Yes 130

An evil conspiracy is afoot. They've reprogrammed me. Every weekday between 3 and 4, I zombie walk to the vending machine with a dollar in my hand. And punch in 130. The dreaded number 130 that houses my small (75% nitrogen, 25% chips) packet of Jays Hot Stuff potato chips. And they even proclaim 'Can't stop eating 'em'. They are right! As the only close-to-my-spice-level item in the vending machine, I gravitate toward this one item, mesmerized. So day-after-day I'm stuffing my face full of red crunchies that are supposedly 0% Trans-fat, 9g Fat and 260mg Sodium. Hello my dear 65cent ticket to a heart attack.

I also got an eviction notice from my pants this past week. They're unhappy right now, their seams are a-bursting. So unhappy they decided to cover themselves up with lint and other miscellaneous scratchiness from the dryer. And they keep zapping me with static. I know you guys *miraculously* moved the buttons farther apart to make me think I was getting fat. Argh. I hate you too pants, the feeling is mutual. Watch me swipe my credit card, and toss your sorry seams on the street one of these days.

Who am I kidding!

La la la.

You know how they say 'Dance like nobody's watching'? Why don't they ever say 'Sing like everyone around you is deaf'? I guess you can watch someone dance like as if they have two left feet and still brush it off as funny. Whereas if someone sings horribly, your ears just cannot handle it.. thereby leading to 'cat barking' comparisons a la Simon on AI..

I have these bursts of happy (read: loud) singing around home and in the car. Especially in the car. Singing at home is usually saved for when I'm cleaning the kitchen, doing the laundry, or having a shower. Just the other day, I plugged in my headphones into the iPod, tucked that into one of B's really really ugly hip-pouches from the 90's, threw some water on the ironing board to battle the static, and let my lungs loose. If you knew me from school, you might think that I must not sound all that bad - I was, after all, a part of the school choir. But singing amidst a chorus of ten girls, in the second row, and twice removed from the mic is a different matter altogether. With no background accompaniments, with the headphones plugged in (implying I cannot hear myself) I must've sounded exactly like a cat barking: why else was B standing at the door, with his eyes as round as saucers!

I have a redeeming factor though: I am not tone deaf. There are some songs, and some parts of some songs that fall right within my pitch range. These I can muster for as long as my lungs will hold up. For the ones that are out-of-range, I stop when my voice breaks and resume singing once the song is back to a portion I can sing. God bless me for my consideration.

Sympathy On Demand

Terms and Conditions:

• Choose your SoD Partner.
• Persons that qualify to be your SoDP include spouses (preferably your own), significant others, parents, sane relatives, friends, and BFF's. Persons that are expressly prohibited from SoDP status are children under the age of 18 who must not be scarred by your dysfunctionality, insane relatives, nosy neighbors, the office gossip, your boss.. You get the general idea.
• The nature of the SoD relationship must be established at the outset as one of two things: One-Way or Two-Way.
• SoD1 involves one partner being the constant sympathy demander (to be referred to as the 'Demander' herewith) with the other being the sympathy giver (to be referred to as the 'Giver' herewith). The designations are irreversible within the scope of the defined relationship.
• SoD2 involves an inter-changeable Demander-Giver designation, which can vary based on the circumstances.
• The Demander may demand sympathy not more than once a week, and not more than 4 hours a day.
• The Giver, upon entering into a SoD dynamic, understands that an appeal for sympathy must not be rejected as long as it complies with the other SoD rules.
• In case of SoD2 relationships, both parties must have equal access to being either the Demander or the Giver. A rotational schedule is highly recommended.
• A demand for sympathy need not be precipitated by calamitous events alone. Sympathy for the sake of sympathy is always allowed in SoD relationships.
• All SoD participants agree to abide by the above rules. Failure to adhere to the SoD rules can lead to the person(s) being barred from future participation in the program.

You will note that there is no fine print, nor are there any double asterixes referring to foot-notes. The SoD program prides itself on its transparency. We're believers of the ZB philosophy - Zero Bullshit, that is.

So we say unto you.. Set forth and spread the sympathy.

Snow anyone?

Snowy streets make a great picture postcard. They look perfect, serene, undisturbed, romantic even. A fresh shiny pile of powdery snow on your window sill can deceive you into thinking that a beautiful morning awaits outside...

And then there's the reality of a buried car, iced over windshields, negative windchills, and a missing glove. Ah, Chicago life. Nothing surprises me anymore. Happy New Year, by the way.

Incredible feats of logic

B had a check-up with the GP today, and here is what happened after a while once he got back.

