As Ever...

... Bombay was superb, sublime...beyond words, even.

I'll attempt a few, but maybe next post, when I'm over my homesickness and the horrible wrench of missing A.H. and N.M. and all the others. I honestly can't wait for that old-age home we're all moving into in our 80s ...at least we'll all be together!

Who, What, Where, When, Why, How

It seems everyone I speak to these days has hit a bit of a wall….not so much a dead-end as an obstacle in the road. On the way to where, though? That’s what is relatively unknown. Why are we doing what we’re doing? Is this really what we’re going to do forever (or at least till retirement beckons)? What else is out there? Is this really all there is to life?

I’ve always found it unbearably pretentious to question the why and how of our existence. Sure, answers would be nice – but we’re here, we’re healthy, we’re loved, we’re happy – we should be grateful. All this “What is the meaning of life” business is best left to philosophers and drunkards at 4 a.m. Of course, they tend to wonder about it on a larger scale. As ever, my musings are more self-involved :)

I’m down with the programme – we’re born, we go to school, we go to college, we get a job, we get married, we have kids, we have grandkids, we shuffle off this mortal coil and people boohoo for a bit until they pop it too, and pretty soon there’s no one left who remembers us. If we’re lucky, we’re memorialized in a family tree some great-great-grandkid will create for a school project, or we’re a name scrawled in a few books handed down in the family. I’m not saying it’s a bad thing, because I know that in some small but significant way, there’s a piece of us that gets carried forward in time, and even if it’s not recognized or acknowledged, we definitely lived.

But how did we live? Right now, where I am…I want more. Okay, I’m working, I’m doing an MBA (and I’ll probably do another after this), I have a loving family (touch wood) and an amazing set of friends (thank you). Life is routine – good, but routine. But what am I doing that’s going to leave a mark? Is it egotistical to think I can leave a mark? Is it enough that I attempt to be a good human being (and hopefully, maybe, succeed some of the time)? Is it possible that there’s something more out there? Should I be satisfied with okay when there’s a possibility that amazing is around the corner? What if there’s nothing around the corner?

I think what bothers me more than the status quo is not having any of the answers.

Random Musings on a Sick Day

- Is the world really a better place for beautiful people? Do more doors actually fly open, more red carpets get unfurled, more dollars pour into their bank accounts? Or is it simply that people with a modicum of self-assurance (that may or may not come from beauty) make things happen the way they want, rather than waiting for things to happen to them?

- Ever noticed that the people you love will always be beautiful, no matter what? And the more you get to know them (and the more you learn how amazing they are), the more beautiful they become to you?

- Why so much musing in the beauty vein? I don’t know…I suppose I was indulging in the rather rare occasion where I happened to glance at the mirror for more than 5 minutes, and for the first time since adolescent insecurity faded over a decade ago, I was wondering what people see when they look at me. Is that too self-involved? Um, yeah, actually, it definitely is…but anyway. I had an acquaintance tell me the other day that his friend is in love with me, and my first thought was “Why?” He certainly doesn’t know me well enough to appreciate my completely batty personality, and my looks are nothing to write home about…not bad enough to shatter mirrors, but nowhere near traffic stopping quality. And in a country filled with gorgeous women (most of whom are my friends, and whom I therefore cannot hate, damn my luck and scruples), I sort of pale in comparison…okay face (mouth a bit too broad and lips a bit too pouty and eyes a bit too sleepy), okay figure (leaning far too much towards the curvy end of the spectrum but balanced out, somewhat, by a decent height), okay hair (always mussed now that it’s been hacked from hip-length to shoulder length). I’m no serene belle imbued with grace and elegance (multiple instances of my donkey-laugh, tipped-over chairs – with me in them, involuntary somersaults down stairwells and inexplicable instances of tripping over my own feet have seen to that). I mean, in short, I’m kind of a disaster. So my only conclusion about friend-of-acquaintance is that he’s looking for a quick boink and thinks the L-word will help his cause. Sigh. Fool.

- On a completely unrelated note, my mother’s rather good at darts. I was quite shocked when we went to a nearby pub for lunch and she expressed an interest in the game…and then proceeded to thoroughly kick my ass. Who is this woman?

- I also tried to teach her how to play pool. It is now referred to as The Incident We Will Never Speak Of Ever Ever Again. Ever.

- Skiving off work under the pretence of a sick day is MUCH more fun when you’re not actually sick. Who knew? (Well, I suppose everyone except me…must work at being less conscientious and more…useless? I don’t even know the correct terminology).

- My beloved Bombay beckons once again! In eleven days (264 hours, or 15840 minutes, or 950400 seconds) I’ll be back on putrid B’bay soil, inhaling the toxic fumes and possibly contracting cholera from the disease-riddled water. I actually can.not.WAIT.

- The fact that I’m worrying at all about the pollution and water is just proof that I’ve gotten soft living in this place. The thought would never even have entered my head a few years ago, as I chowed down on sev-puri and frankies at Churchgate station, washed down with mineral water of dubious origin (and purity) at a stall that would most likely be gone in a few hours. Ah, youth.

I'm Sorry

It’s hard to grieve the loss of someone you’ve never met. But there are some people you know you would have loved - simply because they come from, are a part of, people you love.

My 2 month old niece (my cousin V’s daughter) died yesterday morning, and I haven’t been able to reach him on the phone…well, of course, who’s going to bother with something as mundane as the phone at a horrible time like this? And even if I did get through to him, what on earth would I say? Everything is so inadequate, so inconsequential, so bloody futile… the words would just be ridiculous platitudes and would make no difference at all.

Growing up, my cousin V was an endless source of amusement and fascination for me…he’s 14 years older than I am, and, at the age of 5, when I first saw him sitting on my terrace early one morning in Madras, in all his mustachioed-dishevelled-engineering-student glory, I ran screaming back into the house with shrieks of “Mama, Dada, thief! Run!” Poor guy, I must have been the most annoying (and shrill) little tagalong cousin in history. But he gamely attempted to teach me my multiplication tables (using toothpicks, no less), and how to crack a walnut shell between a doorjamb and savour the nut (dusty though it was), and took me for my first bus ride (first memorable public transport experience, in fact), and my first time riding pillion on a bike (I’m pretty sure my eyes were squeezed shut the entire time)…and was, in general, the most patient cousin in existence. And the nicest, really.

So it sucks beyond measure that God would let such a crappy thing happen to such a great guy. No one should ever, ever have to lose a baby…and how much worse when you’ve had a chance to hold her, and love her, and name her, and change her poopy diapers.

I’m so, so sorry, Cousin V.

Why I Love Cassandra Clare - Part 1

It's all down to lines like this: "Let me give you a piece of advice. The handsome young fellow who’s trying to rescue you from a hideous fate is never wrong. Not even if he says the sky is purple and made of hedgehogs.” ~ William Herondale in Clockwork Angel, Book 1 of the Infernal Devices Trilogy.

