and stay for as long as you need. I have to go for this wedding thing on Sunday - He's Bengali, she's Punjabi and they're BOTH from Delhi.
Wednesday, 20 February 2013
Correspondence
and stay for as long as you need. I have to go for this wedding thing on Sunday - He's Bengali, she's Punjabi and they're BOTH from Delhi.
Friday, 23 November 2012
Inside the Lines – How life pulled a fast one on me
Wednesday, 26 September 2012
The thing about scrambled eggs...
...the first kind, who actually like scrambled eggs...
... the second, who pretend they wanted the eggs scrambled all along."
*
Don't look at me. I didn't mess with no eggs today.
I made dal. And it tasted surprisingly like dal.
(pats back)
*
SUK and I have decided to get married. Not to each other (sadly).
So we figure in order to get married a few years down the line (which is as of yet a vague, mysterious, nebulous number we haven't really put much thought into) we should start the groundwork with immediate effect.
As per our hypothesis, in order to find a suitable marriage partner we would need to budget time for meeting people, rejecting people, getting rejected by people, getting rejected by prospective parents in law (hey it happens)... getting to know people, several rounds of discussion on likes and dislikes, interests and dis-interests, lifestyle choices... months of hemming and hawing and procrastination... months of parental nagging...
Also said marriage partner should be rich. Really really rich.
Keeping in mind the statistics (another set of vague, mysterious, nebulous numbers we chose to just come up with) and our extreme lack of urgency to resolve the matter, this process of selection, elimination, exploration can at best be covered in - 7 years.
*
7 more years of spinsterhood (ugly word alert!). My mom's not going to like this.
If at the close of these 7 years, SUK and I should find ourselves unmarried and also find that our un-married-ness is mutual we have decided to absolutely NOT marry each other. In fact, if the thought so much as crosses our minds we have promised to shoot each other in the foot.
*
I love my married friends. They have homes, real grown up homes. With clean curtains and clean towels and clean hand towels and clean sheets... and stocked fridges... and geysers.
They are also sufficiently bored of each other to lavish most of their attention on me. Its like being married to them. Muahahaha...
They also glow.
*
Dedicated to L and M and the happy domesticity we all secretly aspire for.
Thanks for letting me enjoy a piece of it. I think you should adopt me. I'll make a great (pick from one of several equally attractive options):
1. live-in maid - I can make scrambled eggs AND dal
2. babysitter - For when the babies come. It doesn't hurt to be prepared.
3. first child - I'm super responsible, I do my homework on time and get straight As
4. sponge - Person who generates no resources or useful services whatsoever for the household
5. poet/ writer/ artist seeking inspiration - see definition of 'sponge'
6. invalid - before your parents get there. It doesn't hurt to be prepared. We could all use a dry-run right?
*
The last one was in slightly poor taste.
*
Dedicated to L and M for loving me for my bad taste and only occasional good taste.
And for the eggs. I really did want them scrambled :)
Thursday, 20 September 2012
- purchase xanax/ valium/ sports shoes/ Viagra… OR
- invest in penis enlargement… OR
- become a nurse/ pilot… OR
- engage in some rather… erm… questionable… erm… ‘activities’… OR
- watch other people (specifically Scandinavian women) engage in some rather… erm… questionable… erm… 'activities'
Wednesday, 9 February 2011
Holy Compatibility Batman!
B moved in sometime in December. And it would seem that 3 is indeed company. Even people as fiercely territorial as M and myself were done in by B’s charms on first contact.
I knew we’d hit pay-dirt somewhere in the midst of my first conversation with B. She asked if it were okay if she let a friend (and boyfriend of said friend) use her room for the purposes of – “Ahem, ahem” (a.k.a “Cough, cough”, a.a.k.a. sexual intercourse).
She said she thought it was okay.
M said he thought it was cool as long as they didn’t “cough” too loudly.
I said I thought it was great because… well… someone might as well be having sex. The closest anyone one in our house was getting to physical intimacy was being frisked at the metro station.
(I then launched into a slightly lengthy {and some claim plagiarized} monologue on how there really weren’t as many people “Ahem, ahem”-ing as there should be. If there were, there would be no war… Duh…
Of course to explain this hypothesis in its entirety and do justice to its various nuances I would need to write another post altogether. I’ll save that for another day.)
There it was – congruency.
Thereafter, the little doubt that remained on B’s suitability for flat-mate-dom was put to rest when B revealed talents of the following nature –
1. 1. The ability to turn pink when inebriated i.e. to be immensely entertaining.
2. 2, The ability to lose her hearing when inebriated i.e. additional entertainment
3. 3. The achieve the above mentioned state of inebriation after consuming remarkably small amounts of alcohol, making the entertainment extremely cost effective
M and I can scarcely believe how perfectly she has managed to blend into our version of happy domesticity (or lack thereof… seriously, we need an intervention. Our home is barely habitable. An army of moms would need to work around the clock for a week at a stretch to set right all the things that are wrong with our house).
As for M, being outnumbered by women seems to suit him just fine. I try to make him feel less left out by consistently keeping my room as messy and disorganized as I possibly can so as to accentuate the bachelor pad-ishness of the place. For his part M is more than meeting us half way. He patiently indulges our (read my) diatribes against men. He has been known to display great courage when confronted by women’s underwear strewn carelessly all over the place (again mine, an old habit I just can’t seem to shake off). Word on the street is he is now trying to grow a uterus.
Dear M,
Please don’t grow a uterus. We love you just the way you are.
XOXO
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
poem
Monday, 13 December 2010
In Transit
Bus, Margao to Bengaluru, Scheduled Departure Time: 6:15pm
Status @ 5:45pm
“Bus will be coming at 6:40, you can report by 6:30”
Status @ 6:45pm
“Bus is coming. Just coming”
Status @ 7:00pm
“Actually what happen is they divert the bus. It is coming by long route”
“It is coming, half an hour delay”
Status @ 7:15pm
“Bus is coming. Just coming”
Status @ 7:30pm
“Actually what is happen is bus has broken down. It is gone to garage for fixing”
“It is coming, not later than 8:30”
Status @ 8:15pm
“Actually it is only 15km away. In Verna. They are changing the bus. Transferring passengers.”
“Bus is coming. Just coming.”
Status @ 8:45pm
“What can I do madam? They are there and I am here. I’m also waiting no?”
“I am calling and calling, they are not pick up-ing”
“Madame once bus was delayed by 7 hours. I still remember, Dec 29-30th type date. 7 hours madam, this is nothing”
Status @ 9:00pm
"*Deep sigh*"
(Roughly translated – “Earth please swallow me whole”)
*
The bus finally arrived at 9:15pm. Only 3 hours delay madam. This is nothing.
The journey will cost us a couple of hours in travel time. We will reach Bangalore 5 hours later than schedule. Only 5 hours madam. This is nothing.
*
*Deep sigh*
*
To a most vague and nebulous entity - Indian Standard Time...