The Cutest Cuteness in the History of Cuteness! EVER.

"I like you and I know why.
I like you because you are a good person to like.
I like you because when I tell you something special, you know it's special
And you remember it a long, long time.
You say, Remember when you told me something special
And both of us remember

When I think something is important
you think it's important too
We have good ideas
When I say something funny, you laugh
I think I'm funny and you think I'm funny too
Hah-hah!

I like you because you know where I'm ticklish
And you don't tickle me there except just a little tiny bit sometimes
But if you do, then I know where to tickle you too
You know how to be silly
That's why I like you
Boy are you ever silly
I never met anybody sillier than me till I met you

I like you because you know when it's time to stop being silly
Maybe day after tomorrow
Maybe never

That's because you really like me
You really like me, don't you
And I really like you back
And you like me back and I like you back
And that's the way we keep on going every day

And I like you because when I am feeling sad
You don't always cheer me up right away
Sometimes it is better to be sad
You can't stand the others being so googly and gaggly every single minute
You want to think about things
It takes time

I like you because if I am mad at you
Then you are mad at me too
It's awful when the other person isn't
They are so nice and hoo-hoo you could just about punch them in the nose

I like you because I don't know why but
Everything that happens is nicer with you
I can't remember when I didn't like you
It must have been lonesome then

I like you because because because
I forget why I like you but I do
So many reasons

On the 4th of July I like you because it's the 4th of July
On the 5th of July, I like you too
Even if it was the 999th of July
Even if it was August
Even if it was way down at the bottom of November
Even if it was no place particular in January
I would go on choosing you
And you would go on choosing me
Over and over again

That's how it would happen every time
I don't know why
I guess I don't know why I really like you
Why do I like you
I guess I just like you

I guess I just like you because I like you."

What Men Want

We've this big event coming up so I spent the last hour preparing a couple hundred nametags. It involved a lot of delicately nudging the modesty off a round piece of plastic, then slipping a plastic stick through a tiny hole, before plunging a knob of the stick through a freshly opened hole. 

In short, yes, very Freudian. And yes, by the time I'd done this two hundred times, I really believe I started thinking about sex the way a guy does. Here goes.

- At first, I was super thrilled every time I nudged the plastic covering off and found a hole that hadn't been stretched too wide and/or torn by my manoevres. The sound of the covering making way to uncover a perfect hole was ohoho only.

- Eventually it got a bit boring and I started wondering why this modesty couldn't just undo itself. I mean why must I do all the work? With such patience too, or it just goes phut and tears and THEN it's no use to ANYONE.

- I don't think I really lost respect for any piece of plastic whose modesty came off too fast. Contrarily, I was slightly impatient with those that refused to budge, thinking uncharitable thoughts like 'Frigid bitch.'

- Slipping the stick through a cover... which I equated to putting on a condom... well, easy enough, but what a pain, isn't there any way to skip this nonsense and just get to the point of the chase? Surely if God had intended for this step to be a part of the process he'd have designed the whole thing differently.

- Putting the knob of the stick in the tiny opening within the hole.. oh dear god, why aren't most holes just READY for the stick? Yes, I understand it's a big stick (smirk with pride here) but surely the hole can afford to spread just a little?

- By the time I'd done my fiftieth thrust or so, I found I had it in me to get violent and really shove the stick in the hole if that's what it took. 

- By the hundredth penetration, I was starting to experience performance pressure - every part of me hurt, the stick had to do all the work, the hole just lay back. Even when it was on top, it's really the stick's fault if it doesn't enter firmly enough, and oh man, make it stop, I've had enough, I can't keep doing this!

- The peon came up and went 'Had enough, is it?' Immediately me and my stick went up going 'No, we could do this forever, I'm not, no!'

- I moved to my room to do the last twenty five and found that I'd rather tweet/blog about it than actually do it; if only to brag that I'd holed two hundred (metaphorically) big ones.

Well gentlemen? Have I nailed you or have I nailed you? I'm ready for my penis now, thank you.

Sweet (C) Memories

Us: There's a cockroach in the pasta.
Waiter (looking down, spots it triumphantly): Yes.