I'm only on Page 19 and already I've found 84 things I absolutely adore about this book!

All I Need Is A Stormy Day

Did anyone else like blowing off school/ college/ work on a particularly grey, blustery, rainy day to stay home with a good spooky book and a mug of hot chocolate (or a can of coke, in my case)? There's NO sensation that compares to being indoors, warm and dry and snug, while a storm rages outside and the sea and sky are pewter meshing into graphite, until they are indistinguishable from each other. And to indulge in a ghost story while the howling wind and rattling windows provide the soundtrack? Bliss. Geez, I sound like I belong in the Addams family. But anyway.

This is where I lived when I was in Bombay:

A gorgeous apartment on the 14th floor with a sea-facing bedroom. It was breathtaking during the monsoons, and if you opened the windows at opposite ends of the flat, you created a wind tunnel with force to rival a jet engine: I loved it! So you can understand my fascination with abandoning everything else when it rained and curling up on the window seat with 'Frankenstein' or 'It' or 'Pet Sematary' or even 'Edgar Allen Poe's Short Stories' or 'Ruskin Bond's Ghost Stories from the Raj'. Where I'm going with all this rambling is that after almost a decade I managed to stumble across a book that invokes the same delicious little tingle down my spine and makes me look over my shoulder for shadows:

Rosemary Clement-Moore's 'The Splendor Falls' is typically categorized under the Young Adult Section, and why not - the protagonist is a teenage girl dealing with loss, love, jealousy, ghosts and magic. But to describe it so is to make it sound trite and predictable - and there one would do it a gross disservice.

In Sylvie Davis, Clement-Moore has managed to create a character not too many may be able to identify with initially - I mean, seriously, a ballet prodigy who has travelled the world and now finds herself unable to dance ever again at the age of 17? Beautiful, wealthy, world-weary at that age? Difficult to relate, and rather difficult to like - sardonic (I often like that, don't get me wrong, but I generally prefer my sarcasm without a side-order of bitchy), self-involved (okay, I can kinda relate there, obviously), self-pitying and singularly uninterested in anything but ballet (something I've never been interested in, having all the grace and elegance of a doped-up hippopotamus). But her connection to her deceased father, her awareness of the shortcomings in men, her love of the earth and life itself and her internal struggle to stay sane (and prove her sanity to herself, if no one else) make her grow on you - like an annoying roommate you start liking after you read her diary and find out she worries about the size of her butt too.

And the town, with its old-world beauty, down-South homey-ness, and busybody neighbours seems like it could be any town in any country, and that's where one starts feeling a pull: the place, the people, the stories that could be in your neighbourhood, your family, even.

But the real beauty in this book lies in the simple decriptions of chilling places and events: life and loss through the Civil War, floods and yellow fever creating a ghost town, an old prison echoing with the remnants and revenants of past cruelties inflicted, a lover being murdered, a scorned woman killing herself and being doomed to repeat the cycle for eternity, a cold broken man murdering a child. And through the centuries, the Davis family homestead where the very walls seem to hold their breath to stop the gasp of fear, and the woods outside pulsing with magic and misfortune and memories of loss. And superimposed over it all, the very believable and identifiable emotions of greed and teenage complacence. The tone and cadence of the story never veer into maudlin or overly dramatic, always striking the right balance of intriguing and downright creepy - enough to keep your attention from wandering without rolling your eyes and thinking "Seriously? We're supposed to buy this crap?"

The only grouse I had while reading this book is that I live in a desert country where rainy days are few and far between - a little grey light and moaning wind would've set the stage perfectly to go with the shivers down my spine.

Things I Have Recently Learnt About Myself: Part 4,782

- It’s amazing winning a shitload of money during the weekly poker session, but it sucks to take most of it off one of my closest friends.

- It’s gratifying to know my friend hates winning money off of me too. Abby, you’re sweetheart.

- It’s SUCH a turn-off when guys talk about their new Porsche / Ferrari/ Lamborghini/ Any fancy-schmancy car 5 minutes into our first meeting.

- It’s also a turn-off when they refer to said car as ‘baby’. Just massively creepy.

- It’s possible to miss my little brother so much that my heart physically aches. And still possible to remind myself that he’s having the time of his life, so I HAVE to be upbeat instead of mopey when I talk to him. Even if I can’t bring myself to walk into empty room now.

- It would be kinda interesting to have an all-vampire episode of ‘Glee’. And they could cover the songs from the ‘Nosfaratu’ musical, or ‘Lestat’, or even- OOOH, the musical episode of ‘Buffy’. Please, Mr. Producer/ Director/ Writer, hear my plea?

- The thought of a brand-new as-yet-unread book will get me through the toughest, crappiest, most horrible-no-good-very-bad day at work. And if it happens to be the new Charlaine Harris, MaryJanice Davidson, Kim Harrison, Kelley Armstrong or Janet Evanovich? Even better!

- I have fantastically pathetic taste in the men I choose as eye candy. This was brought home to me when I bumped into one piece of candy a few days ago and thought “Ew. On a scale of Cough Drops to Godiva Hazelnut Truffles, he’d be a chocolate laxative pill: ergo, so far below the lowest point on the scale, I don’t know what I was inhaling when I thought he was cute.” If hindsight is 20-20, I have Superman’s X-Ray vision.

- I love saying “Ergo.” Why? Dunno, just do.

- I am ADDICTED to fashion blogs! fatsandchints, highheelconfidential, purplepeeptoes and, of course, fashion bombay. And to supplement my daily fix, I’ve taken to trawling Yahoo’s OMG site for their weigh-in on various celebrities’ outfits at appearances. It’s madness, I tell you! The next thing you know, I’ll be watching Joan Rivers on ‘Fashion Police’. Oy vey.

- I love saying Oy Vey, even though I’m about as far from Jewish as a person can get. Why? Dunno, just do. Must be a hangover from a childhood spent religiously watching ‘The Nanny’.

Confessions

Growing up, and attempting to be a tomboy (not very successfully, though…how many tomboys had waist-length hair and were scared to climb up to the garage roof?), I’d rather have submitted to Chinese bamboo torture than admit I had the soul of a romantic. Actually, I’d still rather go through that. And ‘soul’ and ‘romantic’ might be pushing it a bit… it’d be more accurate to say I have the reading preferences of a mushbucket.

