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 :)