... And then he walks away. Oh, Sweet C. We love you. I suppose it's time to come clean and admit we were always delighted when we found a roach in anything, it gave us a chance to re-enact this drama. The time-honored tradition followed where we summoned over the waiter and watched amused as he looked at us and then the plate, clearly not getting why this may be a problem.

This in turn enabled us to scream 'Cockroach, cock-roach, cockroachhhhh,' at him, as if this would make some kind of a difference. After about ten minutes, he invariably trudged away with the dish and returned a minute later... having just removed the roach and brought back the same plate.

College haunts are the best, aren't they? They've a way of building up your resistance so you don't get sick from anything you eat afterwards. And Sweet C, being located right behind our college, was heaven itself. We knew the waiters in and out (really, we had their mobile numbers and everything!) and they came to our rescue often when the manager wanted us kicked out for either swearing really loudly, or running around throwing food, or both. Hey, we were young. Also, yes, we still do that. Shut up.

So anyway, last weekend, most of us were free (which is harder to coordinate than it seems, Sex and the City is so fake) and decided to head over to Sweet C to partake of our favorite sport - watching the waiters run down the stairs in those cute little aprons that tied up at the back. Only.. it wasn't there. Neither the aprons, nor the waiters, nor indeed Sweet C itself. Some stupid yoga place stood there instead. This is such a loss to mankind. I don't know how the girls from our college will survive now. Where will they go for nourishment? How will they build up resistance? Where will they hide when they bunk college? Tsk.

April, Come Fastly. And Bring My Sanity With You, Please.

October last year to March this year has been a crazy amount of planning and nail-biting and planning some more... and while that's been fun (not!), I can't wait for April, 'cos hopefully that's when it all comes together!

... That's the plan anyway.

The last couple of months have been so tense, it's only now that I'm finding the time + space + energy to sit back and rediscover the part of me that finds the detailing excitingggggg. With all the traditional details out of the way and both families happy, I can take a deep breath and plunge into the aspects that I claimed for my own ages ago. 

Fun stuff like the reception, and the invites, and the music, and things like that, which possibly don't matter to anyone except me. It finally finally finally feels like this wedding may be ours again, instead of just the families'. Hurray!!

Upmanship Redefined

In response to this:

Me: I should've said Mumtaz, but you see, it's hot so occasionally I make mistakes.. but I admit to them. Because I'm a bigger person than you are. So that's okay. Just so we're clear. I'm admitting to having made an error. *Applause*.

Missing Me

How come I don't write like I did in 2006? I wish I could say it's because I've moved past the anguished angst-y stage so I no longer need melodramatic introspection. The true story, though, is that I never give my thoughts any time to build up into a post anymore - they're invariably whittled away into statuses, or posts, or tweets, or pings.

I'm not sure if I can break that mold, but sometimes I read posts which I remember feeling my way through, and I know I need to turn out at least a few. If I don't, I'll have nothing to look back at when I'm forty but an empty shell of posts which may as well have been social networking updates.

Mirage

Us

Girl

Eulogy to the End

Boy

No

Existentialism

Wish Upon A Star Tonight

For Me

If I Were Home

Shadows

Ex-BFF

Musings at Midnight

The Artist & The Muse

Frames

Scheherzade on Strike

Sfumato

Fetters

You'll Come Back

Silence

Thinklet
Happy's Endings

Love, Actually

Pétiller

Resilience

Over & Out

I Am A Duracell Battery

Friday
4:00AM Woken up by urgent text from friend, slink out to meet her
5:00AM Beach walk
6:00AM Drop off a parcel for the friend at a school
7:00AM Finish walking, head home for breakfast, house cleaning, et al
9:00AM Office
6:00PM Walk 5km, go to my aunt's place
7:30PM Head out for a family dinner
10:45PM Finish dinner, head to another aunt's place
11:30PM Get to sleep

Saturday
4:00AM Wake up for yoga with the relatives since I *am* crashing at their place
5:00AM Head to my place, go to the beach for my walk et al
7:00AM Breakfast & lunch readyings
9:00AM Office
7:00PM Leave office, run to the library
8:00PM Socialize with the cousins
10:30PM Finally get home and crash

Sunday
5:00AM Wake up, do the beach walk
6:30AM Shop for a potluck later in the day, pick up pies from a bakery
7:00AM Head home, iron, do breakfast, do the washing up
7:45AM Office
9:00AM Leave office, power walk over to the TS
9:30AM Meeting at the TS
11:40AM Potluck brunch with a bunch of friends, their families, and our family friends
2:00PM Back to office
5:22PM Death.

