got an applause and all. I was told I should join a band, and train my voice. May be it was the vodka talking. But hey, I was good and I know it. I bonded with some work girls. A big thing for me, cause I don’t really get along with women. In fact, I kinda enjoyed it. The whole girly talk thing. Maybe it was the vodka talking. Again.
It was a good weekend. After eight months of anticipation, my little beanie is finally born. We called her beanie because she looked like a little kidney bean in her first sonography picture.
So for now she is called Beanie.
Happy Birthday Beanie ;)
Friday, February 10, 2006
seven and deadly
So, I was having this conversation with some people in the office. A question was posed to us, a rather interesting and very insightful question...
"If you and an excess of one of the seven deadly sins, which would it be?"
After contemplation... i muttered Lust. Definatly Lust.
Yea, sure sleeping is one of my favourite things to do, but I also love to dance and walk and go out, so it can't be Sloth.
Yup, I do love to eat, but hey my eyes are bigger than my stomach... not physically...jeez.. it's just that no matter how much I think I can eat, I only can manage one fourth of it... So Gluttony is out... And Greed I guess.
Wrath, there have been very few times that I have experienced complete Wrath. Intence anger.. This is only when I care about something enough to make my blood pressure hit the roof.
Envy, yes I am a jealous one. If looks could kill, there would be a lot of women and men dead right now. But, most of the time, I just don't bother. So it's not envy.
Pride. Ahhh. I am a Leo. I am the queen of my castle. I am the head of the jungle. But I am also a meek, gulible fool, who is often a door-mat, despite her own better judgement.. So, yes I have immence pride.. But it's not in excess.
So, I was left with Lust. I like to look at male posteriors. I like to have a picture of Fredrik Ljungberg on my desktop. It's the one of him with no shirt on. I love to flirt. I love that rush. I love boys. I love men. I am not going to deny it. Lust. Definatly Lust.
Then I went on line to look up these cardinal sins, the deadly ones, these capital vices.. I wanted to know the punishment. Damn.
Lust (Latin, luxuria) (fornication, perversion) Desire of the Flesh.
Punishment: Smothered in brimstone and fire.
Ouch! At least I won't be dismembered alive. Yay!
What are yours? Give it a go...
And just so you know how you're gonna end up.. give this a look see..
Gluttony: Force-fed rats, toads, and snakes
(The people up north would feel right at home.. they eat elephant pickle.)
Greed: Boiled in oil
(ahhh, the human fritter.)
Sloth: Thrown into a snake pit
(ok. Well, that's gonna make you run around and get you up off that lazy ass.)
Wrath: Dismembered alive
(oooo.. that's gotta hurt. But aren't you gonna be angrier post the dismemberment?)
Envy: Put in freezing water
(Huh? I think this would be a better Lust punishment for men. The "go take a cold shower" theory.)
Pride: Broken on the wheel
(Whatever this means.. I think it's one of those ancient punishment gadgets)
Now that you know...
Have fun in hell my pretties.... muahahahaahah(evil laugh)
"If you and an excess of one of the seven deadly sins, which would it be?"
After contemplation... i muttered Lust. Definatly Lust.
Yea, sure sleeping is one of my favourite things to do, but I also love to dance and walk and go out, so it can't be Sloth.
Yup, I do love to eat, but hey my eyes are bigger than my stomach... not physically...jeez.. it's just that no matter how much I think I can eat, I only can manage one fourth of it... So Gluttony is out... And Greed I guess.
Wrath, there have been very few times that I have experienced complete Wrath. Intence anger.. This is only when I care about something enough to make my blood pressure hit the roof.
Envy, yes I am a jealous one. If looks could kill, there would be a lot of women and men dead right now. But, most of the time, I just don't bother. So it's not envy.
Pride. Ahhh. I am a Leo. I am the queen of my castle. I am the head of the jungle. But I am also a meek, gulible fool, who is often a door-mat, despite her own better judgement.. So, yes I have immence pride.. But it's not in excess.
So, I was left with Lust. I like to look at male posteriors. I like to have a picture of Fredrik Ljungberg on my desktop. It's the one of him with no shirt on. I love to flirt. I love that rush. I love boys. I love men. I am not going to deny it. Lust. Definatly Lust.
Then I went on line to look up these cardinal sins, the deadly ones, these capital vices.. I wanted to know the punishment. Damn.
Lust (Latin, luxuria) (fornication, perversion) Desire of the Flesh.
Punishment: Smothered in brimstone and fire.
Ouch! At least I won't be dismembered alive. Yay!
What are yours? Give it a go...
And just so you know how you're gonna end up.. give this a look see..
Gluttony: Force-fed rats, toads, and snakes
(The people up north would feel right at home.. they eat elephant pickle.)
