And the blog was deleted…and I go to Goa to celebrate…

…which makes me feel a little sad, because I did not want a blog to shut down. All it would have taken was an acknowledgement and a due line of credit for the said post. But, I guess, having accepted compliments for said post had already meant said plagiarist had backed herself into a corner and had no escape route…

I am overwhelmed and teary eyed and feel blessed that folks rushed out brandishing swords and comments on my behalf, and felt wronged enough to take time out to complain to WordPress for me, before I could even think of doing so (Thanks a mill, Kodi’s Mom), put up posts decrying this outright highway robbery, thanks MadMomma, Serendipity, Arpit, Ersa; send out comments to everyone possible to spread the word around, put it up on Twitter, thanks Poonam….

And I’m glad I kicked up a bit of a fuss…it was too personal a post to let me let it go without a fight. An apology would have been nice though. This was just too cowardly an exit.

What can I say? A girl is lucky to have friends like you!

So, please do forgive me if I dont reply to each comment individually….this is one of those mad mad days when I need to go shopping asap for beach wear, because, you guessed it right, am off to the beach again. Driving down to Goa tomorrow with the spouse and the child and drawing out a road map right now, and downloading google earth maps and such like, given the horrors we went through going off track last trip down.

The camera is off colour, so need to go buy me a new one. Some shorts (yes, yes, stop smirking, I am so not getting into a swimsuit given that I would cause a bad case of conjunctivis amongst innocent bathers by the sea), the last time I was there my sole pair of  shorts split on me in a public situation and had to go scurrying to them shops lining the access road to the beach and yell out to the surprised man to give me anything he had in XXL right now. And didnt bargain.

I also have to pack. Which means many bottles of water. Filtered. For the journey too and fro. Many packets of Frooti tetrapaks. Many packets of Lays Tomato flavour. Infinite biscuits, chocolates and such like which keep the child happy and content and less likely to keep whining about when he can hit the beach. Toys. Toys. And more toys. Of which exactly three will be utilised for entertainment purposes. Many carefully coordinated ensembles of which I will inevitably end up wearing one set for the entire duration of the stay there, which will have folks at the hotel speak to me in kind gracious manner and ask me where the parents of the child are, and how convenient it is when the maid comes along for the holiday, and how much do I get paid for minding the kid.

And if any of you good folks happen to be in the vicinity, if you see fat woman running after scrawny child on Calangute, while simultaneously holding onto hat in terror of getting grilled to charcoal*, shake a hand. Fort Aguada, here we come.

Edited: * original phrase changed since I might offend more folks with my original choice of words, and god knows, I have zero mental energy to take on any more battles today…

And I have been plagiarised…

Right here:

http://2writeornot2write.wordpress.com/2009/05/14/for-my-darling/

And this is the original post:

http://thirtysixandcounting.wordpress.com/2009/05/12/to-my-dear-husband/

 

Do not miss the gracious acceptance of compliments for the wonderful writing and the maudlin moaning about how she’s going through bad times. For flicking my post I hope she does. And of course, the sheer audacity in refusing to put up the comments informing her that everyone in the blogosphere knows where the original came from. At last count at least 15 people I know have called, mailed in, smsed to tell me about it. And most of these have left her comments too… which are obviously going to be unpublished….

This hurts because this was such a personal post, one of the rare ones I do when I bare my heart… and it hurts because the one who has plagiarised has no inkling whatsoever of the pain that made me write such a post….

And I would die happy…

…with these…

Paired with black trews and a white shirt. Or black trews and a black turtleneck. (Yes, yes, this is Mumbai of the 38 degrees Celsius and 80 per cent humidity but when has this stopped me!) or White linen pants and a crisp white shirt.

The joy, the joy.

BTW, the birthday is coming up next month.

What, what?

A girl can hope, cant she? And folks can take hints, cant they?

You are not married…

… in the true sense of the term until you have bought furniture together.

So the sofa we had bought in haste one and a half years ago, when we moved into the new house has already been showing desperate signs of wear and tear being designated spot in the house for the elderly relative to loll around all day watching serials of criminal interest and intrigue involving women in goth make up and jewellery enough to weigh them down to the floor of the sea if they ever have the misfortune to fall off a ship.  Add to this, the child has been speeding along the wear and tear process by occasional random peeling and tearing of said leather, leading to a situation where we either need to restore or replace said sofa immediately or lead to a situation where guests drop in coins at the urli kept on display on my sideboard.

