I was tagged by Rad to write 6 quirky things about myself. Being the person that I am, I decided to fudge it a little and write about the quirky things my loved ones would find in my condo, should I die today……
If I died today, the things my loved ones would find:
~An erotic reader in my bedside table
~Lots and lots of bills for frivolous purchases like mac cosmetics
~Oodles of little pieces of writing on my laptop
~Clothes with tags on it
~My last will and testament (I am very orderly)
~Little diaries filled with teenage angst
~Neat files containing documents of all my worldly possessions
~Loads and loads of laundry
~Spoilt green chutney in my refrigerator
~Hidden tampax pads all over the house (I am obsessed with idea of running out of them)
~A box full of momento’s from various trysts all over the world…
~Piles of dishes
~A cup of tea in my bathroom, from this morning
~My treasure chest of pennies
~The one whom we no longer speak of’s Calvin Klein underwear….men’s underwear make the best boy shorts
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Rules of Travel for a PIO
There are certain rules that a person of Indian Origin follows when traveling:
Rule #1: You must pack the most unnecessary stuff when traveling back to the motherland….items like clothes (hello aren’t most of our clothes made in India??) laundry detergent….and the most random items you have collected over the years, to give as gifts….
Rule #2: You must pack as many suitcases as you are allowed. You must also securely fasten your suitcase with a rope…..preferably in a neon color…. You must also stick the craziest stickers on your suitcase, so that you can identify them in the motherland.
Rule #3: Even though you are aware of weight restrictions, it is important you look completely surprised when your bag is over the allotted 23 kgs. It is also your moral duty to sit there and argue with the airline representative on how completely unfair and random weight restrictions are.
Rule #4: You must then make your way to the side of the airport and painstakingly move the above mentioned laundry detergent and such to evenly distribute the weight.
Rule #5: Whiles in the motherland, you must accumulate as many forbidden and contraband food and liquor items to take back with you. Yes you were warned on the way out and will be warned on the way in, about how bad it is to bring back a few juicy Alfanso mangoes, and country liquor, but really, you reason, its only a few mangoes…what harm could it do. Also you reason, its partly national jealousy, after all, what if anything do you sneak out of Canada into another country? Maple Syrup??
Rule #6: When you finally hit the final immigration line and the nice immigration officer says, “Welcome home, are you carrying any spices, food items or alcohol” you must put on your sweetest face, and like Peter you reply, “No, No Officer, those Indian spices are so smelly…” And pray that he does not notice the beads of sweat trickling down your forehead, evidence of the one suitcases entirely filled with sweets, banana chips, spices, country liqor and other such items.
Rule #7: You must heed your mothers warning and ignore your bags, letting them take a spin on the little bag wheel, while the mean airport security dogs sniff out the loot in other bags…
Rule #8: On the way out….you must walk at a normal pace, heart beating fast, until you get the outside…at which time you breathe a huge sigh of relief and congratulate yourself at another wonderful ‘food smuggle’
Rule #9: Once outside, you wonder how soon you can dig into those yummy banana chips…..
Rule #1: You must pack the most unnecessary stuff when traveling back to the motherland….items like clothes (hello aren’t most of our clothes made in India??) laundry detergent….and the most random items you have collected over the years, to give as gifts….
Rule #2: You must pack as many suitcases as you are allowed. You must also securely fasten your suitcase with a rope…..preferably in a neon color…. You must also stick the craziest stickers on your suitcase, so that you can identify them in the motherland.
Rule #3: Even though you are aware of weight restrictions, it is important you look completely surprised when your bag is over the allotted 23 kgs. It is also your moral duty to sit there and argue with the airline representative on how completely unfair and random weight restrictions are.
Rule #4: You must then make your way to the side of the airport and painstakingly move the above mentioned laundry detergent and such to evenly distribute the weight.
Rule #5: Whiles in the motherland, you must accumulate as many forbidden and contraband food and liquor items to take back with you. Yes you were warned on the way out and will be warned on the way in, about how bad it is to bring back a few juicy Alfanso mangoes, and country liquor, but really, you reason, its only a few mangoes…what harm could it do. Also you reason, its partly national jealousy, after all, what if anything do you sneak out of Canada into another country? Maple Syrup??
