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!
Showing posts with label Psycho-D-lic. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Psycho-D-lic. Show all posts
2/10/10
1/15/10
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.
1/13/10
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.
So we say unto you.. Set forth and spread the sympathy.
12/16/09
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.
10/27/09
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.
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.
10/15/09
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 :)
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 :)
10/9/09
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?
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?
8/26/09
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!
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!
8/10/09
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..
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..
8/5/09
*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 :)
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 :)
7/15/09
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!
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!
6/10/09
Important, or not?
I have some not-quite-Dear-John letters to write.
- One to my lovely city of 'Chicago', which refuses to believe that it is the middle of June and almost summer. Wake up already, I don't want it to be 55F outside right now. I'm not quitting on you yet, but you need to make your mind up about which season you're in, and stick to it.
- One to the ever elusive 'Dreamless Sleep'. Or for that matter, 'Sleep' itself. Do you hate me THAT much? What did I ever do to offend you? Other than the fact that I couldn’t put a juicy book down every now and then to heed your dark call? Do you hold grudges? Grow up, and put me back on your favor list before I.. I don't know what I can write here. Hmm... Anyways, I have had enough of confusing dreams, and the vivid realistic ones where I have become a mutant, an assassin, a student lost in a reconstructed high school horror, and the likes. Thanks, but seriously, no thanks.
- One to the ugly bag of 'Sona Masoori' sitting in my kitchen right now. When will you ever get over? You are the worst tasting bag of rice I have ever had in all my 5 years in the kitchen. You are vile, tasteless, full of dust, and so tiny I can hardly see the individual grains and decide if you are cooked or not. I hate you. Please get over soon, you 50% remnant, so I can go and buy myself another bag. All said and done, I am not heartless enough to discard your sorry ass in the trash.
Oh my God, have I become a Hater? Look at me!
While I sit here blubbering about my existence (does anyone really care about my bag of rice?!)... B is out there, a mile away, reading Oscillograms 'for future testing and knowledge purposes'. That settles it, I am officially back on the discipline wagon. I will not sit here and rot anymore, while people are doing important things with important sounding names.
Check the word out.. Oscillograms.. All the syllables, vowels and consonants. Sheesh, I don't even have a technical term right now from any of my projects that I can bandy about to convince myself, much less others, that I am important. Such are the times. I'm sure even Prancer and Nan have important sounding word associations at their internships, and are smirking as they read this. And so does DrDro who has reached the 12-component programming mark, and is working toward the 35-component run. Or was it 12-variable versus 35-variable? Anyway, both versions sound important enough.
Poor me. There, there.. Eat a pack of the yummy Pringles Baked Stix. Who said self pity is bad?
On a side note, I counted, and found that I have used the word 'important' in this entry about 6 times towards the end. Or 5 times in one, and 1 time over here while I said that I counted the number of 'important's.. Oops, there I go again, another 'important'. Maybe I should just consider it a system that loops, or rather folds into itself.
I will stop being a nuisance right about now.
- One to my lovely city of 'Chicago', which refuses to believe that it is the middle of June and almost summer. Wake up already, I don't want it to be 55F outside right now. I'm not quitting on you yet, but you need to make your mind up about which season you're in, and stick to it.
- One to the ever elusive 'Dreamless Sleep'. Or for that matter, 'Sleep' itself. Do you hate me THAT much? What did I ever do to offend you? Other than the fact that I couldn’t put a juicy book down every now and then to heed your dark call? Do you hold grudges? Grow up, and put me back on your favor list before I.. I don't know what I can write here. Hmm... Anyways, I have had enough of confusing dreams, and the vivid realistic ones where I have become a mutant, an assassin, a student lost in a reconstructed high school horror, and the likes. Thanks, but seriously, no thanks.
- One to the ugly bag of 'Sona Masoori' sitting in my kitchen right now. When will you ever get over? You are the worst tasting bag of rice I have ever had in all my 5 years in the kitchen. You are vile, tasteless, full of dust, and so tiny I can hardly see the individual grains and decide if you are cooked or not. I hate you. Please get over soon, you 50% remnant, so I can go and buy myself another bag. All said and done, I am not heartless enough to discard your sorry ass in the trash.
