My Adorable Pancreas

Hope

2011-11-28T14:26:00.000+05:30

The oddest things give me hope- the sayings on the T-shirts at mentalfloss.com, Mumford and Sons songs, watching a bridegroom feed a slice of wedding cake to his bride, bagels with hummus, the stuff at whenparentstext.com, pictures of nicely decorated rooms in Good Housekeeping-style magazines, gummy bears, the smell of bookstores, fuchsia pink anything,

These things make me realize that there is still happiness in this world. And love. And beauty. And laughter. And fun. They make me realize that even though today may not be that great, tomorrow could be awesome. And that while good times don’t last, bad times don’t either.

Avatars

2011-11-17T12:12:00.001+05:30

Growing up, I went through a lot of different phases- I was a fearless tomboy between the ages of 1 and 4, boring asthmatic nerd, boring nerd, happy semi-nerd, angry teenager, depressed college student, psychotically cheerful wife, etc, etc. But of all my “avatars”, I like this one the least. And not just because of the lousy circumstances. I just don’t particularly like this new Sheryll.

Old Sheryll believed in the inherent goodness of people. She trusted easily, never questioned motives and was hardly ever suspicious. New Sheryll? Not so much. Old Sheryll believed that if she was genuine, others would be genuine too, so much that her husband used to worry about how she’d survive in the real world. Old Sheryll did not care. Why did she have to worry? Her husband would protect her anyway. New Sheryll does not believe she has that luxury. Old Sheryll was badass and was only scared of caterpillars. New Sheryll freaks out every time her phone rings. New Sheryll is very self-absorbed and doesn’t like many people. New Sheryll doesn’t really like New Sheryll either.

So what spurred this rambling, incoherent rant of mine? Well, here goes. Rajeev and I used to go to a church in a nearby town where his parents lived. I haven’t been to that church since his funeral. Anyways, so a few weeks ago, there was some special program happening in my current church and a bunch of people came here from that other church. I’ve never felt more judged in my entire life. Suddenly I felt like my sari was too transparent (it wasn’t) and my makeup was inches thick (obviously not). Then over that weekend, there was this sudden onslaught of people from that town calling home to ask about “my well-being”.

Old Sheryll would not have used double-quotes.

Old Sheryll would have smiled and said hello to these people. Old Sheryll would not have felt so judged because Old Sheryll would not have thought that they had any reason to judge.

Maybe they WERE judging me for being able to smile and laugh so soon after my husband’s death. Maybe they weren’t. Maybe they just did not know how to talk to me. Maybe it’s all just in my head. I don’t know. And it shouldn’t matter to me either. Because really, how I deal with losing Rajeev is personal. I have a wonderful circle of family and friends who are there for me. I’ll cry when I want to and laugh when I want to. And it’s nobody’s damn business but mine.

But if there’s one thing I learned in these past few months, it’s that it is so easy to hate, SO easy to become bitter and mean and angry. It’s so easy to dwell on the negatives for so long that it’s all you can think about. To allow these emotions to control you till you can feel nothing else. The scary part is that It. Is. Just. So. Easy.

I also learned that it’s a choice.

I learned that I can choose to be all Miss Havisham-like and rot away with my memories, or I can just choose to be happy. I can choose to live, happily, not just survive from day to day. I learned that yes, I do live forever, in my eyes at least, because I’ll be alive for as long as I’m living and when I’m dead, it won’t matter because I won’t know anything anyway. (I don’t know if that made any sense. But it did to me. In my defense, I’m very sleep deprived.) Yeah, so I’m going to live. I might as well live happily. Right? And I believe I will. Someday.

So what if Rajeev and I never formed that husband-wife rock band along the lines of the White Stripes? I’m still alive. I can still sing. So what if we never got to visit a foreign country? I still have my passport. The world is my oyster. And one day I’ll stop believing that thinking these things makes me a bad person. One day I’ll realize that how happy I decide to be is not inversely proportional to how much I love my husband. One day, I’ll smile and mean it. And I’ll be happy. You just watch me.

If I Were Fearless

2011-10-30T22:54:00.005+05:30

I wish I were fearless. Imagine what I’d do then.

Actually, I do know what I’d do. I’d laugh. And joke. And grin. And smile. All without worrying about whether other people would consider it “inappropriate widow behavior”. I’d realize that I’m the one who has to deal with losing the love of my life. That I’m the one who has to go to sleep alone. Not them. And that it’s my right to decide how I want to deal with it. I’d realize that I could choose to be anything in the world. So I might as well choose to be happy.

Yeah. If I were fearless, that’s what I’d do.

Dealing. Part One.

2011-09-28T23:58:00.002+05:30

There is one fundamental problem about a love that is “all encompassing”, that “fills up your senses”, that “completes you”. And that is this- once the object (and source) of that love is gone, that feeling of wholeness is gone too. And that’s all you are. Incomplete.

I’ve become angry. So very, very angry. I read somewhere that anger is one of the many stages of grief. Well, looks like I’ve entered that stage guns blazing. And I don’t even know how to handle it. How can I when I don’t even know what can set me off? I hate cheerfulness just as much as I hate sadness. I want you to say something to me, but I don’t know what I want to hear. I hate that even with the best family and friends a girl could ask for, I feel so empty and alone. I hate that I got so used to Rajeev’s arms that I can’t fall asleep at night. I hate that I went from newlywed to widow with nothing in between. I hate that I still equate emotional investment with time and I hate that I feel so worthless because I only spent one year with him. I hate that people think I should be able to move on easier because I’m so young. (Seriously. What does that even mean?) I hate that I have nothing to remember him by except for a year full of memories and the occasional photograph that I still can’t bring myself to look at. I hate that I’m only 25 years old and that whatever future I do have, is still a future without him. I wish I could just run away and go somewhere I’m not me. Somewhere I’m not 25 and a widow. It’s a funny place to be. Widowhood. Where you’re married and single at the same time. But the fact is that no matter how far I go, I can never escape this. This is going to be a part of me as long as I live. Like my color of my eyes and my abnormally large feet. I know I’m wallowing in self-pity and believe me, I hate that too.

I know that God has a plan for me. I may not like the plan. But there’s a plan. There HAS to be a reason for all this pain. I don’t care if you don’t agree with me. And I’m not going to go searching for answers because I know that right now, nothing is going to be good enough. But I do know that there’s a reason. And I know I’ll find it sometime in the future. My tomorrow may be bright, but how the heck am I going to deal with today?

I remember how Raja and I spent our three month anniversary. It was magical. Rajeev went all out. He sent flowers and chocolate to my office, and then in the evening, he whisked me off to the most amazing restaurant I’ve ever been to. I remember looking at him that evening and thinking, not for the first time… or the last, that I was the luckiest girl in the world. It was glorious.

And yet, even that evening was not our best one. Our perfect evening was every regular, normal weekday. Where Raja would come home from work around 8ish and we’d sit down to eat a meal that I had cooked. We’d clear the table and then I’d wash the dishes while he cut fruit for both of us. And we would just hang out and listen to music or watch a movie or slow dance to heavy metal, whatever. Hang the babies or the home or the dinners at fabulous restaurants. I’d do anything just to have one of those evenings again.

Aftermath

2011-09-05T11:52:00.003+05:30

It’s begun.

The other day at church, my dad was trying to introduce to me to an old acquaintance of his. Obviously, this acquaintance had heard about what happened, but had no idea who I was.

Dad: This is Sheryll.

Acquaintance: ….

Dad: My daughter.

Acquaintance: ….

Dad: She’s the one who lost her husband.

Acquaintance: Oh! Her!

Turns out that’s all I am now. The girl who lost her husband. Great.

So my mom has issues with my recent posts. After reading the last one, she sat me down and gave me a good talking to. She said (and I’m only paraphrasing slightly here), “Sheryll, I know it’s hard. But it is time for you to move on. You’re just 25. Your whole life is spread out before you. I know you’ll miss your husband with every fiber of your being, but you need to get through this. You’re a strong girl and we’re all here for you. Always.”

I love my mommy.

I also wonder if someone can develop a “mommy-filter” for our blogs. Hmmm.

So after two months of dealing with the sickness and death, I now have to deal with life and surviving. I honestly don’t know which one is worse. It’s a funny business this grieving thing. Emotional rollercoaster is an understatement. I have NO idea what could set me off. I did not cry when they happened to play “our song” on the radio. But I bawled my eyes out the last time I saw a Metro test run. I can handle looking at pictures of Rajeev posing decently, but I cannot handle the goofy ones. I can wear his t-shirts to sleep, wear his ridiculous yellow slippers, and smell his perfume, but I cannot watch the first season of Glee or listen to the new Angry Birds Seasons theme music.

And then there’s the fear. That horrible, paralyzing fear of the things you know you have to do in order to be able to live rather than just survive. Of the things you must leave behind. Of the decisions you must make. Of expectations and realizations. And that the only thing that they have in common is that they all suck.

And the anger. The kind that eats you up from inside. All stemming from one unavoidable fact- that of all the people Rajeev ever knew, he knew me for the shortest time. And there’s nothing anyone can do about it. Except deal.

Here’s to dealing.

If

2011-08-25T11:55:00.002+05:30

There was this song we used to sing in church. It kinda went like this- Count your blessings name them one by one and it will surprise you what the Lord has done.