Rule #6: When you finally hit the final immigration line and the nice immigration officer says, “Welcome home, are you carrying any spices, food items or alcohol” you must put on your sweetest face, and like Peter you reply, “No, No Officer, those Indian spices are so smelly…” And pray that he does not notice the beads of sweat trickling down your forehead, evidence of the one suitcases entirely filled with sweets, banana chips, spices, country liqor and other such items.
Rule #7: You must heed your mothers warning and ignore your bags, letting them take a spin on the little bag wheel, while the mean airport security dogs sniff out the loot in other bags…
Rule #8: On the way out….you must walk at a normal pace, heart beating fast, until you get the outside…at which time you breathe a huge sigh of relief and congratulate yourself at another wonderful ‘food smuggle’
Rule #9: Once outside, you wonder how soon you can dig into those yummy banana chips…..
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
It’s been a cold couple of days in Toronto.
Today my boss walks in wearing a big fur coat. Not the plush cozy kind, but the big furry, hairy kind, the kind that you assume lumber jacks or the first settlers of the land would have worn….the coat plus her already bulky frame makes her look a little like a big grizzly bear...
I thought I was alone in my bemusement, when I received the following email from a fellow co-worker:
“Hey watch out, Big Foot’s leaving The Building……”
I laughed so hard I cried….
Today my boss walks in wearing a big fur coat. Not the plush cozy kind, but the big furry, hairy kind, the kind that you assume lumber jacks or the first settlers of the land would have worn….the coat plus her already bulky frame makes her look a little like a big grizzly bear...
I thought I was alone in my bemusement, when I received the following email from a fellow co-worker:
“Hey watch out, Big Foot’s leaving The Building……”
I laughed so hard I cried….
Monday, January 21, 2008
Saturday Night at McD's
Have you ever Been to a McDonald’s play pen on a Saturday night?
Saturday Night at Mc D’s is : Single, Divorced Dad’s night
Droves of them, sitting on the chairs, with their papers, the disinterested ones merely glancing up every now and then to see the kid is still there, the involved ones, actually jumping up and down with their kids to signal enthusiasm.
It’s sort of sweet, sort of sad.
Sad because there’s a whole slew of men out there who only get to see their kids for one day of the week. (Sure they had a choice in the matter, but sad nonetheless.) Sad that the only place they can take their kids is Mc Donald’s; because combined with the crappy Canadian weather and the over whelming fear of crazy peoples, our kids are doomed to the insular, yet safe world of a McDonald’s play pen.
Droves of them, sitting on the chairs, with their papers, the disinterested ones merely glancing up every now and then to see the kid is still there, the involved ones, actually jumping up and down with their kids to signal enthusiasm.
It’s sort of sweet, sort of sad.
Sad because there’s a whole slew of men out there who only get to see their kids for one day of the week. (Sure they had a choice in the matter, but sad nonetheless.) Sad that the only place they can take their kids is Mc Donald’s; because combined with the crappy Canadian weather and the over whelming fear of crazy peoples, our kids are doomed to the insular, yet safe world of a McDonald’s play pen.
On the plus side ladies, it may be a good place to meet an emotionally stunted single dad....
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Babies on Laps
It’s a long flight from the motherland. A really long flight. My first leg had been great, I had been upgraded, and got to sit in a wonderful seat that reclined and massaged me at the same time. So with a little excitement I bored my next plane, wondering what new adventure it would bring.
I got to 27 A.
And I looked around confused. It was my seat, but there was already a woman, with a cute kid on her lap and about four different bags in the seat.
I smiled as sweetly as I could, and asked her if she was in the right seat. Yup. She was in the right seat and the baby was going to be on her lap for the entire journey.
Ok then. So I jump over the bags, which incidentally are under my seat, sat down, and the baby and I began to get to one another, lots of smiles from her, lots of silly faces from me.
And then the plane starts to move and Baby Mo Mo, decides that nope this isn’t where she wants to be, and the screaming begins. And it goes on and on till we land, eight hours later.
The mum half an hour in gets fed up. She tries shoving Pringles up the kids mouth, and a bottle, (which shuts Mo, Mo up for about 5 minutes) and eventually looks at me pleadingly, so I offer to hold her for a bit.
Poor Mo Mo was absolutely stinky from her last journey, and all around us, fellow passengers were giving me the “poor you” look. Mummy Mo, Mo then takes off for about twenty minutes to the wash room, whilst I try in vain to quiten down Miss Mo Mo.