Oh my God, have I become a Hater? Look at me!
While I sit here blubbering about my existence (does anyone really care about my bag of rice?!)... B is out there, a mile away, reading Oscillograms 'for future testing and knowledge purposes'. That settles it, I am officially back on the discipline wagon. I will not sit here and rot anymore, while people are doing important things with important sounding names.
Check the word out.. Oscillograms.. All the syllables, vowels and consonants. Sheesh, I don't even have a technical term right now from any of my projects that I can bandy about to convince myself, much less others, that I am important. Such are the times. I'm sure even Prancer and Nan have important sounding word associations at their internships, and are smirking as they read this. And so does DrDro who has reached the 12-component programming mark, and is working toward the 35-component run. Or was it 12-variable versus 35-variable? Anyway, both versions sound important enough.
Poor me. There, there.. Eat a pack of the yummy Pringles Baked Stix. Who said self pity is bad?
On a side note, I counted, and found that I have used the word 'important' in this entry about 6 times towards the end. Or 5 times in one, and 1 time over here while I said that I counted the number of 'important's.. Oops, there I go again, another 'important'. Maybe I should just consider it a system that loops, or rather folds into itself.
I will stop being a nuisance right about now.
5/25/09
Bad soup
I'm sure you've heard of finger foods. Ever come across finger bowl foods? Let me rewind a bit here..
Since B has a 'thing' for Ching's Chinese soup kits at Patel's, we've pretty much tried them all. Except for this one little packet for Lemon Corriander soup that has been languishing at the back of the closet for a while now. I retrieved it this evening when I really wanted to eat something, but didn't want to go through the motions of chopping or frying or anything else that involved me standing in the kitchen for more than 2 minutes.
Soup done. At this point, I must mention that I found the smell a bit fishy. But, in all fairness, I wanted to give this soup a chance.
The minute I brought that first spoon to my mouth though, it hit me. This was nothing other than a bunch of all the finger bowls from all restaurants condensed (dehydrated maybe?), smothered with some preservatives and thrown into a fancy pack. Shiny enough for people like me to pick up off the shelf.
Seriously Ching's, I'd rather drink my own finger bowl leftovers than other peoples'. Give this one a miss.
Since B has a 'thing' for Ching's Chinese soup kits at Patel's, we've pretty much tried them all. Except for this one little packet for Lemon Corriander soup that has been languishing at the back of the closet for a while now. I retrieved it this evening when I really wanted to eat something, but didn't want to go through the motions of chopping or frying or anything else that involved me standing in the kitchen for more than 2 minutes.
Soup done. At this point, I must mention that I found the smell a bit fishy. But, in all fairness, I wanted to give this soup a chance.
The minute I brought that first spoon to my mouth though, it hit me. This was nothing other than a bunch of all the finger bowls from all restaurants condensed (dehydrated maybe?), smothered with some preservatives and thrown into a fancy pack. Shiny enough for people like me to pick up off the shelf.
Seriously Ching's, I'd rather drink my own finger bowl leftovers than other peoples'. Give this one a miss.
5/20/09
Fantasy indeed..
B writes, this afternoon:
Whats up?
I reply:
Nothing.
B writes:
Wow da…what a precise/concise answer. I always knew you had the talent to do something on these lines… Ok. I want you to start writing a novel. Completely fiction peeps. Can you do it? We can work on a plot together. Some fantasy novel like Harry potter/Twilight. Obviously it should be something new and original…you could make a lot of money! ;)
I reply:
I think you're delusional.
Looks like I have the writing bug in me after all!
B writes:
Haha… see… such precise writing. Why, if I may ask, am I delusional? I think you have the talent. You just refuse to believe it…
I blog:
Who does not dream of writing their own novel! Especially someone, like me, that reads almost a book a day..
