The festivities are on us….

The lights were put up yesterday. Yes, it was a bit early in the day, considering every single home in the complex had been blazing blinking and discolighting for the past week. So there was I, and many lines of mirchilights, and a curious child who insisted on “hepping” me, and succeeding brilliantly in making me fall on my face, tripping over various lines on at least three occassions inadvertently and two occasions deliberately keeping in mind the hyuck hyucking of delight that ensued promptly the moment the butt connected with floor tile.

First one discovered one needed things called extension cords. Many of them. Therefore hapless driver was despatched in blazing sun to bring them from electrical shop. No doubt he went down, snarled a bit, took his afternoon nap and returned because it was sunset by the time, so one tripped over more wires, given that one has slimily removed all the bulbs from the balconies to prevent the spouse from growing roots in the sofas kept in said balconies.

Then one stood with hands on the hips and ordered lackey to roll the lines with mirchi bulbs around railings which he did to inexact specifications. Then anal moi threw hopping on the floor tantrums and realigned every roll to one micromilletre of perfection and discovered the damn lights which worked perfectly in the store when one bought them, refused to light up, despite one going down on hands and knees and grovelling before them.

Where was the husband, you ask, when the wife was doing all these tasks which are a man’s domain? Doing manlier things like drinking beer and watching Mission Impossible and therefore refusing to haul his butt out of comfy sofa which he has already indented to grand Canyon levels. God bless his cute butt.

Then once the lights were wound around along the entire length of the five balconies, one discovered the genius helping me he had wound it the wrong way, which meant the plugs came at an end which was kilometers away from any plug point and I would need to plug in extension boards end to end to make this work. And then it was decided to unwind said wires and rewind them in the opposite direction. To imagine this, you, kind reader, should be able to visualise the house which is in train compartment format with all balconies and dry areas running in single file facing westwards. Therefore much winding and unwinding happened. By which time, it was time for dinner. The main socket board was connected to wire plugs via friendly extension boards and voila, the hired help flicked the switch on, the lights lit up and twinkled and he was dismissed.

As the door closed behind him, the lights went off again. I ran shrieking to the balcony bearing extension board to find plug slipped out. Matchsticks were pressed into service and the lights came on again. By which time, it was time to sleep. And the child grumbled furiously about so bright cannot sleep and such like. So, the lights had to be switched off. And given the brilliant brainwave of connecting them through a single plug, all the lights were off simultaneously to the backdrop chorals of the elderly relative grumbling about the inauspiciousness of it all, but ready to wrestle with inauspiciousness for the sleeping comfort of the beloved grandchild. Today will make the critter wear an eye mask.

Happy Diwali to you too!

Gonna get me some feni

It the good old days when the head hadnt seen the horror of a single grey hair, and the waistline was the stuff that could double as hairpin bends on the track of lurvvv, we would go to Goa pretty often. As in every three months or so, we would look at each other with lust and longing over the bed and with unspoken tacit agreement pull out our sole duffel bag and throw in three sets of clothes and my contact lens case and sunblock and drive off through the Western ghats to land in the land of sun and feni and lazing blimplike through the day on sunbeds, and ingesting illegal limits of beer and vodka and rum and cola.

Things, as you, dear gentle reader, know, have changed drastically since. For one. Our packing now comprises enough bags to clothe a small African nation. If the small African nation comprises three foot tall midgets prone to wearing Spiderman or Ben 10 decals on their ensembles. And many bottles of water. And bags full of junk food. Wafers. Chips. Etc. A bag full of medicines. You get the drift. Therefore spontaneity is perhaps the last factor in the decision making process which also involves the very important point of do we have television with working Cartoon Network and Nick in the rooms. A question which needs to be posed to the person on the other end of the phone line taking the bookings. And also the very important question of whether we have a kitchen which will be accommodating enough to send up masala dosas at dinner time. Having got these important things out of the way, one got down to packing one’s infinite bags. The toy bag. The medicine bag. The snacks bag. The food bag. The clothes bag. And the single duffel bag with clothes for us. That, ironically, is still the same bag it was all those years ago. Yes, I will be carrying along clothes that cover up a bit more. Low slung shorts do not go well with C-Sec scar and stretchmarks plus navel stretched to black hole of infinity proportions.