Guess it’s worth a shot.

Counting my Blessings. Take 1.

I am thankful that I got to spend at least one year with Rajeev.
I am thankful for my family. I can’t imagine getting through this without you.
I am thankful for the life I got to lead with Rajeev- that we never once shied away from showing/voicing our love for each other (We were quite embarrassing). That we never ever took each other for granted.
I am thankful for Bridget Jones’ Diary, Solitaire, and pedicures because somehow, apart from my family, these are the only things that seem to keep me sane.
I am thankful for my friends. Even though I don’t return your calls.
I am thankful for…

This isn’t working.

If wishes were horses,

I’d wish that this was all just some crazy nightmare.
I’d wish that he died the way we had planned to die- Together, after the family reunion we’d hold on our 70^th wedding anniversary, and because we boogied too much on the dance floor and ate too much cake.
I’d wish that he never got sick in the first place.
I’d wish that I had let him eat that last brownie instead of saving it for the folks at his office. I had promised that next time I’d make a whole batch just for him. Who knew?
I’d wish that people stop coming to me and crying. I really don’t know what to do then. Crying people make me cry and I really, really hate crying in public.
I’d wish that life was like in the movies where teardrops were enough to wake up anyone in a coma.
I’d wish that I could just fast forward to five years later and not have to deal with the todays.
I’d wish that I could mess up his hairdo one more time.
I’d wish that we got to take more ridiculous photos.
I’d wish that we could both sing Wolfmother songs in the car again.
I’d wish he were still around.

If wishes were horses, hell, I still wouldn’t have one.

So...

2011-08-16T14:53:00.001+05:30

My husband died three weeks ago. Turns out he had a brain tumor that he did not know about. No symptoms, no signs, no nothing. He gets a headache one day, goes to the hospital, gets admitted into the ICU, and never came home again. He was in the ICU for 27 days and in a coma for 25 of those days. It’s good in one way because he did not have to suffer as much as he would’ve if he were conscious. It sucks because none of us got to say goodbye.

A widow at 25. Who would’ve thunk it? I was still getting used to being married at 23.

So much for all the dreams I shared with him. I dreamt of kids. One would be just like him- a boy with super straight hair, long gangly limbs, and a wicked sense of humor. He would be my favorite child and no girl would ever be good enough for him. I dreamt of Rajeev and me shopping for our home and arguing over which curtains to buy. I dreamt of family vacations with all of us wearing matching t-shirts and multi-colored crocs. I dreamt of tantrums in the supermarket. (What can I say? I really really like my Oreos.)

Well, so much for that.

It sucks that I can’t call him in the middle of the day just because I miss him. It sucks that I can never watch him drink his morning tea, or watch him gel his hair. It sucks that whatever future I do have, will still be a future without him.

And then there are the whys. And the hows. And the what-ifs. And the if-onlys. Each one more maddening that the first. I look for answers, but nothing helps. Then the other day, my friend told me something I will never ever forget- Sometimes, it just has to suck. And it’s true. There doesn’t always have to be one single way to deal with suckitude. You don’t always have to be strong and unflaggingly optimistic. Sometimes. Life. Just. Has. To. Suck.

Back to the Past

2011-05-26T23:57:00.003+05:30

I once read that every good story starts with a “What if”. Of course that is pointless if all your stories are straight out of Shutter Island and involve some form of fire and/or unicorns.

As you can tell, my attempts at story writing were miserable at best. Joy.

So one of my favourite-est stories that I can remember right now, was the plot of that Bruce Willis movie where he did not die hard. You know, the one where his 5 year old self comes to present day and is all-round unimpressed with his 40 year old self? That was pretty cool. I wish I could do that too. Not the general all-round unimpressed-ness with self. That I do already. But I do wish I could go back in time and tell 15-year-old Sheryll the startling truths I know now. Words of infinite wisdom like “A mullet is not such a good idea” or “That one year old murukku will make you barf for days” or astounding prophesies like “In 2011, Westlife will still suck”.

Time travel is so wicked cool.

So I decided to make a molehill out of mud and write an open letter to Sheryll 10 years ago.

Dear 15-year old Sheryll,

You still have lousy grammar.
You will like lists. So much that even your letters look like grocery lists. You do not have that many friends.
You will become impatient with people who talk nonstop to people who don't care. You’re not one of them anymore. You have a blog instead.
You will meet and marry a guy taller than you. No, height is not such a big deal. But yes, it does feel nice.
Contrary to popular belief, you will learn to cook. And you’re not terrible either. Your husband only gets food poisoning once every three months. (Win!)
You will turn in to one of those people who get excited by fresh vegetables at the store.
You wear saris to church now. And like it!
By 2011, you will have attacked a lizard, killed a snake (ok you ran over it with your car, but still!), and braved an Indian public restroom, but you still don’t know how to ride a bicycle.
You will hate going to the beauty parlor. Your eyebrows now look like two woolly caterpillars on a date.
You will attempt to salvage your beauty with homemade procedures. Now you have a mama caterpillar and a baby caterpillar instead.
You will not look like the abominable snowman on your wedding day. Your dress will feature an enormous bow on your behind (coincidently, also enormous), but a Yeti you are not. Some people will actually say you looked pretty nice.
You will wear red shoes with your wedding dress and feel very cool and rebel-like.
No one notices your red shoes. But you like them anyway.
You will become so absent-minded that you will routinely forget your lunch box at work.
You will attempt to fix your absentmindedness with post-it notes saying “Take me home!!”
You will still forget your lunch box at the office.
You will learn to drive and become the family’s official chauffeur for 4 years until you get married off by the age of 23. (Yes! 23!)
In 2008, you will become very super acquainted with a little website called Facebook. It makes stalking fun.
You have finally learned to peel fruit all by yourself. Take that, Shiv!! Hah! I need you not no more!
You still haven’t mastered the art of a good ending so all your posts end somewhat anti-climatic-ally.

Love,
25-year-old Sheryll

Homeward Bound… And Gagged

2011-04-14T15:33:00.002+05:30

It’s funny. I have all these kickass one-liners floating around this giant blob I call my brain (Bob for short), but the second I get down to writing something, all I can think about is cheese. Why do I suddenly want pizza?

Speaking of food, last week I finally faced my culinary devils and cooked a fish curry. You ain’t a proper Telugu wife if you can’t make a proper fish curry. See, while fish may be a staple food in Kerala, it is almost a religion in Andhra. (I’m a mix of both so you can understand my delicate mental state.) Well, I did it. And my husband still loves me. Wee!

Moving on.

So there’s this short story writing contest that has been brought to my attention. (The story is what’s short. Not the contest. Just in case you were wondering.) I’m really kicked about it but I’m also terrified. This blog aside, I really have not written anything worth reading. Sure, I showcased my tremendous songwriting skills at age 5 with “Comma Little Baby” (It brought together my two favorite things- infants and punctuation). But it’s been pretty much downhill from there (poems about oatmeal anyone?). So I have 16 days to do what I have not done in 25 years. Wish me luck!

I wonder if I can write a story about oatmeal.

P.S. The title used to have something to do with this blog post. But I waited so long to write this, I forgot. Procrastination. It kills you… eventually.

I’m Schizophrenic and So Am I

2011-02-16T15:45:00.006+05:30

Valentine’s Day is a flippin’ awesome holiday. There. I said it. And it only took me 24 years and one awesome husband to do so. Wee.

Not that we did anything super fancy. Mr. Rao and I stayed home on our very first Valentine’s Day and I made a ganache tart. Of which I am supremely proud. Just to be obnoxious, here’s a picture. But be warned. Objects in the picture are smaller than they appear. MUCH smaller. But enough to satisfy two confirmed chocoholics.

My day did not start out all that extraordinary though. In fact, I was pretty bummed out that I couldn’t think up anything special for my husband on our first Valentine’s Day. Had we already morphed into one of those boring old married couples we constantly hear about? Gasp! Never!

Still, I was grumpy and I stayed that way until late afternoon when I got a very wonderful, uplifting message from Mr. Rao. It hit me then, in a very Paul-on-the-road-to-Damascus kinda way, that it’s my life. Funky, fancy restaurants don’t make my life special. I do. And thus, my super awesome ganache tart was born. Sigh. Good times.

So the past seven months have been epic and I’ve had many, many epiphanies along the way. Of course, by “epiphanies” I mean “hot fudge sundaes” which is probably why my saris don’t fit me anymore. But really, it’s been realizations galore around here. Here are a few:

I really, really, really love to cook. Which is huge. 8 months ago, I could barely boil a potato (as clearly evidenced by the Great Potato Salad Debacle of 2001. Did you know you have to boil the potato first?) Today, I have the in-law stamp of approval. In fact, a few weeks after the wedding, we had the family over for dinner after which Mama Rao came up to me and said, “I’m so glad my son is not going to starve”. Yay me!

Miracles do happen. If you ask. And if you believe. Just ask my momma. Three months ago, she was in the ICU. Two weeks ago, she made fish biryani for 20 people. Miracles happen.

(For all of you waiting to start a comments war on this one, remember- just because opinions are like bum-holes does not mean you should be.)

Decepticons are way cooler than Autobots.

For anything in life that really matters, whether relationships or career or baking, you only get as much as you put in.