I remember this one summer afternoon when Jan (one of my BFFs from when I was 2) and I, were bored. Both of us, in a flight of fancy, decided to write a novel. We were convinced that we would be the next Enid Blyton. Of course, no school girl stories for us. It had to be a jungle safari. What else! And the novel had to open up with a bang. Gripping the readers and drawing them in right from the first line where.. "She woke up in the middle of the night, startled". Then followed a lot of drama for about two chapters, by which time the computer conked out during one of those frequent power cuts (this was the time before the UPS) and all our stuff was lost. You'd think we'd have enough sense to save it!
And then there was the junior year in high school, when Zee, Bhare and I - the bunch of X-Files and Alien freaks - decided to come up with something sci-fi for a filler skit for some annual school show. And off we went. To this wonderful planet of aliens, with a single suction tipped snout in the middle of their head for a mouth, and some extreme body structure, etc. The comic story was chock-a-block full of weird chemical and mathematical names for aliens and places and events. And we were so thrilled with the outcome that we were expecting Hollywood to come a-knocking. They did knock indeed.. the school principal and the teachers, that is. To bring us back to reality :) Of course, we were their favorite students, and they just let us down gently saying, 'We thought of something else for the filler…'
So you see, I'm not new to these big grand dreams of getting published... Or a screenplay for the next big sarcastic/slap-stick comedy... Or a column a la Dave Barry or Art Buchwald.. Or, of course, the "In" thing these days.. Fantasy.
On a side note, I hit a 100 posts! Oh my.
Whats up?
I reply:
Nothing.
B writes:
Wow da…what a precise/concise answer. I always knew you had the talent to do something on these lines… Ok. I want you to start writing a novel. Completely fiction peeps. Can you do it? We can work on a plot together. Some fantasy novel like Harry potter/Twilight. Obviously it should be something new and original…you could make a lot of money! ;)
I reply:
I think you're delusional.
Looks like I have the writing bug in me after all!
B writes:
Haha… see… such precise writing. Why, if I may ask, am I delusional? I think you have the talent. You just refuse to believe it…
I blog:
Who does not dream of writing their own novel! Especially someone, like me, that reads almost a book a day..
I remember this one summer afternoon when Jan (one of my BFFs from when I was 2) and I, were bored. Both of us, in a flight of fancy, decided to write a novel. We were convinced that we would be the next Enid Blyton. Of course, no school girl stories for us. It had to be a jungle safari. What else! And the novel had to open up with a bang. Gripping the readers and drawing them in right from the first line where.. "She woke up in the middle of the night, startled". Then followed a lot of drama for about two chapters, by which time the computer conked out during one of those frequent power cuts (this was the time before the UPS) and all our stuff was lost. You'd think we'd have enough sense to save it!
And then there was the junior year in high school, when Zee, Bhare and I - the bunch of X-Files and Alien freaks - decided to come up with something sci-fi for a filler skit for some annual school show. And off we went. To this wonderful planet of aliens, with a single suction tipped snout in the middle of their head for a mouth, and some extreme body structure, etc. The comic story was chock-a-block full of weird chemical and mathematical names for aliens and places and events. And we were so thrilled with the outcome that we were expecting Hollywood to come a-knocking. They did knock indeed.. the school principal and the teachers, that is. To bring us back to reality :) Of course, we were their favorite students, and they just let us down gently saying, 'We thought of something else for the filler…'
So you see, I'm not new to these big grand dreams of getting published... Or a screenplay for the next big sarcastic/slap-stick comedy... Or a column a la Dave Barry or Art Buchwald.. Or, of course, the "In" thing these days.. Fantasy.
On a side note, I hit a 100 posts! Oh my.
5/13/09
Red, Amber and Green
I've had my eye on this fallen stop-light for a few days now. Really. I don't know how it got to the pavement on the corner of Peterson and Ridge, but it is there alright. Maybe some oversize truck brought it down, or it just fell off during a patch of bad weather. Like a ripe mango from a tree! All I care is that it has been laying there for the last few days, and my hands are itching to just cart it off. Imagine how cool it would look as an art-form in the apartment. Funky chic anyone? I can see myself lugging this giant stop-light that is about almost shoulder height, plopping it in the backseat and driving off like a petty thief!
