why are they having a cow?

People are so sanctimonious

I’ve been reading about how shocked some folks are because Rakhi Sawant is going to bring up a baby on a reality show.

What makes her unqualified? The fact that she’s got silicon stuffed boobs and sodium nitrate or whatever filled lips?

Okay, what do you need then? A masters in ‘accidental pregnancies’. Or a BSc in ‘pressurized to have a child.’

Sure, I agree, not everyone has a child because they fucked up, literally or have to bear the burden of keeping the family name going.

But if there are a billion people popping out babies, I don’t see us standing in front of any of them with a questionnaire.

You Sir, I hear your dream in life is ‘Mera beta Doctor banega’. Sorry, no baby for you.

And you ma’am, you’re grumpy in the morning, have a foul temper through the day and think Kahani Ghar Ghar Ki is the guide to modern living. Sorry, no baby for you.

And you, I hear you drink too much. And you there, you smoke like three packs a day. And Sir, in the corner there, we know that you don’t have any time for anything but your work. And you, looking to have some fun on the side. And yup, I’m talking to you, I hear you beat your spouse. And you, you still call your mom every time you fall down. Come on, strike them all of the list.

Fine, so it is an exaggeration. But the point is no one is more or less qualified than the other person, when it comes to raising a child.

And the second point, about how nasty are the parents who’re giving up their little babies, only so they can stare into Rakhi’s heavily bronzed bosom. Well, what can I say?

Some folks push their kids into acting. Some push them into academic careers they don’t want. Some don’t let them marry people they want. Some dump them on doorsteps. Some force them to live a lie about their sexuality. Some manipulate them, some emotionally blackmail them. Some even give them ghastly nicknames! Let’s round them all up.

It takes all kinds. And I suspect the problem is not Rakhi Sawant, the problem is anyone can have a child. It’s free. Without any questions, without any qualifications.

Some make good parents. Some don’t. And you can’t tell, not by the size of the boobs, or by the size of the wallet, who’s going to be on which end.

picture credit: www.searchenginepeople.com

forever in blue jeans

Bloody hell. I haven’t written in weeks. (thanks blog gore for missing me…you are my only true frand!)

So the flu is upon us. My mum calls this morning asking, “What’s the shame in wearing a mask.”

“But what will my office people think?”

“Why are you worried about what they’ll think? When you wear those strange clothes, and those terrible pants where the crotch is at your feet (she makes ali baba pants sound like pervert pants), do you worry about what they think?”

How does she do it? How does a conversation that starts at swine flu end at my appalling taste in clothes?

Anyway, my mum just got her own cell phone. I now have to call on the landline and instruct her how to pick up the mobile. And then call her back on the cell. Hopefully, in another week her dread of the cell should go. Or else like her last phone this one too will disappear into her underwear drawer.

The only bright spot in the newspaper has been the whole Tata initiative of letting women who’ve taken a break from work, rejoin the workforce.

I read an article about it this morning and spotted the ad a week back. It’s brilliant, just the sort of thing you’d expect from the Tata’s. So it got me thinking. Why can’t someone do something similar for the retired?

Take my dad. He’s about 64. He plays a sport every single day. He’s full of beans (touch wood), drives 30 kms to work (touch wood), looks like a movie star (hey, not just because he’s my dad because he just does okay!). He loves his drink, loves to work…and used to be a kick-ass fighter pilot, who had to retire because he turned 58.

Isn’t that just crappy? Here we are saying 40 is the new 30. 50 is the new ‘let’s get up and dance.’ 60 is when you’re just beginning to let go of your hang ups and enjoy life – and then we’re just retiring a whole lot of people because they hit 58.

Why? How old is the guy who runs the country dude? How come they don’t have to retire? So why this babu rule for the rest of us? An outdated rule and an outdated retirement age.

And before I go, a quick update on the dance class. Someone there thought I was 22. Tra la la. Okay fine, he’s not a particularly bright guy. But who cares, he still thought I was 22. Tra la la.


those are my senior citizens. when i see them, I always think of the neil diamond song 'forever in blue jeans'. probably because it always played around the house when I was a kid. or probably because " I'd like to say, We'll do okay, Forever in blue jeans" kind of captures what my parents are about. happy go lucky, crazy kids at 64! *Touch wood*

Dude, these are my parents, of course I'm superstitious!

let it all hang out

Okay, I’m somewhat real estate obsessed at the moment.

I think I’ve turned Mumbaikar. I’m plotting things like how to bring the flowerbeds into the house, how to steal the neighbours vent area, can I encroach into the common lobby, should I make my window grills large enough to house a study room.

Nothing new. Considering in Mumbai sab chalta hai when it comes to making the most of every inch of space.