Therefore the husband, the elderly relative, the spawn of the womb and yours truly landed up at the furniture shop which had advertised a 40 per cent sale.

The first thought when one looked at the sheer size of all the sofas on display was I need to break down walls and the door to get these into the house. The second thought was lets leave now.

The spouse was firm and unrecalcitrant and set about examining said sofas with a great deal of interest that didnt shake or get vaguely unruffled even when price tags leading to figures that could probably buy a house in a far flung suburb where displayed. Yours truly of course had to injudiciously act disapproving and find fault where there was none, in order to dissuade the man from spending enough to put the child through college merely to have him loll on the said sofa till he reached there.

Engraved. Brocade upholstery. Sequins. And such like horrific stuff. And the man fell in love with a maroon and silver mock croc print patent leather square shaped monstrosity which I promptly could veto happily because I would need to airlift it to the balcony, demolish all glass panes and then get it into the house.

We skulked around in opposite directions of the huge showroom. The child tripped along happily whining about the Siderman bed and the Spiderman cupboard and the Spiderman desk he had to have, never mind if he doesnt have a room to himself yet. The elderly relative stumbled along and sank down into the convenient sofas at regular intervals to rest her weary feet, occasionally piping up in favour of chaise lounges for obvious reasons.

Finally we reached the top floor and there was no further to go. I, with the uncanny knack women have to find something pretty, zeroed in on a perfectly charming engraved rattan and carved wood sofa set and dining table combine that had my name emblazoned all over it.

The man skulked around in a corner and sat on something, adjusting levers and having his feet go up and his body wobbling to some unheard drummer. He called for me. I went to investigate the need for the war cry.

Recliners. Them ugly things. Which give you a massage when required. Which sit around looking comfortable and inviting and lead to power struggles in the room over whom the primary ownership of said item of furniture belongs to. Yup. Them. Five of them. In lieu of the sofa.

Someone remind me of all the nice things I said about him in the previous posts before I consult that lawyer about grounds of incompatibility.

Soppy post coming up, keep the barf bags handy…

Only fair to get the warning up front, isnt it? Like when folks make these incredible sad romantic type movies where the two lovers part and never meet again for the rest of their lives, and keep pining and pining, but not withering either in size or the roses of them cheeks, there should be printed in bold on the movie ticket, Font size 28 “Donot wear mascara”, or for them Jim Carrey movies,  also, similiar Font size 28 warning stamped across, “Donot eat complicated stuff, anyone who chokes on edibles while watching this movie will not be reimbursed.” You get my drift.

Therefore, read on only if you have a M&B toughed gut and can stomach mush and drivel, though I try to cough it up occasionally and am also much embarassed by the low depths of soppiness my fingers on the keyboard can sink to. Forgive me today. Because it is the spouse’s birthday.  And I love him from the very bottom of my heart, metaphorically speaking of course, and I feel it mandatory to do a Happy Birthday to you post here.

Happy Birthday darling spouse. The first year we celebrated your birthday as a couple, Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated. Strangely, that remains the primary association with which the neurons connect your birthday–Rajiv Gandhi’s death anniversary. We sat around the television, me drippy eyed and watching the images on a loop of the bloodstained sneaker, the white kurta, and the implied pixellated horror where there had once been the back of a head. We didnt do much celebrating that day. And anyway, you always claimed you’re not a great guy for celebrating days, given the pressure on you come Valentine’s day to dish up something that would knock my sockets out. That was then. You were a college student on no pocket money, and high tastes. Today, twenty years down the line, you you knock my sockets out and how. Unfailingly, endearingly, and it has been so worth the wait.

I’ve seen you go from a self conscious, exceedingly handsome, even arrogant teenager, believing the world was his oyster, to what you are today, a forty year old, mature, responsible, dignified, caring and giving soul. I’ve known you to be hot headed and not hesitate before throwing a few punches around before getting down to discussion just for warm ups. I’ve seen you go from an insanely possessive boyfriend, to a supportive, caring and totally non interfering husband who gives me all the space I need, and all the support I need. You are so easy going now, that I know I am blessed. A wife who doesnt cook, doesnt keep house, doesnt work fulltime, doesnt do anything of importance except shop and eat, and never once do you bark about it. If anything you indulge me like you would indulge a child. I know I behave ridiculously at times, and you look on and smile. And know I will trip off whatever I’ve been smoking and get back to normal soon. You are my rock. I’d like to think I am yours too.