At this point, I am starting to sound pretty strange to myself. And, needless to say, B continues to find me 'amusing'. Every time he thinks he knows me, I come up with something like this. Endearing, he says. Who am I to complain ;)
I am, however, not one of those pack-rats. I don't horde things that I don't need, or cling to petals, leaves, tattered paper, bottle caps, coins and the likes. I just cannot help that I have an artistic view of things, and can see the most mundane or weird things fit into an art-scheme. Like the little glass vase I have at home filled, 'packed' rather, with wine bottle corks from my friends. Of all shapes and sizes. That is the kind of junkie I am. After all, I'm the proud winner of a number of 'Junk-Art' competitions in my school days. Ah, such good times - trying to come up with something to depict very high-school-y themes like 'Unity in Diversity', 'India at 50', 'Modern Day Marvels' and the like.. with a shredded reams of paper, fruit peels, leaves, mud, bottle caps, straws, bits of glass, bangles.. you get the picture, yes?
For now, all I can do is reminisce about those days and dream on about the stop-light-that-could've-been-my-decor. I can hear it whispering.. 'I know you want me'!
At this point, I am starting to sound pretty strange to myself. And, needless to say, B continues to find me 'amusing'. Every time he thinks he knows me, I come up with something like this. Endearing, he says. Who am I to complain ;)
I am, however, not one of those pack-rats. I don't horde things that I don't need, or cling to petals, leaves, tattered paper, bottle caps, coins and the likes. I just cannot help that I have an artistic view of things, and can see the most mundane or weird things fit into an art-scheme. Like the little glass vase I have at home filled, 'packed' rather, with wine bottle corks from my friends. Of all shapes and sizes. That is the kind of junkie I am. After all, I'm the proud winner of a number of 'Junk-Art' competitions in my school days. Ah, such good times - trying to come up with something to depict very high-school-y themes like 'Unity in Diversity', 'India at 50', 'Modern Day Marvels' and the like.. with a shredded reams of paper, fruit peels, leaves, mud, bottle caps, straws, bits of glass, bangles.. you get the picture, yes?
For now, all I can do is reminisce about those days and dream on about the stop-light-that-could've-been-my-decor. I can hear it whispering.. 'I know you want me'!
4/29/09
H1N1 anyone?
Oh my God, the swine flu is here! And my mind is working overtime with all the conspiracy theories I've read in my lifetime. That some ambitious drug company released the strain so they could make millions off the sales of the anti-virals that they have been manufacturing in secret for the last few years. That this is bio-terrorism by some vague group of individuals with access to a lot of money and power. That this is indeed the 'end-of-the-world' scenario predicted for 2012! Ooh, ooh, add the mandatory alien stuff to the list too.
For me, Reality and Fiction collide at times like these :) What if Confucius was indeed the Robin Cook or Stephen King of his time, and by suggestive conditioning/reasoning we have come to believe that he has predicted everything under the sun? What if all he was spinning was a fabulous yarn? I will always wonder if reality spawned fiction or if it was the other way around..
Well, all I can do right now is stay off the swimming lessons at the public pool. There goes my swimming career :) Goodbye Dheelps. (Deepika/Phelps, get it?.. *blink*! .. Here is where I should shoot myself for such bad jokes)
On a side note, Indro thinks I should blog about the fabulous BITSian life. Sounds like a monumental task. Maybe I will.. Soon.
On another note, I HAVE 2 FOLLOWERS! Ok, B doesn't really count. I slid bamboo skewers under his nails until he agreed to become my follower. But Nims, I'm honored :)
For me, Reality and Fiction collide at times like these :) What if Confucius was indeed the Robin Cook or Stephen King of his time, and by suggestive conditioning/reasoning we have come to believe that he has predicted everything under the sun? What if all he was spinning was a fabulous yarn? I will always wonder if reality spawned fiction or if it was the other way around..
Well, all I can do right now is stay off the swimming lessons at the public pool. There goes my swimming career :) Goodbye Dheelps. (Deepika/Phelps, get it?.. *blink*! .. Here is where I should shoot myself for such bad jokes)
On a side note, Indro thinks I should blog about the fabulous BITSian life. Sounds like a monumental task. Maybe I will.. Soon.
