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.

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.

In 2010 I Resolve To...

... Hit the gym everyday. Or at least thrice a week. Or at least enough to shed the sackful of blubber I managed to put on during my recent B'bay trip.

... Finally start on a damn Masters' Degree. GMAT - Check. IELTS - Check. So, London here I come...if you'll have me.

... Stay away from the drama. My little corner of the Middle East seems to be aspiring to be the next "One Tree Hill" or "The Bold and The Beautiful". Or, as one of my friends so succinctly put it - "It's The Hills, with ugly people." Heh. So, steer FAR away from arguing couples, couples-in-secret, cheating couples, airheaded women, psychotic women and chronic pull-a-move-but-then-blame-it-on-the-alcohol drunkards. That leaves me with about 3 friends.

... Attend as many friends' weddings as I can. After missing out on ohhhh 30-odd weddings in 2009, I'm pretty sure my friends will shift from mere verbal abuse to proper shoe-throwing if I miss anymore of their nuptials.

... And not grit my teeth when asked about my marriage plans. Which are, and always will be non-existent. It's here in writing!

... Call my B'bay friends more often. Because my recent trip just made me realize that not having them around everyday is a severe detriment to my sanity. And, as NM says, my waistline too. Yeah, I love the bastard.

... Blog more. Because there's always so much to say.

... Bitch less. But then that sort of negates the resolution to blog more.

... Hit the gym. I'm so serious about this, I'm writing it twice. I WILL STICK TO THIS ONE. I hope.

...Get my life in order. How's that for ambitious?

Happy New Year in advance, everyone! Happy partying, and I'll see you on the flipside :)

Continuing Work In Progress

Unfortunately, D.S. and I didn't get to go to B'bay and work on our masterpiece together, and now she's in Paris (and man, I miss having her on the same continent), so the rest of this is continued with inputs from R. He read the first post here, and shook his head sorrowfully till I was afraid it would fall off. "I can't believe you've got so much negative stuff to say about men when ALL your friends are men! Surely you've met a few good ones along the way!" Cue much silence from me and glaring from him. So, at his behest, I'm updating on the different types of men found in nature (and in shady clubs), and I'm including a couple more nice guys (endangered species must always be publicized to highlight their plight, after all).

9. The Innocent Good Guy

This sub-category of male is utterly unaware of the devastating effect he has on the female of the species, and that makes him all the more attractive. He's charming without trying, sweet without being saccharine, genuinely interested in what a woman has to say without resorting to picturing her naked, and is patient without the aid of heavy-duty drugs.

Unfortunately, I rather suspect he may be a figment of my imagination. Or gay.

10. The Decent Guy

This is the guy who's mindful of what he says and how he acts around women: he won't use profanity around her, stands when she enters a room, opens restaurant and car doors for her, makes sure she's always home at an appropriate hour and is very very polite.

But, twisted as both D.S. and I are, this generally adds up to: "Yawn. Blah. Yawwwn" for us. Years of being around beer-guzzling, alphabet-belching, ball-scratching cavemen has obviously had a slightly detrimental effect on us.

11. The Knight In Shining Armour

I'm a little on the fence about this type of male: yes, he specializes in helping klutzy damsels in distress out (and God knows, klutzy is my middle name), but the basic sexist overtones always make my hackles rise. I honestly think in this day and age we don’t need a man to change a punctured tyre or tell a sleazeball in a club to take a hike. Okay, I’ll concede that when it comes to physical prowess, it may make sense to have one of these around (should a situation get ugly), but otherwise I just can’t abide by the type of man who feels a need to protect and shelter and coddle the "little woman" and treat her like fine china.

12. The Manipulative Asswipe

Extremely dangerous, this sub-species; to be avoided at all cost, and if one is too late in recognizing him, badness may ensue. Here is a man who will wheedle his way into your time, your life and your heart - and pretty much end up ruining them all. Here is a man who will cheat on you, but make you feel like dirt for doubting him (before he's caught. After he's caught, he'll find a way to blame it on you). Here is a man who'll slowly, subtly, slyly make sure you've alienated all your friends and fought with your family and you don't even realize (till it's too late) that all you've got left is him. And he turns out not to be worth it.