Pedicures are great for the soul. And feet too.

And probably the biggest one of all, it’s ok to be different to different people. It does not make you fake. It makes you mature. I can’t crack dirty jokes with my parents-in-law the same way I can’t waltz into my colleague’s house and start washing dishes. These are all just different versions of Sheryll. I may be schizophrenic. But I’m still me.

Winds of Change

2010-08-25T16:50:00.002+05:30

No, this post is not about flatulence.

Moving on.

You know you’ve changed when instead of coming up with Reason #4325 – “Why not to have children”, you point at random babies then look at your husband and say “I want”.

Thankfully, he knows I’m only half serious. Heee.

So as you are probably well-aware by now, I got married. It’s been a wonderful two months. I like this marriage thing mighty much. So much that I’m recommending it to everyone I meet. Siblings, friends, colleagues, random woodland creatures. Suddenly I have no friends. Hmmm… curiouser and curiouser I say!

I’ve heard so much about how difficult the first few months/year of marriage is (are?). Especially since you have to get used to a whole new family. I’ve been told that it’s like learning a new language. Which scared me to death. I’m lethal with new languages. The last time I tried to speak a new language, I asked a petrol station attendant to make me some gas. I thought I was so cool and bilingual till my friend informed me that I was in fact, not.

But I’ve been lucky. I’ve got a great extended family. To paraphrase my favest blogger, in the past few months I’ve inherited an extra set of parents, two sisters, two brothers, two nieces, two nephews, and a husband. And they’ve been great. My birthday was two days after my wedding and I spent it with my husband’s family (well... mine now. ALL MINE!!! MUHUHAHAHAHA! Ahem… sorry… I do like ‘em evil laughs. Even when they’re totally unnecessary. Actually, especially then. Yay Bob!) Yeah, so I spent my 24th birthday with my new family and I knew that I’d love them forever coz I got not one but TWO birthday cakes. (My affections come easily. Usually pre-mixed and in a Betty Crocker box.) Plus flowers and gifts and artwork from my nieces and nephews. And about 5 million “Happy birthday, wife” cards from my husband. Out of which, 4,999,999 cards were bought by my sisters-in-law. “At my husband’s request” it seems. Lucky for him, I still find that adorable.

I never thought I’d be one of those “married at 23” types. Heck, I even had my cat names picked out. (You know… for when I die alone?) Life never turns out quite like you’d expect it to. And boy, am I thankful for that. I would never trade this life with my husband for anything. Our mad dashes to ice cream parlors at 11 in the night, ridiculous photo shoots in wedding regalia, random spur of the moment house hunts, and lovely lovely lovely looooong drives air-guitaring/drumming/singing along to Wolfmother. Sigh. Life’s good.

But be warned! Not everything about married life is pretty. Along with marriage comes advice. Lots of advice. From everyone and their household pets.

Here’s some that I’ve received over the past few months.

Mom: Be nice.
Friend: Don’t do it. Marriage is for old people.
Sister: Don’t announce your opinions like they’re facts.
Dad: For heavens sake. Stop talking about food.

And finally, my favorite: Marital becomes martial when you misplace the ‘I’.

Everybody slap your foreheads. And say it with me- Aiyyo.

P.S. I’ve learned to make dal.

-

iCook

2010-05-12T11:25:00.004+05:30

So there’s this blog I’m currently obsessed with. It’s one of those food plus anecdotal kinda blogs written by this woman who has a job and a husband and a toddler and two dogs and is working on her PhD and finds the time to cook glorious glorious food AND blog about it and blog about it well. Plus she works out regularly. Lord knows what’s in her Bournvita. I happen to know her personally and that in itself makes me feel accomplished by association.

One of the things I’m looking forward to in my life post-June is having my own kitchen. Now I’ll be honest, I never had any 1950s housewifely ambitions before. But much has changed since Nigella and her Express met cable TV. Now I’ve managed to half-Nelson my mom into giving me the spare oven as a wedding gift. We’ve had it in our family for ages – almost 10 months. It’s practically a family heirloom. Or not. Hee. I can barely wait to start making dishes I can’t even pronounce. So what if my better half thinks that dessert is a joke unless it’s chocolate? Choux Choux, I say!

My first foray into the kitchen was when I was 3. I vaguely remember whisking and then freezing this vile combination of milk, raw eggs, buttermilk and ice cream. I gave it to my brother who (and I’ll love him forever for this) ate it. I also remember making miniature chapattis with my momma. We’d make one for me and one for baby Shivonne. Of course both chapattis would somehow always magically end up on my plate. (Hey, how was I supposed to know that 6 month old babies did not eat solid food? Remember, I was 3 and I’ll admit, not that bright.)

And then there was the Potato Salad debacle of 2001. Did you know that you have to first cook the potato? *Blink blink* Shivonne never let me live that one down. Sigh… with family like this… I was kitchen-shy for the longest time after that. Post 2001, I’d only venture into the kitchen to bake Betty Crocker cakes and the occasional pot of rice. Gradually I got braver and braver and eventually started baking from scratch. Now I can safely say that my cakes and cookies are world famous in my house. More than one person said so. OK. One. OK so it was just me. But work with me here! I even baked a chocolate cake for the fiancé once. After I handed over the cake, he leaned in close and whispered, “Sheryll, you DO know how to make dal, right?"

Hmph.

So as of today, I have exactly 5 weeks of Sampson-ite-ness left. It’s a really fascinating time. I never knew planning a wedding involved so much well, planning. It’s wild. It’s fun. It’s for an hour. I love it. It’s also a little scary. There are so many new roles to fill. I hope I do them justice. I hope I become more patient and understanding and mature. But most of all, I hope I learn how to make dal.

-

When the Moon Hits Your Eye like a Big Pizza Pie, That’s… Annoying

2010-03-23T17:21:00.002+05:30

I Keeep On Faallliinngg… Down.

There is something fundamentally wrong with me. This is my third fall in as many months. And my second down the stairs. This happens so often that I have decided that to go with the flow and embrace my inner hematoma. Henceforth, purple shall be my favorite color. I feel kinda cool too. The way I strut, (OK fine! Limp confidently?) you’d think I hurt myself doing something particularly dangerous - like bungee jumping, as opposed to tripping down step. (Yes. Step. Singular. Hey, it’s happened.)

So I watched this movie ages and ages ago called “Win a Date with Tad Hamilton”. (or something like that… it wasn’t very good.) In it, there was this one guy who secretly pined for the lead actress person. Of course, she has no clue (a real original, this movie). But how do we (read poor hapless audience) realize just how much he likes this girl? When he lists out the 6 different smiles she has. Yes. Six. (I imdb-ed) It was supposed to show how sweet, kind, and lovingful he is. Hmm… is it just me or does this seem a tad creepy and stalker-like to anyone else?

OK, so I’m not the biggest believer in the six smile situation. However, I will admit that in the past few months, I have become very closely acquainted with what I can only call “Sheryll’s Shuper Shy Schface” (See what I did there?? Clever alliteration, doncha think? No? Hmph.) I was hoping for “very cute”, but my family, as usual, thinks otherwise. In fact, I think the word “kushuttakurukan” has even been used a couple of times. For those who aren’t from Kerala, “kushuttakurukan” literally translates to “the fox that farted”. Say it with me, people – Hmph.

But why the Shuper Shy Schface, you ask? Well, come June this year, there will be a dramatic change in my living arrangements, immediate family members and my last name. *Draw conclusion here* It’s kinda totally exciting. Especially since I wasn’t even wearing lipstick the first time I met un-said person. In your face, Times of India Advice Column! Ha!

So it’s March. The month after February (Yes! Really!) And in honor of completely bypassing the month of love, I decided to tap into the mush monster within and base this month’s list on a few of my favorite things. Why be clichéd and get super lovey in Feb, when I can do that in March? (I am such a rebel, no?)

I love:

Baby hands. Coz they’re so cute and small and pudgy. (What? I’m a girl. Get over it.)
My baby sister, Shivonne. No. Wait. Actually anyone who can make grape Tang slushee and give me the larger share.
People who gesticulate wildly while on talking on the phone. Like it matters. Hee.
Buttons. Buttons are way cool.
Watching people at the airport/station. That thing that dude said in that movie about love and airports? It’s silly. It’s mushy. But hey, it’s true.
Open road, car with the tank full of petrol, and some really great music. Company optional.
Making tea. Coz it turns out that I’m not that bad!
People with a really good vocabulary. If they know when to use big words without being superfluous. (To my brother. Yes, yes. I know. Fail.)
Hemingway’s six word short story – “For sale: Baby shoes. Never used”. Breaks my heart every time. That’s some good writing right there.
My two nephews, Sheldon and Leo. You light up my life.

Driving Lessons

2010-01-27T13:35:00.003+05:30

I almost kinda hit a motorbike the other night. In my defense, it was dark and I’m a totally rubbish driver. Well that, and it was raining and my windshield wipers refused to cooperate. Oh water, you sly devil, you with your awesome refractive index and incredible surface tension. Hmph.

So September marked the third year of me getting my driving license and I thought I’d celebrate with another self-involved (and long overdue) blog post. (Well, I’M celebrating. City of Bangalore? Not so much.)