I was meant to meet another friend, but oh my god, I'm a zombie. That said, this weekend was SO awesome. I totally wish all my weekends were just like this!

I Love My Friends Becauuuuuuse

- It doesn't matter that we're engaged/married/seriously committed, we still find it in us to create a mock 'fashion show' to find Mr.Shady, ie: the shadiest groom/wife picked out by our peers.

- When I pass on the word that there's a couple indulging in excessive PDA on the beach, two out of three responses say 'Omg, take a video, we'll figure out how to use it later.'

- We all still look young enough to get away with not tipping any waiter we don't want to tip, without overly incurring his wrath.

... And that's just three reasons. Man, I love being back home. 

Score!

Being the youngest (by a huge margin!) at my workplace ensures I get all kinds of special treatment, from warm chilli cheese toast in the morning ('I made it for the kids ma.') to random boxes of chocolates ('You can afford to eat these at your age.') Of course it also means lunchtime conversations unerringly veer towards menopause and mothers-in-law with a healthy dose of 'FML, so I'm gonna FYL.' in between. The Y being me of course. 

Apparently, with my own house at 24 and a career to boot, my life is unfairly smooth. Let's forget the fact that I totally do my own cleaning, cooking, washing, ironing, the works. At. 24. With. A. Job. Since they can't pick on me for any of that, all I hear all the time is 'Oh, you don't eat enough vegetables, no wonder you're so thin.' Yeah, the 12 km I walk in a day? Just may have something to do with it, sisters.

And no vegetables? Really? Me? Dude. My average salad has more vegetables than most people's weekly intake combined. Tell me I don't eat rice, or bread, or butter, or oil, I totally agree. But no vegetables? Really?? As I write this, I'm chuckling at how ludicrous this whole thing sounds and how totally inconsequential. And really, it is. I know it is. 

The reason I bring it up is because after five months of being nagged at, today, my coworkers sheepishly took a... wait for it... fourth helping of my lunch. Woohoo and a woot, this is more win than the time I racked up a 10% conversion rate (before you ask, typical email marketing campaigns get a 1% conversion rate). And now I'm just showing off. So okay bye.

The One Where I Rant 'Cos I'm Mopey

I hate Australia. It's stupidly far away from here, the time zone *looks* like it'll be compatible with ours but really isn't, and it makes people sick and I hate it. It's hard enough being in a long distance relationship with someone in another city, without adding a continent between us to boot. What is this, revenge for all the times I've joked about how we interact more often than couples in the same city?

Grouch. A month suddenly feels like 2.5 million plus seconds, and believe me, I'm feeling each and every bloody one, and there's just way too many.

PS: This isn't PMS, it's the fact that I kinda miss Hyderabad... McDonalds for one, Subway for another, Dominos for a third. 

...And the boy too, of course. 

PS2: I talk about food a lot more than I eat it. I'm really just a big fat girl on the inside.

The Ten Commandments Every Not-So-Smugly-Married Should Adopt

I'm not going to pretend I don't believe in marriage or that I'm not super thrilled about marrying MM, but in the interest of preserving sanity, yours and mine, I hereby solemnly swear to abide by the following ten commandments:

1. I promise never to start putting up pictures of things I've made or recipes I think are original. I've been cooking for too long now for it to be anything new, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise.

2. I promise not to have kids for a good four-five years. What on earth is the point of getting married now if not to enjoy these interim years before you biologically need to have kids if you ever plan on having any?

3. I promise the husband will not tag along on all our outings. He has friends of his own, as do I, and while socializing and fraternizing is all very well, well, we're not exactly glued at the hip. 

4. I promise I know what I look like, and that won't miraculously change just because I'm married - ie: my display picture will still be *me* not *us* and especially not marriage pictures of us together.

