Its a day when hell freezes over…

..when I dont look forward to a buffet lunch. Yup, pick your shocked jaws from the floor and uncrease the forehead. I have a buffet lunch with friends scheduled today and it is one I am not looking forward to. For one, I’d rather crawl home and go off to sleep. I kid you not. I know it sounds improbable, but tis true. And no, the pigs werent flying in the sky when I last looked. Probably, because the mamma pig wants to go right home to her piglet.

Is it the company? I dont think so. Most of the ladies I meet are fellow school gate mommies and we get along fine at the gate, to reveal our deepest darkest secrets to each other, including how much lack of restraint we display when confronted by eat all you can buffets and lycra fit jeans. Which expand comfortably to accommodate rabid and untamed ingestion of said food. No we dont have discussions that old friends do, including secrets one takes to graves and such like, but the meetings are nice and frothy enough for us to end up with silly grins plastered on our faces and emerge swaying lightheartedly through the stairway on the way out.

Is it the weather? Well it is hot enough to fry one’s brains on the pavement, without the added oil, which could well come from my pores, but seeing as one spends almost 80 per cent of one’s time in fan and aircondition cooled environs, that is no reason.

Could it be that the food doesnt tempt me anymore? That would be the day when hell really does freeze over. And no barbecues possible too!

I am tempted to stick a thermometer into said craw and examine temperature as well as take meself to the doctor to report this new and unusual phenomenon which will no doubt require extensive medical research conducted along with study groups and such like to figure out this new state of being, where yours truly is off lunching with the gals.

Or could it be something as simple as having had enough of it?

I almost saw my child being run over last night…

Within the so called safe confines of my building compound. Where he was cycling. Where a loutish TV actor drove in at full speed and first squashed a football the older kids were playing with under the wheels of his car. And then stopped, started again and at full speed turned into the parking as my son was almost cycling past. I yelled at him that this was not the way to drive into a building compound. He yelled back that I was no one to teach him how to drive and to watch my son, or next time he might not be so lucky. My hands and feet and entire body were trembling with rage. And I yelled some more. He stalked off saying he had no time for such arguments. His doll faced mouse of a girlfriend mincing behind him. All he needed to do was say, Sorry, that was a mistake. Is your child alright? It wont happen again. I would have been mollified. I would have accepted the apology gracefully. I would have comforted my trembling child and tried to stop myself from trembling.

I called the husband down. They had a man to man talk. With some intimidation. He walked away from the conversation. Many times. I called him back. “Come talk like a man,” I yelled. “Why are you running away like a coward?” I had to yell that quite a few times. He then apologised to my husband. Not to me, mind you. It perhaps didnt even occur to him that he needed to apologise to a mother who almost saw her child being run over in front of her eyes.

I pity his girlfriend. A man who doesnt respect women and children is no man to be dating. God help her.

And yes, his name is Gaurav Chopra. He is a small time TV actor I’m told. I have no clue who he is. Other residents filled me in. I dont even want to know about him. All I know is that it is bad karma to take a mother’s ill wishes. And that he has got from me in full measure last night.

There’s a new chic around…

and it is Recession Chic. Yup, Heroin Chic has been done in by the needle and the latest chic to hit the runways is the above, aptly named, Recession Chic.

Yup. As the name suggests, the look is rather drab and blah. You are recommended you accessorise it with a hangdog mopey expression as displayed by said models who stomp down the ramps in gaits which denote anger and frustration at the lack of funds for their next snort/shot/ lick. Oof. Whatever.

To quote from Style.com

Who needs economists? With an insight that’s downright uncanny, designers worked both sides of the crash of 1929, turning out glittery flapper frocks (Alberta Ferretti, Aquilano.Rimondi) and faded sack dresses (Burberry, Bottega Veneta) in equal measure. On the one hand, Jil Sander’s Raf Simons fringed not just dresses but suits, too; on the other, Marc Jacobs found himself at home on the prairie.

This one from Alberta Ferretti indicative of the trend. Yup. Think 1920s. Slim androgynous silhouettes, muted colours. Faded shades. Flapper styles, fringe dresses. Fashion comes full circle.

Burberry ProsumWunderkind

Wunderkind

The look is not too carefully put together, slightly undone, frayed ends, oversized pulled together and layered. Yup. We’ve seen this look before. And those were usually called Bag Ladies. I think I can pull this off well. Now I only need to whittle self down to anorexic proportions to carry it off to perfection.