D.S. and I are well acquainted with this type. We hold them personally responsible for turning us into the cynics we are now. And sort of grudgingly thank them for opening our eyes.

13. The Sulker

Can also be known as The Spoiled Brat. Was obviously Momma's Little Precious who got his own way all the time, and thinks this molly-coddling is going to carry over into his adult life with all his relationships. Wake up, boy: we're not your mama, we're NOT going to pick up your socks, cook you french toast, make your bed and wash your underwear. You're obviously looking for a maid, not a girlfriend. We're NOT going to be co-erced into sex, blowjobs and handjobs when we don't want to; and we're not going to wear a trashy dress and let your boss/rich uncle/prosepctive client ogle and grope us. You’re obviously looking for a hooker, not the love of your life.

And look at us: do we look impressed by that pout you've got going on? No. That's right, you just go ahead and look sullen and surly and turn your back on us. That'll make us change our minds. Suuuure.

14. The Confused Idiot

This type of man is as much a danger to himself as he is to women - he doesn’t know WHAT he wants. He wants a fling - oh no, wait, he wants a girlfriend - no wait, a wife - no, wait, he's not ready for that commitment and he may be developing feelings for your best friend who smiled at him the other day - actually he may want to switch jobs and that's got his head in a muddle and OF COURSE he loves you; but, wait, that chick in the copy room sort of brushed up against him and while he would NEVER cheat on you, the temptation was there so maybe he's not ready…

Bah. Who needs all that? Just leave him alone, he'll end up killing himself. At least if you're not dating him, you won't have to clean up the mess.

15. The Possessive Jerk

He hates that you hang around with boys all the time; is suspicious of every friendly hug and innocent peck on the cheek; starts fights everytime you want to hang out with the guys and calls/messages approximately every 3 minutes when you’re out with them. Is also capable of being a hypocrite, as he will see nothing wrong in spending quality time with his female friends. Confront him on this, and he'll offer such excuses as: "It's a man thing" or "It's the caveman in me" or, the lowest blow of all: "I just love you so much, I can't bear to think of losing you." Don’t fall for it. He's just a Manipulative Asswipe in the making.

16. The Stoner

With this type of spaced-out man, you will always be ignored for the joint or the bong or the syringe; and the person he will be happiest to see is his dealer. Never date a guy who's more into the wacky tobacky or the happy pill than he is into you. Your ego will NOT be able to handle being second fiddle to crushed, dried leaves.

Off the top of my head I could come up with a dozen more categories, but in all fairness I would like to get out there and see if there more nice guys I could include in the line-up :)

Warning: Sappy Post Ahead

I've never really celebrated Raksha Bandhan (for the uninformed and the non-Indians: a Hindu festival celebrating the bond between brothers and sisters) with my brother Mahesh… my family isn't given to really celebrating a lot of religious/symbolic occassions, which has always suited me just fine! But every year, I like to take stock of my memories relating to my baby brother, and as much as I know he rolls his eyes and sighs and huffs, he enjoys it too :)

- I remember being 8 years old and having my parents tell me that we were going to have a baby in the house soon. I also remember asking if I could have a terrier puppy instead.

- I remember telling my friends about it, and saying I wanted a little brother. I also remember their sage advice at the age of 8: God works in mysterious ways, so ask for a sister, and He'll give you a brother.

- I remember Dad collecting me from Smallie's house after school and taking me to hospital to see Mom and then you: scrawny, yet bigger than all the other babies; squinting in the glare of the hospital lights and so impossibly adorable that it hurt my chest to look at you.

- I remember sneaking into Mom and Dad's room every night to look in at you and make sure you were still breathing. Of course, this turned out not to be such a good idea when I had chicken pox and passed it on to you at the tender age of 2 months!