D: Hold off on the samosa order for tomorrow from Swati. We'll get to it when we're there.

B. Oh, are we going back there for lunch?

D: No, not necessarily there, but somewhere in the area. I thought we were heading out to Devon for lunch.

B: Oh..

D: What "Oh"? Where else did you want to go?

B: No, I assumed we were going to Grande Noodles, and that is definitely not in the area.

D: What? Grande? Thai? When did we decide that?

B: I thought I mentioned it this morning in passing and you said yes... Or something like that?

D: No way. YOU'RE the one that mentioned the thali at Mysore today…. What on earth are you talking about? Grande wasn't even a part of the conversation!

B: ………… (brain-wheels creaking on overtime)

D: WHAT?

B: Oh, I get it. When the doctor cleared out my ear wax this morning, you see..

D: What sort of an explanation is that? Are you trying to tell me that information was clogged in your wax, and once removed, it had no chance to filter in and register in your brain?

B: Uh huh. Yep. (delivered in a "obviously, d'uh" intonation)

D: Seriously?!

B: D'uh.

D: Okay, this goes on the blog.

Today, the freak flag flies high

Welcome to Staticity

Fye, here is a small exchange we had this morning via e-mail.

D: ..Anyhow, how is the new moisturizer working for ya?

B: I will know by the end of the day. I actually like the way it smells. How do you like it?

D: Um, fine. At least, I'm not scratching myself like a jute monkey.

B: Lol, did you do that yesterday?

D: No, yesterday I just seethed and boiled on the inside. And then all that rage spilt out like a giant vat of ugly purple-green goop from a witch's rogue cauldron. A witch who failed her Potions lessons, mind you. But then you came along and cleaned it all up by just being sweet and giving me some food. My dear unafraid biohazard janitor.

B: !... What?

D: Welcome to my la-la-land, my friend. Blame it on the white owls on my earlobes if you want.

What got all this going was (no prizes for guessing) static. Yet again. Despite the war that our loyal little humidifier wages all night on our behalf, we're mired in mind games. It is almost like a Mexican stand-off between us and the light switches, car doors, remote controls, etc.. up until the moment we admit defeat and get zapped anyhow. My research (Google; not sitting cross legged on the library floor with giant dusty reference books around me) gave me options which failed miserably - touching warm metal keys, spraying that stinky aerosol, washing hands with warm water, staying moisturized. The last, which in turn, led us to spend a good 15 minutes in the lotion aisle yesterday at the store, trying to find a real good moisturizer that would not make me all dry and scratchy and static-y. And hence the freak exchange.

Zapped

Imagine a chicken with its head cut off. I'm running around much the same way these days with all the stuff going on. Add to it the insulting static. Zapped, every single time I touch anything around me. Thanks Chicago!

Of course, all this gives me one great excuse, every now and then, to ignore everything I have to do, and just plop down on the couch, watch endless TV, eat like a pig, and complain about the static of course.

Soda buddies

I sometimes find it strange that men (macho ones, to boot) notice things that I assume men usually don't. A good friend of mine noticed my new triple-dark purple nails last week. Somebody noticed my new black-and-white checked sneakers. A co-worker noticed my little puffy jacket this morning. A couple of others noticed my soda buddies (*tamil slang for eye-glasses) this morning. Men, all of them. Strange. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm usually SO dowdy and routine that when I try something different, it is about as subtle as a sledgehammer!

Anyhow.. soda buddies, I grant you, MUST be noticed. No point to them otherwise. Especially when they're the thick black frames that used to be considered geeky or nerdy, which are now all the rage. Such a rage, that I have three of them! All accumulated from my two trips to America's Best in the last four years. You'd think that I would have the common sense to get one that was classy enough for formal occasions. No, I had to have one in black, one in purple, and one with black and pink! Oh well.

In high school, I used to think that glasses would make me look very old, and that I wouldn't want to be caught wearing one of them ever. But given the fact that the whole family wears them, I knew it was inevitable. Then came the day in 2005 when I decided that it was not the distance in the amphi-theater style classroom that made the white board seem all fuzzy, it was just my awesome eye-sight. And hence the trip to America's Best. But given the fact that my power is a -0.25 (or is it -0.5?) I didn't need to constantly wear them - only driving at night in the rain or snow; or in classrooms or at presentations. But everything seems so much more clear when I wear these, that I'm slowly getting used to them. Plus, it makes me look cool. And chic, if I pair the right ones with the right dress that is.

Time for a check-up.. maybe next year? Might be time to add to the collection of buddies! A green one perhaps?