And yes, I can bring out all those clothes I ruined by mixing the colours in the wash. Yup. I quite like this Recession Chic. Makes a virtue of careless washing. I could try it on the hubby. After I’ve ruined his umpteenth white shirt, with nicely mottled indigo and black patches from a recalcitrant kurti. Try it. The easiest way to dress fashionable right now. Mix your wash.  

Seriously though, would I try it? I already have the most boring wardrobe in the world with eighty percent of the clothes within black or denim. The balance is enlivened by exciting colours like brown, grey and green. Of the olive variety. The occasional bright colour is the rare white, or a sudden shocking pink which never gets aired and fades on the shelf through neglect. And then gets a charity wearing once faded to indeterminate mottled shade, which will never catch any eye by mistake. And which, by extension, makes it appropriate to wear in a public situation.

As the first original practitioner of recession chic, I think I deserve an award of sorts. A fringe dress perhaps. In copper accents from Bottega. I promise to carve centimeters off said thighs and other areas of corpus in order to keep with the recessionary theme. And to fit into said dress. Cant have self appearing so prosperous in times of recession, with rolls of fat sticking out at inadvertent places to suggest excess of dietary intake. That would be considered rude.

Jai Ho

Why are my eyes tearing up as I listen on the radio that A R Rahman has won a double Oscar for best song and best original score.

More over as the song Jai Ho gets played on the airwaves, with its magnificent grandeur, why do I feel like my heart will burst with joy?

The reason is simple. I like this man. Here is a man who has been creating wonderful, heartstirring, innovative music quietly, without any gimmicky music videos or judging any talent shows, or giving grandiose interviews left right and centre. He doesnt need to justify himself or his music. His work speaks for itself. He has redefined patriotic music with his Vande Mataram and the Jana Gana Mana we stand up to whenever we watch a movie in the theatres is so beautifully and evocatively done that it unfailingly makes my eyes mist over, dangerous given the unreliability of the semi soft lenses I still hang onto in this age of disposable, extended wear, ultrasoft, plastic paper type lens things.

I still remember his music from Bombay, a movie I saw when I was dating the man I eventually married, and the wierd situation we were in, echoed by the movie. Of course, I did not go on to have twins, but, you get my drift. He is the only music director I demand and expect better music from with each successive score, and lyrics apart, he has delivered.

You make us proud Mr Rahman. Not just your music. More so, your humility and your grace in the creation of such divine music. Truly, the divine speaks through your music.

Here is the article:

A R Rahman was celebrating a double Oscars triumph here on Sunday after winning two Academy Awards for his work in the hit film “Slumdog Millionaire.” The talented music maestro picked up the best original score statuette before scooping the best song Oscar moments later after a medley performance featuring all three nominated tunes. “I just want to thank again, the whole crew of ‘Slumdog Millionaire’ especially Danny Boyle for giving me such a great opportunity,” said the delighted Rahman. He hailed “all the people from Mumbai and the essence of the film, which is about optimism and the power of hope and our lives. All my life I’ve had a choice of hate and love. I chose love, and I’m here. God bless.” The awards took “Slumdog’s” tally to six for the evening, with the honors for best picture and best director still to come. How does A R Rahman’s win make you proud?

For all ye who kindly asked…

…here is the cut. Post self wash. Nah. Make that post self wash, and no hairdryer and brushes. Just a comb out the knots (which there were none, thanks to wonderful conditioner and my insistence on overnight oiling) and run. The ultimate test of the goodness of a hair cut lies in this according to me. Whether it falls into shape with no styling. This one does.

And yes, that’s right. That is the school bus. And that is moi, on school gate mom duty.

New objects of lust…

Guess what landed up in my inbox today to brighten a dull morning, and cause much mopping of drool dribbling down chin? These wonderful bags. And since I am such a nice girl, I am going to share them with you, for you to drool over too.