We’ve grown together from two moronic sappy youngsters, fighting like prize roosters every single day, with size 24 and size 28 waists to two grey haired size 30 and 34 waists respectively, who now have no energy left for actual fighting and concentrate the little we have left for better things. We have produced one spawn of combined sperm and womb, who has had the good taste to take the best of both of our features and the worst of both of our abilities. We have built a home together. We have been together now for longer than we had lived when we first met. That should count for something. That simply means I cannot even remember how life was before I met you. And that says a lot.

Happy birthday darling. I know you never read the blogs, but I write this nonetheless. And thank you for being the wonderful man you are. I truly lucked out in the good spouse department.

A pick me up, the first thing in the morning.

Yup. Ro. You know the rosiness of my cheeks has been steadily been dimmed over the past few months, so you go and do exactly what a good friend would do to put the sunshine back into this dull, jowls to the socks kind of face I’ve been carrying around atop the neck recently.

Taaa Daaaaa

So here goes Cut Paste from Bobbi Brown Website.

Bronze Shimmer Brick Compact. It says.

The original Shimmer Brick Compact. This shimmering, brush-on powder creates a deep, bronzy glow. Sweep on cheeks, after Blush, using the Face Blender Brush. Works well with neutral and deep blush shades.

Sweep the Face Blender Brush through all five shades of Shimmer Brick Compact and dust lightly on cheekbones after blush. Focus on applying shimmer on the top of cheekbones – where light naturally hits the face – for the most flattering look.

To add a highlight to eyes by applying the lightest shade in the compact just under browbone. Use fingertips or the Eye Smudge Brush.

This, I read and re-read with great care. Tore off the cellophane wrapper with dignified restraint. (Read I stopped jumping in glee on the table while I did that) and did a fancy sworl and apply to the apples of my cheeks. And the glittery part up top.  I look, well, bronzed. And sunkissed. And happier.

Why I totally love this? This is something I would have never ever bought for myself. I stick to lipstick/eyeliner/compact. And this is also something that actually makes me look less pallid and ready for a blood transfusion, much like them undeads. And unless I did try it out how would I ever realise that well, a bronze shimmer does act like a pick me up for the skin.

Despite all assumptions to the contrary, I am a make up virgin. I use eyeliner and lip pencil and lipstick. And on a good day gloss. But eyeshadows and blushons and such like are beyond my professional capabilities, and are meant to be limited to special occasions like weddings, birthday parties and kitty lunches and days when you realise that no, that is not smudged out left over from last night kohl remnants under your eyes, that is genuine, deep seated, much sleepless nights induced raccoon eyes. And then I scream and run out for concealer much in the manner the alcoholic realises he is down to his last swig and has swallowed said last swig in unseemly, greedy manner not even relishing the last few drops with the suaveness that comes from knowing that more will follow from the wine shop.

Therefore, my need for make up thus far has been relegated to enhance the eyes and the lips and pray the rest of me carries of on sheer charm and blinding wit. I’ve been having a make up windfall lately though. An aunt dropped in from Norway and unleashed piles of Mary Kay eyeshadow duos and cheek quads on me. Before she did that, she sat me down like the goat to the slaughter and painted on various colours like plums and olive greens and yellows and pinks on my eyelids, smudged them and blended them and worked hard and furious in the hope that she might get them peepers to open up illusionally and not look like I am perpetually squinting into the sun. I plied on some blush on while at home and while the spawn of the womb was snoring open mouthed on the bed. I think the volume of the snores rattled me so that the heavy handed trial application would suffice to get me a walk on role as a drag queen in any mega budget hollywood production. I think the unsuspecting spouse who walked past as I smeared them cheeks started and withdrew hastily, rushing no doubt to get himself garlanded with garlic and dig out a cross from some forgotten drawer.

Also the lipsticks from Mary Kay. Lots of them. In soft sherbet shades. With glimmer and glitter and frost and such things which tell me clearly and sharply that, babe, you ditch the matte look and you age. Runs into the lines along your lip line. Bleeds is the term she used. Ah well. The indignity of it all. Softer shades, she says, are less obvious when they bleed.

My heart bled for my lost youth when lipstick stayed put where it was supposed to and didnt decide to explore the rest of my face.

So now, all ye make up whizzes out there. Tell me how these things have to be applied the way the good beauty artist intended it to be. On cheekbone or on apple of said cheek. Of which I have neither, nor any cheekbone worth definition nor apple of cheek worth accentuation. Or should I just random pop it in the centre of said cheek and pray I look presentable in a public situation.