- I remember how you'd only crawl backwards; run full tilt but never walk; eat only chicken-stew and rice till you were 6; fight with me only about what to watch on TV and who got the last can of Coke (the parents got us our own TVs, but there's STILL never enough Coke!); come to me with your homework and report cards before going to Mom; ask me about friends and boyfriends but remain unfazed when I teased you…the good, calm, quiet boy as opposed to me: often loud, occassionally obnoxious, rare but explosive temper.

- I remember you just waiting to grow…first to be taller than Mom (easily achieved at age 11), and then me (age 14) and finally Dad (you're 17 and 6'4" now, a good 4 inches taller than him. Happy?).

- Now every day there are new things to file away in my brain's memory box labeled "Mahesh" : you being so excited (but playing it cool) about being on the basketball team; your first kiss; the first time I took you out with my friends (who were dating and VERY affectionate….oh, your scandalized expression!). You're the sort of baby brother who asks "Who are you going out with?" and "When will you be back?" and "Is THAT what you're wearing?" - something even Dad never did! And then you quietly open the door for me at 3 in the morning when I forget my keys.

- I saw you browsing through college admissions sites the other day, and I ruffled your hair and just walked past…then went and sat in my room and pulled out old photo albums: the embarassing ones, with you as a baby with your head sticking out of the bucket you had climbed into; the time I put a whole bunch of flowered clips in your hair; the time we went to Jaipur and you and I were squinting into the sun, pulling funny faces at the camera. There's pictures of me carrying you, and making faces at your smelly diaper, and us jumping into bed to watch Jonny Quest together. There's you with the cast on your arm when you broke it: how you enjoyed bashing me over the head with that plaster! There's pictures of you sitting on my lap when you were tiny enough to carry, and there's ones of me sitting on yours because now I'm the tiny one.

I must be PMSing. I'm actually crying as I write this. Bah.

I love you, you doofus.

Fictionally Speaking...

… I get around a lot. I have a male harem. Young, old, in-between. Hot, fugly, in-between. American, British, Cuban, who cares? Age, religion, country of origin and sexual preference are no concern…that's the nice thing about fantasizing about movie stars/literary characters/TV vampires…you don't let little things like their boyfriends get in the way…unless you decide to lust after the boyfriend too (but so far I'm a little too tame for that).

Top 10 Men For Whom I Would Most Definitely Give Up Being A Nun (which, let's face it, I practically am right now. Except for poker. And Coke.)

1. Spike

Mmmm, how do I lust thee, let me count the ways…Spike has definitely been the most enduring of my crushes. Something about the platinum hair, British accent ("Bollocks!" sigh), six pack, black-painted nails and leather duster, snarky-exterior-with-soft-centre just called out to me. Oh, and the whole being-a-vampire-and-loving-the-slayer-even-without-a-soul-and-then-getting-a-soul-for-her thing. Not even finding out that James Marsters (the actor who portrayed him) was American, brunette and (sadly) human could temper my adoration. And don't even get me started on the epic line "I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it". Pure yum.

And did I mention the six pack?

2. Mr. Darcy

EVERY woman who's ever read 'Pride and Prejudice' has put the book down and squealed "He loves her! He loved her all along! Eeee!" Or, okay, maybe that was just me. But really…stiff-upper-lip, stern, reserved Fitzwilliam Darcy's verbal sparring with Elizabeth, his "rescue" of Lydia (can't say I agreed with everything, but I suppose it was the times)….how could anyone not love this man? And no, R, he isn’t a pansy.

I preferred him to Edward Rochester in 'Jane Eyre'….very broody and dashing, yes, but the mad wife locked in the attic just got minus marks from me.

3. Michael Moscovitz…

…from 'The Princess Diaries', or Jesse from the 'Mediator' series, or Rob from the '1-800 Where Are You' series, or Will from the 'Avalon High' series, or Cooper from the 'Size 12' series …all of Meg Cabot's heroes seem to have that Byronic, Darcy-ish quality that is so damn appealing. Most of all Michael Moscovitz, though…the way he puts up with Mia's various neuroses, the lop-sided smile, the lingering scent on his neck that sends Mia's senses reeling….no matter that I'm well into my 20s, I still love reading these books purely for Michael's no-nonsense, pragmatic approach to romance and Mia's sensory-overload reaction to him. And all the neuroses, most of which I sadly manage to identify with. It's like Ally McBeal all over again.

