Sunday, 30 December 2007
Friday, 23 November 2007
It's not such a bad thing, you get this creative satisfaction out of having started off with some random ingredients that finally turn into something that looks (and is!) both attractive and edible. (No, I don't appreciate wisecracks about how it's good that a hospital is in close proximity, thank you very much.)
My personal favourite is anything that doesn't take up the best part of an afternoon, and that still looks like it has been created after a lot of effort! *grin*
On the menu tonight:
Thai Pad Noodles
(Coffee for afters, do stop by!)
Thursday, 15 November 2007
Thirty days hath September,
April, June, and November
February has twenty-eight alone,
All the rest have thirty-one.
Except in leap year, that's the timeWhen February days have twenty-nine.
Saturday, 20 October 2007
Tuesday, 9 October 2007
Look around, you mayn't even have to look far: It can be something, however small, right in your home even. Or a person. A grandparent, a parent, a sibling. For those flaunting wedding rings, maybe a spouse.
Things mostly look good.
Friday, 5 October 2007
Sunday, 23 September 2007
It also includes dolling up in all finery, wherein looking like your local jewellery store won't be amiss, and waiting about, relating stories associated with the ongoing rituals (and I suspect, gossiping like there's no tomorrow).
My fundamental question here - the lady starves herself all day, risks severe dehydration, waits about for the moon to rise (whatever!)... and for what??? So that the man, her husband, lives like a gazillion years while she's long dead (would this have quickened it?)...
Where's the equality of the sexes?
Sunday, 16 September 2007
Saturday, 1 September 2007
3 - 4 cult movies
2 - 3 OSTs (or Original Sound Tracks)
1 item number
100 pounds of thick skin
Take the cult movies. Dissect them frame by frame. Make copious notes and file away relevant information for future use. For best results, use multiple films - that way you get more 'inspiration' - across genres for a better blend.
Throw in your wannabe starlets, add a dash of skin (or maybe more, as per taste) and toss in the item number (the raunchier, the better).
Stir continuously, until no sole ingredient is distinguishable (take special care with the movies).
Add the music with lyrics modified as required.
Garnish with a sprinkling of originality (example: The way the film credits roll).
Serve hot (it's soon gonna be tepid anyway).
Never let go of the thick skin, it's an ingredient vital to all such future endeavours.
Friday, 24 August 2007
Not sure I subscribe to some of these so-called festivals and stuff myself, but hey, to each his own! Go on then, and look forward to renewing those ties and bonds.
Wednesday, 15 August 2007
Sunday, 12 August 2007
Saturday, 11 August 2007
Dust on the glass topped coffee tables, sticky with rain.
A miniature shoe store mushrooming in virtually every room of the house.
Plants wilting, need to be watered. (These sure won't grow: there's no nourishment, let alone talking to them!)
Dishes slowly and steadily piling up in the sink.
As the weekend creeps to a close, I don't see much hope... *sigh*.
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Love the classics: Gone with the Wind, The Shop around the Corner, Come Live with Me, The Rear Window, Roman Holiday, Breakfast at Tiffany's, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, Casablanca, An Affair to Remember...
I'm now looking out for a DVD Club to enjoy Saturday nights. Bring in the popcorn!
Sunday, 5 August 2007
Saturday, 28 July 2007
Saturday, 7 July 2007
a. Makes me (very) happy.
b. That means I'm relaxed and de-stressed. Translated that means a happy, healthy body.
c. It's fun. More so when you lug home a satisfying bagful (or more).
As for the economy:
a. Contributing to the nation's income levels.
b. Encouraging growth in a budding sector. (Read somewhere that organized retail in India accounts for a mere 5% of the industry.)
c. Creates employment.
The above puts salve on my conscience. Not that by the above good deeds I need to worry about it anyway.
On the more serious side (whaaaat, wasn't all the above in all seriousness?) - ever wondered why sales work? Is it because to save 50 bucks on say, a pair of oven mitts and potholders, you wind up buying a couple, when maybe you have scant need for even the one? Rough back-of-the-envelope calculation would reveal an estimated spend of 300 bucks to save 100... on something that wasn't really required to begin with. So you save 100, but what about the 200 you needn't've parted with in the first place?