I learned to drive on a Maruti 800, an iconic Indian car by itself. (My driving instructor now has white hair. Hmm... A true mystery.) Then I graduated to the even more iconic Maruti Omni van. (Yes. A van. And white no less. I felt like a caterer.) And then, in January 2007, we got Speedy, my ’98 Mitsubishi Lancer. It came fully equipped with spoiler (?), air conditioner, and cassette player (cutting edge. I know.) My car, in which I’m not allowed to exceed 60 kilometers an hour (kilometers!), was nicknamed Speedy by my then 9 year old nephew. I don’t know if he was being ironic. Or maybe not. He was actually really keen on calling my baby a Chupacabra, the legendary Mexican legend. According to Wikipedia, that infallible source of infinite knowledge, a chupacabra is “a legendary cryptid rumored to inhabit parts of the Americas. The name ‘Chupacabra’ (‘chupar’ is Spanish for ‘to suck’ and ‘cabra’ translates to ‘goat’) comes from the animal's reported habit of attacking and drinking the blood of livestock, especially goats.” How cute.

Oh and did I mention that Speedy’s silver? Now I’ll be honest. There are many shades of automobile colors I absolutely adore. Black? Yes. Dark blue? Yes. Hunter green? Definitely. Maroon? Yeah baby. Baker’s chocolate? Ahem. *Cough cough* Totally. For my sisters, yes, yes, I know... Ateeu. For the others, don’t even bother. Inside joke people. But I digress. So there are tons of colors I like on cars, but silver? Silver is not one of them. See, in my head, I always thought that silver cars looked like giant thermometer farts. I was in denial for ages. Of course I love my car now with all its silvery glory, complete with accidentally on purpose racing stripes. OK fine. So it’s more “accidentally” than “on purpose”, but who’s checking? Just goes to show that if you’re a tree in Sheryll’s line of vision, you might want to get the hell outta there. Although, I must admit, I have improved considerably since that day in ’06 when I ran into the same auto-rickshaw thrice. In fact, my dad actually applauded the last time I parallel parked. Evidently, my parents don’t expect very much from me anymore.

But I learned a lot in these past three years on the road. Unfortunately, I can’t remember most of them. But here are some "driving lessons" that I do remember.

Driving barefoot is bad for your sole.
Music doesn’t necessarily make you a better driver, but it helps.
You CAN learn driving techniques from T.V. (I learned to parallel-park from Heroes. Don’t ask how.)
That retro eye-hand dance-like move is only cool if you’re John Travolta in Pulp Fiction. And even then, it’s pretty lame.
The hand wave dance thing is not cool ever.
Adding “Freestyle” to the end of a poorly constructed sentence does not make it a rap song.
To err may be human, but to obstruct traffic for no reason is bovine.
A weird noise emanating from your engine is a sign that you should take your car to a mechanic. Not to turn up the volume.
Traffic signals are not suggestions.
Cup holders are for holding cups. Not for holding sandwiches, or donuts, or cell phones.

P.S. Thousand apologies to all my fans (all two of you!) for being so erm… remiss in the whole blogging bit. The past few months have been a time of… let’s see… tremendous upheavals of the emotional kind. 100% pleasant though, I can assure you. All I can say is that I’m glad that my initials will not be P.M.S. for much longer.

Bob

2009-11-24T18:18:00.003+05:30

BFF: Ask Sheryll, she’s really good with relationship advice.
Bob: Yeah, Things are so much clearer when you’re looking at things from the outside in.

Meet Bob.

Bob is an evil alien who took up residence in my voice box and is the reason for everything that’s wrong with the world. Well, mine at least. He’s like Superman only instead of being really buff and an all-round swell guy, Bob is invisible and strikes whenever there’s a lull in conversation. If there are awkward moments to be had, never fear, Bob’s here.

Here are some of Bob’s best in no particular order of preference.

1. So what are your feelings on vegetables?
Well, we were at the dinner table. And the guest (yes, the guest) was really quiet.

2. Work’s great coz I don’t have much.
Lie. Truth - Work’s great and I do have much. My boss reads this. Ahem.

3. I’m not laughing with you, I’m laughing at you.
I was.

4. Is he the guy who wrote seven habits of highly effective people?
Point 14. Enough said.

5. Even though it’s our car, it’s beautiful, no mama?
Hey, I was 8, ok?

6. No, YOU’RE tired.
It was in response to a guy who said I looked tired. I suppose he meant that in a good way. I didn’t say it out loud though. He was a big guy.

7. That’s the saddest thing I've ever heard
This was in response to my gym instructor’s incredible words of wisdom - Life is constant struggle. I had to do 10 extra push ups for that. Luckily I broke my foot and never went back to that gym again.

8. My name is Sheryll Sampson and I was told that they’d give me cake.
This was at a wedding. I was one of the M.C.s and we were told that we had to introduce ourselves like 5 seconds before we went on stage. Thankfully, some people laughed. OK, fine. Two. Thanks Mommy. Thanks Shiv.

9. Respected Princess, teachers, and my dear friends.
Opening line of my first assembly speech. My principal was really nice to me after that though. I wonder why.

10. Can I touch your face?
Yes, really. It was to an acquaintance. In my defense, she had skin that looked like she lit a lamp under it. Sniff, it was beautiful.

-

Girl Gone Mild

2009-10-29T13:51:00.004+05:30

This is not how I thought I’d spend my 20s.

I always thought that once I turn 21, I’d spend my Saturday nights channeling Lindsay Lohan and make monumental mistakes that I’ll regret for the rest of my life. Instead I’m at home trying to decide what I should bake for the church’s upcoming charity food sale. (For those who care, I’m leaning towards my usual marble cake but this time, I’m making them cupcakes. I know. I’m dangerous. Hmph.) It’s not like I’m in heavy pursuit of intelligent or scholarly activities either, the most spirited discussion I’ve had in the past month was with my mother… over whether or not I have dimples.

So I found this old photo album the other day. I also found out that beauty-wise, I peaked at 14. It’s been downhill since then. I still wonder though. When did I go from Ooh La La to Oompa Loompa? Was it when I chopped off all my hair and took to wearing bandanas every time I went outside? Or was it when I stopped shopping and started wearing my dad’s shirts instead? Either way, my mid to late teens was one long spiraling descent into bad fashion choices and even worse hair. 16 year old Sheryll would’ve been Tim Gunn’s Sistine Chapel. My poor mom. She really tried to instill good fashion sense into us. She always dressed us up real cute when we were younger. (Although the jury is still out over the brown corduroy overalls and blue sweater combo I wore as a three year old.)

Yet, even through that cloud of bad denim that hovered over my teenage years, I had a vision. I honestly believed that my life would change once I turned 21. I was positively biblical about it. I figured that when I was a child, I thought as a child (and dressed as Rosie O’Donnell), but once I’d become an adult, I’d put away childish things and I’d become beautiful, I’d become smolderingly hot, I’d become Jessica Rabbit – with hair and clothes that defied the very laws of gravity.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

Today all that’s changed is that I have longer hair and wear clothes actually designed for women. It’s not ideal but at least no one calls me ‘Sir’ anymore. And I don’t get hit on by lonely Arab women. I get the stink-eye instead which in girlworld is definitely a marked improvement.

I think one of the most difficult things we have to face as we get older, is the fact that most of the time, ‘who we want to be’ and ‘who we really are’ are usually two very different people. While some are inherently wild and crazy, perhaps some of us are just born to be mild. I’m a little older now and a little wiser too. I realize now that I have a bigger chance of ending up looking more like Roseanne Barr than Jessica Rabbit. That I’m a little more country than rock ‘n’ roll. Maybe this too, is one of my phases. Maybe it’s not. I hope I get used to it anyways. I hope I eventually learn to embrace this new me. But most of all, I hope Steppenwolf makes a song about me. Sing it with me now - Booooooooorn to be Miiiiilld.

Peeves. Pet Peeves

2009-09-29T17:34:00.007+05:30

In case you’re wondering, yes, I are grumpy. Therefore I present to you:

Sheryll’s Mammoth(-ish) List of Pet Peeves/Hates

1. Automatic taps. For they do not obey me.

2. People who insist on pronouncing it 'arse' and correct me when I don't.

3. The word ‘economics’. Is it eh-co-NOH-mics or e-COH-no-mics or what?

4. People who say that love is blind. It’s not. If it were, gyms would go out of business.

5. Bathrooms with the door open.

6. Blond highlights on dark Indian chicks.

7. Guys who color their hair.

8. Fake accents.

9. People who move their hands too much. It’s so distracting. Although I’ll admit it. I do it too. Waddaya know? I’m my own pet peeve.

10. Auto drivers who try to race you.

11. Rainy days. Nothing good comes from rainy days except like, plants and trees and stuff.

12. People with 24/7 perfectly styled hair. It’s wrong and unnatural.

13. People who use big pretentious words like ‘juxtaposition’ or ‘plethora’. Who speaks like that anyways?

14. My insane pathetic need to make people think I’m smart. That juxtaposed (Heh heh) with my less than stellar memory for names, well… it sucks. Take the other day for instance. My boss and I were talking about management books, both network-wise and otherwise.
My Boss: So Walter Goralski’s written some really good books on management.
Me: You mean the guy who wrote ‘7 Habits for Highly Effective People’?
My Boss: (pause) No. I mean Walter from Documentation.
Fail.