 

All from Bulgari. Since I am never going to be able to afford them unless they are being thrown away at sales with throw away prices (which will still have me counting out my small change, and checking with teeth in case any coins are not the real thing, but given the ridiculous thin metal junk that masquerades as official currency these days, its really hard to tell, and even cavitied teeth bitten delicately leave dents), the best I can do is ogle from afar. Like the street urchin staring into the delicatessen, nose pressed against the glass. Though that too would be tough given the dimensions of said nose which meant to be a proboscis and probably was what gave Rushdie inspiration for Saleem Sinai. Anyway. Digressions to one side. Here they are. And keep the drool mops handy.

 

1910 collection handbag in canvas chevron and beige calf leather

And here go the cut pasted descriptions from the press release:

In the 1910 Collection the old art nouveau style advertising sign at the historic store on Via dei Condotti in Rome appears to be printed in contrast not only on leather but also on oiled linen and cotton canvas assembled with a chevron motif , the emblematic design formed by the continuous angular parentheses that recurin Bulgari tradition and that can be found in sketches and precious evening handbags from the early 1950’s. Trimmings and handles are made from calfskin and offered in three different colours: black, plum, and beige. This line also includes a model where the handle represents the ideal extension of  the handbag,which is realized in an appropriately circular form. This model is embellished with a rich grip realised in two different tones of gold engraved with the name “S. Bulgari”.

 

The Bvlgari anniversary collection handbag in printed canvas in chevron blue and opal calf leather

Chestnut calf leather handbag with bi coloured gold rigid handle

Leoni yellow nappa plisse bag

And this is the rest of the gyaan, again cut pasted from the press release for those from you who like to read the fine print.

In the Leoni line,the seal with facing leonine potomes is rendered in pale, antiqued gold and used as a sophisticated decorative device on the handle fasteners .These models are available in different colours and materials:cherry and mud – coloured calf skin ,in jade green and yellow pleated nappa leather, and mauve and hazel nut python. Soft  skins with seductive forms are the distinctive elements of the Doppio Tondo line,where the two super imposed rings engraved with the double logo BVLGARI BVLGARI become precious fasteners for handbags in pearly napa leather, blanketed with a thin veil of luminescence that exalts its soft touch. A pale iridescence is also found in the Twistline ,where folds and pleats are brightened by soft highlights in an intriguing play of chiaroscuro below the pair of medallions bearing the BVLGARI BVLGARI decorative motif and
offered in a new,wider version .The Twist model is also stylistically  reinterpreted in the Twist String version, where the medallions are replaced by a pair of knotted laces that create leather undulations and ruffles in
purses with a bizarre and intriguing egg shape.

Which one would you choose, if you could? I’m torn between the first 1910 collection and the Chestnut calf leather. Yup. I’m predictable and a lover of all things brown and tan. Except mine skin in said avatar.

A queasy feeling….

in the pit of my stomach, you know, the kind you get when you’ve downed an entire one kg unopened box of kaju katli or Lindt chocolates or a rassogulla can (substitute with whatever is your current weakeness du jour) and then are called upon to serve it in a public situation. When you need to shamefacedly confess that it is you, you, and no one else, who has been sneaking a piece in everytime you meandered towards the kitchen for anything, with most of the meanderings happening for the sole purpose of stealthily opening said box of temptation and surreptiously gulping down contents. A stealth, which one never realised one possessed until called on in such dire emergencies, such as day long sugar cravings and acute pmsing and pastries lying unattended and ignored in the refrigerator since the buyer of said pastries had forgotten all about them and was busy ogling Udayan Mukherjee and strips of number heiroglyphs dancing all over a blue screen. Yup. Same queasiness, as occasioned when said buyer of pastries suddenly remembers the existence of an entire box of said stuff and requests you to kindly do him the honours of getting one from the lot, and you are compelled to explain to him kindly that a box of six pastries donot last untouched in this home for three days and therefore when he does bring them food of the devil into the house, would he do one the kindness of demolishing it all instantly rather than putting pure, innocent wife into the path of irresistable temptation that lands straight on the hips.

Anyway. You get my drift. Therefore, the sudden realisation that one has skipped a couple of days of a good walk thanks in part to the child wanting to hop and skip all over the compound rather than stick it out in the sandpit till his mother works up an hours worth of sweat, and the sheer disinclination to walk and the preference to sit and gossip with a couple of friends have made me rather antsy over the insinuation that one has, has one, put on just a smidgeon of good health over the past week?