Shopping stress. Contrary to my belief that retail therapy rocks and is totally de-stressing, it's also true that people across the globe spend more than their shopping money on therapy to rid them of shopping stress. I'm still shaking my head in disbelief. Guess this is a classic case of two sides of the same coin and all that jazz, but I'll still go with shopping as one of my favourite recreational activities. Sometimes think the others on my list come in a fairly distant second.
Hmm, maybe it's time to touch base with the best friend and hit the mall. It's the weekend anyways. Where's that credit card now?
Thursday, 5 July 2007
Always wonder why men have to have things their way, why they're such mamma's boys, why they can't think for themselves, and why they can't understand that TLC is a good thing - and to love and respect somebody means to given them your support when it's required.
Why can't they see right from wrong, differentiate between facts and exaggerated tales that do nothing but make someone (read: the significant other's) life miserable?
Why any attempt to talk things out after a tiff is always met by a cold response, ears shut out to any reason, logic, sense or good old listening while the other person speaks?
Why when it comes to the crunch, the woman has to spend half her waking hours (the other half are spent at work) in the kitchen, making endless rounds of tea/ coffee and whipping up a meal and supervising the house help and cleaning up after the man and organizing the home and smiling prettily at the world when her back's killing her and she can't wait to put her feet up...
...Maybe someday I might see the pros. Some distant day...
Saturday, 30 June 2007
HE (randomly flipping TV channels): "No, that's more like arguing."
SHE (patiently): "Trying to get my point across here."
HE (displaying a total lack of interest): "Yeah, it's always about you, and your viewpoint."
SHE: "Will you ever listen to me! Just this once?"
HE (looking up): "See? Now you dominate too!"
SHE (exasperated, frustrated): "Can I say something???"
HE (dripping sarcasm): "Don't you always?"
Whatever you say or do, it can never be right.
Friday, 22 June 2007
Wednesday, 20 June 2007
Flashback to college, when some batch mates would celebrate the anniversary of the first time they smiled (coyly) at their partners, the anniversary of their first date, the anniversary of when they first held hands, the anniversary of when they first kissed… and let's not get any more graphic here at the peril of sounding risqué!
Well, so ultimately is it about an occasion, a reason to remember an event (then so significant and now pale in comparison to others more so), or to simply celebrate being together? I'd like to believe the latter, and justify not having swiped my card at the nearest Hallmark store!
Wednesday, 13 June 2007
And for me, the forever-in-the-making-paleontologist, gimme dino(saur) time anytime!
Dinosaurs have fascinated me for as long as I can remember. There was a time back in middle school when I contemplated becoming a paleontologist some day in the future (never mind that I could barely pronounce the word, let alone spell it). Okay, so that didn't happen, but the fascination (and maybe a teeny bit of awe) has still not gone away. This began with my reading 'The Lost World', by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - yes, the same brain behind the Sherlock Holmes series - and subsequently devouring any- and everything I could read up on the 'saurs.
Encyclopedias were my best friends. So the interest has now resurfaced, upon reading about the finding of a mammoth skeleton. No, not the wooly mammoth (ancestor to our elephants today), but the gigantic skeleton of a man, supposedly human and dating back to some number of years that you and I can't even fathom. Of course, we drag mythology / folklore (I always maintain that there is a fine line between these) into the picture here as well; guess it only adds that extra bit of zing to the tale.
Anyway, the point here is that we now have the remains of what was once a humongous man who walked the Earth, as it were. We're now gonna dissect every bit of him, analyze his DNA, examine his bones, his teeth and figure out who he was (I wonder if people had names back then?), what he did for a living (so hunting is an inborn survival instinct), how he lived (without FM radio, wonder how thrilling it really was), and finally, just how and why he died. I would personally be interested to know whether he had a pet dinosaur a la the Flintstones, or whether he preferred to while away his time making patterns in the sand.
Oh, this is when I'd like a time machine.
Wednesday, 6 June 2007
Lazy. Bummed out. Couldn't care less. Boooorring. Yawn. Try the next millennium, maybe. Don't call us, we'll call you. These, and variations of these (some more wildly imaginative than the others, for example: I have a meeting in the afternoon at work today that I need to stay awake for) are just some of the excuses I come up with for not waking up early mornings. And by early, we accommodate even 7 a.m. As a thumb rule, anytime before that is the middle of the night.
