I seriously, very seriously, was thinking about quitting blogging a couple of days ago. I had composed out my farewell post, and wrung out enough lachrymal secretions to have done Bollywood proud, and sat at the computer much in the manner of that blonde headed chappie who went “Tis a far better thing I’m doing than I have ever done,” or words to that effect penned by the Dickens chappie. I’m not a woman for detail.
Therefore, why am I inflicting myself on you, dear unsuspecting reader, all over again? Simple. I need to blog. Nowhere else do I get to write random stuff and not get handed in my papers. Well, technically, since I am jobless, this is purely theoretical.
Like any good performer, I’ve been recycling my material too often for my own comfort. I mean, how long can you go on reading about my weight related angst, my shopping sprees, my food fetishes, etc, etc. Right. Its a wonder I havent had virtual shoes chucked at my head, knocking me virtually senseless. Well, if anyone does decide to do any shoe chucking, make them size six and chocolate brown satin pumps. Saw them yesterday at a sale, and positively melted into an unseemly puddle of wanting and needing, not rivalled by the unseemly puddle of wanting and needing, brought on by Brad Pitt in some movie where he has insanely long hair and goes butt naked. Therefore, shoe chucking should kindly be reserved for those with size six feet and good taste in shoes.
The tragedy is that there is a lot happening in life, which is completely off blog limits. As you all might know and realise, I keep a vanilla clean blog. Therefore, there’s volcanoes erupting all around me, and all I do is come out here and write about rolling elysian fields and such like.
Heartbreaking, isnt it? But I’m a woman of resolve as firm as newly set jelly, therefore I will stick to the rules I set for myself when I started blogging. Aka, no bitching. I’ll do all my bitching in person, thank you very much.
Went for a wedding this Saturday with the mater. Actually, as the mater’s escort service, given that this was her best friend in the whole wide world’s son’s wedding and there was no chance of her making it on her own through Saturday night traffic and emerging unshaken and unstirred. I got appropriately togged out. Read, I wore shiny shoes, applied some eyeshadow and blush on that promptly dissolved in the flood of oil that keeps emanating from geyser like pores, needing me to keep slapping on more, which finally ended at a point where I could have walked down the Mardi Gras parade and have folks compliment me for my authentic clown mask make up.
The mother was in a simple silk sari, face powdered with talcum powder and hair in a bun looking effortlessly graceful like only mothers can look.
We reached the venue, which was the banqueting hall of a five star hotel. Now this was a Catholic wedding. Therefore, like all good Catholic weddings, we opened the imposing doors of the banqueting hall to confront rows and rows and tables of imposing emptiness. I did a double check and peered with squinty eyes at the watch. 8.15pm. The invite stated, clearly, in cursive font printed on gold, with totally unnecessary flourishes, 7.30 pm, did it not, I questioned the mother in tones that the inquisitors might have used on their hapless captors. I hate being late. To start with. And then to reach late and realise that you are actually early is a double whammy I couldnt stomach. So we sat and waited and waited. And I touched up my face yet again, until my powder compact threatened to hand in its resignation. And the first guests drifted in, and the hosts drifted in. Much cheek kissing happened. The bridal couple drifted in. My mother gasped loudly and audibly. The bride was wearing a strapless contraption she was pulling up every couple of seconds to spare us a wardrobe malfunction situation. And this strapless contraption, was, blasphemy, in black. I sprinkled some water on the mater. She sputtered back to consciousness and gasped out, “The bride is wearing black!!!! How could she?” I begged her to hold her peace, since the man in question for whom the black deemed inauspiciousness seemed to be in no such sputtering anger mode and was going around pretty chuffed with himself pumping innumerable hands and pocketing envelopes of cash.
And then came the interminable wait through toasts and wedding march and such like for something edible to be served. And when it did come it was all cooked animal pieces on little toothpicks. Aaarghhhh…and the containers which would contain the dinner promised for braving the traffic were showing no signs of being filled with anything edible. 10.30 pm. I dragged the reluctant mater out, braved Saturday night traffic, reached home and foraged in the refrigerator for leftovers.
I’m still regretting the cash I placed in said envelope.