In what was an extremely rare occasion in my life, a couple of weeks ago I had dinner with 7 women. I don’t think I’ve ever actually had that many female friends in my life. But I digress. During the course of the evening we all ‘fessed up to our guilty pleasures – ‘Gossip Girl’, ‘Glee’ and, of course, Romance Novels. Guilty on all 3 counts for me. I’ll go into my Chuck Bass and Mr. Schu obsession (not together, ew….although, can you imagine Chuck Bass singing? Sacrilege!) another time, but ah, romance novels…

A friend’s mom got me hooked onto them when I was 15 (prior to that I just devoured Sweet Valleys, remember those? Gawd, what with the teachings in those books, it’s a miracle I didn’t turn out to be a sociopath/ kidnapper/ psychotic loon/ boyfriend stealer…oh, wait, nevermind). I was bored out of my skull after the Class 10 board exams in Delhi, and at that age where I wanted to go out and party but wasn’t allowed out past 10 p.m., so I turned my already-voracious reading appetite into something of legendary proportions (out of sheer desperation, I even read cookbooks. But I never tried out the recipes, of course. That would’ve involved people eating my cooking and dying horrible painful deaths). Then Aunty M, ignoring my upturned nose and disdainful expression, lent me The Christmas Special Bonus Edition 3-in-1 Mills & Boon (I kid you not, they actually fit all that in the title page). And that was the beginning of the end for me… forever after I would expect men to have a tough exterior with a soft heart (like baked alaska?), a cleft chin (face ass!), a strong jaw, eyes like melted chocolate/ summer skies/ leaves/ glaciers/ insert-cliché-here. And be at least 6 feet tall (yeah, that hasn’t worked out too well for me in the past. The last guy? An inch shorter than me. Aiyo). Never mind the fact that I hardly had an alabaster brow or a heaving bosom (not at that age, at least).

Anyway, my absolute favourites, without a doubt, were the ones where the protagonists started out positively loathing each other and then, bam! Ended up in love. As a romantically-challenged (read: deprived, stunted, innocent) 15-year-old, I couldn’t quite fathom HOW they got from hate to love, and the whole sexual attraction thing was mystifying in the extreme, but man, it made for entertaining reading! Sometimes I wonder if that basically screwed me up for my early romances, because I have to admit to being attracted to guys I argued with a lot (but I think that had something to do with the fact that they matched wits with me. At least in the past. Nowadays, I just get annoyed). And I expected (and got) a lot of drama in relationships (which is why it’s SO much easier to live the life of a nun now). But the one thing that I’m ashamed to admit prevailed over the years is the dream that there would one day be a man who’d sweep me off my feet, be as besotted with me as I was with him, and we’d live happily ever after. Shocking, I know, since I’ve always stridently proclaimed that the last, absolute LAST thing I wanted or needed in my life was a man. Not that I lied…I’m happier without one, especially of the caliber I generally meet. But oh, to meet one who’s like a romance novel hero? And not gay? I’ll take that!

I read somewhere recently that romance novels have warped women’s ideas of romance and their hopes and expectations of a man. I kinda agree with that, since I now expect all men to be assholes who are secretly good guys. Turns out, I’m only half right.

Here We Go Again

It’s Raksha Bandhan again, and, although we don’t celebrate it in our family, I’m back to taking stock of all my memories of my baby brother. He will, undoubtedly, roll his eyes in embarrassment at my ooey-gooeyness and tell me to get a grip. These are things I have resolved to do:

- STOP calling him ‘baby’ brother. Well, at least not in front of his friends.
- STOP crying everytime something amazing happens in his life – academic distinction,great A – Level results, being accepted to University.
- I WILL NOT cry when he goes off to college next month.
- I WILL NOT pepper him with a barrage of calls, messages and e-mails, and I will let him settle in and make friends and get a bit of distance, as every teenager should learn to do when they leave home.
- STOP lecturing him on all the possible dangers and risks of being a stranger in a strange land, and instead encourage him to look forward to everything he’s going to experience there.
- STOP looking at his old baby pictures. I have GOT to get with the program…I’m 27, he’s 18 and he’s not going to automatically revert to the adorable 2-year-old in the photo just because I miss carrying him around.
- I WILL NOT go into his room and sit glumly on his bed when he’s away, missing him awfully.
- STOP tearing up everytime I write these mushy posts (it’s the hormones or something, that’s it).
- STOP writing these mushy posts (especially in the office).
- I WILL probably end up breaking each and every one of these resolutions ages before he leaves.

Please, God, if you could reeeeeeeeaalllllyyyy slow down time for the next month, I promise to try and be a better person! Or a less weepy one, anyway. I know my brother would be eternally grateful for that.

Happy Rakhi, baby.

Freeeeeedom!

Exams are D.O.N.E!! Bring on the clubs and the alcohol and the mindless celebration of the end of a month of slavery and VERY little sleep.

Oh wait, it's Ramadhan. Okay then, celebrate next month. Sigh. At least no classes till October.

That's What Friends Are For....

I kinda pity N.M....he's a harmless soul really: very into cars, bikes, hiking and busty women. I think he often wonders what crime he committed to be cursed with a best friend like me. Especially since we've started mailing back and forth every day at work, and he's forced to endure (practically daily) tripe like this from me:

I'm really bored and I don't know what to do:
If I get any bored-er I might eat my shoe.
There's piles of paper and work to be done,
But it's almost the weekend; I want to have fun!

Alas, however, I must get home and study:
Exams and assignments are nobody's buddy.
Somebody remind me why I'm doing this degree?
Oh yeah, it's all greed, I wanted more money.

Well, if nothing else, this has helped pass the time:
Boredom is alleviated when I'm penning a rhyme.
To you, my friend, who puts up with my shit:
Thank you for understanding when I'm being a twit :)

You see what I mean? He's a gem, a prince among men with the patience of an angel, a sweet soul doomed to hell purely because of his acquaintance with me, and it's beyond me how he's gone all these years without killing either himself or me!

So here's to you, N.M. I'm safe in the knowledge that you never read my blog (or read anything other than a t-shirt on a particularly buxom woman, actually), so I can be as sappy as I want!

Escapism

I got back from Bombay over a fortnight ago, but I still can't bring myself to write about my trip. Why? Because it'll mean I'm not there anymore .... leaving this time just felt harder than ever. No particular reason why, except that nowadays I welcome falling asleep at night because I get to delve under the covers and pretend I'm in bed in Bombay, where I belong more than anywhere else on earth. Anyway, to counter the aforementioned bit of doom and gloom, I'm recycling an old piece of crap I wrote, ohhhh, 4 years ago. Ah, for the age of innocence :)

A novice's guide to the game
Checking out a member of the opposite sex is a time-honoured, prolific and surprisingly tricky pastime. Time honoured because, well, please, you so know that your great-great-great-great-great granddaddy stood in those ballrooms and watched the waltzing women, waiting for their voluminous petticoats to flutter and expose a thrilling one inch of ankle. La, what a shocking charlatan that woman is, I saw her ankle. Prolific because, as with a lot of things, you can do it anywhere, anytime, any how, in a variety of ways, and the playing field is huge. They ain't kidding when they say there's a lot of fish in the ocean! And I've always rather wondered who the 'they' is who keep saying things. But I digress. Ah, yes, and surprisingly tricky because you don't want to get caught. Unless, of course, you do want to get caught.