So it is with great trepidation that one sets forth, knowing that one has not packed one’s teensiest minis and shorts and tank tops but huge all forgiving mottled hued mamma tops and capris and shorts that end decently at kneelevel so as to not induce mass barfing session on said beaches. Though, one must add, the corpulent mountains of pink roasted flesh in bikinis emanating unbathed stink on the beaches of Goa are one zillion times more barfworthy than one could ever hope to be.

At least one is bathed brown unroasted flesh all dressed up and not quite as mountainous. The husband has a favourite past time on the beaches of Goa. Lying down, post swim in the sea, beer by his side and hyuck hyuck at the monstrosities that insist on parading themselves in G strings. I on the other hand have a grudging respect for such immense self confidence. What self esteem! Had it been me, I would have been going around offering personal apologies to every soul on the beach for being an assault to public sensibilities.

I am going there solely for the sea food and the pigging out. I swear when I get back into the car on the return trip home every single time, the damn vehicle tilts unbecomingly in the side I sit. All that fish peri peri and prawns vindaloo and balchao zips straight past the gullet to land, dusting space for the molecoles on the broad benches that call themselves hips, and spread out their mats for a good snooze in. Must remember to load the car down with awful luggage on the husband’s side of it to balance things out.

I also must remember to take thick hat. Not one of them flimsy straw ones that let vile sunrays in through gaps in their weave. Also mosquito repellant. Also infinite kilos of sweat proof and waterproof sunblock to slather onto every inch of self that will only help in bronzing my skin to perfect nutmeg brown tones, while the husband will just turn lobster red and peel off happily within the day and then be back to usual degree of pinkness.

And it will be interesting, now that I am off alcohol and am no longer going to spend the days lying wasted, in alcohol induced haze on beach, to see whether I find the place as interesting and relaxing as I used to. Given that I can bet my last sola topee on the fact that I will be spending all my day doing the minute mile behind the child.

And it will be nice to take to take the kid to spots on the beach and point out, look here son, here’s your pappa and mamma’s favourite snogging place before you were born.

It will be nice to revisit Goa as parents.

So this is the budday pahty

Superman and Spiderman

And this is the cake.

And this is the cutting

And that is the mamma in the top she finally managed to get tailored so that she fits into it. Without rending it into two in the process. Kindly ooh and aah.

Notice how the child cannot tear his eyes off the cake.

Wish you were there.

My addictions…

The Munchkin blog passed this on to me, and it came a while ago but since I was being to lazy about actually rolling up sleeves and getting down to work, didnt get down to doing anything about it. Plus, the fact that the tag asked me to list out five addictions. Only five. Thats like asking a food addict to survive on a plate of salad for an entire week. Which in turn meant I needed to do deep contemplative thinking. Which in turn meant I needed to stop drooling over fashion magazines and such like. And which meant…anyway…here’s my list.

My son’s smile: I need to see him laugh when he wakes up, I need to see his face crinkle up with joy when he sees me, I need to be the first face he sees when he opens his eyes. Yup, yup, call me obsessive. I can get myself into a funk on a day I think he hasnt laughed enough. It catches my breath, when his face lights up with joy and delight at random things, like pouring a sipper full of orange juice on my handknotted carpet and seeing me beat the world record for maximum number of footstomps in a minute.

My husband’s leg on mine when I sleep at night: If that weight isnt there I cant sleep. I cant fall asleep. I need that solidity, that reassurance of his presence around and the day he scoots off for a boys night out, I’m reduced to smarmy tricks like using weighted pillows on said leg. 

The sound of my mother’s voice on the phone: Calm, reassuring, loving unconditionally. If I dont speak to her at least twice in the day, I feel fidgety and unsettled, and keep knocking things over until I realise its not sugar overdose but mamma withdrawal symptoms.

My funny books: PG Wodehouse. Dave Barry. Bill Bryson. Jerome K Jerome. I can read them back to back. Over and over again. They soothe me. They keep me laughing and sane. And they help me realise that this coughing attack brought on by indiscriminate laughing too will pass. And A new attack will come in its place. One accompanied by the tears streaming down face, and getting into nasal ducts and emerging as inelegant snorts.