There are times I'll go to bed with this firm resolution of waking up early the next morning, and play around with versions of my soap opera-perfect morning starring my illustrious (and industrious) self in my head. I'd've woken up early, done some stretching exercises and having laced on my favourite pair of trainers, smiled at the wonderful morning it is, and taken off for a jog. On getting home healthier, I'd carry that further by pouring myself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and munching my way through an equally healthy bowl of muesli, hold the sugar, please. Of course, after all this I'm Super Girl, and the household chores are a mere flick of the wrist (how I wish, a wand!), followed by an upbeat work day (naturally).
Back to reality and here I am, running late, rushing to get done with early morning tasks (I've hit snooze for the nth time on my alarm) and making it to work on time.
Darn, forgot to put the cap back onto the toothpaste tube again.
Reminds me of my college days. We, my friends and I, spent five years on this campus that resembled a hill station during the monsoon: lush green grass, vibrant trees, and puddles of rainwater along damp pathways? Many afternoons were spent in the cafeteria, snacking on hot fritters and gazing away dreamily into the distance. (Okay, having the latest crush around helped tremendously sometimes.) Clouds heavy with rain would drift lazily across the sky, making for a picturesque mural, a feast for the eyes.
Messy floors. Puddles of slush showing up in dirty brown streaks across the (until now) pristine marble floor. Clothes reeking of damp. Smells like something that even the cat would refuse to drag in. Plants that suddenly sprout more snails and earthworms than flowers. And so we herald the monsoon...
Tuesday, 15 May 2007
Monday, 7 May 2007
What we're discussing here is a tiny nondescript little hill station called Badhok. Before that quizzical expression on your face results in a permanent frown, let's put some geographical facts into perspective. Badhok is a place up in the Shivalik Ranges in the North of India. That's
somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas.
So there we were, driving along a red-bottomed monkey-inhabited road winding up the mountainside, when we pulled into this quaint resort called The Pinewood. (Yes, unlike apartment buildings in Mumbai called Beach View when you can't even see a stall vending bottled water in sight, this one does have pine trees surrounding it.) Now the view from this resort was heavenly rows of bright red poppies swaying in the breeze, huge rose blooms in eye-catching reds and oranges, dainty little purple and yellow flowers nodding their heads in time to a tune of their own. Bliss.
Badhok itself has nothing much to write home about, except for some scrumptious local Himachali cuisine, and gorgeous weather even in the summer. A good place to run away from it all for a weekend. As we did.
Wednesday, 2 May 2007
Cruising past India Gate, took in deep breaths of air, cleansed the lungs with the scent of rich rain-drenched earth and smiled. Together with the world. A leisurely amble through Dilli Haat, side-stepping the puddles of water and brushing some random stray drops off the chin and forehead... The sights and smells stay longer than I'd imagined.
Guess that's why it's called 'Home Sweet Home' and nothing can take its place. Though maybe a couple of nights in an old restored fort (now a heritage hotel) would be fun. And romantic. More on that later... Suffice it to say that I'm thoroughly enchanted!
Tuesday, 24 April 2007
A serene warm glow emanated from the light that was switched on inside, bathing the fish in an ethereal halo. There they were, gliding along gracefully, a casual swish and flick of a fin at intermittent intervals. No jostling for space, for a slice of the pie or running a seemingly never ending rat race.
On others, they'd sit together enveloped in a comfortable silence born of years of bonding. She'd take up her crotchet, while he'd read the dailies, skimming the finely typed pages. Sometimes he'd read aloud an interesting snippet or two.
Reminiscing - it could be therapeutic. Or traumatic even, depending which side of the scales you were tipping.
The mug slipped from her now cold hands, hot coffee splashing onto the ivory walls, leaving a mud coloured trail behind. She didn't feel the searing heat when a few drops scalded the delicate skin at her wrist. Why did he have to die? Of all the people milling around campus that bleak winter morning, why was it him, caught in the shootout at the school? He, who'd normally never venture out on one of the season's coldest days unless it was absolutely vital. What made him take that step, one move in the wrong direction?
She'd never know. Just as she'd never feel warm again.
I've kinda started to avoid family gatherings these days. Or those parties / events wherein close friends of the family tend to gather around like buffalo at the watering hole.