As with every other species, human beings have their hunting grounds, and of course, the predator and the prey. This is probably one hunt, though, where the predator and the prey intermingle fearlessly, and often exchange roles as well. There's a secret (well,okay, not-so-secret) language of nudges and winks and lascivious stares and hisses of "Psst! Hottie at 3 o'clock!" Sometimes, of course, the guerilla warfare can get a little confusing. A friend and I were sitting on a hot summer day at Leopold's and I was delighting in a chilled glass of coke while she was delighting in the scenery. Said scenery was a beautifully proportioned German hunk-extraordinaire, and she was getting her jollies watching the movement of his manly throat as he guzzled beer (sad, I know, but we were socially retarded.) To get my attention, she whispered "Pssst. 4 p.m." I, of course, promptly checked my watch and was rather nonplussed, since it was barely noon. Then, again, she said "No, no, 4 p.m." Ah, that made more sense. Cute guy. But whose 4 p.m.? Hers or mine? Giving up on that, I simply swivelled around in my seat till I was faced with a vision that made me go "Hubba hubba". But quietly, of course. And I made a mental note to learn whose side the time zones actually referred to, because we passed quite a blissful, but confusing, hour exchanging hisses of "3 a.m." and "9 p.m." which always culminated in us just giving up and blatantly looking around till we spotted the quarry. Of course, the highlight was at the end of the hour, when the aforementioned German hottie paid for his beer and, before leaving, strode up to us to whisper in his sexy accent: "It doesn't matter whether it's a.m. or p.m., it's just 4 o'clock. And it's more effective if you speak softly." Really, I've never used the time zone technique again.

Another time I was out with my friends at some pub or the other that seemed to have a wonderful assortment of the most magnificent women. For the guys, of course, it was like a box of chocolates, and for me, well, I was just watching the fun (and letching maybe just very little). As women walked past., the boys would mutter "8" or "9.7" or "6.5", an archaic and offensive rating practice amongst men that is nonetheless highly amusing. More amusing, in fact, when one woman heard my friend T.K. say "5.8" and, in a fit of temper, sloshed her drink all over him and said "In your dreams, I'm definitely a 9". Lesson number 2 is the same as number 1: always keep your voice down.

Now, as I've said before, there's an art to this game. Sometimes you don't want to get caught checking out the goods, and sometimes you do (don't play innocent, we all want to get caught sometimes. Isn't it just totally worth that knowing smirk and twinkle in the eye?) Me, I play it rather safe. Never approach men in pubs, or anywhere, really, but I sure do look. Only once, I remember, at Jazz, did I see someone I might actually want to approach, but of course, propriety (and the fact that I'm a total chickenshit) forced me to play it safe. Lots of heavy eye contact, a little toss of the hair (that famous attention-grabbing move of women the world over), slight pout to the lips (damn, where's the lipgloss when you need it?), a little spark of satisfaction when he looked at our table. The boys were frowning in disapproval (of course, it's alright for them to indulge in such games, but I have to be protected. Bah. Hypocrites.), but they did concur that he was looking in our direction quite a bit. The final triumph,I could see, was about to come about, since he had just risen from his table and was coolly sauntering over. I was getting ready to play it coy, maybe accept a drink and haggle over whether or not I'd give him my phone number, when he stopped in front of my friend N.K. and said: "Do you want to dance?" Lesson 3: acquire gaydar, or gay radar. Really. It helps.

While not every person is a willing participant in the game, it does tend to suck you right in. Pretty soon, you'll find you're even checking out men with your mom. Of course, this is a little...er...what's the word...different. Mom and I were at the CCI once, ostensibly swimming but in actuality checking out the ample goodies on display. I spotted a specimen that redefined the term six pack, and was telling mom in hushed (yes, I had finally learned to whisper) tones just how attractive I found the physique laid out a few chaise lounges away. Flash forward a few days, and we were at the CCI again, meeting mom's friends for lunch. The next thing I know, in walks Mr. Hotbody, and, wonder of wonders, he's the son of one of mom's friends. So we're introduced around, and my mom (dear sweet soul) winks at me and says to the guy "Oh, it's you...my daughter couldn't stop gushing about your...what did you call it, sweetie? Six-pack? Yes, that's right. Wow, you must really work out a lot." Lesson 4: Tell your mother nothing. NOTHING.

With the help of these few lessons, I hope others will be as enlightened as I am to the ways of this sometimes treacherous, often perilous, always entertaining game. All the best to everyone out there - to the men, may you find women whose drinks won't stain when thrown at you. To the women, I hope you're more attractive than your male friends.

My Only Thought

...Is that this time tomorrow, I’ll be in Bombay!! As N.M. soooo sweetly and soooo graciously said: “No sleep, no peace, no rest, no alone time…no sleep!” I can’t wait!!

Plus, H.T.’s getting married! Chronicles on one of our own getting shackled…er,hitched… to follow (sure to be filled with biased observations due to my enduring Peter Pan complex).

BUT! Bombay!!

I Won, I Won, I Won!!

...Though not at poker, sadly, where I'm continuing on a month-long losing streak. Sigh. BUT! Even better! I won the competition being held by FriendsOfBooks for Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan's new book: Confessions of a Listmaniac. Eeeeeeee. Okay, so I'm being all fan-girl here, but I can't help it... I've followed her blog for..oooh 4 years now, and then loved her first book, You Are Here, and now I'm one of the 3 winners selected to get a signed copy of her new (and undoubtedly hilarious) book. Say it with me: Eeeeeeeeeee!

The competition involved listing the things we love (d) and hate (d) most about being teenagers. After straining to remember that far back, I was able to come up with a few pros and cons of teenage-dom: hardly a set list, but what came back to me with the most startling, laugh-inducing, pain-in-the-chest-in-a-good-nostalgic-way clarity. With a few additions, here's what I wrote:-


LOVED

- The excitement that came with a crush, and the thrill of seeing the object of my affection, however fleetingly!

- Meeting with friends in corridors in the too-short time span between the school buses arriving and the assembly bell, and catching up on what we missed in each others’ lives in the past 16 hours (6 hours, if you count from when we FINALLY got off the phone).

- How EVERYTHING was of vital importance!

- That the little things mattered the most: the biggest concern was whether or not I'd pass maths; the main goal was to ensure my skirt was at JUST the right length to make melook good and not incur the teachers’ wrath; the highlight of the day was when my crush talked to me and didn’t even bat an eye at his friends’ hooting and catcalling.