Laundry Days

The way we b*tch and moan about laundry day, you might think that we live in a village where we have to walk two kilometers one way just to fetch a kodam of water from the local river, walk back, sit down, and hand wash our clothes with nothing but a small bar of Rin!

What is the big deal about measuring out one cup of detergent, dropping the clothes in, pushing a button and walking away? And to make it worse, we even have 100% dryers here. Which totally eliminates the need for line drying. I remember the times back home, when I had to watch out for imminent rain, so we could rush to the balcony and remove the clothes from the line before they got wet. We would then stretch out some ropes in the guest rooms, and hang them there to dry under the fan. 

Now the clothes just jump out at you from the dryer all warm and soft and fluffy; and when you use the 'Perm Press' option they hardly have any wrinkles. To top it all, the washer and dryer are sitting in a small closet in your own home. I remember when I had to hustle to find the right time to get to the laundry room in the dorm basement so I didn't have to wait in line forever behind ten other students. I remember when the laundry room's card loader wouldn't work, and you'd have to trek to another dorm with your soggy clothes for a dryer cycle. Worse yet, there were the B'port days where my 'cozy' basement apartment didn't have any laundry facilities, and I'd have to drive four blocks to the Laundromat with its suspect machines.

And yet we complain! Every single week. Thankless souls, that’s what we are…

Inked

What is the one true test of a convent educated girl from India? Her handwriting of course! Penmanship is one of those skills they are hell (umm, no other word fit!) bent on imparting.. And I'm a successful by-product of the same. But I must confess, the convent had nothing to do with it, it was my mom. I'm so thankful to her for my great handwriting. I know they taught me to be modest in Moral Science class… but.

Which brings me to why I started this post. The fun thing about school-days was not the new bag every year, the little piece of chalk you'd use to whiten your shoe smudges just before morning assembly, the 'Yes, miss' 'No, miss' chants, or the fact that you couldn't ask for a bathroom break unless you were dying.. No, it was the ink pen. The glorious ink pen - Camlin, Hero or even a Parker if you were lucky - which they would insist you use. No ball point pens since they would screw up your handwriting. You had to learn to use the ink pen right - no blotches on the paper, no stains on your nailbeds.

I loved every minute of it.. so much so, that in a fit of nostalgia, I ended up buying a couple of Hero pens during my India trip last year. And today, I finally bought that bottle of blue-black Parker Ink!! How did I even live without fountain pens, I wonder. The grip, the scratch of pen on paper, the flow of ink, and the change in color as it dries up on the page.. sigh. I wish I could just blog on paper, scan it and make every post an image.. instead of this whole typing thing :)

Miscellaneous

I re-discovered my love for tinkering around with html and the good stuff. And voila, new look for the blog. Of course, I won't be giving up my Minima anytime soon. Nothing beats white space when it comes to giving any page a sophisticated minimalist look!

On a side note, I've been battling with a Chris Griffin style zit. Remember the one where the zit on his face mutates into a living being, takes over his life, and starts inciting him into doing unlawful things? Okay, things haven't gone THAT south yet. But, somebody sure has achieved a permanent resident status on the right cheek. Go away you.

I also managed to finish up 'The Palace of Illusions' - a book on Draupadi's version of the Mahabharata. Fascinating, to read a story you already know in a different person's perspective. I'd gladly recommend it to anyone that likes the Mahabharata..

And on grander news, Spicy Karma. Our attempt at a food blog. It will be interesting to see how we keep that up.. what with Mission800 also hovering in the background. However, given the foodies that we are, I'm sure our interest won't wane that quickly.

Mission800

Countdown timers, 2B pencils, scratch pads, sweaty palms, multiple choice questions.. here we go again. Every now and then, all you need is a good kick in the butt to make you start taking things seriously. Case in point - the as-yet-unpaved road to my MBA! After all the drooling dreams I shared with my friend in our PS2 days, about soft leather briefcases, sleek business suits, and folded newspapers in hand.. it is now time for some serious kick-ass GMAT prep. Goodbye procrastination! No more "let me see how well I can prepare before I decide on the date".

Step 1:
Book the date.
xx, February 2010?

Year 10, and counting.

And this marks the 10th year I have celebrated Diwali, and a lot of other festivals and events, away from home. I remember the very first one in 2000 when I was scoffing at the mass exodus of kids returning home for Diwali instead of staying over for Oasis. How could they, I thought. I was one of those rare non-home-sick kids, you see. Little did I realize that ten years down the line, I would be writing this. Had I known then of the trend that was to become this life.. what would I have done? Would I have gone back home just to spend some time with family?