My Blackberry: I always say, in a fire, I would grab my husband, my son and my Blackberry. Underwear, jewellery and the house ownership papers can wait for a second dash through. Enough said.

Now for my lesser addictions

Shoes: Can any woman worth her insecurity ever resist a great pair of shoes. Post my last brutal and ruthless weeding out, I am now left with two drawer full of shoes, which are now just barely 30. I think. This is being saintly compared with the earlier head count that had shoes spilling out of every cupboard, loft, balcony, bed that was in the house. What are my shoes like? Gold, copper, silver and black strappy numbers for evening wear,  flats, ballys, Osho chappals for going down to the compound wear, stilettoes in tan, python, black peeptoes, gold peeptoes, a leopard skin wedgeheel that is current favourite and being worn on everything in most mismatched fashion, a pair of silver and wood wedgeheels which reminds me of being a Japanese platform heeled menace to the world, sequined copper slipons which have been worn once since purchase and a pair of furstrapped black and silver kitten heels that are delicate and sexy. And yes, a pair of white strappy low heels and a pair of (hold your breath) beige wedgeheels from Bata. Yup Bata. They actually have good comfortable and smart shoes that I endorse these days. Or perhaps. I am really become old. No steel spikes or six inchers for me anymore. Maximum four inches on a wedgeheel, or three on a stilletoe.  Maybe I should have a couple of them steel spikes. Weapon of protection at parties. Just stuck one into the jugular of the cretin boring you with tales of his latest project on microchip based plasmamorphic matter transmission into outer space.

Bags: Give me a good bag over diamonds anyday. What the heck, give me the diamonds too. Yup weeding has happened in this department too. Am left with huggggge leopard skin Esbeda tote which hold everything I possess and can, in a crunch, contain the child too. A Guess bling bling gold bag. A Guess python and canvas number. A Fendi fake. A Choo fake. A couple of random indeterminate brands and clutches. And some which are hibernating in the corner of the wardrobe for the winter.

Fashion magazines: At any given point in my car you will find the latest Vogue, L’Officiel, Grazia and Marie Claire. And I will pore over them page by page till I know the image on the reverse of each page by heart. And the car seat will be wet from drool caused by excess salivation induced by images of exquisite clothes and bags and shoes and accessories.

Food: Self evident. Will not elaborate. Lets just say, I really need detox for this one.

And now I pass this on to:

Trishna

Mystic Margarita

Abha of Mamma Mia

Gigi

Tara

Have fun girls.

A wardrobe malfunction at a function…

…and how quick thinking saved the day.  And also why ALL is my best new store. So it came to pass on the 10th day of the month of October that I would be in a fancy schmancy designer type store in Andheri leafing through the racks for top of proportion and design suitable to corpulent self. And this was the occasion that tops shrunk in the short trek from the display rack to the trial room. And on this day, it was decreed that the only thing available that would fit me would be a brocade patchwork imitation designer type which the husband would lift cursory eyebrow up and ask if I’d cobbled together scraps from a marketplace darzi, or whether I had dared to pay good money to be seen in public thus. So there I was, all dressed up to go for event, with new patchwork top, jeans and fancy shoes… and sprayed with appropriate amount of perfume so as to not render any unfortunate souls luckless enough to be in the near vicinity senseless through olfactory overdose. When I suddenly realised the stomach was wonderfully cool, with nice airconditioned draft of breeze right on skin. Looked down in horror to find the buttons collapsing on me. Much in the manner of the slapstick commedies where the unfortunate object of humour looks down at self and then looks up at audience, repeats act a couple of times before realising is clad in nothing but underwear, and ratty ones at that and flees using hands to cover self. Of course, I could flee nowhere, me being in the car, being driven to said party. And it already being an hour later than the time stated and underlined on the invitation (what can I say? I am normally very punctual. Its the traffic, its always the traffic. The traffic ate up my homework too.)