15. People who fix their hair while looking at their reflection IN MY GLASSES. I want to take them outside and slap the road with their face.

16. When my jokes die.
All the conference rooms in my office are named after movies. The company’s spread over two buildings. So last Friday, my colleague and I were supposed to go to the other building for a meeting. It was in this conference room called Braveheart (I kid you not). We faithfully made our way there only to find out that they changed the venue to Finding Nemo (Still not kidding). In a strange twist of irony, no one knew when Finding Nemo was. The receptionists on the 3rd floor told us to go to the 4th floor. The folks on the 4th floor told us that it was in the 5th floor. The folks on the 5th floor told us to go to the 2nd floor. There is no 2nd floor. It’s occupied by another company. We finally found the conference room on the 1st floor only to be told that the venue was changed again. This time to a training room… which turned out to be right next to Braveheart (They may take our sanity, but they will never take OUR FREEDOM!!!). These two conference rooms literally shared a wall. Anyways, rants aside, we ended up arriving 20 minutes late.
Enter Sheryll and colleague (Big hug Preets!)
Me: Sorry we’re late. We couldn’t find Nemo.
Everyone else - *silence*

I hate everybody.

There's a Hole in My Bucket List, Dear Eliza, Dear Eliza.

2009-08-26T16:32:00.002+05:30

I did not watch the Bucket List. So, in honor of that, I present to you-

“Sheryll’s Funky List of Things She Wants to Do/Learn… Eventually”

1. Learn to cook regular food… after all, man does not live on cookies alone.

2. Figure out how to wear a dupatta. My dupatta and I are like Oscar Wilde and the wallpaper in the room he died in– One of us has to go.

3. Learn all that I can about cars so that I’ll never get ripped off by another mechanic again! Right now, all I know is that the left wheel’s connected to the tail bone, and the battery’s connected to the femur. Wait. No. Huh?

4. Learn to play the guitar. Who knows? I might become the next Steve Vai, or the next Sid Vicious, or… Nancy.

5. Learn basic DIY skills and be able to fix things around the house… just to be able to say ‘Can I fix it? Yes I can!!’ (Bob the builder’s my hero.)

6. Learn to be competitive about things that matter, like my career and volleyball, instead of at things like charades and impromptu ‘walk-races’ with unsuspecting strangers.

7. Learn to not get monster annoyed when people call me ‘that girl’.

8. Learn to ride a bike. How awesomely bad-ass would I be then??

9. Learn to ride a bicycle. Yes. Yes. I am ashamed. But I was afraid of bicycles as a child. My brother tried to run me over with my tricycle when I was 4. I was so traumatized. OK, so it was just my toe. I’m sensitive ok? I’m a delicate lady and if you don’t agree with me, I’ll beat you to death with my pretty pink parasol.

10. Learn to walk like a girl. I’ve been told that I walk like a man. And not a very attractive one at that. Hmph. With family like this, who needs therapy? *slowly raises hand*

In other news, my darlingest baby sister, Shivonne, turned 21 this month. Ah Shivy, my voice of sartorial reason, I’d be running off to work in my jammies if it weren’t for you. At the risk of sounding totally Juno, you’re the cheese to my macaroni, the mavvadikaya to my pappu-korra (Hey, we’re Telugu. Get over it.) You’ve always been there for me even though I constantly embarrass you with my super-cool car dance moves. And after all this time, there’s only one question I want to ask you – What IS that strange ticking noise?

Memory Glands

2009-06-30T13:37:00.003+05:30

I found my 10 year old slam book last night. In my defense, slambooks in Bangalore ’99 was like ‘ohmigod so totally the bomb and stuff’. Actually, no. Back then, I was your average religious yet free-spirited 12-year old – which meant that I loved sparkly lip gloss, Wrestle Mania, and Jesus. Hmmm… no wonder boys didn’t ask me out a lot. They didn’t know if I was going to perform the Inverted Indian Deathlock on them, or quote scripture.

That slambook reminded me of how things change. I discovered that way back in ’99, most of my now super-cool and devastatingly trendy friends absolutely adored Britney Spears. AND Celine Dion. I still think that they’re super cool and devastatingly trendy. But that’s probably because I’m fundamentally and tragically unhip. I too, am guilty of a Miss Spears fixation. I even watched Crossroads. Twice! (What can I say? I have a thing for punishment. Audio-visual style.)

That slambook also reminded me of how some things never do change. Like my horrific drawing skills. My version of the iconic Kuwait Towers looks like a ballpoint pen. My coloring skills were so outré, it looked like the leprechaun from Lucky Charms threw up a rainbow on the page.

That slambook got me all nostalgic for the time when my friends and I would fight over who gets to be Scary Spice. (I was always Ginger because I was not scary or sporty or posh or baby-like.) It reminded me of the time when we’d nickname ourselves after nail polish shades (Mystic Mahogany. Oh, how wrong you sound now.) I remember the time when we’d spend 45 minutes after every Friday Vesper service trying to color-coordinate our outfits for Sabbath the next day. Ah, the five of us. We were a force to be reckoned with. Force of Nature that is. (It’s an inside joke. Don’t pretend understanding.)

That slambook also got me thinking. About how we can never completely ‘know’ who we are. Not when we change so dramatically every five to ten years. Perhaps the best that we can aim for is to understand the phases we go through and still like ourselves… somewhat at least.

P.S. Funniest Thing I’ve Heard on T.V. in a Long Time:

Where – The Tonight Show with Conan O’Brian
When – A while ago.
What – “In the year 3000, babies will listen to dance music when Lady Gaga joins forces with the Goo Goo Dolls to form the super-group – Gaga Goo Goo”

Fell off the couch laughing? Check.
Milk through nose? Check.
Bu-bu-but… I wasn’t drinking any milk. Doom doom dooooooom.

-

If You're a Diva and You Know It, Clap Your Hands!

2009-06-25T09:45:00.009+05:30

I’m not clapping.

I’m not a diva. Well, at least Facebook tells me I’m not. According to the Almighty FB, I’m not the beautiful Satine from Moulin Rouge. I’m not even Eliza Doolittle. Instead, it turns out that I am Mary “Spoonful of Sugar” Poppins. Great. Brilliant. I’m diva-stated. (Hyuk Hyuk)

Friends, Romans, countrymen, let me tell you one of life’s biggest truths- There’s nothing like a birthday to put you in one heck of a heavy duty philosophical blue funk. I turned 23 last Thursday and for the past whole week, I’ve obsessing over how little I’ve actually accomplished so far in my life. See, while the other 23-year olds are out changing the world one reality show at a time, the biggest challenge of my day is trying to figure out where Katy Perry fits on my Annoyometer. (Which, by the way, ranges from Level 1 - Slurred Vocals of Amy Winehouse i.e. surprisingly not, to Level 3 billion and 4 - Enrique’s sing/crying i.e. capable of inducing Chucky-like homicidal tendencies.) As of this very moment, she’s firmly entrenched in Level 4509 – Ross and Rachel’s story i.e. annoying… if I actually gave a crap.

Actually, truth be told, this past year hasn’t been completely uneventful. I discovered my inner prude this year. Now I can combat every one of my random friend’s “I got so wasted last night” story with an “Then I baked 5 dozen cookies and wrapped them in plastic wrap and apple green ribbons. It was just soo darling!” story. Great. I’m growing up to be Martha Stewart. Only less talented and/or street cred. Huh.

This year I also learned that while I do like to name drop jazz artists and listen to bands like The Beatles and Oasis on Imeem, it’s songs like Usher’s ‘Yeah!’ that make me want to shake my groove thang. (Did you wince at that 'groove thang' bit too? Groove thang, my foot - which, according to the Urban Dictionary, is not necessarily the same thing.)

You know how sometimes that pool of immobility (immobile-ness?) that your life languishes in becomes so overwhelming that you think that you’re either going to explode or implode with all the stationary-ness?

No? OK, guess it’s just me then.

Either way you know what happens then? When it gets to be more than you think you can bear? You'd think that suddenly outta nowhere something spectacular might happen, right? Some sort of epiphany at least, right?? Wrong. Nothing happens. Nothing is going to happen. Nothing is ever going to happen. Not unless we get up and do something about it. (I figure that if I say it enough, I might actually get up too.) But I have this hope. Yeah, yeah, the kind that burns within my heart. A hope that perhaps this year will be different. That this year I’ll finally find what I’m looking for. My erm... raison d'être I think it’s called. Truth is, I’d even settle for just finding out WHAT it is in the first place.

For those who HAVE found it, have you hugged your raison today?

P.S. A few people have asked me if all the events in my last post are true. OK fine. ONE person asked me that. But just to clear things up, yes, everything I mentioned in the last post is true. Down to the last, excruciatingly embarrassing detail. Well, except for the fact that I'm not delusional-ly optimistic. I'm not really a glass half full kinda person. Or a glass half empty one either actually. I'm more of a 'Drink up or Shut up' kinda person. So there.

I Like to Sing-a, About the Moon-a and the June-a and the Spring-a, I Like to Sing-a!

2009-06-03T12:08:00.008+05:30

When I grow up, while I DO want to be famous, want to be a star, yada, yada, yada, there are some things I just cannot do.