As for Jesse…who cared that he was a ghost? One 'Querida' from him and I think my spine tingled as much as Suze's did. Rob may have been a felon, but his intensity and regard for Jess always appealed to me, even when he was just ruffling her hair or putting his motorcycle helmet on her. And Will …okay, granted, the whole reincarnation-of-King-Arthur thing is more of a stretch than usual, but just the description of the timbre of his voice, the blue of his eyes..and the book interspersed with lines from 'The Lady of Shallot'...mmm. Oh, and Cooper Cartwright, with his ever-present stubble, and constantly rescuing Heather, and eschewing a boy-band career to be a private detective and live in his gay grandfather's New York brownstone, and always bringing Heather fried chicken and cheese and milkshakes…

Whatever world Meg Cabot was inhabiting, where she found these men? I want a one-way ticket there.

4. Angel

The original broody vampire-with-a-soul, skulking in the shadows and looking all tortured. Can't say I much fancied him in the 'Buffy' realm (except when he turned evil as Angelus…mmmm boy, there was just something about him that oozed sex appeal then. On a side note, I should probably get my head examined). But in his series set in L.A., he really came into his own with the shades-of-grey universe he constantly seemed to tightrope through. And he actually developed a sense of humour! So important when battling the denizens of hell on a daily basis, while also dealing with psychotic sires/exes, potentially demonic babies and your own sordid past over 253 years. Of course, as Angel, he does face that pesky curse that has him living virtually like a monk…

But hey, at least he isn't a 117-year-old virgin vampire. I swear I can't think of anything more lame than that.

5. Morelli

I would lump both of Janet Evanovich's sex-god characters in one paragraph, but that would be doing them a grievous disservice. I give you (actually no, I don't, I want him all to myself) Joseph Morelli, precocious kid - turned horny rebellious teen - turned horny dangerous felon - turned New Jersey Cop who has eyes only for Stephanie Plum (the protagonist in the Numbers series). Ladies and gentlemen (if you're interested), Janet Evanovich paints a mind-numbingly sexy picture of Morelli as 6 feet of hard muscle with a gun strapped to his side, genuine Italian temper mixed with bedroom eyes that sound yummier than tiramisu… and he loves dogs. And he doesn't shy away from the L-word! How perfect is that?

6. Ranger

A.k.a. Carlos Manoso, a.k.a. Super Bounty Hunter, a.k.a. the other man in Stephanie Plum's life (and just HOW lucky can one woman get? I know she doesn't actually exist, but I'm still insanely jealous of her!). A strong, silent, black-clothed "whisper on the wind", he's ex-Navy and possibly still-mercenary, and has his own moral code that may or may not mesh with the current legal system; but he does what it takes to keep Stephanie safe, even if is means assassinating the various psychos who find their way to her apartment. Very prone to planting tracking devices on her, replacing the dozens of cars she manages to get blown up and occassionally backing her against a wall to kiss her senseless. Cuban-American with mocha-tinted skin, black hair and unreadable black eyes. Again with the muscles and the guns, but he's a man of few words and gestures, and, according to Stephanie, the only time she knows what he's thinking is when his tongue is in her mouth.

I could live with that.

7. Diesel

I WISH Evanovich would feature him regularly in the Numbers series instead of limiting him to the Between-the-Numbers novels, but I guess Stephanie's love life is complicated enough without the constant presence of a knee-tremblingly seductive uber-bounty hunter who's alternately boyish, persuasive, playful and dangerous.

And he has dimples!

8. Jace Wayland

What is it with me and tortured, lost boys (I foresee years of therapy ahead)? Cassandra Clare's character from her 'Mortal Instruments' trilogy bears striking resemblances to her characterization of Draco Malfoy in the Draco trilogy she used to write way back in her pre-published-author fanfiction days. And I love them both. Both fighting the nature-versus-nurture battle against evil fathers, both battling their own demonic blood, both flippant and angry and cat-like and adept with swords and words alike.