I'm not very sentimental, no sir. But there are some things that tug at your heart strings every now and then. The smell of sulfur in the air, sweets, early morning oil baths, sambrani, poojas, kolams, pictures. They once told us in school of the unspeakable cruelty meted out to the kids in the factories at Sivakasi; the unsafe conditions, the long hours and the unhealthy atmosphere. That was the year we took a vow to not spend so much on fireworks - 1997-ish, I think? We'd stick to lower quantities, but we had fun nonetheless. I was afraid of the actual vedis, but the rest I was all into; especially the snake tablets, gem stones, mathapus and tara chakrams. Of course there were the new pavadais, payasams, bonfires, and all that good stuff. As a kid, that was all I saw in the festival... now I'd trade that just to be home for one week, lounging around with family!

Here I am today, in Cook county, with crazy fireworks laws - they even ban sparklers! One day, I vow to myself, one day I will be back in time for Diwali. Just not today :)

Minus robotic voices

You know those days when you feel you've reached the end of your tether? Today is the day. When did 'Customer Service' become a robotic automated system that would give you no option for a live helper? To add insult to injury, the only other way you can contact customer service is by writing to them. And mailing it! Yea, like as if we all don't know how that one goes down.

Right now, I would like to take that phone sitting on my desk, smash it to the floor, and jump on it until the shards and electronic components sink through this floor and fall into a giant vat of the most horrific concentration of CF3SO3H/FSO3H superacid mixture that magically appears on the lower level. Not that the stupid piece of plastic can feel any pain, but atleast it will melt away in the acid rather than sit there on the desk and mock me with that blinking voicemail light. Screw you voicemail!

I really HATE customer service. With a vehemence that doesn't surprise me. In fact, I wish I were nifty enough to hack into all automated voice systems and erase their programs. No more trying to tell that stupid voice recognition software that I said 'Yes' and not 'No'. No more punching in 1-5 through menu>sub-menu>sub-sub-menu>sub-sub-sub-menu, you get the idea.

Maybe I enlist a Don Cheadle a la Oceans11, who can come up with a bench-top version of the gizmo that powers the city down for 30 seconds. Only mine will be more target specific, and fry the fricking communication lines associated with every single automated service system. In fact, I'd ask him to conduct the work behind the scenes.. all I need is one giant red button that I can push, and laugh my evil-triumph-laugh, as the world wakes up to a day minus the annoying robotic voices at the other end of the line.

The sweet machinations of a hate-filled afternoon never fail to soothe my soul :)

Seeing Red

Excuse me, but would you like me to punch you in the face and break your nose?

Why, you ask?

Do I look like a Target employee to you? Not everyone wearing a red top in Target is a Target employee. So the next time you come up to me asking me where you can find cat litter or shower curtains, make sure your plastic surgeon is on your speed-dial. I've had enough with all of you!

Someone even asked B yesterday how much he gets paid as a Security guard at Target! All because he was wearing a red sweater, and had forgotten to remove his badge from work. Which by no means resembles a Target name tag, if you're wondering.

Seriously people. Are you THAT dumb?

The first 365

I could wax eloquent about the fact that we're reached a significant milestone. I could write poems about undying love and sobfests about soulmates. But that’s not how we roll, is it? If I could reminisce over the first 365 my way, at the risk of being clucked at..

- Ecstatic smileys peppered with exclamation points.
- Grunts and heaves for the total combined hours put into cleaning 1414 per freak standards
- Various exercise equipment tucked into corners and closets in the name of staying fit (!), including a bicycle that rarely meets the road.
- My toss-it-itis that affected B's hulk of a massager, a bag of Dove chocolates, and so on.
- Pretend fests that we're master chefs in the kitchen, sous chef and all.
- Excel sheets generated at the drop of a hat, for all possible reasons
- Furniture, furniture and more furniture. You'd think we've seen furniture before this in our lives!
- The Big Bang of up-to-date-electronics in Dee's life (she's currently quite swank in the department)
- HIMYM, BBT, Heroes, CSI:NY and Numbers
- Momo's, cork collections, aborted art attempts, Tiztal, Andersonville.
- The quest for the quintessential 'perfect' Chinese take-out in our zip code
- Over-eating sneaky birds that can hold their poop only as far as my car, and have to shit right over it.
- The sad farewell to the black Accord that has seen it all.
- Closet doors that never seem to be able to stay put together and one red punk dresser that we just cannot get rid of, no matter what we try.
- Jamaica, NY, NJ, SD, LA
- And so much more!