Things I cannot be when I grow up
1. Rock goddess
2. Folk singer
3. Cast member of Cats
4. Maria von Trapp
5. A waitress

Here’s why.

Imagine a CSI meets L.A. Law inspired opening scene. (Tan TAN!)

Date: 31st May, 2009
Time: 6 P.M. (or it’s thereabouts)
Place: Sunshine Orphanage, Bangalore
Victims: Sheryll’s ego and everyone’s ear drums

But, How?

The Adventist Youth dept put up a program at Sunshine orphanage that fateful Saturday evening, and one of the scheduled ‘events’ was that we had to teach the kids a song. Well, Shivonne had to anyways. She couldn’t make it so I bravely stepped forward. I mean, how bad could it be, right?

Wrong.

It was bad. Really bad. So bad that one uncle later told me that he had never heard ONE song sung in so many different pitches. In his vote of thanks, the church pastor thanked me for the lovely songs I taught them. SongS?? It was ONE song! Guess not everyone understands the musical stylings of Sheryll ‘Norah Jones’ Sampson.

So there I was, singing ‘I love the mountains, I love the rolling hills, I love the… Baaaaah’

What the? A sheep? In the middle of campus?? How? When? Why??? And in all confusion, I blurted out (and loud) the first thing that came to my mind.

'It wasn’t me.'

Gah!

Turns out that one of the AY leaders was testing out the animal noises he’d downloaded for a Noah’s Ark skit which we were going to perform after my song.

But seriously Bean, sheep? What next? Elephant noises?

Yes. Yes indeed. I bravely smiled, joked with the audience, and continued singing ‘I love the mountains, I love the rolling hills, I love the… pppppppppphhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwww...’

This is getting old.

Thanks to my awesome powers of delusional optimism (aka glass half full… with nectar of the gods… and magically slimming Lindt chocolate-itis), I see at least two upsides to this sad and sordid story.
1. I’ve got new material for Chapter 4 of my autobiography – ‘How I Became the Crazy Cat Lady’ (working title. Also called ‘How to Die Alone’)
2. I was so bad that the kids forgot that I was supposed to teach them a song and thought I was part of the regular entertainment. It’s like George Burns once said “If I get big laughs, I'm a comedian. If I get little laughs, I'm a humorist. If I get no laughs, I'm a singer.”
I got big laughs, people (person?), BIG laughs. Conan O’Brian better watch his back or the dude’s job is so Bangalored, baby!

Huh.

And why not a waitress you ask? Coz I’m so heavy duty clumsy I make my momma cry, that’s why.

Sing it with me, people! Boom-di-ala, Boom-di-ala, Boom-di-ala, Boom-di-ala...

My Name is Wha?

2009-05-28T15:02:00.004+05:30

I was this close to being named Maradona. After the Argentinean football legend. See, while I was still erm… in utero, everyone thought I was going to be a boy. And of all names in the world, my mom came up with Shawn (Sean?) Maradona. Well, if it makes things any clearer, yes, I was born in June 1986 and yes, my mother IS a Malayali Christian.

I believe that Sheryll Marion is definitely a marked improvement over Shawn Maradona. I like my name. I think it’s purty. However, I do know several people who would disagree. I also know several people who cannot pronounce or spell my name correctly. I’ve been called everything from Shreyal to Sherly to Simpson (it’s Sampson) to wait for it… Poison! That last one was what my Electronics Circuits Professor used to call me in college. Well… at least I think it was poison. It kinda also sounded like moison. Apparently getting your PHD means that while you do learn to write, you also forget how to read.

So it’s been a month since they changed my name on the office nameplate to a Poornima Goswami. At first I totally freaked. I mean what if this is the company’s passive aggressive way of saying 'Ciao'? Who's going to support my snacking addiction now?? Anyways, after ten very hyper-dramatic minutes, I found out that I wasn’t going anywhere. Phew! (Cue Sally Field’s ‘You like me! You really like me!’ speech.) Either way, it’s been a month and my name (according to my cabin door, at least) is still Poornima. On the plus side, I am growing accustomed to this particular name. Mainly because all the Poornimas I know are confident, smart, and tall, which aren’t lousy qualities to have. And the Goswami bit does make me feel just a little closer to my own latent Bengali roots (my mom’s dad was a Mukherjee). It got me thinking. What if my name was Poornima Goswami? Would I be an entirely different person? What if my name was, I don’t know, Matilda? Would I still be lousy at sports and therefore super competitive at Charades? What IS in a name anyways? Sure, Shakespeare was all ‘a rose by another name would still smell as sweet’. But what if it were named ALottaStinkyPoo? Would it still be considered the flower of ‘romance’? After all, nothing kills romance like a lotta stinky poo.

I read somewhere that in some cultures, people wait three or four years before naming their child. Apparently since a name is the ultimate expression of self, it’s prudent to wait till your kid’s personality actually ‘surfaces’ before you ‘label’ it with a well, a name. I guess those folks are just really paranoid about mistaking their Zac Efrons for Elmer Fudds. We can’t have that now, can we? It makes sense to me though. Like most Indian kids born between 1970 to 1990, I have two names – my ‘real’ name and my pet name. When I was younger, I used to think that I really was two different people. Sheryll was the calm(-er), mature(-er), and more hardworking one, while Chinky (Chinka, Chinkla, and other derivatives) was the nutty, noisy brat. Of course once I grew up, I put away all childish things (such as schizophrenia), and so Sheryll and Chinky became one massive nutty, noisy, guffawing entity.

I’m still not entirely sure what my man Shakespeare meant about names, but either way, I’ll think twice before I order a bouquet of ALottaStinkyPoo and baby’s breath.

Life, Love, and a Kettle of Fish

2009-05-07T09:34:00.009+05:30

You know that ‘times are a-changing’ when instead of forcing you to read articles about higher education, your loved ones start handing you pamphlets on ‘How to get your Dream Guy’. Articles filled with golden nuggets of wisdom on attaining instant couple-y bliss.

Sample Nugget 1: Speak softly and always carry an attractive shade of lipstick. (Because you know, when it comes to finding your soul mate, nothing works better than Maybelline Moisture Whip in Wine Divine. Huh.)

Sample Nugget 2. Do not be a Know-It-All. Sure we’re annoying people, but if some random dude comes up to me and starts talking about Jane Austen, that firebrand Mexican author who wrote that great book ‘The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy’, I just might go all Nacho Libre on someone.

2009 has been the year of the wedding. About 5 of my friends got hitched this year and it’s only May. Being ‘next in line’ (*rolls eyes*) at the ‘ripe old age of almost 23’, I get asked the Question. A lot. The ‘So when’s YOUR turn?’ question. If I got a Kit Kat for every time I’ve been asked this asinine question, I’d be pretty well, rubenesque. Which I am. *Draw conclusion here*

But even though my life is a blooming Wet Wet Wet song (Because Love. It’s all around.), it took a silly forward to get me thinking about life, love, and a kettle of fish.

It went something like this –

‘He climbed the tallest mountain, swam the deepest ocean, and walked across the hottest desert for her.
She left him because he was never home.’

Silly though it may be, it really got me thinking. What IS this love we keep harping on about? Why this, quite frankly, sadomasochistic need to ‘cross a blazing hot desert’ to prove your ‘undying’, intense affection? What’s the point?

So one of the many things I’ve learned about myself is that I’m not essentially an overly romantic person. OK, so I DO buy into the whole Mr. /Ms Right concept. But I’m also aware that Right does not necessarily equal Perfect. OK sure, I love listening to how couples met and fell in love, but I also know that it need not happen to everyone. Sure, I believe in monogamy but – no wait, there are no buts for this one. I just do. End of story. The thing is I just don’t get the whole flowers and V-day candle-lit meals thing, I mean sure, it’s fun and all, but I really don’t see the point if you’re going to spend the rest of the year in an ungrateful, unequal, unpleasant relationship where one person does all the giving and the other, all the taking. Call me crazy, but while I WOULD like to be swept off my feet (Ha! Fat chance. Literally.), I’d like it even more if, once in a while, the floor got swept too. Of course, I don’t expect servitude (Although that would be kinda fun. Hail Queen Sheryll! Giggle.), but an occasional helping hand would be well, helpful. (Consider this last paragraph as a long winded explanation to why my answer to the ‘turn’ question is ‘Not any time soon’.)

But then again, contradictory as this may sound, like every other girl, I too look forward to one day hearing those three wonderful, magical words –
‘I have chocolate’.

-
Shout out to Princely! Coz I can. ;)

Twenty-Three

2009-04-09T11:18:00.013+05:30

The countdown has begun.