Greed: Boiled in oil
(ahhh, the human fritter.)
Sloth: Thrown into a snake pit
(ok. Well, that's gonna make you run around and get you up off that lazy ass.)
Wrath: Dismembered alive
(oooo.. that's gotta hurt. But aren't you gonna be angrier post the dismemberment?)
Envy: Put in freezing water
(Huh? I think this would be a better Lust punishment for men. The "go take a cold shower" theory.)
Pride: Broken on the wheel
(Whatever this means.. I think it's one of those ancient punishment gadgets)
Now that you know...
Have fun in hell my pretties.... muahahahaahah(evil laugh)
Thursday, February 09, 2006
spring board jinx
I went to Olive for a lovely four-course Italian meal with some friends the other night. We had a fabulous time. Apparently Olive is the place to be seen and all, I, on the other hand, was trying not to be seen because I arrived straight from work – in my jeans and a T-shirt glory.
The place is very nice and very lah-dee-dah as well. Those places are never really my scene but I had the pleasure of good, down-to-earth company. We were two single girls and one guy who is gonna be married in about 5 weeks. We had a great time talking and sharing stories.
When I told them about how the guy I kinda like has gone back to the States, she said, hey but you liked someone else who also went away, right? I, eyes lowered, sheepishly nodded the affirmative. So they laughed. And I instantly developed the ghastly nickname of “spring board”. Nasty aren't they?
Why? Because every guy I have met who is nice in the last two years have up and left within about two months of me knowing them. And two months is the maximum mind you. And they don’t go anywhere close. There was Kuwait, Canada, Australia, Sri Lanka and most recently Chicago.
So these “friends” of mine, began to giggle and make fun of me. Comments like, “Want a visa, why don’t you date her for a bit?” happened. Or, “Lemme kiss you. Oh damn it... It’s Canada, I wanted Australia. Can I kiss you again?”, “Hey, do you have a passport? How about an accent? Cool can we go out?” or “She likes it the intercontinental way, baby!!”
Even the guy who is getting married asked if we could go out a couple of times, cause he wants to settle abroad eventually. Apparently, I’m his only hope. Sigh.
Don’t get me wrong. I laughed my ass off at the comments. In fact I had a couple of super one-liners too, like maybe I should start charging: Visa Guaranteed. But I never really thought that much of it until I started counting. It was technically five in two years. But only three meant so much to me.
Even so, it’s sad isn’t it? Maybe it’s me. Maybe I see potential disaster. Ok, maybe it’s not so harsh. Maybe I see that it will never go anywhere. It works out well because I’m suddenly not afraid to commit. Because they would never ask. Right? I am suddenly devoid of thinking long term. I know I will never marry them, or get into that stage of a relationship when the fighting and the being nasty to each other begin. I know that I will never be taken for granted, cause it’s too short a time. I know they have only seen my good side and maybe a little of the bad. A very little.
So there is everything right with it really. It seems perfect doesn't it? Doesn't it seems foolproof?
It seems so.
But the cons out weigh the pros in such a big way. Because I want to show my bad side, sometimes. I wanna have those stupid little fights. I wanna make-up and I wanna know that the person is mine. That’s the reason I am sad. That’s the reason I feel empty everytime they go away. Because of the cons.
Damn those cons.
The place is very nice and very lah-dee-dah as well. Those places are never really my scene but I had the pleasure of good, down-to-earth company. We were two single girls and one guy who is gonna be married in about 5 weeks. We had a great time talking and sharing stories.
When I told them about how the guy I kinda like has gone back to the States, she said, hey but you liked someone else who also went away, right? I, eyes lowered, sheepishly nodded the affirmative. So they laughed. And I instantly developed the ghastly nickname of “spring board”. Nasty aren't they?
Why? Because every guy I have met who is nice in the last two years have up and left within about two months of me knowing them. And two months is the maximum mind you. And they don’t go anywhere close. There was Kuwait, Canada, Australia, Sri Lanka and most recently Chicago.
So these “friends” of mine, began to giggle and make fun of me. Comments like, “Want a visa, why don’t you date her for a bit?” happened. Or, “Lemme kiss you. Oh damn it... It’s Canada, I wanted Australia. Can I kiss you again?”, “Hey, do you have a passport? How about an accent? Cool can we go out?” or “She likes it the intercontinental way, baby!!”
Even the guy who is getting married asked if we could go out a couple of times, cause he wants to settle abroad eventually. Apparently, I’m his only hope. Sigh.
Don’t get me wrong. I laughed my ass off at the comments. In fact I had a couple of super one-liners too, like maybe I should start charging: Visa Guaranteed. But I never really thought that much of it until I started counting. It was technically five in two years. But only three meant so much to me.