5. I promise not to smugly sit back and put on weight just because I've ensnared a mate... I'm obsessively healthy and that will never change.

6. I promise not to cootchiecoo with the boy via FB statuses. That's kind of what real life is for.

7. I promise not to take you seriously if you gush about how awesome we look together and how gorgeous I am... it absolutely won't go to my head because I've faked the gushing often enough by now.

8. I promise not to put up clingy huggy honeymoon pictures - we're going to some place fabulous so I can't assure *no* pictures, but I can assure pictures of the variety I'd take if I were traveling alone.

9. I promise not to torture you guys with affectionate name calling in public places or within hearing vicinity of anyone. Because... wtf yo. Not cute.

10. I promise not to slobberslurplickdrool fall into his arms like I've been attracted by a magnet, in reel life, in real life, or anywhere else if I know you can see us. I'm perfectly capable of walking by myself without falling over. Well. Not quite. But if I fall, I fall.

Noone's Killing Aruna

There are one or two side roles I'm inordinately fond of in Noone Killed Jessica - Peter for one, his daughter for another. I like characters that believe in fighting some fights which need to be fought, even if they aren't their own. Should they also have fought for something else? Maybe. Some of us fight for what's fashionable, some for what we know of. We're all shades of gray. But the important thing is to fight. 

I've been told time and again to pick my battles, to let some things go, to at least check circumstances before I plunge right in kicking and flailing. I don't think of myself as an activist per se, more as someone who lives in a democratic country and is very aware of it.

More often than not, I stand up for the lesser known underdog. I believe the well known underdogs get their say, that their battles are won, that... I mean, just look at Jessica Lall. Then again, look at Aruna Shanbaug. Can you? I can't do it without crying at the unfairness of it all.

A 25-year old career-oriented woman, excited about her upcoming marriage, a woman who fought some of the battles she thought were worth fighting. She could be me. It's scary how easily she could be me or anyone else on this planet. A rapist, a fucking disgrace to humanity, walks free after a mere seven years in prison, while a woman is not allowed the dignity to die in peace thirty seven years after all dignity was robbed from her. 

Like I was telling someone, this isn't about feminism at all, it's about basic human rights and the ball-lessness of our legal system disgusts me. Our Supreme Court hides behind flimsy curtains of law because they're afraid to fight a battle which NEEDS to be fought dammit, even as large groups of people raise their voice, actually remembering something that's worth remembering for a change... and none of it changes anything.

Aruna Shanbaug's case is one of the few things on the planet that can render me helpless, incoherent, in tears no matter how long it's been since the incident. Blog posts don't change a verdict, my fighting several battles don't change the world. It's no use wanting to castrate that bastard, to reverse the SC's decision, to turn back time, to give Aruna a normal life... nothing takes the fight out of me like this case. 

That said - please. Google her. Read her story. Let's, at the very least, not forget. And let's feel some guilt, on the behalf of people who don't. Let's feel some shock, because this isn't just another casualty number in the papers, to be seen and ignored. Let's try to stay human in the face of inhumanity. Because sometimes, when voices aren't heard, and nothing you can say will change a thing, that's all that's left to do. 

Hung Up on Aircel

'Oh Aircel. We're not dating, you know. There's no need to call me up every hour on the hour.'

Judging by the torrent of likes and comments on that Facebook status, Aircel believes in polygamy. However, there's no need for me to feel un-loved... Aircel's handpicked me for a whole new level of intimacy. Why else would they randomly debit amounts of 30 and 15 within a week, claiming they want to send me kaadhal kavidhai (that's love poems, for all you non-Tamizh-ites) and Melody tunes (I don't even want to know what that is).

You've to give phone companies some credit - they certainly know their pick-up lines (har, pun). Lately, I've been calling them more often than they've been calling me - albeit to complain about these random tactics. I get a standard apology that sounds about as heartfelt as their automated recording, and they assure me they'll credit my account within 48 hours, while I try to ignore the fact that it took them less than a minute to debit it in the first place.

I feel like I'm in a relationship with a spendaholic who's intent on blowing my money in tiny installments. So let me try saying this just one more time. Aircel, honey. I'm just not that into you. Please. Stop. Or I really will break up with you.