I’m gonna be 23 years old in 2 months and 9 days. (Not that I’m counting, of course.) For those who care, 18th June Baby! For those who don’t, you’re dead to me. In ‘honor’ of my oh-so-estimable 22 years, I present to you –

23 Things I Learned In Life

1. When a guy says he likes you, ‘why?’ is not the appropriate sophisticated response. [still learning]
2. That one-year old murukku that you found in a rusty old tin while moving house? It will not taste good. [Age 16. So it took me a while. Bite me.]
3. Always keep spare shoes in the car. Especially if you plan to wear pointy high-heeled black boots. [Age 22]
4. Giant t-shirts and collared shirts are not feminine. [Age 18]
5. Don’t wear socks for at least an hour after you paint your toenails [Age 13]
6. It takes at least 4 pins to be comfortable in a sari. [Age 15]
7. Never sleep with your hair wet. You’ll have bad hair for a year. [Age 16]
8. Making funny faces at the camera is an awesome way to camouflage your un-photogenic-ness. [Age 11?]
9. Veggies are friends not foes. Well… unless they’re French Peas. (See http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_VeggieTales_characters#The_French_Peas) [Age 23. Hmph!]
10. Movies based on books are almost NEVER as good as the books.
[Age 11. Movie–Ivanhoe]
11. Not everyone you meet likes you. Bummer. [All through college]
12. Teletubbies are creepy. [Age 14]
13. Brand new ballet shoes hurt like hell. But wear them a couple of times and they become the comfiest shoes ever. [Age 21]
14. Sneakers are always comfy. [Age 2]
15. The world doesn’t owe you any favors. Complaining about how the world is unfair is not going to help anyone. [Still learning]
16. Power is fun. Sure it corrupts but it's still fun. [Age 17]
17. Questions like ‘What are your feelings on vegetables?’ are not good ice breakers. [Age 19]
18. Just because someone calls themselves your friend, does not mean that they are. [Age 20]
19. PMS is the world’s best excuse for anything. [Age 15]
20. Tom and Jerry cartoons rule. [Age 3]
21. When something bothers you, find a way to fix it. If there is no possible way to fix it, deal with it. Whining is never helpful. [Still learning]
22. Developing a thick skin is vital if you drive in Bangalore. Because you will get yelled at, cursed, and THOOO-ified on. Especially if you drive like I do. [Age 20]
23. It’s dark and scary at 5:30 in the morning. Which is why I never wake up before 7. [Age 12]

Ex-Large

2009-03-18T10:38:00.006+05:30

It seems that I DO have a super-power.

Turns out that yes, I am super-girl and my super-power is that I can wheeze at will. SuperGirl! Fighting the forces of evil… and for her breath since 1986. Yay me. Applications for seedy sidekicks are now available. The line forms to my left. No pushing.

But really, I can. This one time, I was watching America's Sweethearts and there's this one scene where John Cusack runs up this pretty steep-ish hill-like thingie, and he was NOT at all winded by all that activity. I was so surprised and awed, that in the ultimate psychosomatic turn of events, I got out of breath instead. (I only just realized that they could have been two separate scenes filmed at two completely different times. Hmph.) Or more recently, I was talking to boss the other day, while climbing up a very short flight of stairs, and suddenly I thought ,"Wait. Some people would get tired walking up these steps, right?"... and consequently lost my breath. Huh.

Fitness has always been a sore point with me. Really. I even injured my humerus. It's not funny. I've tried just about every possible method short of surgery to help me lose weight. (For those of you I haven't met, or those I HAVE met but are living under a certain rock, I must admit, I am a tad erm…'rubenesque'.) I've tried everything from the no-carb diet to the no-dinner diet, from swimming to jive lessons (For those who care, two left feet baby!) One time, I even considered eating all my food with chopsticks! Yup, when it comes to weight loss schemes, I've been there, done that... for a couple of days at least. The Lord may giveth, but sometimes the 'taketh away' bit ain't half bad either.

So I'm starting a new fitness thingamajig tomorrow. Hopefully, I'll actually stick with it... for more than 3 days this time. But I shall persevere! I shall overcome! Like that charismatic, young leader often says, 'Yes, we can!' Obama says it too. I wonder if Bob the builder was his campaign speech writer. Or maybe, they're both the same person! Think about it, we've never seen them both together at the same time, have we? Cue Twilight Zone theme music and Voice-over: Picture this, if you will....
Doom doom doooom.

My Random Randomness

2009-02-27T12:47:00.004+05:30

I have a sports related injury. Playing Foozball. I just bruised my thumb but I feel very cool because this is my first ever sports related injury. No wait… Second. The first was when I broke my ankle playing basketball. Shivonne pushed me against the wall and I ahem ‘fell on my ankle’. We’re vicious when we play sports, which is why we don’t play. Well, that and because we tank at sports.

So Feb was not a good month for me, creatively at least. I wrote two of the worst poems ever written. Ever. Britney Spears ain’t got nothing on me.

I was tagged on Facebook (I like it coz it’s pretty. Don’t judge me! I’m shallow. Get over yourself already!) Yes, the tagging. So the point is that you have to write 25 absolutely random things about yourself. And send it to whomever. And the madness continues. It’s fun. And because my creativity is on a very long, unscheduled vacation, this is what I’m gonna write about.

So my dear readers, consider yourself tagged.

Facebook buddies! Fear not! This list is not the same as the list on Facebook. Well… not COMPLETELY. For one thing, I’m only writing 20. And some are totally new, because:

1. Yes, I am that self-absorbed.

So here’s my 20 randoms. Drum roll please.

1. I don’t know what kinda music I like. One day it’s jazz and the next day I’m drooling over Jimi Hendrix. All I know is that I hate polka.
2. I trip all over the place even when I’m barefoot. Actually, especially when I’m barefoot.
3. I have two signatures. One for bank stuff and one for when I become famous. They’re both hideous.
4. I write lists for everything. My excitement over anything is directly proportional to the number of lists I make for that ‘event’.
5. I have started going to the baby Sabbath school because – a. The kids are freakishly adorable. b. The Sabbath school teacher gives us treats. Woohoo!
6. I get very annoyed by T.V. shows like Family Guy and The Nanny. But I watch them anyway.
7. I wanna be a rockstar. My stage fright and the fact that I can’t play a single instrument are just minor trivialities.
8. I have two settings. Lazy and not. ‘Not’ is when I’m nice to people.
9. I want to throw Mika, Enrique Iglesias, James Blunt, and the Scissor Sisters into a bottomless, sound-proof pit.
10. My sisters are the most important people in my life.
11. I had a phase where I’d only wear men’s shirts, jeans and bandanas. I call it my Rosie O’Donnell years.
12. I don’t like wearing baseball caps because it makes me look like Wayne from Wayne’s world. No, I am not worthy.
13. When I was 5, Shivonne gave me a sandwich filled with actual sand. It turned me off bread and jam for years.
14. I hate Scooby Doo. I hate Scrappy Doo even more. I love the Powerpuff girls. Go figure.
15. I never judge a book by its cover. Just by its opening line.
16. I can never remember if I liked a particular song or not. So I ask Shivonne.
17. I think that bookstores are the most magical places on earth.
18. I love camping. In the living room. With tents made out of bed-linen.
19. I get annoyed really easy. But I rarely actually lose my temper.
20. I’m petrified of any kind of worm. So much that I’ve stopped watching Animal Planet.

Tada! Now you’re it. Happy 20/25 random-ing y’all!

The New Year - Tis The Season To Speak Falsely, Falalalalalalalala

2009-01-09T16:17:00.013+05:30

31st Dec, 2008

Sheryll’s New Year Resolutions
1. Start going to the gym
2. Cut down on sugar.
3. Plan for future.
4. Write more
5. Minimize food spillage
6. Believe in the wonderful things that life has to offer. Life is good. Everything’s going to be great.

9th January, 2009

Life’s bitch and then you die.
Well, so much for Resolution #6. Let’s see how I fared with the others, shall we?

1.Start going to the gym
I went, I saw, I left. The End.

2.Cut down on sugar
This one actually worked out for a few days. And then my colleague comes back from vacation and brings with her this insane Telugu sweet thing called Pootharekulu. No I don’t know what that means. What I DO know is that it’s starch and sugar. Literally. Dried sheets of kanji-like thingums filled with a mixture of powdered sugar and a liquid-y thing I suspect is ghee. It’s so insanely sweet, Willy Wonka would think it’s a bit much. It’s disgusting and I love it. Maybe it’s brings back memories of my childhood (Stealing munchies from the neighbors upstairs. What can I say? I started young), or maybe I just have a death wish. Either way, I fell off the wagon. All the bouncing and ‘amItalkingtoofast?AmI?AmI?’ that happened afterwards was just the sugar talking. I swear.

3.Plan for the future.
Oh I have this one down. First I gotta go to the pet store and buy a dozen cats which I will name Jefferson, Mr. Tibbles, and so on. Then off to Commercial Street and buy me some kitty cat motif dishes and about three thousand lace doilies. Give it a few years and my future as crazy cat lady is set.

4. Write more.

An Ode to Porridge

Porridge, you taste like milk and grit,
Fueling my flair for the dramatic.
Why Goldilocks broke into a house for it,
Seems to be a bit masochistic.

What? No?? Really? OK.
Hmph.

5. Minimize food spillage
‘She failed miserably’, said the mountain of rice dropped unceremoniously on the kitchen counter.

Sigh.
On the plus side, Christmas ’08 was wonderful. It’s been 8 years since we last celebrated it as a family, so this time we really went all out. The tree! The decorations! The food! The gifts! And of course, the inevitable drama over scented body lotion (You know who you are!! Stealer of gift meant for Sheryll!). Where was I? Oh yes, Christmas parties with silly games like hip charades (You try spelling out ‘sweet’ with your hips), french charades and ‘meow’. Actually, I was introduced to meow a year ago and I’m still reeling under its mushroom cloud-like aftermath.
Most thrillingly, we won the coveted ‘Best AY team’ prize. To all those who helped –THANKS!! Big shout-out to Willie, Rohit P. and my baby sister Shivonne (OK! So she’s 20. Sue me.)