Or maybe, I’m going to borrow them cheekbones off Ro.

Thanks babe. You made my morning. And pretty much the rest of my day.

To my mom…

Your hands shake a bit, but they are as steady as a rock when they smooth my hair down as I sleep.

Your voice is thinner now, but the most soothing sound I could ever hear.

Your eyes are rheumy but look at me with such total love and devotion, I can pick myself and walk on again with the strength you give me.

You make me feel hopeful just by being there with your calm, comforting presence.

I wish I could put my head down in your lap and cry my eyes out. But I dare not do that. I dare not scare you. You are too old, too fragile.

You make me realise I have to be as strong for my child, as you have been for me.

I cant let either of you down.

Sugarcane juice

And so I wore a nice tie front soft green top with paisley print chiffon sleeves and some chiffony bits flowing around the front.

And all I could think of when I saw myself in a reflected shop window was sugarcane juice.  And the fact that I seemed like a rounded jug of sugarcane juice.

So there I was outside a sugarcane juice stall downing glasses of the stuff like it was going out of stock much to the stiffled giggles of the collegians standing around in their Twiggy poses with handspan waists and collarbones.

And the back of my mind wondering how much e-coli I had just ingested without a moment’s pause in said beverage. And whether the man feeding in those sugar canes into the machine had adequately washed his hands after his morning abulations.  

I stopped at the chemists on the way back and bought some ORS sachets just in case.  And checked my forehead to feel if it felt any warmer than usual.

What? What? What?

The only good thing about hoping one gets typhoid is that last time I went into the ring I came out 15 kilos lighter, with hair pin bends at the waist curvature level, and needed a belt to hold my pants up.

Which reminds me I need to go out and buy me some belts too!

A girl can hope, can’t she?

To my dear husband…

I wish I could get a magic eraser and rub the wrinkles from your forehead and the perma frown lines between your brows. I wish I could put your head on my shoulder and let you break down for a moment, and not have to be the strong man bearing the burdens of the world. I wish I could take a eraser and rub out the horrors of the past month and make things happy again.

I wish I could tell you that a limb with gangrene needs to be cut off mercilessly and not treated with a regular swab of antiseptic. I wish I could hold your hand and tell you things will get better. I wish could know for certain when things will get better. I know you dont deserve this, but I am so very proud of you and your strength and courage and unflinching determined loyalty towards those who deserve nothing but the most scathing contempt.

I would be blessed if my son grows up with one tenth the loyalty and devotion you have. I am blessed to be married to you.

I wish I could hold you and calm you down when your face turns red with anger and the nerve in your cheek twitches.

I wish I could take your pain away when you have to beg and plead and grovel for favours when you have led a life of steadfastness and honesty and uprighteousness. I wish I could wash your eyes of their now constant look of haunted misery.

I am only so strong. I cant be strong anymore. It is you who is stronger. And a fighter. I quit easily. I am scared I will quit soon. I cant take it anymore.

You teach me what it means to be a rock. Be my rock. Give me faith.

Travellers Tales

The spouse left for Nasik at the crack of dawn this morning. He was kind enough to ensure water didnt splash on bathroom tiles during quick shower at all on pain of having his ears chewed off by rabid woman deprived of an early morning lie in.  I suspect he sponged himself. And then gently woke me, hesitantly asking if a cup of tea might be too much to trouble me for in the wee hours of the morning. I grumpily overboiled tea leaves and milk and set it before him. He drank it calmly. Said his goodbyes and was off. And I went right back to sleep. And then it was time to wake up and get down to the routine.

“Hello, where have you reached?”

“We’re still a long way off,  bye.”

Ears try to interpret background road noise as if auditory signboards would be up in bold letters. Read, spouse is now passing mid sized town. Or spouse is now traversing through open farming zone.

A little while later.

“Have you had breakfast?” This said in guilty whiney tone since one has downed an entire paratha and is sated and satisfied the way only pure fattening foods can make one.

“Yup.”

“What did you have?”

“Breakfast. See you later.”

Self trying to decipher whether he has eating south indian idli sambar or a more saner fulfilling alu paratha or found a sandwich place on the road and made do with a sandwich. All from the tone of voice.

An hour later.

“Have you reached?”

“Almost there. Bye.”

Can someone offer to scriptwrite for this man of mine. He’s fast going from a man of few words, to a man of no words.  Or perhaps, am I eating up all his words too?