Even so, it’s sad isn’t it? Maybe it’s me. Maybe I see potential disaster. Ok, maybe it’s not so harsh. Maybe I see that it will never go anywhere. It works out well because I’m suddenly not afraid to commit. Because they would never ask. Right? I am suddenly devoid of thinking long term. I know I will never marry them, or get into that stage of a relationship when the fighting and the being nasty to each other begin. I know that I will never be taken for granted, cause it’s too short a time. I know they have only seen my good side and maybe a little of the bad. A very little.
So there is everything right with it really. It seems perfect doesn't it? Doesn't it seems foolproof?
It seems so.
But the cons out weigh the pros in such a big way. Because I want to show my bad side, sometimes. I wanna have those stupid little fights. I wanna make-up and I wanna know that the person is mine. That’s the reason I am sad. That’s the reason I feel empty everytime they go away. Because of the cons.
Damn those cons.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
shhhh
We all have our little secrets. Things we don’t want anyone to know. Little thoughts or feelings that swirl in the depths of our minds. Deep, dark secrets.
They may be trivial things like not telling your mom what exactly you did when you went out or not telling your colleague that you have a bar of Cadbury’s in your drawer.
They could be repulsive secrets that you would never want anyone to know. Because if they did they would judge you. And look at you different. And think you were weird. So you would never tell anyone. Ever.
But what do you do when you need to spill it? Who do you go to when you’re about to burst? Whom do you trust enough? Who is that one person you could tell absolutely anything to and they would never judge you? Ever.
I don’t think I have ever had someone like that. I don’t think I have ever told someone everything. I guess it’s just the fear of being judged. Of being looked at weirdly. Of being exposed completely. I guess that’s why I have not given out my blog address to everyone.
Wanna know some secrets? Trivial as they may be?
In school, I used to pretend to be asleep when my Hindi tuition teacher used to come home. It used to work.
When I pass a group of people, I suck in my stomach.
I have peed in a men’s room.
I have pictured my funeral.
I have cried during Oprah. And Pretty Woman.
I sometimes forget what I look like, and then I pass a mirror and I wish I hadn’t. Mostly cause I am disappointed.
I fear that I will fall down a flight of stairs and break my legs.
Sometimes on Sundays, I forget to bathe. Gross.
I wanna trip a girl in my office so bad. Just so I can see her fall.
I am sad that my so-called best friend has another best friend. So what? Am I #2?
I am jealous of prettier women. Not cause I wanna look like them. But I’m just jealous.
I haven’t been a regular at church for a while. But I cried when the Pope died. Cause I liked him.
I have peed in a pool.
I should stop now.
Before the judgement starts.
Before the looks begin.
Before I am completely exposed.
Why this sudden bout of confession, you ask? I came across an amazing site, that I think everyone should read. It’s updated every Sunday. It is awesome.
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
Why?
Cause everyone loves a good secret.
They may be trivial things like not telling your mom what exactly you did when you went out or not telling your colleague that you have a bar of Cadbury’s in your drawer.
They could be repulsive secrets that you would never want anyone to know. Because if they did they would judge you. And look at you different. And think you were weird. So you would never tell anyone. Ever.
But what do you do when you need to spill it? Who do you go to when you’re about to burst? Whom do you trust enough? Who is that one person you could tell absolutely anything to and they would never judge you? Ever.
I don’t think I have ever had someone like that. I don’t think I have ever told someone everything. I guess it’s just the fear of being judged. Of being looked at weirdly. Of being exposed completely. I guess that’s why I have not given out my blog address to everyone.
Wanna know some secrets? Trivial as they may be?
In school, I used to pretend to be asleep when my Hindi tuition teacher used to come home. It used to work.
When I pass a group of people, I suck in my stomach.
I have peed in a men’s room.
I have pictured my funeral.
I have cried during Oprah. And Pretty Woman.
I sometimes forget what I look like, and then I pass a mirror and I wish I hadn’t. Mostly cause I am disappointed.
I fear that I will fall down a flight of stairs and break my legs.
Sometimes on Sundays, I forget to bathe. Gross.
I wanna trip a girl in my office so bad. Just so I can see her fall.
I am sad that my so-called best friend has another best friend. So what? Am I #2?
I am jealous of prettier women. Not cause I wanna look like them. But I’m just jealous.
I haven’t been a regular at church for a while. But I cried when the Pope died. Cause I liked him.
I have peed in a pool.
I should stop now.
Before the judgement starts.
Before the looks begin.
Before I am completely exposed.
Why this sudden bout of confession, you ask? I came across an amazing site, that I think everyone should read. It’s updated every Sunday. It is awesome.
http://postsecret.blogspot.com/
Why?
Cause everyone loves a good secret.
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