Check out what I saw from Z’s window. it looks like just another building, with a bunch of windows facing you. But wait...


... what on earth is that?

...it is... fooking shit... a flush tank!

my. what will they do next? say attached toilet and put the pot out.

dangle and download eh!

no, no I am not your aunty!

My morning newspaper is always so full of good news.

 

Apart from the fact that they’re trying to blow up more hotels, and more people are randomly shooting themselves and their families, there is another little nugget tucked away in the ninth page.

 

Apparently those marvellous men they call scientists have come to the conclusion that if you slog your ass off and diet, and lose 5 kgs in the bargain, you are actually adding 4 years to your appearance.

 

Thanks a lot. So now what? Should I just die young and fat. Or should I be slim and haggard.

 

Aaargh. Is there no justice in the world? Can’t they just focus their energies on making spoons fly. Or growing sheep in bottles.

 

Anyway, while I marvel at how complicated a woman’s life has become, I also read that the EC has barred Sanjay Dutt from contesting the elections.

 

Yeah! Pass me the double fried eggs with the toasts I say. At least someone has sense in this country.

 

name dropping just got dangerous

Nothing is private anymore.

Yesterday I heard about a site that lets you name your private parts. No, not those one’s. Just the boobs. Or nugga nuggas as the site calls them.

Also when I say name them, just a slight disclaimer if you were dreaming of a christening or a small private party with your closest friends and relatives. This is fairly simple. All you have to do is type your name in, and your sex. And jugga mugga, your boobs now have names. A personality. Individuality.

Only problem is it’s an American thingee. So it gives you names like Baskin (she’s the one on the left ) and Robbins (that’s her, in brown, on the right). And Justin and Tahima (mixed sex names is the latest among the body part set)

Anyway, so it gives me an idea. Why not start the same thing. Boob names, but in hindi. Why should we have to name them after American cities or dishes like beef chilli. We will take have our own desi version for our ...well...desi girls.

 A sample.

Machis aur Tilli haath mein ho, toh aag lag sakti hai babumoshai.

Yeh lo Gur aur Kaju . Kyun aap hi ne toh kaha tha kuch meetha ho jaye?

Plug aur Point mein haath diya toh shock se main nahi aap maroge.

And oh, I plan to customise it further. Foodies can block rasam and sambar. Celebrity spotters can have tupur and tapur. And the poetic kinds can even reserve names like rim and jhim.

There, chamiya and ramiya are in business. Any suggestions from you guys?

http://rumandmonkey.com/widgets/toys/namegen/1301/

black velvet here i come

Question: What do you wear when you go horse riding?

Answer: Breeches

Question then: Do I look like the maharani of jodhpur?

 

you've been googled. and destroyed.

there is this magazine called campaign india. a marketing and advertising magazine mostly.

they have a column called Who does google think you are?

they google a person from the industry. and every fortnight they publish what the search throws up. then they give their verdict.

like, for example, if the first entry about you is some serious news, their comment would be Boring.

or if the second entry is some three month old story featuring you, their verdict would be Not enough. Be seen more often. Talk to the media.

and so and and so forth.

now I have nothing against the magazine, but I'm amazed at how asinine a column they can produce.

anyway, now i have to go cry into my maggie noodles because google thinks I need to wake up, and start networking. And my facebook contacts are not up to the mark. And three of my entries are three month old. Oh shame. How will I look myself in the mirror tomorrow

wear your jeans low, and show off your Kasab's

Some days back I see an article in the Mumbai Mirror.

The crime branch has decided to auction the made-in Pakistan blankets, jackets and toiletries brought by the terrorists who attacked Mumbai on 26/11 after they are presented in court as evidence.

The articles up for auction will include toothbrushes and toothpastes, detergent powder, Bermuda shorts, shaving cream, a packet of pickle, three packets of milk powder and tissue paper.

Uh... what are they thinking?

Has the Crime Branch lost it? Or am I totally not in touch with the times?

Are there people who will frame Kasab’s chadis and hang them in their living room? Or maybe they’ll wear them for the next big party and use them as a conversation piece? And will you wash them before framing them or will you be worried that their value will decrease?

Yuck. Excuse me while I throw up.         

What about the pickle? That has a shelf life you know. And the milk powder? Give it to your kids, and watch them grow into healthy terrorists.

Would you like a spot of terrorist milk in your tea?

And the tissue? You bid thousand bucks to wipe your bum with the same paper that Kasab was using? Why? Dude, someone needs help.

What about the toothbrushes? Ooh, look, a little speck of meat is wedged between the bristles. The Crime Branch immediately declares the meat will be auctioned separately. So sorry to disappoint you sir.