I cast desperate eyes around. Such a predicament, could not explain the dire situ to said driver who was playing his I have full permission to drive at warp speed since we are stinkingly late card. So couldnt focus on the shops we were passing. Then I spotted a shop that said ALL. Aka A Little Larger. Just two minutes before said venue. It showed promise. Big size clothing hung in the display window. Of course, I could have also stopped for safety pins, but that wouldnt have been me.

Stop the car, I yelled, much in the same manner that person marooned on tiny island yells when supplies biplane passes randomly over, only I didnt have the chance or the space to do the running around along long stretch of white beach. I did the second best thing, I sprinted out of the car into the store, despite them strappy copper stilletoes, pounced on the first sales girl I could find, caught her shoulders and yelled manically, shaking them scrawny shoulders, show me a black camisole. Now. Now. Yes, yes, madam, she said in frightened tone, withdrawing her scrawny shoulders from my grip with a speedy maneouvre, that should have warned me that someone at the cash counter was pressing a little bell under the drawer to call the security in to surround me and frogmarch me to secure custody if required.

And she pulled out a huge black sleeveless tshirt. I could have fit into it. Along with the husband. You know, those tshirts with a single neck and two sleeves, which corny lover types wear and have one hand free and concealed to wander over parts of the body better left untouched in public situations. No, no, I said. This is too huge. Show me something smaller. She shrank a bit into the wall and looked around for back up. “Madam, that is our starting size. That is our size zero.”

Did I tell you I love this brand? I finally went to the party wearing a size zero camisole, under brocade malfunctioning buttons left open jacket, and used a shovel to deflect all the compliments coming my way. Surely, the smugness of wearing a size zero had something to do with it.

So, I am not a size L. What do you plan to do about it?

And I am a size XL. Which also means that I can never walk into a store and look around imperiously, grab the first thing that hits my eyeballs and walk out without a ‘trial’. You know. I miss those days. When I would ask the shopkeepers in arrogance of slimness. Medium hai na? And they would nod in the affirmative, rendered speechless by my perfect proportions, and not need to even gently hint towards the dratted trial room. Yup. The room named appropriately. Tis a trial to get in there. I got inside one yesterday. Under much duress. Read the salesman almost had to frogmarch me inside one, something he managed to accomplish by surrounding me with other sales staff holding out what they saw me leaning gently towards. So that was how I found myself in a tiny cubicle with a three way mirror and too well lit for comfort. I have many rules for survival in such extreme circumstances. The first is Thou shalt not look at thyself when stripped to essentials pre trial. Of course I broke that rule immediately. Accidentally ofcourse. And then collapsed in sobbing mound of lard on the floor of said trial room in mourning for the complete demise of figure. Alas, my waistline. How I miss you. I will never know the pleasure of wearing a pair of trousers without worrying about rolls hanging over the waistband ever again. And are those my thighs. Or was a chicken defeathered and its skin slapped onto mine.

And then the actual trials. You think the clothes have a hurried whispered conference and decide to do a shrinking act between the time they are on the shelf and the time they get into the trial room, and refuse to go anywhere past your wrists, and allow only half your head to get through the neck. If a top. And even if they consent, through determined wriggling and jumping and huffing and puffing to get up the thighs, if trousers, they suddenly contract on your body like cling film making it impossible to get both sides of the zip parallel enough to close.

I was there in said store yesterday to pick up a top to be worn on a momentous occasion. The fifth birthday of the fruit of the womb. Wherein, being gracious hostess, I would be compelled to outbling every other lady on the premises. Therefore. I was picking up tops with the kind of golden embroidery that in normal circumstances I would bypass without a second glance. And given that they were all in chiffon type materials to be worn with chemise type thingie inside, the concept scared me  Dare I risk be convicted of spreading pink eye disease?

With tremulously swallowing of ego, I handed out the pile loads I had taken in to said sales staff, waiting wringing hands in anticipation outside for spectacle of fat woman emerging in too tight outfit and making complete fool of self. No ho, I am smarter than that. I asked for kaftan type tops. You know. Resort wear. Fringed with some sequins. All concealing. All forgiving. In XL sizes. XL has a certain ring to it that L doesnt . It sounds like the size of a determined woman. Who has ascertained her place in the scheme of the world and is determined to hold on to it, unlike these mediums and Larges who are wishy washy and cant make up their minds whether they need to be gorgons or gnat like.

