when i need some sunshine

i had a bad day. no, not the fought with boss. or washed my best white shirt with my pink fab india kurta day. but a full blown greek tragedy day.

but because i'm still trying to calm my frayed nerves, i shall write about it tomorrow. when it will all start to seem pretty funny.

till then here are two photos. i saw this beauty parlour at palolem, in goa. 

look closely ... have you ever heard of a biking line? neither has lance armstrong.

heard of a mani quaver? nope, not even the slightest quaver of joy or recognition?

then how about an apple lip? right after rosy cheeks.

enjoy. and here's hoping everyone has a great day tomorrow. don't know about you, but i could sure do with one.

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.

the persistent pursuit of trivial things

Watch MTV roadies auditions.

They are super entertainment, especially for voyeuristic junkies like me. That apart, I’m figuring out that the difference between my youth, and the youth of today, is fame.

Yeah, they will do anything for it. Raghu, the hot guy who’s thought up the show is the guy who interviews these poor suckers. And he thrives on insulting them. You loser. You asshole. Dance for me. You’re a fucking bore. Take off your shirt. You call that a body?

Oh man, it goes on and on. And they just take it. Because they all want the fame. The camera on their face.

I’ve been thinking if anyone I knew in college would take this kind of stuff. Nope. Don’t think so. Maybe we just didn’t know what a high fame can be.

But ya, more than the music, the language, the clothes, the ambition, it’s the hunger for fame that’s been added to the equation.

And oh, the new GQ (not the Indian one), is fantastic. It’s the celebrating 20 years issue and I’ve been trying to finish reading it for the last one week. But it just will not get over.

It’s got interviews with Tony Blair. The Oasis boys. David Lynch. David Beckham. Andrew Flintoff. Eminem. Sir Alex Fergusson. And yoo hoo, Jack Nicholson.

Get your hands on it. If you don’t have to buy it, and can flick it from a friend or office, even better.

And I shall sign off with three things you should know (all dug out from the said GQ)

1.
By 2008 annual production of Havaianas had reached 105 million pairs, with five pairs being manufactured every second.

Well, that’s quite a feet eh?

2.
By controlling the enzyme regulating blood supply, the key ingredient (sildenafil citrate) enabled anyone to have sex for up to four hours. That’s how Viagra works.

Uh... actually I’m sorry I’m late...it was the damn traffic.

3.
Youporn. The youtube of porn. All free, all shaky digicam real!

Hey...why does your fiance look so familiar? Where have I seen him ya?

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?"

for the sax of the heyvans and the gods

i like raja choudhary.

for those of you who know who he is, and have passed out in shock, please... go smell some smelly socks.

for those of you who are wondering, who the fuck is raja, let me enlighten you. he is the guy, (note: not a guy, but the guy) on Big Boss, the desi version of Big Brother.

He is also Shweta Tewari's estranged husband. And at this point in case you are wondering who the fuck is Shweta Tewari, it really doesn't matter, because this post is about Raja Choudhary.

Okay, let me further your tellywood knowledge. Shweta Tewari is a serial saas bahu'er.

Back to Raja Choudhary. He's an alleged wife beater. His claim to fame are serials like Your Honour and Daddy Samjha Karo. Never heard of them? Well, neither has anyone else. (And I just saved you a google search).

But I love him. Right now he's on top of my cool guy charts. For starters there's his english. Please refer to title: for the sax of the heyvans and the gods. This gem was uttered by Raja during a fight with a female contestant. Another sample: you should shame on you. Don't try to play a games.

Okay. So that's the funny part. There's also his whole attitude of being the trouble maker in the show. He needles people, provokes them into losing their temper. And sometimes loses his, big time, till you think he's going to get into a fist fight.

But I still like him. In fact I think he's hot, in a sort of very desi cave man way.

Disgusting. There really is no accounting for taste.

my first brush

apologies for not having written in days. but i've been really happy and busy.

and that just proves my pet theory that if you are unhappy you have lots to write about.

and that brings me to my next best pet theory. there are two types of unhappiness. one is delicious - because you know it's shortlived, or because you know that it's not really such a big deal. like for instance a trivial fight, a break up with someone you would anyway have broken up with. it's emotional cleansing. you can cry, have an outburst, gather all your friends, grab lots of sympathy, shop a lot, and wake up smiling two days later. these unhappy moments are meant to be juiced.

the second unhappiness is the serious kind. your spouse/lover/friend leaves you. someone you love dies. that kind of thing. you get the drift right? the kind that leaves you feeling someone just wrenched your gut out, and you takes days, and weeks, and months and sometimes years to get over it.

anyway, my first brush with unhappiness was when i was in school. i liked this guy. ya, right ... what else could cause unhappiness when you are 15. his name was AZ. sorry about the initials, fat chance that he's reading my blog but anyway....