On another note, I HAVE 2 FOLLOWERS! Ok, B doesn't really count. I slid bamboo skewers under his nails until he agreed to become my follower. But Nims, I'm honored :)
4/2/09
Langoustine
Langoustine? Eeeeew.
A random re-run of Iron Chef, and there they were. The secret ingredient. The beady-eyed critters. Sitting there on the table and staring at you - only to be split open to reveal a slimy inside, and some stupid symbiotic foamy creature attached to the mouthparts? OMG. Disgusting! And all those tiny little legs? The crunch when they were cutting them open? Eeeeew again.
For the record, I never get put off by the sight of meat. No matter what it is. Clean it, de-bone it, do whatever to it and I don't flinch. But this stupid ye-big sucker got me wanting to puke. The grossest ever. Period.
Here is why I can never go to a culinary school around here, over abundance of weird meats.
A random re-run of Iron Chef, and there they were. The secret ingredient. The beady-eyed critters. Sitting there on the table and staring at you - only to be split open to reveal a slimy inside, and some stupid symbiotic foamy creature attached to the mouthparts? OMG. Disgusting! And all those tiny little legs? The crunch when they were cutting them open? Eeeeew again.
For the record, I never get put off by the sight of meat. No matter what it is. Clean it, de-bone it, do whatever to it and I don't flinch. But this stupid ye-big sucker got me wanting to puke. The grossest ever. Period.
Here is why I can never go to a culinary school around here, over abundance of weird meats.
3/3/09
R.I.P. Saffron
This morning, I was all geek-happy about square root day (today is 03.03.09!) and then things just kept going south. To start off with, people had problems with other people, and said people were arguing for a major part of the morning. Then I was 5S-ing the lab all afternoon. Sore muscles and all, I made a sudden pit-stop at DD on the way back for a Boston Kreme (my first EVER donut craving!). And my pick-me-up, once I got home, was to cook something new and elaborate. Hyderabadi Biryani. Authentic. Cue: Cut to black.
I mourn the loss of my treasured saffron box. Yes, I lost my saffron!!! Unbelievable that I even blog about such a thing, but essentially true. I'd love to take the soap opera tack and blame the maid. But alas, said entity does not exist in this situation.. :)
That little rectangular box, with those precious few strands of saffron that I borrowed from my mom a year ago. Saffron of the highest quality, brought all the way from their days in Saudi. I would often look at it lovingly, as it sat in that little chiller box inside my fridge. Cozily wrapped in a little snack-size Ziploc bag. But I always waited for a big-recipe day to use it. Preferably mom's style Rava Kesari oozing with ghee.
Only, I reached the stage in my cooking where I went to bring the saffron out to soak it in a cup of warm milk, and it was gone. Just like that. No trace. And all the enthusiasm went out of me. Right now, I don't care two hoots about the biryani. Let it burn in the oven. Sigh.
I mourn the loss of my treasured saffron box. Yes, I lost my saffron!!! Unbelievable that I even blog about such a thing, but essentially true. I'd love to take the soap opera tack and blame the maid. But alas, said entity does not exist in this situation.. :)
That little rectangular box, with those precious few strands of saffron that I borrowed from my mom a year ago. Saffron of the highest quality, brought all the way from their days in Saudi. I would often look at it lovingly, as it sat in that little chiller box inside my fridge. Cozily wrapped in a little snack-size Ziploc bag. But I always waited for a big-recipe day to use it. Preferably mom's style Rava Kesari oozing with ghee.
Only, I reached the stage in my cooking where I went to bring the saffron out to soak it in a cup of warm milk, and it was gone. Just like that. No trace. And all the enthusiasm went out of me. Right now, I don't care two hoots about the biryani. Let it burn in the oven. Sigh.
2/23/09
The Deep End
Sometimes I forget the very fact that I have a blog. Like the last couple of weeks, for instance. But that is because life has been snooze worthy. Yes, that is the right adjective. Ever since we returned from Jamaica (more on that when I'm more feisty!).