- The ability to talk on the phone for 5 hours straight and still feel that there was plenty more to be said.

- The single, everlasting moment before my first kiss.

- That "being there for each other” and ”having your back” and ”unswerving support” weren’t just random terms, but actual qualities prevalent in a circle of friends.

- Sleepovers at friends' places and sneaking out for parties - is it just me, or did it make the party SO much more fun knowing you weren't supposed to be there?

HATED

- The double-standard and labeling that was prevalent when it came to romance…no matter how much they did, the boys were studs; no matter how little they did, the girls were sluts.

- Getting my period and having to wear a white uniform in summer…talk about constant fear!

- That popularity mattered so much to some people that they’d treat those who were different (too tall, too thin, too fat, too pimply, too brainy, too poor) with extreme cruelty.

- How easy it was for teachers to judge students only based on marks and not personality, efforts, extra-curriculars…

- The people who'd gossip for the sake of it, with no basis or regard to truth: so at the age of 15 I had a random girl in the school bathroom, who had no clue who I was, telling me of my own purported exploits - boob job, threesome with 2 guys at a party, sleeping with the Head Boy. On the plus side, her face when I introduced myself was PRICELESS! :)

- How emotions were so extreme that a break-up felt like the end of the world (maybe that’s not just a teenage thing, though).

What about you? What did you love and hate most about being a teenager?

I Should Have Saved The Title For This Post…

… instead of using it here. Ah well, I’m not the weather bureau, and hence couldn’t predict that I’d want to recycle my witticism (scant and obtuse though it may be) for commenting on Cyclone Phet, which I lived through unscathed. Having survived 2 cyclones now with minimal damage (I don’t think a leaky bedroom window and TV transmission disappearing for 2 hours counts for much), I have to say this one was definitely milder than Gonu…rained on and off for a day-and-a-half, infrequent wind gusts, and a death toll in the low (mercifully) double-digits (may they rest in peace).

I think it’s just that all the ongoing construction in this place is disturbing the flow of the wadis (dry river beds) and playing havoc with the natural drainage system of the land. Or could be that before this, the land never saw the need for natural drainage, what with being a desert region and glimpsing rainfall once a year, if that. Whatever it is, the place floods up quicker than a stoppered bath-tub, and all activity virtually ceases, with work shutting down, schools closed and international exams cancelled (CFA – boy, are people unhappy about that!).

How different from Bombay, when, far from shutting down, the city would exult in the torrent! Even then, we’d trudge through to college (yay for living town-side and not in the suburbs), go sit at the CCI or get soaked on Marine Drive (of course, gorging on hot buttered corn or pakoras all the while). None of this stay-home-off-the-streets-avoid-bridges stuff. And really, what’s the point? Two days later, and we’re back to 50-degree scorching heat.

Makes me long for the unrelenting week-long downpour of a good old Bombay monsoon.

Enough With The Waterworks Already

The moons are perpetually aligned wrong, or something, because whenever there is an important moment in my brother’s life, I’m always PMSing – and therefore terribly prone to blubbering at the drop of a hat. At least last night I wasn’t the only one (blubbering, I mean).

My baby (he hates that) brother graduated from high school last night, and for the first time I understood how the phrase ‘bursting with pride’ came to be coined. From the moment we walked in the gates and introduced ourselves as his family, the staff and other students beamed at us and commended us on the “wonderful man that he is.” My mind boggled, and I swear, the words were on the tip of my tongue – he’s not a man, he’s a little boy! But he didn’t look it last night, in his cap and gown, with his degree in one hand and the prize for ‘Highest Academic Distinction’ in the other.

I know this is like flogging a dead horse, and just re-iterates everything I’ve said here, but I can’t help it. He’s grown up too fast, he can’t be 18 already, he was just heading off to ‘big boy school’ yesterday, just crawling backwards last week! WTF? And in September he’ll be headed off into the wilds of…well, God knows where, but still…away. He’ll be away. From me. Oh crap, let me go get the Kleenex.

Honestly, I don’t know how parents deal with their kids growing up. Kudos to my mom and dad – they’re running through less tissue than I am.

Beautiful Dangerous

Is it just me, or is Slash & Fergie's "Beautiful Dangerous" the ultimate stripper song? Very 80's nostalgia (G'n'R, of course) or Coyote Ugly-ish. Undeniable gorgeous guitar riffs, though. Of course, that goes without saying when it's Slash. Deep, it ain't. But definitely a fun song!

I don't know who you are now:
Mystery drenches my brain.
I wanna jump deep into your mouth,
Cuz something tell's me it's gonna rain.
.
I hear the drum rolls thumping,
And my heart starts jumping,
And that's when I spit on the floor...
Now my head's exploding,
And your gun is dirty,
So I'm guessing I'm on a roll.
Well it's a fine time,
Looking for a wine time, man,
And you said "baby you ready to play?"
Well come right on this rollercoaster,
Cuz it aint over, it aint over.
.
Now we're on this planet,
I'm in love with all your dangers (dangers)
We can live foreverI can be your favorite angel (angel)
Beautiful dangerous....
.
We acted smooth like rain...
Save all flame that we'll light.
You can be sick, I'll be nasty...
Cuz sometimes it's more fun to fight.
.
I hear the drum rolls thumping,

And my heart starts jumping,

And that's when I spit on the floor...

Now my head's exploding,

And your gun is dirty,

So I'm guessing I'm on a roll.

Well it's a fine time,

Looking for a wine time, man,

And you said "baby you ready to play?"

Well come right on this rollercoaster,

Cuz it aint over, it aint over.

.

Now we're on this planet,

I'm in love with all your dangers (dangers)

We can live foreverI can be your favorite angel (angel)

Beautiful dangerous....

Would You, Really?

Want to be immortal, I mean?

This isn't anything to do with my aeons-old vampire fetish, but rather a book R lent me to peruse while I was sick and recuperating at home last week: The Book of Skulls by Robert Silverberg. I'm not a die-hard science fiction enthusiast, but despite being tagged under Sci-Fi Masterworks, I'd classify this book as more occult and mysticism, with a lot of study-of-human-nature thrown in.

The premise is this: 4 boys in their final year of college set out on a cross-country trip to Arizona to locate a sect shrouded in secrecy and mystery: The Brotherhood of the Skulls. According to ancient but reliable texts discovered by one of the boys, the Brotherhood offers the gift of immortality to those who seek it, but with a few catches: those questing immortality must present themselves in groups of 4; they must stay the course of the initiation without informing the outside world; and of the 4 only 2 will survive "for the price of life is always a life". Sinister stuff, no? Half the book is comprised of their journey there, and the thoughts of each one - I loved how the author alternated between each boy and allowed us a detailed (and often disturbing) travel through each one's psyche.