Now try and shake your head sympathetically at my unromantic tribute.. I dare you!

Fruits, etc.

In a fit of rage about failing miserably at "healthy eating", I piled on the fruits when I went grocery shopping. A few apples, a box of strawberries, a box of blueberries, and a few bananas. I'm going out on a limb here and guessing that this is a 'normal' amount of fruits in everyone's fridge? Whereas in my non-regimented life, this is very.. shady? What makes it even more shady is the fact that I have been stuffing my face full of fruits since 9am this morning, so that I don't let these rot. (Nothing worse than cleaning up rotting bananas on top of the fridge or the gooey strawberry juice that drips down the fridge shelves!)

Right now, it’s an apple. More specifically, the one deformed hunchback-of-fiji-farm apple that I (after much effort) sliced down using the slicer. And I think to myself - why do I even try to do this? It is simply not going to work, is it? All this sweet stuff. If an apple were to taste like tomato chutney, or the blueberry like jalapeno dippers, I'd be game. But no, all fruits MUST be sweet. Or worse yet, tangy. Arrgh. I hate you, you vile acidic little blueberry that creeped in amidst my sweet ones.

But I'm not giving up. Watch me!

09/02

Sometimes I like to convince myself that I'm not insane. So I justify my insanity with a series of perfectly delivered arguments. Like today, for instance. I just realized that another year has crept up on me, and that my birthday isn't far away. 3 weeks and 2 days to go. Or 566 hours, 12 minutes and 7 seconds to be more precise. Am I sad that I'm growing older? No, I'm freaking ecstatic that my birthday is coming up! I know I'm going to turn 27, and that I'm supposed to be feeling morbid about inching ever so slightly toward the big 3-0. Bah, humbug. As long as I get to wallow in self absorption one day of every year, I'm happy. (Without feeling guilty about it, that is. Else every other day would count as my birthday!) Who says that once you get old(er) you're not supposed to be jumping around like a twerp feeling happy that your birthday is coming up?!

But, for the record, I hate the day after my birthday. Facing the reality that my birthday is over, and that I have to wait a whole year for it to come again. Sigh.

Right now, however, I'm probably more excited than when I was a kid. No, scratch that off… I'd say that was a tad more exciting, since you got to dress up in school. And distribute those chocolates among classmates, and be wished by all and sundry. Aaah, the good old days. I remember I used to feel sorry for those poor kids whose parents popped them out during the summer break or any of the term breaks of the school calendar year.

Daydream time now. Hmm..

*Drool*

Picture this. I'm in Marshalls (or Burlington, or TJMaxx, or any other store for that matter). I'm making a bee-line to my favorite section of the store. I stand there, transfixed, breathing it all in. I'm sure you think you know what I'm talking about. But no, I'm not talking about clothes, or cosmetics, or handbags. I'm drooling at luggage! You ask why? I don't know! All I know is that I'm very attracted to everything luggage. Those new retro-pod looking ones with the zebra prints. The soft-as-a-bunny and pink-as-its-nose overnighters. The sturdy Samsonite in neon. The sober Docker carry-on in navy. That cute luggage tag with feline whiskers. The impossibly thin and beautiful garment bag.

For some inexplicable reason, I'm drawn to the luggage section anywhere I go. This is a sick obsession since I can't do anything about it! Its not candy that I can buy, eat and digest. It’s a space-occupying monstrosity that I cannot stuff into a closet! And its not even like I travel frequently or anything like it. Plus, even when I do, I don't check my bags in most of the time.. I make do with that sturdy gotta-love-Samsonite carry-on that my folks got me when I first came here for my Masters. All I can do is wistfully glance at the section every time I'm in a store and sigh and walk away :)

Batty

People that leave shredded bits of toilet paper on the floor, Dee hates you. Are you bunnies gnawing on it while you're trying to while away your time in there? Or are you thrashing around in yogic enlightenment that you destroy the paper that's the nearest thing you can get your hands on? Is it really too much to ask that you learn to cut the paper off at that ragged little edge of plastic neatly? Seriously people, grow up.

That Dee is crazy about order and symmetry in her world is known. She gets off on such episodes. When she works herself into such a state over something trivial, you better stay clear of her path and her hormones. Such entertainment.. that someone can get SO worked up about bits of toilet paper on the floor and the likes, but will probably not even bat an eyelash at the big stuff in life. She sure shows promise of turning into the screwed up crazy bat lady in that dark house around the street corner, hehe. Maybe B will save her heroically from the clutches of the underground bat people.

If he is not busy playing a cricket game, that is. That being never!