The platinum hair, steely eyes and insolent smirks don't hurt either.

9. Eric Sinclair

MaryJanice Davidson is another one to give the chick-lit world a monster to drool over: Eric Sinclair, Armani-clad King of the Vampires. He's 80-odd years old, cool, suave, detached, loyal and savage when it counts; but still human enough to weep over his Queen's body when he fears she's dead. Also have to admit that the fact that he buys her Jimmy Choos and Manolo Blahniks is a big BIG selling point. And he's not gay!

10. Eric Northman

I just realized there's a disturbing number of vampires on this list…but I can’t help it. Charlaine Harris's character in the Southern Vampire Mysteries is pure sin personified, and he knows it. While his arrogance and cock-sureness (in every way possible) could be a potential turn-off, his bafflement over his purely "human" attachment to mortal waitress Sookie Stackhouse, however, makes him just that little bit more adorable.

And he looks like a Norse God, but that doesn't matter much, right?

The nice thing about me is, I may be certifiably insane, but I don't mind sharing :)

Cupid's Helpers

So I was sitting around with D, A and Abby at A's place last night, catching up after A's fortnight-long vacay in the UK. As was usual, the subject turned to R and me, and why it is we've been "dancing around each other for the past 2 years without doing anything. It's frustrating!" Direct quote there. Now, A and Abby have girlfriends, and were offering long-winded, experience-backed reasoning of why it is that at the age of 26, I should be in a relationship, or at least "enjoy being young and fool around a bit!" D was more succinct: "Just get on with it already, Zulu!"

Against my better judgement, I decided to indulge them and went about collecting pearls of wisdom on how and why they thought R and I should get together. And all I have to say is "Oy vey!"

- According to D: "Well, it's pretty obvious you belong together..I mean, he discusses poetry and shit with you! I never discussed poetry with anyone except my English teacher…although, okay, I didn’t want to date him…hmm…nevermind."

- A and Abby: "Neither you nor R are the type to have flings, and you guys, you know, gel…I mean, he's a liiiittle less dark and broody with you…so why not?" Can't argue with logic like that!

- All of them: "What's the harm in trying? It doesn't work out, c'est la vie…nothing ventured, nothing gained…carpe bloody diem, sieze the day (or something else)…jump on him already," and other assorted cliches, delivered in true, inimitable boy-style.

Now, how to go about it:

- D and A: "R's a little reserved, no? So you have to send out hints, but be subtle."

- Abby: "Flash a little cleavage!"

- D and A: "No! No bazookas. You'll scare him off!" Bazookas. Hah. I haven't heard that since I was in 10th grade.

- Me (playing devil's advocate and inadvertently screwing myself): "But R likes…you know…voluptuous women."

- All of them: "Oh, okay, then you fit the profile." Boys! Bah. "Anyway, nevermind all that. You have to be a bit more out there. Flirt a bit. Laugh at what he says. Sort of casually rest your hand on his arm." I wonder what chick flicks they've been watching. "Call him and tell him you're in the mood to go out for drinks, just the two of you. Badmouth the rest of us if you have to, but make sure it's just the two of you!"

- Me: "Uhhh..how?"

- Them: "SUBTLY!" That didn't really help.

This went on for a couple more hours, with positive re-inforcement via long-distance phone call from A's utterly sweet girlfriend as well. And several more tips along the lines of "Bat your eyelashes…but try not to look retarded" and "Laugh more…but can you do something about those teeth??" until eventually it was decided that if I didn't comply with their wishes, I would (sometime in the near future) find R and myself locked in a convenient room in V's place after being sneakily presented with Viagra-laced drinks.

But, they sweetly stressed, that was a last resort.

I love my friends, but they scare the bejeezus out of me.