The book had me alternating my views on whom I wanted to live or die, and I think that disturbed me more than anything - playing God even in that small measure, judging and weighing each of those fictional characters' lives and decisions and flaws and failures. Stupid, I know, but the tone of the book is such that it makes you question so many, many things - including yourself. Brilliantly written. Any book that gets me to question beyond who, what, where, when and why deserves all the awards and accolades out there.

The end lived up to my expectations, but all through the book, I kept asking myself: would I? Given the chance, would I WANT immortality? For me, the answer is no: simply because I wouldn't want to live out forever without the people I love by my side. The book (and R) expostulates the myriad possibilities : discovering new things, learning every day, mastering new crafts, greeting the dawn of new centuries - new millennia even! To which my simple answer is: what is the point of all that if you don't have people to share it with you? Give me a few good decades with everyone I love and I'll gladly forego forever.

What about you? What if you could choose to live forever? Would you?

Just Because I Need To Complain....

...doesn't mean I can't do it in rhyme :)

I'd give all the money I have to just take a nap;
I think I'm coming down with the flu, I feel like crap.
There's rivers of snot pouring out of my nose,
And I feel sick from my head right down to my toes.


Phlegm has clogged up my throat and deepened my voice,
And every cough makes a tremendous thunderous noise.
My trumpet-like sneezes evoke no sympathy, no pity:
They’re so loud they make elephants seem dainty and pretty.


But worst of all is the look on my face:
Part stoner, part loner, part alien from space.
I’m blotchy and red and look like I’m holding in my pee,
Oh this cold really will be the death of poor little me.

Et tu, Shashi Tharoor?

Honestly, I don't know whether I'm more disappointed that he's been accused of being a crooked politician or an unfaithful man.

Like it wasn't bad enough reading about David Letterman, Tiger Woods, John Edwards, Jesse James, Steven Seagal....

What is wrong with men? Why can't they keep it in their pants??

Apparently I Repel The Undead Too...

How a conversation would go between my best friend and me if he was a vampire:

Me (terrified): “AAAAAAAaaaaaa……”

Him (holding head in pain): “Stop that screaming! I have super-sensitive hearing as a result of being an undead sex god.”

Me (terror subsiding, replaced by curiosity): “….aaahhhh!!!!....Wait. What does the hearing have to do with being a sex god?”

Him (trying to look superior, but a little uncertain): “UNDEAD sex god. And it’s one of the perks.”

Me (in full-fledged nerd-mode): “How would you even know you’re a sex god? You just came back from the dead an hour ago. Scaring the crap out of me, I might add, since I was mourning your supposed death and whatnot.”

Him (annoyed): “Gee. Thanks. That’s touching. And it’s a given. Vampires have undead sexual magnetism. We HAVE to be sex gods.”

Me (logically): “Uh-huh. Or vampires could just use their hypno-crap to CONVINCE people that they’re sex gods.”

Him (completely abandoning all pretence at logic): “Oh for…! I FEEL sexier!”

Me (moving into super-geek mode): “That’s another thing. Vampires don’t cry. Don’t pee. Don’t poop. Don’t bleed. No bodily functions, basically. So how can they …you know, get it up? To do stuff?”

Him (looking heavenward for patience): “We just can! We don’t ask questions about it!”

Me (skeptical): “Riiiiiight. Oh, wait, so if you do it with a live person, then would that person be a necrophiliac?”

Him (rolling eyes): “That’s not very original, I’m sure others have asked that question.”

Me (not giving up): “Yes, but have they gotten an answer?”

Him (grinning hopefully): “Probably not a verbal one. Maybe a practical demonstration.”

Me (rolling MY eyes): “Hmm. Yeah, that’s not going to work.”

Him (whining): “Not even with the hypno-crap?”

Me (my turn to be annoyed): “I can’t believe you’re dead and still trying get in my pants!”

Him (aggrieved): “It’s UNdead!”

Me (curious again): “And that’s another thing. How come you’re not decomposing? Why aren’t your bits and pieces rotting and falling off?”

Him (horrified): “You keep my bits and pieces out of this! Of course I’m not decomposing, I’m not some common zombie!”

Me (even more curious): “So how come zombies decompose but vampires don’t?”

Him (almost crying with annoyance): “ I DON’T KNOW!! I’ve only been back from the dead for an hour!”

Me (oblivious to his mental anguish): “If a vampire and a zombie had to, you know, do it…would something rot and fall off?”

Him (with a mixture of awe and horror): “It’s amazing that you are even more disgusting than the prospect of drinking human blood.”

Me (blushing): “Awww, you’re sweet.”


So in a fit of boredom, my friend and I were talking about my vampire fixation, and went through this hypothetical scenario. The above conversation is actually ours.

End result, he decided that if he DID come back from the dead as a vampire, he’d kill me just to shut me up. And wouldn’t drink my blood, because he’s pretty sure there’s something seriously wrong with me.

Hmph.

The results of boredom at work

Oh the pain, oh the woe!
Oh the sprain in my little big toe!
Oh that I must wear such heels!
Oh that style matters more than how it feels!

But truth be told it is my choice:
For sensible shoes are not so nice;
So my shoes are pretty and dainty and jewel laden -
And stab me more than an iron maiden!

Oh that I choose to eschew
Ugly, but comfortable, flat-heeled shoes;
Ah, that beauteous straps and laces adorn
Shoes that are leaving me bleeding and torn.

So my beautiful and deadly stilettos
Are forcing me to walk on my tippy-toes,
And adding to my strained arch’s woes:
So the price of beauty goes.

Alright, so I'll never be Dr. Seuss, but it helped pass the time...well, the 5 minutes it took me to come up with that.

Now I'm bored again!

Today's Morning Routine

(Slightly, but only slightly, different from most mornings)

Cellphone alarm goes off. Groan. Activate snooze settings for 15 minutes. Bury head under covers.

Alarm goes off. Groan. Snooze for another 15 minutes.

Alarm goes off. Glance at time, shriek at how late it is, scramble out of bed, get tangled in covers and thud to the floor. Every. Damn. Day.

Brush, shower, shampoo, condition. It’s been 3 weeks, so pull out lawn-mower style razor to shave legs and curse hairy South Indian genes inherited from father.

Scramble out of shower, slip on tile floor (at least once a week), unfortunately get glance at self in mirror and further curse South Indian genes for unwanted curves (also known as flab, fat, jelly, blubber) in unattractive places.

Glance at time, shriek again, throw on clothes, forego drying hair, jam on shoes and race down stairs.

Wolf down breakfast (something that used to be skipped earlier, but is now mandatory. Sad…used to save at least 10 minutes before). Notice that long hair has created uncomfortable wet and see-through patches on white shirt. Curse.