2009, up until this lovely Monday(!) morning, was divided into the anticipation-filled 'Pre-Jamaica' and the blah 'Post-Jamaica'. I decided that I was going to have to try and line up something interesting, so that I have something to look forward to.
And voila. What else but swimming lessons? Yes, look at me like my colleagues do. Like I'm someone who stepped off another planet or something. Like I'm saying that I do not know my name, or that I do not know how to chew my food! Seriously, I don't know how to swim.
Chalk it up to the fact that when I was about 8(?) years old, I had to pick either dance or swimming. Of course, I started off with both, and did a successful summer stint when I was 6, at Park Sheraton. But then, with the Arangetram not too far away, and with a conscious decision to focus on dancing, dance won.
Of course, I still have some niggling doubts about the fact that my grandparents thought that too much of swimming might make me too dark, and I wasn't really one of those porcelain skinned things to start of with in the first place (already in line for a dose of Fair-n-Lovely every now and then!) What a hoot!
And then there was the episode with the SIET swimming pool. Our mom tried to get me and N back into the pool, and we did the whole 'Mom-n-Tots' thingie. Only to find that by then I was terrified of the deep end, and kicked and clawed at my instructor until she just threw me in with all her strength. Ah, the good times :)
I must add that N, to her credit, plodded on a couple of years even after that and now claims (read: claims) that she can swim to save her life. Cheers N!
So, after that swimming was all but forgotten. But here I am, in the land where summers are glorious, and its a shame to not be in a pool every now and then. I did take some initiative and try to get myself enrolled two years ago at NW. All I got to do was eat humble pie. 5 year olds looking at us like we were a different species altogether, and giggling at us floundering adults, as they dived off the deep end and we trashed around in the 4ft end! Needless to say, that was a closed chapter. Plus, the work and the timings were all wrong.
But here I am again. Round 2. This time I had the sense to pick out classes later in the evenings that I could actually go to, and they are so close to home. Maybe I should get a new thread going on 'Deeps At The Deep End'.
2009, up until this lovely Monday(!) morning, was divided into the anticipation-filled 'Pre-Jamaica' and the blah 'Post-Jamaica'. I decided that I was going to have to try and line up something interesting, so that I have something to look forward to.
And voila. What else but swimming lessons? Yes, look at me like my colleagues do. Like I'm someone who stepped off another planet or something. Like I'm saying that I do not know my name, or that I do not know how to chew my food! Seriously, I don't know how to swim.
Chalk it up to the fact that when I was about 8(?) years old, I had to pick either dance or swimming. Of course, I started off with both, and did a successful summer stint when I was 6, at Park Sheraton. But then, with the Arangetram not too far away, and with a conscious decision to focus on dancing, dance won.
Of course, I still have some niggling doubts about the fact that my grandparents thought that too much of swimming might make me too dark, and I wasn't really one of those porcelain skinned things to start of with in the first place (already in line for a dose of Fair-n-Lovely every now and then!) What a hoot!
And then there was the episode with the SIET swimming pool. Our mom tried to get me and N back into the pool, and we did the whole 'Mom-n-Tots' thingie. Only to find that by then I was terrified of the deep end, and kicked and clawed at my instructor until she just threw me in with all her strength. Ah, the good times :)
I must add that N, to her credit, plodded on a couple of years even after that and now claims (read: claims) that she can swim to save her life. Cheers N!
So, after that swimming was all but forgotten. But here I am, in the land where summers are glorious, and its a shame to not be in a pool every now and then. I did take some initiative and try to get myself enrolled two years ago at NW. All I got to do was eat humble pie. 5 year olds looking at us like we were a different species altogether, and giggling at us floundering adults, as they dived off the deep end and we trashed around in the 4ft end! Needless to say, that was a closed chapter. Plus, the work and the timings were all wrong.
But here I am again. Round 2. This time I had the sense to pick out classes later in the evenings that I could actually go to, and they are so close to home. Maybe I should get a new thread going on 'Deeps At The Deep End'.
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