I turn to find a bejewelled, silk-draped auntie nudging my elbow and grinning, glass of Pepsi in hand. So, good news kab hai, haan? (So, when's the good news then?) There I am, mentally rolling my eyes inside my head, and thinking, good news for whom? Me, or the auntie in the violent violet coloured sari? I mean, having a baby is fine, but that's just it - that's merely the beginning! I'm so tempted to ask auntie - so I'll have the baby, yeah, but who's gonna babysit? You? Who's gonna change the diapers at the ungodly hour of 2 a.m.? You? Who's gonna wipe Baby's snotty little nose and run around with the washcloth? Are you? Naah, I'm sure that's all part of my lot. Oh, happiness!
I'd suggest let the good news be. Until the time's right.
Tuesday, 10 April 2007
The cold, drab season
Of the heart
the mind and
Nowhere to be seen
Chills to the bone and
the warmth seeps out
You can never get warm again.
So, what gets you down?
Friday, 30 March 2007
They say that you need to be 'good' in this birth, the current cycle of life and death you're going through. When you ask why, the most common (and miffed) response is that 'so you reap the benefits in your next life'. Huh? Come again?
To counter that, I'd put forth my view: First, let's assume this whole reincarnation theory to be true. I'm not gonna be around then (the way I am now), to know or understand that when 'X' happens to me today (this is the next birth talking), it's all due to my deeds / actions / thoughts that were part of my life in the previous birth! How, then, does it matter how I am today?
Agreed, it counts if you believe that you're gonna reap the rewards / make things miserable for yourself, right here, right now - or okay, maybe ten years hence, but in this very life cycle! How can my karma today dictate my so-called next life?
Monday, 19 March 2007
Time I learnt to read more than the English calendar.
Tuesday, 13 March 2007
To add to the chaos, the train pulls into the station (not that you can figure out which one it is, since your vantage point is not one to sing about) and what appears to be half the continent rushes in. And the other half rushes out, almost taking your bag, scarf and sanity along with it. Ouch.
Vendors. Ah, now things get interesting. From hair accessories to stationery, you'll find all you've ever wanted to purchase, but couldn't care less to take the time out to pick up! Bargain, of course (it's in the blood), but whatever the price, you can rest assured it's a steal. Introduce a PYT (Pretty Young Thing for the uninitiated) with her dainty little nose in the air. Now, she can't buy something - what if the uppity neighbourhood platinum blonde whom she's trying so hard to be sees her, even on the off chance? - outright. Hence, you'll notice a furtive glance being cast in both directions, before she reaches out a freshly manicured hand to examine a hair clip.
Beggars (who earn more than most of us do annually) romp in, blissfully unmindful of the stony looks and turned up noses, and sing (read: screech) at the top of their lungs. Whew, what power. They earn their buck from those people who want them out of the compartment, right that very minute. What better way than to part with a shiny new coin?
As your stop arrives, you'll be pulled along with the mass of humanity, and have no need to make the effort to get off. But oh, do make sure your sandal hasn't been left behind.
Saturday, 10 March 2007
If you stop and take a moment out to think, you'd wonder what's with men (who can, sometimes, be sensible) - they go all starry-eyed and drown mesmerized in the television screen... It's with almost the same passion as being in the throes of first love, if not more. It's the kind of look not even given to the women in their lives. Reserved specially for the game, it shrieks 'love at every sight'. Always. The love story just doesn't end.
The word seasonality doesn't apply here. On second thoughts, it does: if you're talking about the increasing hysteria around what is popularly termed as 'Cricket Season'. (If you ask me, there isn't a time of the year that doesn't fall under that category - reruns of some godforsaken matches that took place even before you were born count.)
Right now, though, the title belongs to the World Cup. From a schedule lovingly put up in the house, and plans being made to watch the game with the boys, from where I see it, it's gonna be sheer unadultrated torture until the madness dies down.
But... does it ever?
Sounds especially good when you're discussing the weekend's latest release over lunch at work, or at a coffee bar evening with friends. Still more fun - dissing the star cast (more so when the hero / heroine looks good enough to eat, depending on which way you swing) and conjuring up the smallest flaws... Dunno about alcohol, but this can create a buzz more satisfying than chocolate.
Thursday, 8 March 2007
Sunday, 4 March 2007
Or do we go with the new findings that show up Cleo's supposedly true colours, or rather, her looks: the hooked nose, less-than-perfect features...?
Painted onto papyrus, gleaming gold and vegetable dye, the figment (is it?) of somebody's imagination comes vividly to life. Best untouched, undiscovered, let romance rule!