Race out of house, hop in car, get stuck in traffic for 20 minutes (despite work being only 10 minutes away), and stop-drop-and-roll out of car when it pulls up in front of office. Very commando-style, kinda cool. Or would be, if my heels didn’t get stuck in my trousers and send me tumbling head-over-ass.

Jam at lift button for few minutes, curse at sloth-like elevator and generally terrify the mild-mannered natives, abandon the foyer area and race up the back stairs.

Clock in with 17 seconds to spare.

Collapse at desk. Only to find computer won’t start. And when it does, the screen’s wonky. And when that’s fixed, the internet won’t work.

What’s the point of waking up everyday??

Bah.

Near-death accidents: 2. Words that would make sailors and truck drivers blush: 8. Bruises on body: 5. Colleagues/clients/IT People/other innocents scared: countless.

And it’s only 10 in the morning.

Material Girl

I am currently on the ecstatic side of the mood spectrum (which generally means that either my wallet, or someone else's, is now CONSIDERABLY lighter).

That would be due to these gifts/purchases/sheer indulgences:

Strappy silver sinfully sexy 4-inch stiletto heels. Pretty, yes?

Also strappy pink-and-burgundy (they look a LOT better than they sound) stilettos (TRUST me when I say they’re worth the future varicose veins!)

The box set of Southern Vampire Mysteries by Charlaine Harris (the books on which the True Blood series is based…I can’t WAIT to read them all cover to cover)

The Vampyre and Other Tales of the Macabre by John Polidori (the first vampire story ever written! Eeee! Also, bit of trivia: did you know John Polidori was Lord Byron’s personal physician, and based his story on his travels with Byron?)

City of Glass by Cassandra Clare (the final installment of her Mortal Instruments trilogy about the Nephilim…I have actually read this before, in PDF format, but that can’t ever compare to the sheer joy of curling up in bed with a little Three Doors Down playing in the background, chugging Coke and poring over the angsty angelic-demonic goodness that is Jace Wayland, page by page).

Also, a friend (who is now my very best friend in the universe for all eternity, sorry N.M.) got me a six-pack of Thums Up! For the uninitiated, Thums Up is the Indian offshoot of Coke, but slightly less sweet and MUCH fizzier. Also, when I burp, it comes out my nose!

Oh happy happy joy joy! I feel like jumping up and kicking my heels in the air! But my stilettos don’t permit that…

For Those of You Out There

... who need inspiration. Or a wake-up call.

In my circle of acquaintances, there is:

- A woman frustrated with her dead-end job in a male-dominated office in a male-dominated country.

- A woman steadily climbing the corporate ladder, respected and liked, and grateful to the predecessors who have paved the way for her.

- A woman whose husband has cheated on her. They're trying, everyday, to rebuild what once was, but it's a steep uphill climb.

- A woman whose husband cheated on her after 30 years of marriage. She unceremoniously threw him out, took hold of the reins of her family and her life, and is the happiest she's been in the past 3 decades.

- A woman who was accosted by a man in broad daylight on a busy street in a big city. People came to her aid as he tried to stuff her into a waiting van, but she still fears for the day when there will be no one around to hear her scream.

- A woman who has to ask her husband before spending a single cent of the money he earns. Resentful, she wishes she had gone back to work after the baby, had studied further, had chosen another life for herself.

- A woman who did choose another life for herself. And who glories in every pair of shoes or piece of jewellery she buys with her own hard-earned money.

- A woman who was forced to have an abortion 3 years ago. She still thinks about the baby, and what she would have named her, and what dress she would have worn on her 3rd birthday.

- A woman who wants a baby so badly, she's beginning to resent the woman who had the abortion, for abandoning something so precious, so desired.

- A woman who is in love.

- A woman who thinks she might have given up on love.

- A woman whose husband has never raised a hand to her, but beats her down every day with words, with gestures, with eye-rolls, with blatant disregard.

- A woman whose boyfriend adores her, wants to marry her, and can actually picture no greater bliss than spending the rest of his life with her.

- A woman who is happy and content.

- A woman who cannot remember the last time the word 'happy' crossed her mind, let alone her lips.

But every single one of them hopes. For more, for better, for themselves and for those around them.

When I read about this:

... I couldn't help but take the opportunity to tell (however briefly and however anonymously) the stories of these amazing women's lives.

Because, with everything they go through and everything they face, they ARE amazing, simply for getting up in the morning and putting on a smile for the world.

And I want to tag Nusy, Standy and JSO: so they can tell their own stories.

I Get By With A Lil' Help From My Friends...

There was a time in my life (mid-teens) when lines were clearly drawn, boundaries devoutly demarcated: friends are friends, best friends are best friends, potential love interests are fleeting, and NEVER the twain shall meet. These distinctions were important back then, because all my best friends were hormonal teenage boys who had an alarming propensity to suddenly develop this mysterious thing called “feelings” for me. I eventually worked out that these “feelings” coincided with me hitting puberty and developing a decent-sized rack, so I managed to maintain a healthy sense of skepticism and didn’t let the attention go to my head (much).

Around the time I hit 20, I had a stellar group of friends and we were all quite grounded in our love for each other – it was there, it was solid, it was non-negotiable (much to the chagrin of several over-possessive girlfriends and boyfriends who came and went). If there was a time when any of us within the group suspected we might be developing feelings for each other (and you throw a group of 20-somethings together, it’s kinda inevitable), we dealt with it with a minimum of fuss and drama – things NEVER worked out (sad, but true), so we quietly went back to being best friends and promptly resumed the ridiculously comfortable camaraderie we had always shared. I don’t know whether this was a sign of the maturity we possessed (I SERIOUSLY doubt it) or simply the fact that it was ingrained in our psyches that no relationship (or lack thereof) could ever possibly be as satisfying as the friendship we shared.

I often wonder why things didn’t go better. There have been several men and women in the group who have, on occasion, suddenly seemed to wake up to the fact that maybe they felt more than just friendship. But despite knowing each other for eons, knowing every thought and feeling and PMS-induced moodswing, things would invariably go awry. When you’ve known someone for years and years, does that make it easier or more difficult to fall in love with them? I wonder if getting into a relationship when you’ve already seen the frog’s warts is a bad idea…those relationships where you keep discovering things about each other seem to work out better than the ones where you’ve seen each other in tattered boxers, or without make-up, or witnessed each others’ severe morning breath on overnight trips to Pune and Goa.

It’s been about a decade now, and all of us are in our mid-to-late 20s, scattered across the globe; some dating, some engaged, some blissfully single and some scarred by past relationships. Distance and jobs and different time zones make it difficult for us to talk everyday, but we’re all so secure in the knowledge that we love each other, it doesn’t matter. Boyfriends and girlfriends will come and go, but we’ve all stood the test of time, and bad hair days, and acne, and psychotic significant others. The days of wondering ‘what if’ about each other are over, because we’ve settled into our comfortable grooves…furniture, if you will…I’m the bean bag in front of the tv, N.M. is the sofa in the corner, D.S. is the recliner over there…etc. We’ve confidently declared that we’re all pooling in our money to buy a huge house so we can all move in together – something big enough to give each of us our own space, but small enough to keep us close together. And, of course, we’ll all be going into the same retirement home in our 80s, where we’ll terrorize the staff by having wheelchair races in the corridors.