Therefore one decided that one should cut down on one’s intake of nutrients comprising such elements of sin camouflaged in cocoa and sugar syrup, and instead thrust raw veggies down one’s throat much in the manner of the dungeon torture chamber as envisioned in the Amityville movie. Therefore the cook was instructed that I would not be having dinner, and to cut a bowl of veggies, salt and pepper and lime juice it up and serve it fresh to yours truly. I managed to down the entire bowl with a straight face, with the husband asking me quizzically if all was well, and did I need to be taken to the doctor and the mother checking my forehead for any signs of fever reaching the brain.

Exactly an hour later I was raiding the refrigerator. Under the pretence of cleaning it out of course, but a full fledged raid. Forgotten bits of carbohydrates and fats nestled in distant corners were taken out and devoured if found to be edible, by the sniff test.

I think I need to get me to a hypnotherapist. Any Shallow Hal kinds around who could hypnotise me into seeing a bowl of veggies as filling, comfort food and loaded with calories might kindly apply.

Any tips on sensible eating and building self restraint which does not involve a straitjacket and a lock and chain on the refrigerator are welcome.

And the deed is done…

Finally fed up of having pitchforks being stuck into my hair , and folks on the street handing me rubberbands and hair oil, I barged into one of them chic salons that you need to get an appointment with the top stylists a month in advance if you are a non celeb and then reconfirm before the actual date of the cut and hang on to your social life till you actually get there. I think I scared them blowdried and perfect folk inside with my wild mane, or they took it as a challenge to tame it to perfection. Yup, they took pity on me, and agreed to take me in without an appointment and the hair was, as they say, cut and styled.

How do I feel after it all? Lightheaded of course. Midwaist has gone to shoulder length. Sleeker. Paddle brush hair drying and hair serum has a lot to do with it. And more in control. I know now why women chop off their hair after a break up. Yesterday was one of those days I was close to killing some folk, who escaped death narrowly thanks to a kind stylist taking me to the chair and giving me some hair therapy.

Take this tip down in your book of survival tips for urban women. When in a funk, you now have one more option apart from shopping. You can now go for a hair cut. And do give the stylist a free hand, after of course specifying that you would perhaps not appreciate leaving the premises with pink hair in a mohawk.

So what I have now is a shoulder length cut called reverse graduation. Whatever that means, with a side swept fringe doing battle with my contact lenses. I know, I just know that I’m investing in hair bands.

And no, the husband didnt like it I think. He noticed it and pretended not to notice it. When I drew the lack of length to his attention, he grouched , “I saw,” in tones so dire that I didnt dare pursue the line of investigation about whether he liked what he saw or not. Doesnt matter. I like what I see. As of now, before I wash it myself. And that is all that matters, isnt it?

A spot poll…

Am bored with the hair.

Am tired of looking like the woman who ran with the wolves.

Am exhausted of explaining to the mother that, yes, mamma, I did comb my hair this morning. With the comb and not the fingers. And yes, that is supposed to be deliberately coloured golden strands and not because I havent been near hair oil for a while. And no, thats not because of vitamin deficiency. Mamma, look at me, do I even LOOK like I could be malnourished in any way?

Am fed up of unwitting catching a glimpse of self in any reflective surface and recoiling with a shock, wondering if it was Samara climbing out of the well. With her clammy rotting hands reaching out for me. Yup considering the state of my manicure, that might be true as well.

And exhausted of slapping on the serum/conditioner and hoping the hair will decide not to stand at dandelion halo attention.

Therefore, am thinking of getting a chop chop off to the shoulders. Controllable by hairbands. And skull caps.

Opinions, and wise words solicited. Deadline — till I get meself an appointment. Knowing me, I might just take myself to the neighbourhood Chinese salon tomorrow while the child gets lettered and get the deed done. Yup, actually, thats what I’m going to do.

Style suggestions, pliss. With image references. Am thinking Parisian chic. Chin length. Never mind if the rest of self is more Bedouin mamma.

Why pray…

would a respectable, non obscene, completely above board and non PG rated lil blog like mine have the following come up as the top terms used by search engines to get to it.

bhanupriya aunty	1
spanking in different outfits	1
pink chaddi	1
what to wear spanking

To all ye who have landed here, panting in anticipation, abject apologies for having let you down….

The only spanking here is the well deserved ones administered to tantrummy five year old fruit of my womb. Go elsewhere.