Bizarre. I leave you with another excerpt from the article that had me rolling my eyeballs till they hurt.

Police believe that unlike other auctions, where belongings of the accused are sold at half or less than half the original price, the articles recovered from the terrorists may invite higher bids for their sheer infamy and association with a sensational event.

Break the bank folks.

want to make frandship?

confession: i don't like people who don't like me.

but that's still all right. the thing is, i totally don't like people who don't like me, inspite of me trying to make them like me.

And the worst is when two such people get together and become friends.

Yes, it's happened to me. Yes, you can keep saying grow up, but this is my blog. And yes, I have a way of dealing with this.

I refuse to give them the name of my tattoo artist, my dentist, my favourite stores and my broker.

Imagine then, when I saw The Man I'm Mad About (yes, thank you, he's back to being that. We spoke you see. :)) happily giving the tattoo artist's number to one such person. He of course thinks it's childish to behave like this.

But that's because the people who will not like me, inspite of me trying, and are now friends, are happy to be friends with him.

Damn. Now I will keep my yoga teacher's number hidden in my locker.

Kati toh kati. Bati toh bati.

like microwavable popcorn

Should write.

Can’t write.

Am writing.

Slight explanation on the above:

What’s the point of a blog if you don’t write.

But too many things keep cropping up. Work. Social life. Interesting movies. And the terrorist attacks which keep intruding in to my sleep. My space. My newspapers. My conversations.

However, I’m going through a phase. Stories that were stuck are cropping up like mushrooms. Dusty ideas that were put in the last filing cabinet of the brain are jumping up and down.

Basically my head is popping with plots and thoughts.

Nice.

But apologies to my neglected blog.

serious thought to an alternate item girl career

This new year,

Rakhi Sawant will rake in 40 lakhs.

Katrina Kaif will make a cool 1 crore.

And Bipasha Basu will carry back 1.5 crores in her clutch bag.

All by shaking a leg. Okay, make that booty and boobs too.

Is it my mood or do you also feel like turning your face skywards and yelling, “ where’s the justice in this world?"

damn fool things

or things we can do away with.

1. the indian judiciary.

raj walks away scot free yet again. they can't muzzle him, they can't arrest him. in case you didn't notice we live in a lawless nation.

2. the jumbled words that appear when you write on someone's comment page on a blog.

you have to fill your email id. or your blogger one. you have to type your password in. so then what's the point of having those strange alphabets that a dyslexic like me takes 15 minutes and six trys getting right. this is even when i stick my tongue out and go pop eyed with concentration.

3. hair. on the legs.

i'm sick of waiting for them to grow to a reasonable length before i can wax them, without pulling off some skin. i'm tired of waiting, sometimes for weeks. always having to wear full length stuff. because my hair refuses to co operate. i'm fed up of finally getting sick and tired of the whole thing and using the razor. yuck. i hate bristles.

4. charging.

duhhh. this is when we're cloning stuff and sending random folks to the moon. but guess what you still need to charge your phone and laptop. and if you are like me, who hates putting plug to point, then welcome to the land of beep beep hell. because every time you really need the phone or the laptop, the battery is blinking at you like an evil eyed monster. why? is it that tough to create a phone that charges using the sun or water or my breath or something.

please add shops where you have to show the bill when you are on your way out. this is specially true when your arms are weighted down by bags, and all the bored man at the door wants to do is stamp the bill. for reasons totally unkown to mankind.

there. i feel better for now.

so happy diwali. oooh....also add those mass forward happy whatever messages. darn stupid people who send those darn stupid things.

well, you know who's not getting any messages this year then : )

xs, s, m, l, xl, xxl

i went to the mall today. and i suffered from mall glaze.

it's the state of too many things. clothes. shoes. underwear. underwire. tops. tie ups. someone stop this madness.

really, does this happen to you? you walk in feeling like a kid in a candy store, and half an hour later you're feeling slightly sick and disoriented. like you just ate up half the store.

how many things can you try? how many times can you pull your jeans off? how many things can you lug around in that tie up basket? how many racks can you tug and pull at?

this is what happens to me. after a while i start feeling hypnotised. then everything starts to look the same. then i don't know which aisle to head towards. then suddenly, i don't even know what i was looking for in the first place. then my arms start to ache. then it feels like "why are they playing such loud music.". then finally i realise after four hours all i've got in my basket is a stupid T-shirt.

okay. so maybe it's not that bad. but the point is it very nearly is.

because i'm a child of limited choice. when i was growing up there was just one shop, with one surly shopkeeper. everything was packed in cardboard cases. and everything seemed frightfully expensive. so you tentatively pointed to two, or at the most (gasp, you bold thing) three things. surly showed them to you, you tried them, and that was it. puja/diwali/birthday shopping over.