Childish fantasy? Sure. Unrealistic? Maybe. Naïve? Definitely.

But it keeps us going. It’s our version of happily ever after.

Another V-Day Goes By...

…And it’s celebrated, if not quite in B’bay style, then similarly enough: surrounded by good friends, with good conversation and most importantly, good food (sadly, terrible music, though)! The 14th saw my friends here (most of whom are either in long-distance relationships, like Abby, or away from significant others on the day, like NV and RV) get together at first a coffee shop and then a local sheesha joint to band together for a good ol’ gossip session over kebabs, burgers, pasta and sinfully gooey chocolate cake.

We’re hardly the most cerebral or sentimental bunch of 20-somethings, so I wonder if it’s the day itself that got us talking about relationships: past, present and yet-to-be-explored; marriage: NV just got engaged and the rest of us solemnly swore not to think about it for another decade; children: how many we want, whether we’ll adopt, where we’d like to bring them up. So different from the normal who-got-drunk-and-did-what-with-whom-last-weekend boredom. Not that I’m saying this should become a staple fixture in our conversations, but it made for a great change of pace.

Sometimes I look around and wonder if we’re waking up to the world more as we move further into our 20s, or actually becoming more and more self-involved. Is it the place we live in and the people we surround ourselves with that shape us (however temporarily), or is it our efforts to break away from these norms and establish some sense of individuality? Because to be honest, individuality seems to be in short supply around here.. And if we’re just sheep following the rest of the herd, what does that say about us and who we’re becoming? And what if the shepherd’s incompetent or misguided or just leading the herd to slaughter?

Argh, nevermind. I think this is just my brain’s way of telling me that relationships and personality traits are best not contemplated when I’m sleep-and-Coke-deprived.

Words To Live By...

I had the profound privilege and pleasure of sitting in on a talk given by Dr. Shashi Tharoor, Minister of State for External Affairs of India, the day before yesterday (or, as he put it, a bilateral meeting of minds) and found myself utterly fascinated by how he took the everyday, ordinary, even mundane facts around us and made everyone say "Oh...yeah...didn't see it that way. Huh. Wow."

Case in point being when a member of the audience asked him how he felt about being a "misfit in the Indian political scene" and whether that made him a "target of the press' taunts and his seniors' ridicule" his response was affable and disingenuous: "I find myself objecting not to the tone of the question, but to the single word 'misfit', which implies that there is only ever one fit for everything." It's never just about square pegs and round holes, but learning to accommodate, to pare rough edges, to widen smaller niches. I love that this is something EVERYONE knows, but it takes this man to say it for people in the audience to sit up, look around at their neighbours and say "Hmmm. Yes."

His following words were even better. "As for inviting taunts or ridicule, well, something new always does, doesn't it? There will always be minds that are sluggish to accept change. And as I often ask the veteran reporters who bombard me with these questions: 'Well, how would you feel if some new reporter came in and took the job you felt you deserved, along with all the accolades and attention?'"

Is it weird to have a fan-girl crush on a politician?

Finally!

I am a woman of means again! Not substantial means, mind you, and I'm not going to be gifting my friends Lamborghinis or Maseratis anytime soon (got that, N.M.?), but at LAST I got my work visa sorted out and started working!

Turns out finance companies don't deal with numbers any less than banks do...which is a fairly obvious conclusion. I'm so in the wrong line of work! Is it too late to erase the last few years of my life and sign on for an English or History major instead? I'm sure librarians get paid enough to keep them in a steady supply of Coke and strappy-little-shoes and Lindt Hazelnut chocolates, right? And really, what more does a woman need?

Although, to be honest, it might be more sensible to knock off the Coke and the chocolates - I've been going to the gym religiously for the past month and I've managed to PUT ON 2 kilos. The trainers are all mystified. The little fridge by my bed (which holds my secret stash of After-Eights, Toblerones and Patchis) explains it all, though... Then again, as my friends are always quick to point out: if I was more sensible, I wouldn't be me.

I keep trying to remind myself that I love them.

But sometimes it's hard.

"Days Go By...

...And still I think of you." Okay, that's how the 'Dirty Vegas' song goes, at any rate...not entirely apropos of my thoughts right now, but I find I always have to complete the lyric. And now the song's going to be stuck in my head for the next 3 days. At least it's not Britney Spears. Argh.

I can't believe it's 2010. Over a decade of the new millennium is gone. And I'm OLD. When did this happen?? I get tired by 1 a.m., I can't drink as much as I used to (well, I only really started drinking a couple of years ago, but nevermind), I can't dance for four hours straight in four-inch stilettoes, I get exhausted after an hour-long session at the gym (but at least I'm going!) and want to do nothing but curl up in bed for the rest of the evening, and my memory is most definitely going. Plus, horror of horrors, I've become one of those crabby OLD people who keep complaining, as evinced by this entire paragraph.

Right, no more. I'm counting my blessings as of now, which, when you think about it, is also something that OLD people do...but the nice ones, so that's alright :)

- My health, which is thankfully back on track after what seems like forever. I'm still susceptible to every bug out there, and my constantly runny nose makes the Niagara Falls seem like a pesky leaky faucet, but hey, no hospitals!

- My family, who are kick-ass and quirky and fun and supportive and everything, literally everything, to me. Especially my mom, who hasn't murdered me yet.

- My B'bay friends, who like me despite the 15 extra kilos, and seem to be handling growing old a lot better than I am! Maybe because they're all guys and don't obsess about crow's feet and laugh lines as much. Or maybe they hide it really well...

- My friends in this part of the world, who are the most entertaining people I've had the fortune to meet (although some of them are definitely the most annoying, obnoxious, irritating brats I've had the misfortune to meet...well, really only D). And NV and RV, whom I meet once or twice a year, but who make me believe that there really are sensible, fun, intelligent women out there who know their own minds and aren't just...sheep. And P and T, who make me feel like I would've liked a couple of little sisters. And K, who was by far the most sane person around for the last few weeks...despite his sheesha obsession.

- My local friends, who are loud and fun and sweet beyond belief...how amazing are you guys, Queen and Standy? Give yourselves a hand!

- My sanity, which is sometimes questionable, often shaky, but always present. At least in comparison to a lot of people I've met recently.

- My life, which, when reading over the last few points, really IS something to be grateful for.

Hence, no more complaining.

For now :)