plummet

I was talking with one of the guys in my office when a senior walked by. He continued to talk as she passed, but he kind of got lost and mumbled some rubbish. I snapped him out of it and said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He looked at me and said, “Oh sorry, I was staring at her ass”

“You find her hot?” I said, mildly surprised. She is a rather attractive woman.
“Smokin’” was his eloquent reply.

He continued, “All the guys think so…and they think the same of (cannot-be-revealed name here) too!”

“What? Wow… Do they think I’m hot?” I asked coyly.

He hesitates, “Er… yea, of course you are.” Comes his fake but over enthusiastic reply. I stare at him, hoping to penetrate his brain with my Truth Eyes.

“You have a GREAT personality! And amazing eyes… and a sense of humour…”

Hmmm, he lost me at Great Personality.
I plummet into the depths of depression…

on a completely unrelated note...

So on a completely unrelated note: Allow me to update you about my man friend. He is funny, sweet and extremely cute. So cute in fact that I have to slap myself sometimes because I daydream about how cute he is.

And what’s more, he looks so good in a suit. So good in fact, that sometimes I day dream about him in a suit, looking cute and walking down the aisle. Which is when I have to slap myself again because if he ever found out he would run away. After all, it’s only been nine months.

But nine super months. So super, that sometimes I daydream that we have already walked down the aisle and I have already seen his cute-self looking so good in a suit and it is now one year later and we have two babies and I have picked names for them also… a boy and a girl...But I cannot tell him this either, because then he will definitely run away, if he did not already.

And speaking of running, he has a very nice butt.

Which I also day-dream about…

But only sometimes…

who says love never killed anyone...

Who says indeed...

:)

I got this mail from a friend

I recommend one just enjoys and let ones self be free of any such thinking, just enjoy and fall in love, give-take whatever u feel like at least you can say I had a great time and some great moments with this person, let it happen.... it’s worth falling in love , getting loved, hurt, betrayed, or whatever at least we are lucky enough to go thru it, na?


Oh, and he is gay. It's amazing how we all go through the same damn things when it comes to love and relationships.

stuff and nonsense

I have not had a lot to do this past weekend. And when I don’t have much to do, I start thinking. Now, mind you, this is never a good thing. But, and this is the proverbial silver lining, I do unearth some precious thoughts that ought to be archived.

Thought 1: If I wear a white, poofy dress, throw myself a huge party, invite all my family and friends, be the centre of attention and enjoy it, pose for pictures, get presents, dance the night away, vow to love myself through sickness and health and end it all with a nice long vacation...do I still need to have a man in a suit to be my groom?

Thought 2: This can hardly be attributed to me, because it came from the mouth of a very pregnant woman: It is a myth that you feel like a ‘woman’ when you are pregnant. In fact, you are manlier than ever before. First you have a beer belly at leaves you wondering if your feet have changed. At best, the most you want to do is sit in front of the television and vegetate. You crave junk food. You’re moody. You’re horny, but because of your giant-sized belly no one wants to sleep with you. You have neglected facial hair. And what’s worse, you have constant gas that seems to follow you around.

Thought 3: Recently, a friend and ex-colleague and I exchanged work. I needed a line and so did he, so we decided to do each other’s work with a fresh perspective. I know, it’s probably against all company policy, anyway, the line I did for him got approved in a flash. The line he did for me did not. Instead I had to write another line, which is not stuck in some advertising purgatory. This is an especially crap case of the grass being greener on the other side. (Okay, this is not a thought; it’s just an excuse to vent a little.)

Thought 4: Have you ever noticed how married people always tell you how awesome marriage is, and urge you to do it as soon as possible? It’s almost like a peer pressure to join the ‘cool’ crowd. This gave me a thought. What if marriage is a secret cult, which is only about stress and persecution? What if, every time a couple gets married, they have to take a vow to urge at least 3 other couples join this cult and then they get some bonus points or something...like a referral scheme?

Thought 5: I read this article about how women should not wait for their ‘Prince Charming’ because he doesn’t exist. Instead, settle for Mr Right Here and Now, who ticks most of the boxes you have in your head about what your perfect man should be. What happens if no man ever ticks the right boxes? What happens if you have 12 boxes and all the men you meet only tick an average of 5? Would that mean women around the world are so desperate not to wait anymore, they settle for 5/12?

I have to get back to work now. And besides, three days of idleness can only come up with so many pearls of wisdom, right?

damn

Is there anything hotter than a nice buff man, with a nice footballer's butt and a witty sense of humour who likes love songs?

I think not...

he's just not that into you...

This is a mail dated 14th November 2006, written to a guy I had a huge crush on:

Hello You.

It's four thirty two in the morning and I have just finished the last
bit I had to do before the presentation this morning. Yes, I am still
in the office and soon will enter the sleepy room and make genuine use of it.

There is no greater pleasure than to see your hard work being printed
- no wait - scratch that, there is a greater pleasure and that is SLEEP. Which i intend to do in five minutes cause my eyes are already half closed.

I hate sleeping in the office. I am constantly worried about who enters - Is my ass looking too big? Is it sticking out in the air? Has my top ridden up? Am i drooling?! Is that the Hammerman? Can I take off my bra? Will people notice? Does that camera work? Is the security guy a psychopath? So I end up having this fitfull sleep that doesn't really mean much in the scheme of things.