Here's to you, Cleo!
He always knew what she'd be thinking, and by now had learnt to anticipate her every move. The both of them were a support system for each other, and reading the other's mind wasn't much of a task.
No wonder then, she defended herself, she'd been so reluctant to see him go. Wondering when he'd return. After all, traversing halfway across the globe put in an immeasurable distance between them, for the first time in their lives. He was her soul, her reason for living.
It's only for a while, he'd consoled her. A posting from work, and before she'd even know it, he'd be back with her, he promised. Right by her side, watching her knit, the needles clicking away tirelessly as she created a cable knit sweater for him.
He'd insisted she didn't come down to the airport, seeing him off at home itself was an ordeal for her. One more last hug, the nth good-bye, and he was gone. Out of her life for what seemed to be an infinite period.
Ansh, her son. All she could do was wait.
You derive more entertainment (and information) from a commercial, rather than those inane soaps, where the mother-in-law (MIL, to the uninitiated) is scheming against her DIL (no prizes for guessing that one now!), while her MIL is out plotting against her. To add to this mêlée is the neighbourhood baddie who has the hots for her daughter and is going all out to ensure that his attempt at kidnapping her is successful, while the nerd from across the road injures himself while attempting to foil that very same bid... *whew* Pause for breath. Figure if you turn on the TV set some six-odd months later, it'd all look the same. At the most, you can expect a generation leap of some twenty years. Of course, the storyboard doesn't change.
To put things into perspective: You have one auntie from a daily soap, fake eyelashes et al. Also a potted plant. IQ level's significantly higher in the case of the latter.
As for the commercials, they teach you to bargain at your local greengrocer's, invest for your future, dream of a new car (and hope that you have a rich uncle in the Bahamas), zap up some astonishingly succulent looking, ready to cook in a jiffy meal for the famished family... all in a span of a total of 120 seconds, all told.
Bring 'em on! At least they don't insult my intelligence.
On the beach, a riot of people. Not literally; it's myriad individuals ingesting sea water (tainted with scores of other unmentionables) and tossing fistfuls of colour at each other... Intrepid small-time photographers, "Madam, ek photo ka tees rupiah. Sauh ke chaar." (Ma'am, one photograph for thirty rupees. Four for a hundred.) woo you, to score one over the other guy jostling for space. And your okay.
Obscure news channels from across the globe (yes, really!) plying their camera and related equipment, snatching sound bytes from an ever-willing audience, to later treat their viewers to "Holi, the Indian Festival of Colours", drawled for the benefit of the camera, lurk around.
Intrepid street, oops, beach vendors hawking their ware: samosas (triangles of pastry filled with spicy potato and fried golden brown), ice-gola (a ball of ice dipped in sorbet, to be slurped up noisily), idlis (steamed lentil cakes)... all this, of course, garnished with grains of sand. The variety is seemingly endless, and it's up to your insides to get tough and survive.
Cops and the life guards work in tandem, ensure there's no unruly incident and the resultant chaos, and warn people away from the water once the tide starts to rise.
Families (kids of the single-digit age group in tow), couples (oblivious to most other things around them), carloads of friends out to have a good time - you'll find all sorts have a rollicking day out on the beach.
In other parts, you'll find people guzzling bhaang. But that's another story. Another post.
Saturday, 3 March 2007
Monday, 26 February 2007
Okay, okay, so they play up on their 'healthy' angle, promising you some zillion benefits they claim potatoes never will provide, wax eloquent about pumping up your iron levels and the like... Somehow, they can never convince me.
I'd rather a pair of bright red and yellow bell peppers did the salsa on my kitchen counter.
Saturday, 24 February 2007
Nothing, though, prepares me for this - a surprise birthday bash, right here in my own living room! Loads of friends, family and fun make for quite a heady combination! More cake (whatever are calories?) and still more conversations...
For my family: A thank you would just about start to cover it... Just about.
The highlight being a whiteboard, specially adorned for the occasion. Is it festive, or what! And hey, don't miss the arrow. If you were clueless as to where my desk at work is, well, now you know!! Clichéd but true: a picture does say a thousand words, doesn't it!
To my friends: a big thank you.
Sunday, 18 February 2007
Seeti bajaye re..."