Work In Progress

A long time ago, when we were still in college, D.S. and I had been spending a lazy afternoon at the CCI poolside restaurant when we decided to put together a book. A most useful book, we agreed delightedly, pooling our vast knowledge of our male friends and our limited (but still horrific) dating experience. A book that would teach women to identify the different types of men (cue the light shining from Heaven; the beatific, self-righteous expressions on our faces; the calls for our canonization…). Imagine the good we could do, educating the poor unfortunate women of the world on the various categories of dickheads out there!

Unfortunately, we never really got past scribbling a few titles and pages in the art book that used to be my ever-present companion back then. I must've chucked it somewhere in the series of moves that occurred thereafter, but I think I might be able to recall a few of the jewels we penned:

1. The Arrogant Bastard
This type of male is surprisingly common (one would expect the advent of the Empowered Woman would have squashed them into extinction, but no such luck). Good for a laugh, or the satisfaction of deflating his outsize ego, but no good for anything long-term. Unless, of course, you want to end the relationship by knocking him down with your car (I can swear this has almost never happened).

2. The Sneaky Bastard
From the same family tree as #1. However, while it's possible to ignore #1 with a roll of the eyes or dismissive snort, #2 has practically made a career out of telling women what they want to hear, and, most importantly, not getting caught. He will wine, dine, lie and cheat all with the same effortless panache (and boyish grin) that got you to fall for him in the first place. Good if you follow the "What I don't know can't hurt me" school of thought (also known as the Ostrich "bury your head in the sand" policy), but honestly, we'd hate to see you give Sneaky Bastard the satisfaction of falling for his honey-coated words. Especially when he's going to recycle the same crap with 10 other women (at least he's doing his part for the environment). This sub-species is also known as the "Will-say-anything-to-get-into-a-girl's-pants" man.

3. The Idiot
This type of male emulates #2 and thinks he's smart. Unfortunately, he misses the mark by a couple of miles. He'll try to pull the same sort of scams as the Sneaky Bastard, but screw up by trying it on two sisters. Or worse, two best friends. Honestly, don't men know that women talk? All women? About everything? Boy, if we can meet a woman for the first time in the ladies' room of a club, ask for a tampon and then go on to discuss cramps, blood flow and clotting, what makes you think we're not going to talk to our best friends about the shady moves you're trying to pull?? Idiot.

4. The Bore
Not a bad soul, this kind of boy, but is incapable of inducing anything but giganctic yawns. We don't like to pander to stereotypes, but he will most probably be a rich boy who likes talking about how fast his Ferrari goes and how much money he made on some random trade. Yes, yes, the sound of vrrooom and cha-ching may be an aphrodisiac for some women, but we prefer to think that good conversation doesn't need to include mentions of his stock portfolio or constant name-dropping of which CEO he jet-skis with on weekends.
On the other hand, give us a good old-fashioned nerd any day. They're fascinating, the little geeks, and the way their words just stumble over one another in a rushed garble? Adorable.

5. The Hunter
A slicker, more badass version of #1 and #2 and has the ability to be oh-so-appealing. He will tell a woman what she wants to hear and actually mean it (for the moment) and give her what she wants : the flattery, the meaningful looks, the witty conversation, the comfort, the spark. At least, until he gets what he wants. Then it's hasta la vista, baby. He got bored once the chase ended. Sadly, this type of man is rampant across the globe, luring in unsuspecting women. The only way to protect yourself is if you're just in it for the chase too (not something we'd recommend. We have souls; that's what differentiates us from the sex-crazed animals otherwise known as men).

6. The Best Friend
He knows your moodswings, has seen you without make-up, has coaxed you out of post-break-up trauma and he puts up with your insanity with a smile on his face. He'd be perfect boyfriend material, if you could just get past the ick-factor when it comes to kissing him. Do that, and you're golden.

7. The Good Guy
A dying breed, being hunted to extinction by marriage-minded madames who snap up the darlings in the embryonic stage. Or, they're being corrupted through the all-pervasive evil of the Arrogant Bastards, Sneaky Bastards, Idiots and Hunters. If you manage to find one, treat him well - he may just be the last of his kind.