My boss has a bottle of whiskey in his drawer which he consumed steadily since 8pm... he is now not only slurring, but with bloodshot eyes, yelling at his computer. I think it also may be the Acid I believe he has every morning. He just came up to me and told me he has a nose (which either means he just grew one or he's in the know, i can't be sure)

My other boss, the fat one, has gone home - at about 8pm claiming to have 'finished everything'. He's all about the work, but when someone mentions food, cake or calories, he is the first to get up from a "really important" meeting to stuff his face.

Don't ask me while I am maling you. Guess I haven't spoken to you in a while and feel the need to vent? Maybe it's cause no one talks (and by that I mean, let me talk) non-stop.

Remind me to tell you something very funny about ponies. Trust me its frikking funny. I think the one thing i know is funny. I mean, I know a good funny thing when I see it. Like for example - the Ghendu thing i messaged you yesterday. I was talking about my boss in my head and said he was a FAT ASSHOLIC .. errr..errr HIPPO -which means hes a GHENDU... Cause Ghenda is hippo and ... (it's one of those dot dot
jokes - like the cunning stunt one)

So I was thinking of a couple of more reasons we should get married. One was so we didn't have to miss each other.

Anyway, Before I turn into a slurring, bald, acid-consuming, computer-yelling, work-shirking GHENDU - I'm off to bed. Well maybe not. Maybe I will surf the net and learn something of Wiki.

Shucks. I took a while to write this. It's almost 5am.

Goodnight.

This is his reply, dated 16th November 2006 (two DAYS later)

Hey. Thanks for the mail, it's always nice hearing from you. You shouldn't work so hard, by the way.


Ugh. I've realised I haven't changed one bit. I will still be perfectly nice to every asshole that comes my way.
Damn it.

the five stages of grief

For the last two weeks, I have been reduced to acting like ditzy sixteen-year old girl with a giant crush—giggles included. The object of all this affection is a delicious young trainee who has a body to die for. For the week that I spoke to him, I was convinced that he had a thing for me too, which made me pay more attention to my clothes, my hair and my general demeanour. He was my reason to go to work (besides work of course).

Sadly for me, I have only just found out that he has a giant crush on this really tall Amazon girl who has the personality of a gnat’s arse and the fashion sense of a 60-year old woman. She also walks like she has an invisible pair of wobbly stilettos on. When I heard, my first reaction was—No, this cannot be true. This is Denial.

Now, mind you, I’m not that upset that he didn’t pick me. Ok, I’ll admit I am a tad upset, but I am more perturbed by the lady-giraffe he chose over me. Not often does a gorgeous man walk into my office, and honestly, he would have at least 3-4 fairly hot ladies to pick from, and she would never qualify, not in the top 10 even. This is called Anger.

But he picked her.
He’s gone out with her, they talk on the phone they chat on Facebook and heaven only knows what else they’ve done outside of the office. I know all these tit-bits because of the multiple spies I have planted in every corner of the office—mostly because initially I wouldn’t take no for an answer. Bargaining?

I know all this is none of my business, but it physically hurts me to know that I have been outwitted by a dim-wit, that I have been sidelined by a floozy, that I have been disregarded for an Amazonian with zero charm. What’s worse is they are just such an odd looking couple to look at—He is 5ft nothing, it’s like a chiwawa dating a lion. The stage is called Depression

After being suitably outraged and comforted by my close friends who called her nasty names to appease me I have decided that he’s no catch either. He’s short, he’s not very smart (when I made a joke, he didn’t get it and I had to explain it slowly to him until he finally got it and gave me a half chuckle. Oh, and he called me a ‘mannequin’ because I am so ‘animated’. Duh!)

And at last comes the Acceptance.
I have accepted the fact that they are meant for each other. Why? Because basically, when they come together they have one brain between them. That’s a plus right?

(far from) happy ending

This weekend I watched three very different movies about how male protagonist fights for the woman he loves, eventually getting her and living happily ever after. And they all made me sick.

The guy who supposedly adored me for two whole years did not get the girl. He did not even begin to fight for her. He left me instead, hopefully watching these movies wondering why he did not fight in the same way for me. Making me assume that, perhaps, I just wasn’t worth the effort.

Going by the movies I saw— my break up should have hurt me so bad, that I somehow meet the man of my dreams on a bus or in a store (when I least expect it) and we go out and I realise that the break up was the best thing that happened to me, which is when my ex realises what he terrible mistake he has made. Or I make such a huge impression on this dreamy dude who falls completely in love with me and does everything he can to keep us from never leaving each others sight.

I know, I shouldn’t be using Hollywood as my relationship benchmark. I know that the script has to be happy to make a blockbuster—which makes me oftentimes wish I was living in a movie, instead of this crap, lonely reality that I exist in.

God damn it, I want my happy ending.

bag lady

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yay :)

update

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

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

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

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

Here are some confessions:

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

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

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

:)

paani

The person you love is 74.8% water

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

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

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

Really.

you know you’re ready to mingle when…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Crap.
Woe is indeed me.

me fair lady

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

Some facts about the races and life in general:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then came Tuesday. Sigh.

certifiable

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damn he was cute.

I think I can definitely be classified as boy crazy.

Yup. Definitely boy crazy.