I finally settled for a brocade patchwork kind of button down the front jacket. Perfect. No bling. No clinging to lumps that once were sharp waist indents. And no need of camisoles to accentuate where the fat has settled in and is throwing house parties. No need to dislocate vertebrae through constant craning of neck to check where the damn thing has ripped as one reached to pull squabbling kids apart. You know.

Fashion disaster moments

The kind of moments that remain etched in your memory like those smarmy comebacks that are just perfect and guaranteed to sting the other into pulverised silence but which come to you around 30 years too late and when you’re in the shower, and Mini, who ticked you off about eating before saying your prayers has probably already been beatified.

The other moment that comes to you too late. The what I should have worn moment, which strikes, years later, when your fashion disaster moment has been captured by professional photographers at family wedding type event and framed up for posterity. I have plenty of those. Ive lived long enough to. And frankly by now, I am beyond caring. If you remember me with the tights that were actually black cut off panty hose pretending to be tights, and the panty line skimming top, remember that was not me. That was my doppelganger. Down to the hair that had just been frizzed with an expedient finger stuck in an electrical socket plug turned to on. So there I am, with the face pancaked to the Bride of Dracula levels in a gold outfit that was supposed to be Shantung oriental but ended up looking like sofa material ripped out and restitched by a cobbler to make a look that was straining at the bustline, and had so many multiple creases under the armpit that I could have just worn an accordion and no one would have been wiser. Of course, except the mother, who would hiss, stand straight, stomach in, shoulders out, to me having visions of me flinging parts of myself around the place while a frazzled photographer picked up the pieces and attempted to stuff them back into shantung golden oriental disaster. And the next time, the mother would hiss, it would be better if you came to the tailor for the measurements.

If you’re as old as I am you probably came to pimply aged adolescence during the eighties when the height of chic was Footloose and ankle warmers and one shoulder off oversize sweaters cinched at the waist with a belt and high top sneakers. Well in India, I did try the look out. The mater threatened to lock me in the loo before she would allow me to step out disguised as a woman of a certain profession (my dubious emergent skills in the make up department and sorry choice of the brightest pigments on offer). And having one shoulder off in an oversized sweater cinched at the waist made me look like something just begging to be kicked to a goal by men in padded shouldered tshirts, and helmets and knee guards and groin guards. And then there was Madonna. So I did the best I could to look as ridiculous as she did, with hair messed up and tied with big lacy bows, lace tops and short skirts that had much of the neighbourhood adolescent and non adolescent males strategise about how to fit mirrors onto their shoes and have a casual conversation with me not suspecting anything. And of course, I didnt suspect anything until recently.

Anyone remember stonewashed. The kind of denim that had very bad bleached effects done by people who had probably drunk half the bleach themselves and had to be carted off to have their stomachs washed out? I had plenty of those jeans. Two to be precise. Each a work of random white patch art. The kind only extreme youth and extreme confidence carried off without looking ridiculous. Cant see myself wearing anything other than deep indigo dyes these days. Of course, the girth of the thighs now demands deep solid colours in order not to have one carted off to an abattoir.

And the wedding of a friend. Where, me in my youthful arrogance, landed up in a jacket and a skirt. Yup yup. They probably thought I wandered in from an interview for the position of personal assistant to very busy and important senior management type. Or an intern from the catering company who had outsourced to them catering colleges. Is that why guests kept handing me their empty glasses?

The most recent blooper? I wore black to a white do. A brunch. Everyone floated in white and lineny and long necklaces and gold gladiator sandals and there was I, black tshirt, deep indigo denims, leopard skin tote and leopard skin sky high wedges. But strangely enough, it didnt feel wierd. Or maybe Ive grown up enough not to care about fitting in. Dont tell that to the other guests though, they had their dose of daily entertainment by moueing around me and sympathising about my faux pas. It made them feel good. It made me feel better. The next brunch I go to, am gonna go with rani pink sequinned salwar kameez. Cant deny them their little joys. Maybe I wont get invited again.