8. The Perfect Man
Exists in theory; let us know if any of you actually stumble across this specimen. We suspect he might be a myth, or a rumour put out by the men of the world to keep us women interested: you know the whole saying about kissing a lot of frogs before you find your prince? The promise of a perfect man (who may or may not exist) ensures that a LOT of frogs get kissed….

I can't remember the rest, but I think D.S. and I might be meeting up in B'bay next week (and possibly staying at the CCI). No doubt we'll be able to pool together a few more years of (bad) experiences and come up with more chapters for the book.

The Beauty and The Prick

One of my best friends, D.S., is this beautiful, amazing, kick-ass, intelligent and fascinating woman (and if I sound like a girl with a crush here, bear with me, I love the chick) and yet she still manages to get dicked over by a guy who's so blatantly not worth it that it boggles the mind.

What pisses me (and our other friends back in B'bay) off is that we should've SEEN it somehow…instinctively just known that he was an idiot. Where was my cynicism? Where was N.M.'s go-slow-approach? Where was A.H.'s caution and sixth sense? But no, when we met him, we were ALL taken in by the niceness, the goofy sense of humour, the effort (endearing) to get on our good side because D.S. is important to us, and we're important to her, no negotiations there. One of our own had found love, found someone who could be an extenstion to our group, instead of taking her away from us. So we tried, and he tried, and we all got along and cue the Disney happy-ever-after music, yes? No. After 3 years of togetherness and overcoming parental objections and age differences and insurmountable odds and discussions of marriage, it goes like this: The Prick ends it with a phone call, announces his engagement to someone else on facebook, and D.S. is…actually, D.S. is being stronger than I would ever have thought possible.

I think this post is going to be in honour of D.S. actually - I don’t think I talk enough about my friends, just blather on about myself. But I love showing off about D.S. When she got a 730 on her GMAT and got into one of the best B-Schools in the world, I couldn’t wait to tell EVERYONE…I'm so proud of her! She's lost over 20 kgs of weight over the past few years through sheer determination and (in my lazy-ass opinion) an unhealthy commitment to the gym; as a result she looks sensational in the black wrap dress I saw her in last weekend. She's topped most of the exams she's ever written, or at least cleared them with flying colours (and I always wondered what that meant. What do colours flying have to do with exam marks?). She's witty and incisive and funny and snarky and has men drooling like puppy dogs at her stiletto-heeled feet. And, as I said before, she's incredibly, unbelievably strong.

This is a woman who was there for me when I went through a hideously bad break-up. She cried for me because I couldn't (or didn't know how to, or wouldn't give the guy the satisfaction of seeing me) cry. She went out partying with me pretty much every night of the week if I wanted to (because loud music meant neither she nor I would think about how me breaking up with my boyfriend irrationally led to her losing one of her good friends too). She let me hold her hand in a death-grip when I saw my ex with another woman, basically confirming everything I'd worried/feared/grown paranoid about for 3 years (makes me wonder if 3 is some sort of ill omen…I know of waaaaaay too many relationships going kaput at the 3-year mark. Actually, thanks to her, H.T., N.M. and A.H., I think I managed to get through the whole post-break-up period relatively unscathed and have turned out as normal as I am right now (which most people will testify isn’t much!) Coincidentally, H.T., N.M. and A.H. were there for her too after The Prick ended things with her. We love you guys, have we ever said that?) This is a woman who polished off an entire saucepan of rasperry-jello-and-apple-vodka (we were trying to make jello shots, but there were no ice trays) with me while we watched 'The Grudge' at A.H.'s place in Pune, and then fell about laughing with me 'cuz I wouldn't go to the bathroom alone. Hell, she's put up with my vampire and Coke addiction for 8 years now, and that drives most people insane!

I'm rambling….I tend to do that when I feel strongly about something. What I'm trying to say is this: I need her to read this and know, know with absolute certainty, that there are people who love her, and there will be people who will see her for how truly sensational she is. People so far better than The Prick that it will boggle her mind, because she will wonder at the 3 years she absolutely wasted on him when there was something so much better out there. And until then, if she insists on being too big a person to hate The Prick....

...I'll do it for her.