point is AZ was tall, handsome, soft spoken. had lovely brown eyes. a super sexy accent ( his folks had just moved back from Botswana). and he was two years senior to me.

so in class eight, i spend all my time drawing his name all over my school books. i craned my neck during assembly every morning just so i could see him. i decided the water cooler that was closest to his class had the coldest water. i sat in the scorching summer sun, watching the school cricket team in action. sometimes, i was the sole spectator.

and i thought no one knew.

then in class nine i realised everyone knew. my whole class used to try and push me on to him, when we passed his class in assembly. everytime he walked past my class, there would be wild cheering and hooting. and to my utter mortification we landed up being in the same damn Ashoka house. By now, not just my class, even his class knew. My famous crush has gone around the school.

End of class nine. last day of school. Everyone is delirious. saying bye. eating golas. Throwing ink on each other. There's chaos outside the school. Buses are honking. Those of us on cycles are waiting for friends. That one day, no one is in any hurry to leave.

Suddenly, in slow motion, I look up from my cycle, to see AZ walking towards me. My first reaction is to flee. Just jump on my cycle and get the hell out of there. But I'm frozen, rooted to the spot. He stops right in front of me. Looks down at me, and smiles. My heart stops beating. Then kickstarts with a loud noise that should make everyone around me jump.

I can hear giggling from behind me. No one says anything. Finally he says, " Hi...I'm A. " As if I didn't know. I know his name, his surname, his favourite colour, his pet's name, his house address, his two sisters, his favourite sport. But just then, my ears are ringing, my face is a horrible mottled red, my fringe is poking into my eyes...and nothing is coming out of my mouth. So I continue to grin.

He says, " I thought we could be friends." I can feel someone poking me in the ribs. It's my best friend, S, who's in class eleven. She pokes me again. I know I have to say something now...anything....

" Hi, I'm S. And I'm really late. So I'll see you later."

And I turn my cycle and ride off as fast as I can. My friends catch up with me five minutes later and they are shaking with laughter. They pull me off my cycle and we roll around by the side of the road. Them clutching their stomachs, me my head. I can't believe I could have been such an ass.

So it goes on.
Class tenth. He comes to see me in my class. I jump out of the window. My class is on the first floor, I break my hand.

I'm running down the stairs. Suddenly I see him and his friends at the bottom. I miss two steps, and twist my ankle.

Finally he calls me and my best friend S to his birthday party. I don't go. Not just because I'm shy, but because my mom would grill me, and my face would be a dead give away.

But S goes. And things are never the same again. Because a week later she tells me that she went to his party, because she is in love with him. And she told him that, and now.... here's where the unhappiness bit comes in .... they are going around. boyfriend girlfriend. in love. together. a & S. he tall, she tall. me on my cycle.

I come home. and sit on the dining table, and eat my lunch, and open my books and study. And then when it's really hot and the even the fans can't muster up the enthusiasm to keep going, my parents go to sleep. and i lock myself in the bathroom. and i cry and i cry.

and that summer day, i have my first brush with unhappiness.

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.

size musings

two things.

first i bought a new top. olive green. well, we are talking agent green glass here. so it's olive green, with tiny straps. And it shows off my shoulders and my collar bones. which i have come to the conclusion are my A listers on the body parts scene.

i knew it was the find of the month, the minute i wore it to work. " you look hot!" was the general feedback. tra la la. shopping successful. point to be noted - from now all tops should show off the above mentioned body parts. though in practise this might be difficult. because i'm a notoriously impulsive shopper. and even worse, a compulsively impatient one. i have been know to buy a top i like, in three colours. which somewhere at the back of my head is positively a very non-fashionista thing to do. sigh.

second thing. my lack of boobs.

all tops that highlight the shoulders fortunately do things for the boobs. maybe they play with light and shade or something, but they manage to create an illusion of boobs. which makes me happy. because i'm convinced that though i can take on J Lo in matters of the derriere, there's no hope in hell for me in the boob department.

then yesterday, when i'm wearing my hot top, i read an article in GQ by a man, who is now fast becoming my most quoted man, on the pros and cons of silicon boobs. he talks about how his flat chested (really i hate that word. how about reasonable breasted?) girlfriend got silicon implants.

and the verdict was that they sucked. okay...now this is sounding like thinly veiled porn. but his point is they don't feel squishy and real. they just stay hard and plasticy. and refuse to move and fall around and get squashed...and you get the picture. so finally he realised that big boobs don't make a girl. and she went back, got the silicon out, and they are all happy... and squishy i guess.

so i'm thinking, big deal. why make a mountain out of a molehill. let me enjoy what i have. at least i can wear halter necks, tie ups, little scrappy things, bikini tops and tight T-shirts without worrying about how lopsided i'll look.

and the silicon story, well that's a weight off my chest.