This is the first of many songs in a loop, and then some. I've always wondered where on Earth do Mumbai's rickshaw-wallahs (drivers, to the uninitiated) get their music from. As I hop in to a rick en route from work, I'm uhh... treated to some such delightful numbers. The prerequisite for this is the word loud, and I do mean LOUD. I have a firm belief that they're remixed to the Rickshaw Beat purely for them. Blaring from torn speakers, delightfully distorted sound...you know, the works. Basically, the cute guy in the rick three lanes away should hear the din. And you'll cringe when you notice just how cute he is, and that he notices you in a 'singing' rickshaw. That's one. Second, the 'ambience' in most such ricks...
There are embellishments to set the ambience:
a. Pom-poms and sundry other danglers gaudy enough to put a belle at a local fair to shame.
b. Holographic stickers, the more gross, the better: pouty red lips, hearts with arrows stuck through them, knives through hearts replete with drops of blood dripping off the edge and the like.
c. Social service messages roughly translated from the local language would read thus: A girl educated signifies progress, A small family is a happy family, yadda yadda.
d. Now this is a classic: Names. These can include anybody and everybody that the rick guy dreams of / includes in his list of family and friends. (Pappu, Monty, Sonu, Chinky being favourites, whoever they may be. Sometimes I think they're arbit generic names, like Xerox for a photocopy.)
e. Posters of Bollywood stars, mostly female with loud makeup (specially enhanced for the said poster).
f. And traditionally, last but not the least, lights! Now these have to be in flourescent colours, running the gamut from pink and green to a sickly (and sickening) yellow. If some of them can be programmed to march, blink, flicker... Wow. Err, whatever.
g. The horn. Tinny, bullfrog, bass... It doesn't matter, as long as it's effective to make meandering cattle (both human and four-legged), other unsuspecting vehicles and various other life forms jump out of their skin and incidently, out of the way of Mr. Dashing's three-wheeler autorickshaw.
The rick flying over potholes, the speakers screech:
"Meri haathon mein nau nau choodiyaan hain..."
1. Why it takes longer to cook than it does to eat the stuff you've made.
2. Why if a guy swears, it's okay. If a girl does, she's using language more colourful than a sailor's.
3. Why lying is accepted if you're being politically correct.
4. When the fish in my fish bowl sleep.
5. Why most of us are so afraid to change. And maybe of change as well.
Wednesday, 14 February 2007
A quick poll would probably reveal stats that look somewhat like this:
a. Moths flying outta empty wallets. (When'll payday roll around?? Despair.)
b. Rejected flowers (and wannabe lovers) scattered around.
c. Cash rich card companies / gift shops and their kith and kin.
d. Stray angry protestors lugging along remnants of burnt effigies / cards / V-Day symbols, feebly singing their angry songs.
e. Lovesick puppy dog looks (tails wagging et al) on some teenybopper faces. And don't miss the teddy bear tucked away under one arm...
I rest my case.
Monday, 12 February 2007
She got to know him in her teens. Until then, he was the tyrant of her summer holidays. Use the fork. Don't pick at your food. Sit straight: you'll get a hunch. She used to dread visiting him, not knowing when the next reprimand would fly at her. She was little, single-digit age group, and understood softer words (and toys!) better.
Reprimand? Or was it affection? Just that he couldn't express himself, tell her in so many words how much he loved her?
One evening, she was to drive down to meet him, a good four hours away from her home. She was late, the result of an event at her management school. She was flooded with endless calls en route, where he'd enquire, gruff-voiced: Where are you? It's late. Don't you have any concern at all for me? She reached his home to find him waiting up for her, at the ungodly hour of 1:00 a.m., with her favourite coffee blend bubbling away in the percolator. Her hug was brushed away with an abrupt, Thank God you're here: I can get some sleep at last. She couldn't know that he was watching for her from his bedroom window, waiting for her car to drive in, struggling to stay awake.
Sigh. Some things don't change. Don't they? She got to know him that weekend the way she never had before. That under his gruff manner lay his affection and concern for her. Every little gesture spoke a million words. He made her feel special.
They spent a lazy Saturday browsing through old family albums, he acquainting her with aunts and uncles she'd never known existed. Regaling her with countless stories. Having her roll around in mirth at the funniest anecdotes brought guffaws to his lips, too. She made him feel young again.