Of society meetings….

…that ruin Sunday afternoon sleep.

Given that the residents of the building one lives in now are quite agitated about a variety of issues, the least of which includes the army of stray dogs rabidly proliferating like God himself issued them a go forth and multiply in this complex of mealy mouthed non aggressive residents, a society meeting was called to discuss issues and grievances. Seeing the long list of which, I presumed the ones who drafted the Magna Carta had an easier job on their hands.

With such a general agenda, I should have taken my recliner down, along with a good novel, and cool drink and sat back to watch the show. But me being me, and the husband being worse than me, we snapped out of deep post Sunday lunch sleep rubbed our eyes and ran down where it seemed like food rations were being thrown to starving flood ravaged villagers. Read a lot of shouting and raised voices, and no clear understanding of what was happening. Luckily, the husband has the shoulders and the height to cut through the crowd and I followed meekly in his wake.

The most critical issue on the agenda. That of the security of the complex. Given that these are three 20 storey towers, constructed with state of the art techniques and materials, by a reputed builder, and with penthouse apartments perched on top, one would expect watchmen who didnt have to be shaken awake everytime one wanted them to check why the lifts were non functional. And given the fact that one suspects some servant types are joyriding through the day in said lifts, and opening picnic baskets inside, one never seems to get any lift vacant and non perfumed with sweaty BO. Therefore, the watchmen were first on the agenda, which was being discussed with some heat when we arrived, and had to cut through the swathe of the watchmen who had conveniently abandoned all pretence at being stationed at their posts and were listening in to what was being discussed about them. The security has been outsourced to an agency. And one presumes the payment terms agreed on are close on peanuts. Therefore we have monkeys. Boys with no stubble and uncracked voices. Or doddering old grandfathers, wizened and so bent over that one actually hops out of the car and opens gate for self rather than trouble the man to wake and wipe the drool from his chin before doddering over to the gate. As for the trained aspect of the security men, they are ferocious about checking the visitors who come in. Every reputable looking person is asked one million questions pertaining to their ancestral village, their father’s janam kundli and their mother’s maiden name before being allowed up. While the wierdest of chandagathering types roam around the complex unfettered, probably with a rampuri up their socks for all we know.

Then there was the issue of dogs. Stray and pet. On any random day, a random headcount would prove without a doubt that the strays in the compound outnumbered the children playing in said compound. To add to the misery of parents yelling, “Dont touch the doggie, dont touch the doggie,” at the top of their voices, until said voice box collapsed into undecipherable croaks of protestation, some animal lovers insist on coming down at fixed hours, and, god save us, bringing down huge bowls of food for them strays to feed. I had politely informed one such philanthropist that she was welcome to take all the strays into her house and feed them all she liked, and keep them there. I dont think she quite got my point. The doggie van has since been called for. But them doggies are smarter than them van fellows and vamoose when they see it approach. Or the dogs have their own village crier system which woofs out alarms warning the clan to disperse into unreachable spots. Found a couple in the air duct area. Curled up snugly, snoring their lungs out dreaming of a doggie heaven where fat women trying to walk didnt yell at them to stop following her and that she didnt have any food on her person that was feedable. Therefore after much shouting it was announced that anyone caught feeding the strays on the premises would be fed to them. I think the announcement was taken seriously. The strays are off in search of kinder souls in adjoining building complexes since.

And finally, the various issues being thrashed out, with one moment almost leading to a physical thrashing to be administered to bird like retired public servant type who angered huge and brawny hot headed Sardarji type (moment defused, I am proud to say by the spouse who physically rolled said Sardarji out towards the lawns and hosed him down with the garden pipe grabbed from hapless gardener variety). Committee members voted for and announced. Much thunderous clapping later, draft memorandums and such like written down painstakingly by yours truly dictated by older wiser members, enhanced by curlicules and doodles along the margins that came through during moments of “What am I doing here” boredom.

And the husband having been voted into office thanks to his efficient demo of how to solve a problem, cribbed endlessly of ruined Sunday afternoon sleep.

Up for discussion for the next meeting, the forbidding of plucking of flowers from the garden. You got a wall you want me to watch paint dry on?