the only place your eyes threatened to glaze over, was in the sari shop. i remember dreading being dragged on those expeditions with my mom and her sisters. but even that was civilised. once the shopkeeper had sized you up, you were offered bar stool like chairs, cold drinks and water in steel glasses magically appeared, while the obliging salesmen draped themselves in sari after sari.

it was like a fashion show, in drag.

there were other options too. like tailors. so you carried across your cloth or cut piece, usually a birthday gift. and then you pored over patterns and designs. my mom's tailor used to get second hand catalogues from abroad. no wonder i spent most of my growing up wearing prissy high neck blouses with lace and ribbon. like an old british maid. still, it was a world of limited choices. because my mom made all the decisions, the only thing i could choose was the cold drink i could have at the tailors - rasna or campa cola. actually even then my mom would have the last choice, " No ice."

whew. never thought i'd say this. but if i see my mom's tailor now, i'd probably run to him and throw my arms around him, and say, " from tomorrow you will be my shoppers stop, my pantaloon, my inorbit, my oberoi mall, my hypercity....."

life in plastic, it's fantastic.

Okay so we all know Barbie is a bitch. And she lures little girls into being thin and unhappy. And if she were a real woman her vital statistics would be 40:18:32.

Question to pervert designer: Did he think she could totter around on plastic stilettos with boobs the size of that? I bet Barbie has a bruised nose all the time.

Anyway, the point is today I learnt something even more fascinating about Barbie. Obviously the guys at Mattel have very interesting conversations in their conference room. Because after many months of research and much stress, they decided *tan tan tan* that nipples were a no-no.

Can you believe that? The stress, the anguish, the thought that goes into these things. I can just see those harrowed people at Mattel cancelling their vacations and burning the midnight oil till finally they could find an answer that would change a million lives:

“Barbie will not have nipples.”

But then life is full of challenges. And here’s another one those brave people at Mattel faced, “What do we do with Ken’s bulge?”

Should they show it? And how much? Would it like “Oh, but Ken’s got a great heart at least” or would it be like “ ooh Ken, you are happy to see Barbie.”

But of course how could little girls, who were being spared the trauma of nipples, be exposed to the evils of the bulge. But then, if Barbie had breasts, Ken couldn’t be all smooth and enuch types either.

So then more stress, more anguish, more cancelled vacations, till finally they had their answer. Ken would always come with his pants on.

Whew. The world has been saved. All’s well that end’s well.

Except for Ken and Barbie. Rumour has it that they’re breaking up. She’s sick off trying to have sex with a guy whose pants can’t come off.

you have sex. and then you want me to coo at the result?!

So lot of people i know have been having babies. And some of these people have been kind of upset that i haven’t gone to see their babies.

The thing is i don’t see the point in going to see little babies.

There’s not much you can do, except say a few stock phrases. 1. aaw...he/she is so cute. 2. oh, he/she is beautiful. 3. isn’t he/ she lovely?

Sometimes you can innovate. And say things like, 1. ooh...he/she is a big baby. 2. my god...he/she has so much hair. 3. he/she has lovely eyes.

That’s it. Conversation over. Then you’re just wondering when is it polite to leave. Because their house is looking like a hurricane just ran through it. The parents are looking pretty wrecked themselves. In fact at times they look so manically happy to see human company, that you want to run away even faster before they imprison you in their kitchen. And ya, the slightly sour odour of baby puke and pee are coming in your way of enjoying the samosas they’ve put before you.

You want to leave. And you know the poor tired parents want you to leave too.

So what’s the point? I’m usually wary about cooing over a baby too much, because if he falls sick the next day, the parents are going to be like, “ It was her. She has bad nazaar.” The next time you go over they're scared to bring the baby out, or then you’ll suddenly spot at least one kala tikka on every body part.

So what’s the point? It’s not even like you can say things like, “ hey, you baby looks even uglier than your husband.” Or then, “ ooh, he/she looks just like your driver. Because people get kind of touchy about these things. And if they have parents/in laws hovering around in the background, you can never tell. The samosas might never show up.

Now if it was a new car, it would make sense. At least I’d get a ride. Or we could compare features. If it was a new house, there are a million comments you can make. Or if nothing else you can ask for the broker’s number. (I’ve noticed that always makes new owners very happy. Why, search me!) And before you think I’m a child hater, if the kid was old enough to respond, it might even be fun. But a tiny little thing that can’t even recognise its own parents... what’s the point?

I think it’s the samosas.
Next time I’ll ignore the baby, and go gaga over the samosas.