As she knelt by his grave, his face seemed to smile up at her. Carefully, she placed the lilies on the stone. Cold, as he was in death. She'd never forget that one, heart-stopping moment. As she'd never forget him.
"Any more, and the cake'll collapse with the weight of the candles. Tee-hee!"
"Now that you're over the hill, Gramma..." *snigger, snigger*
Funnnnny. Not. Okay, so I don't think so. I mean, it's me that's standing here, blowing out the candles! ("Careful, you'll singe your hair!")
What's the year been about, anyway?
A path-breaking career move? A personal high? New beginnings? Sure, interspersed with the lows. The time your relationship tottered, more precarious than a Miss So-and-So's high heels. The evening when you got in from work and mentally knocked your co-worker's face off the Earth. Wiped the floor clean with the annoying neighbour who objects because "your dog barks and I can't sleep". Whine.
Ah, familiar. That's how it is, year after year. Add another for good measure.
Milestone? So go on, already.
Sunday, 11 February 2007
The colours of the season are:
c. Nauseating variants of [a] and / or [b]
So what's on the agenda, anyway?
Step # 1: Go to nearest store.
Step # 2: Pick out card.
Step # 3: Pick out stuffed toy in any of the colours listed above. Toy with heart? Take 20 bonus points! Heart inscribed with those three little words (No, no, not 'Pay the bill'!)? You've got it made, buddy!
Step #4: Open wallet. *sigh* Part with dough. *bigger sigh* Realize it's more than you'd planned to spend. *still bigger sigh* Remember that you've not yet picked out the bouquet. *glub glub glub*
Normally, they're in an affordable price range. This close to V-Day, you're paying for every petal. Dearly. Worse, the object of your affection doesn't like them. (How could you forget that I'm allergic to pollen???) Start to count the thorns, too, buddy. That's all you're gonna get. Ouch.
Baubles, as mentioned in paragraph one.
Diamonds, set in white gold or platinum. Anything else, refer to the paragraph above. Add one more thorn.
Same time, next year: Same story. Different love?
Friday, 9 February 2007
Of Love, of Hate
Of Violence, of Peace
Of Happiness. Joy. Ecstacy
and Profound Sadness.
Colour me Red. Black. Blue. Green. Maybe White.
Reflect my moods, my thoughts.
Is life always black and white? Or gray?
Sometimes my mind screams out.
Nobody hears me. Nobody understands.
Colours, they do.
Tuesday, 6 February 2007
So do we bread lovers discriminate? No way, José! The only requirement is that it should be pure, unadultrated bread (read: no butter / cheese / whatchamacallit), as light as air, and with that unmistakable aroma.
Heaven, here I come...
Saturday, 3 February 2007
Always wondered why wedding invites are so...well, for lack of a better word, uhhh...uninspired. I mean, are people actually expected to attend an event where:
a. They'll be bored outta their skulls.
b. The food is always bad. (Even if it's good, the ubiquitous ample silk-draped aunties have to label it bad. It's the norm. Of course, to the bride / groom and family, it's the best they've ever eaten yet. Gushingly so.)
c. Someone's checking you out / vice-versa. And that's the only form of entertainment. And not always fun: the groom's cousin looks like Dilbert on a bad hair day.
And to top it all, the invite doesn't clue you in on any of this. It's always bland, carries images invoking all the possible supreme beings, their extended families and pets, and says "Gifts in the form of blessings only". Now, one has to read that to understand it as: go ahead and give the gift you've gotten to my mum / aunt / so-and-so, right over there in the corner where the camera's never ever gonna capture your mugshot!!
Wake up and smell the coffee, world - it's time for a change!
Happily sipping a tall glass of strawberry milkshake (yum!) - contrary to my fitness consultant's advice (it is revolutionised food and therefore has no real nutrients and just piles on the bad fat) - I lazily contemplate doing nothing for the rest of the day. And a lovely thought it is.
Weekends are made just for this...
Tuesday, 30 January 2007
So what's all this about, hmm? Well, guess I'm gonna be updating something of everything that randomly waltzes into my head. No, it's not an online diary *grin*, so never mind that train of thought...lol!
Welcome on board, and here's to loads of lazy afternoons (or whatever time of the day / night; take your pick) with coffee and cinnamon! Cheers!
P.S.: How about some chocolate cake to go with that cuppa? WTH - you only live once!