Now, I fully identify the need to not pay for a seat for the kid, however, can you not bring a little bassinet for the kid to sleep in, and can you not sit in the first baby designated row so that you have more space?? And isn’t there some cutesy little medicine you can give your lil one, to make the journey easier?
Or am I just a horrible childless, single girl??
I got to 27 A.
And I looked around confused. It was my seat, but there was already a woman, with a cute kid on her lap and about four different bags in the seat.
I smiled as sweetly as I could, and asked her if she was in the right seat. Yup. She was in the right seat and the baby was going to be on her lap for the entire journey.
Ok then. So I jump over the bags, which incidentally are under my seat, sat down, and the baby and I began to get to one another, lots of smiles from her, lots of silly faces from me.
And then the plane starts to move and Baby Mo Mo, decides that nope this isn’t where she wants to be, and the screaming begins. And it goes on and on till we land, eight hours later.
The mum half an hour in gets fed up. She tries shoving Pringles up the kids mouth, and a bottle, (which shuts Mo, Mo up for about 5 minutes) and eventually looks at me pleadingly, so I offer to hold her for a bit.
Poor Mo Mo was absolutely stinky from her last journey, and all around us, fellow passengers were giving me the “poor you” look. Mummy Mo, Mo then takes off for about twenty minutes to the wash room, whilst I try in vain to quiten down Miss Mo Mo.
Now, I fully identify the need to not pay for a seat for the kid, however, can you not bring a little bassinet for the kid to sleep in, and can you not sit in the first baby designated row so that you have more space?? And isn’t there some cutesy little medicine you can give your lil one, to make the journey easier?
Or am I just a horrible childless, single girl??
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Things that happened whilst I was away:
The GST went down from 6% to 5%
Benziar Bhutto was assassinated, was she brave or crazy, I can’t decide
A $2500 mini car was launched in India…funny I already thought India had affordable death traps…I thought they were called Rickshaws
The sun decided to hide out for a while…I’ve been back three days and the sun is no where in sight…
Fathead killed three of my four plants, Now you have to be pretty talented to kill a bamboo plant….Fathead is thus renamed arch nemesis of all things living
Did I miss anything with you guys??
The GST went down from 6% to 5%
Benziar Bhutto was assassinated, was she brave or crazy, I can’t decide
A $2500 mini car was launched in India…funny I already thought India had affordable death traps…I thought they were called Rickshaws
The sun decided to hide out for a while…I’ve been back three days and the sun is no where in sight…
Fathead killed three of my four plants, Now you have to be pretty talented to kill a bamboo plant….Fathead is thus renamed arch nemesis of all things living
Did I miss anything with you guys??
An Ogre
I want to tell you about a guy, who I met on my 21st birthday. Well I actually met two.
The first is an ogre, (translation a large, gigantic man) and at first quite and shy. Give him a few drinks and he transforms into a loud, funny and crazy being.
The second guy I met I fell for instantly. We dated, it didn’t work out, and things went on.
In the meantime the Ogre and I became friends. Pretty good friends. Every time I went on vacation he was there, shuttling me around from party to party. One night we went out, and not wanting to go home I made him drive me all around Bandra on a bike. I remember at some point telling him that I had lost my faith and wasn’t sure whether I believed in God anymore. He stopped the bike and refused to start again until I promised to find my faith again.
Facts about the Ogre
The Ogre is a chef who does not cook. But he takes me to the best restaurants, where the food makes my mouth salivate in delight. Every where we go people call him Chef Ogre, which makes me laugh, and him irritated.
The Ogre makes me laugh and he likes to hug. And he’s been there to hold my hand through a few teary moments. He’s the kind of guy you can sit with for hours and never run out of things to say. On this trip we took a four hour boat ride, and we chatted and chatted. Anyone who knows me knows I like a good chat.
The Ogre makes me feel at home.
The Ogre’s favorite movie is “Stalag 17” a movie I had never heard off, until he sent it to me last year. I then ‘accidentally’ watched it 17 times.
I miss the Ogre.
Damn Geography.
The first is an ogre, (translation a large, gigantic man) and at first quite and shy. Give him a few drinks and he transforms into a loud, funny and crazy being.
The second guy I met I fell for instantly. We dated, it didn’t work out, and things went on.
In the meantime the Ogre and I became friends. Pretty good friends. Every time I went on vacation he was there, shuttling me around from party to party. One night we went out, and not wanting to go home I made him drive me all around Bandra on a bike. I remember at some point telling him that I had lost my faith and wasn’t sure whether I believed in God anymore. He stopped the bike and refused to start again until I promised to find my faith again.
Facts about the Ogre
The Ogre is a chef who does not cook. But he takes me to the best restaurants, where the food makes my mouth salivate in delight. Every where we go people call him Chef Ogre, which makes me laugh, and him irritated.
The Ogre makes me laugh and he likes to hug. And he’s been there to hold my hand through a few teary moments. He’s the kind of guy you can sit with for hours and never run out of things to say. On this trip we took a four hour boat ride, and we chatted and chatted. Anyone who knows me knows I like a good chat.
The Ogre makes me feel at home.
The Ogre’s favorite movie is “Stalag 17” a movie I had never heard off, until he sent it to me last year. I then ‘accidentally’ watched it 17 times.
I miss the Ogre.
Damn Geography.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Mumbai is,
A dozen boys, wearing only raggity shorts, climbing up a tree, swinging from the branches
A girl of seven, with sun bleached brown hair, wild eyes, carrying a one year old on her hip, begging for money, throwing you the most pitful look at a signal light…yet as the signal turns, she laughs and smiles, as if she hasn’t a care in the world
Giant prawns doused with spices that make your tongue tingle at the thought…
Butter Garlic Nans…enough said
A walk along Carter Road at night, watching lovers, covet a space in the rocks, guarded by the darkness of night…..drinking spiced tea that a little boy sells from a flask
Dancing at Club 9, to music that you only hear at parties entitled “old school”
Sitting with friends at four in the morning, eating sandwiches, at sun in sands….
Buying booze from Jantas at 3 am, having the eleven year old mix the rum and coke in the plastic bottle, while you patiently watch from a rickshaw
Bumpy kisses in a Rickshaw
Aunties so old they’ve shrunk, who remember every family story there is…..who fill your mind with characters from the past, and scandals that make you laugh till you pee just a little..
A magical boat ride from the gate way of India, jumping over four boats to get to your intended boat, holding onto a hand that promises you, you won’t fall over….
A luxury day spent at the a salon, including a gold dust facial, manicures, pedicures, and the works!
The smell of burning paper as your drive by slums trying to heat themselves for the night
Navigating through the crazy surfaces called roads in Bandra, trying your darndest not to twist your ankle
The sound of a crow, followed by the Bhaji walla (Vegetable seller) followed by the Milk walla, followed by the Egg Walla….needless to say sleeping in, is not an option….
Happy New Year to you all Btw....
A girl of seven, with sun bleached brown hair, wild eyes, carrying a one year old on her hip, begging for money, throwing you the most pitful look at a signal light…yet as the signal turns, she laughs and smiles, as if she hasn’t a care in the world
Giant prawns doused with spices that make your tongue tingle at the thought…
Butter Garlic Nans…enough said
A walk along Carter Road at night, watching lovers, covet a space in the rocks, guarded by the darkness of night…..drinking spiced tea that a little boy sells from a flask
Dancing at Club 9, to music that you only hear at parties entitled “old school”
Sitting with friends at four in the morning, eating sandwiches, at sun in sands….
Buying booze from Jantas at 3 am, having the eleven year old mix the rum and coke in the plastic bottle, while you patiently watch from a rickshaw
Bumpy kisses in a Rickshaw
Aunties so old they’ve shrunk, who remember every family story there is…..who fill your mind with characters from the past, and scandals that make you laugh till you pee just a little..
A magical boat ride from the gate way of India, jumping over four boats to get to your intended boat, holding onto a hand that promises you, you won’t fall over….
A luxury day spent at the a salon, including a gold dust facial, manicures, pedicures, and the works!
The smell of burning paper as your drive by slums trying to heat themselves for the night
Navigating through the crazy surfaces called roads in Bandra, trying your darndest not to twist your ankle
The sound of a crow, followed by the Bhaji walla (Vegetable seller) followed by the Milk walla, followed by the Egg Walla….needless to say sleeping in, is not an option….
Happy New Year to you all Btw....
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