Happy New Year y’all. And may the force be with you.

Queen, Drama

2008-12-17T16:03:00.008+05:30

Life’s all about control and I’ve got very little of it. I cry easily, and laugh just as quick. I lose my temper in ahem… the twinkling of an eye, and more often than not, I'll have a snappy response to just about anything you have to say. You could say I’m fiery, but I’m not really all that hot.

I have an evil alien living in my larynx. I call it Bob. It likes to rear its ugly head during intense and stressful moments in my life. Like job interviews. Especially job interviews. I remember this one time, when I was in my third year of college; I had this interview with this one company. The HR person asked me what I would do to improve the human brain. My oh-so-smart answer was *Drum rolls* - A lobotomy.

I blame Bob.

But think about it. Sometimes a lobotomy would be good. Not the scary, creepy ones they force on unsuspecting people in Sidney Sheldon books and old Hollywood movies from the 60’s of course. But what if we could magically eliminate all negative thought? (Ok... MOST. We don’t want turn into Stepford wives.) I can’t help but wonder how far we can go once we let go of all the fears, doubts and insecurities that we KNOW are holding us back. It’s easier said than done obviously, just like all the other things we should be doing.

I got baptized two weeks ago, which to an Adventist is a pretty big deal. And I, in true drama queen/worrywart fashion, spent the week before that living in total terror. I was petrified about, of all things, the pastor losing his grip and dropping me into the water (as opposed to well… not). After all, there’s only so much a man can take, right? Well he didn’t drop me. Woohoo. Wait, actually, I did fall… but that was much, much later and thankfully, it was OUT of the baptismal tank. It was still in front of a pretty sizable crowd though.

Oh well. You win some, you lose some.

When Hips Do Lie

2008-11-14T10:39:00.001+05:30

The family has served me with one of them cease-and-desist thingums. It’s from my secret stash of potato chips. Now I have a restraining order against my crunchy-munchies. As queen of the snackers, I can only cry, ‘TREASON!!’

Whatever.

My mom has a very scientific approach to dieting. She says, ‘Eat whatever you want. Just eat half the quantity. See? Basic Math.” So let’s see. Half the quantity would mean that I’m twice as hungry and therefore TWICE as cranky. Now that’s some freaky-deeky math you do NOT want to get involved with.

So my fitness regime is gonna start like all the others – carefully choreographed to ‘Eye of the Tiger’. I expect to see drastic results in about 20 to 40 frames. What?? You mean life’s NOT like in the movies??

No shit.

The Good, The Bad, The Blah.

2008-10-14T08:49:00.005+05:30

So yesterday, my dad threw an orange at me. In a totally playful, sporty, non-child abuse kinda way. Unfortunately, I 'flinched' instead of 'caught'. I've never seen my dad look so disappointed in me ever.
Disappointing mumsy and pops? Not my favorite thing. However there are things I do like. So I present to you,
'Sheryll's Sporadically Announced List of Thingums in No Particular Order of Preference'

The Good - Things I do like:

*Strawberry and Cream Alphenlibe lollipops.
You don't have to spell it right to enjoy it.

*People-watching
Not judge. Watch. OK.. sometimes judge.. but mostly watch. OK FINE! Always judge. Happy now?

*The smell of new Bata chappals.
I once bought a pair... not to wear. Just coz they smelled nice. True story.

*Watching small children crying on their way to the school bus in the morning.
HA ha. I like to point and laugh. Poor kiddos. What a life! Waking up at 6 in the morning to catch a bus to go to a place that demands so much dedication and effort. (The fact that I noticed all this from my cab that picks me up at 7:30 every morning to take me to work, only just occurred to me. Thanks a lot.)

*The feel of crisp, clean bedsheets.
Mmmm. Ain't nothing better than that.

*Curling up with a really good book.
Rainy day, comfy chair/bed, hot hot Kapi, and of course, the all-important awesome book. Nice. Haven't come across enough of those tho.. (the awesome books I mean) Recommendations would be welcome.

*Shoes.
Sheryll like pretty shoes. One day the shoe-makers of the world will realise that not every one has size 3 feet and that day, Sheryll will... Well, first stop talkin in the third person.

*The scent of my elder sister's old clothes.
It always smells warm and comfy and clean. Three of my favourite things.

The Bad - Things I don't:

*Waking up early in the morning.
I will not be human till 10. Don't try to make any intelligent conversation with me till then. If you do, you will be rewarded with.. nothing. Just Don't Do It.

*Watching TV with the parents.
What is with TV nowadays?? I was watching Saturday Night Live the other night and my dad plopped on the couch for some father-daughter-TV-watching time. (Well, actually my dad wanted to steal the remote and change to some annoying sports channel. Clever person that I am, I sat on the remote instead. Lala.
Current State of Remote Control: It don't move no more.)
Anyways, so I was watching tv with the padre, when suddenly the folks on SNL decide to do a spoof on.. wait for it.. Basic Instinct. Guess which scene was the erm... focal point? I wanted to die.
The next day, I was watching Private Practice with my dad (Smart I know.). And Tada! The show was about a 13 year-old kid who has gonorrhea.
My curfew is now 4:30 in the afternoon. Hmph.

*Walking outside during/after it rains.
I dont care how 'romantic' people say it is. It's mucky, yucky, and gross. Wake me up when the monsoon ends.

*UB40
Make them stop.

The Blah- Things that don't really bother me, but I can live without:

*My co-workers and a certain someone nick-named 'Stewie'.
So my friends at work have been teasing me with the afore-mentioned person... and they aren't subtle about it. Now this person actually thinks I like him, and has developed an attitude overnight. How do I tell this person, that the only reason we call him Stewie is coz he looks (unfortunately) like the evil, matricidal baby from Family Guy? And that the only reason they tease me with him, is because I said it first? How? How? Life is so difficult for us pretty folks. (Snort hehe.. must keep straight face. )

*Vegetables.
Barf.
Enough said.

Fear Factor

2008-09-24T10:53:00.001+05:30

I wanna be a rock star.

I do. Really. I can totally imagine myself rocking on stage with this insanely awesome outfit which would be kinda Gwen Stefani-meets-Joan-Jetts-without-any-of-the-Olivia Newton John. I've already got the diva-like attitude down so I'm very capable of throwing a hissy fit over my non-4000 thread count bedsheets and insisting on only red M 'n' Ms and seedless grapes in my dressing room.

The only thing I cannot imagine, is the singing.

It's not like I'm bad at singing. I'm pretty good actually. I can do the crazy trills and stuff, and I KNOW I'm sing better than of the Spice Girls, but then again.. that isn't that high a standard to live up to. I just have a teeensy weensy bit of problem with my pitch. Shivonne put it more erm.. succinctly. She said, "Sheryll. Your pitches are bitches." (I have such an encouraging family. Joy.)

Well, there's that, and the fact that I CANNOT sing on stage.

I can stand alone, on stage, in front of thousands of people, and talk about God knows what, for God knows how long. And I have. I can have a ridiculous role in a skit and act in front of any number of people and not get well, too nervous. Been there, done that too. But sing? No. I just can't.

I've been terrified of things most people don't give a rat's furry bottom for. For example, 12th grade sports day. Being student body president, I had to give the opening speech in front of a huge crowd. I also had to lead the march past. No prizes for guessing what scared me more. I was petrified of MARCHING. Marching! It's just walking! But easier! Still.

Fear's a funny thing. People are afraid of everything from things that go bump in the night, to I don't know, cheese. But the scariest thing for me is to just exist. Not live. Exist. If, like Shakespeare said, all the world's a stage and all people it's players, it would be just awful if my only part was as the tree in Act II, Scene 4. Easily replaced by Styrofoam and cardboard cut-outs.

What if no one missed you when you're not there? What if no one even REALIZED that you were missing? My best friend in my first semester of college was a great deal more popular than I was, so therefore, I spent a lot of time feeling like an extra. A prop that eats, if you will. And that wasn't an overly pleasant time for me, I'll tell you that. I haven't learned much from that experience, except that it sucks to be invisible.

Well, I'm not invisible now. At least I think I'm not. Which truthfully, is all that's necessary. I know that if people have trouble 'seeing' you, it's just that their eyesight wasn't all that great to begin with. End of story.

P.S. I just got my salary. Now it doesn't matter even if I were invisible. I'm invisible, but with money. And that's good enough for me. Woohoo!!!

Trans-mortification

2008-09-15T16:38:00.001+05:30

Trans-mortification (noun)- to be so ashamed that one wants to transform into another entity.
Sound familiar? Welcome to my childhood.

My life is one long trans-mortification after another, and I remember every single one of them. Here are a few.

5th grade- My very soulful rendition of 'All the colors of the rainbow'.
I found out from the recording. I did sound like a cat dying.

6th grade- Uniform skirt shows more loyalty to bench than to wearer.
My teacher asked me a question. I stood up. My skirt did not follow. Praise God for petticoats and overly-prudish mothers.

7th grade- Finding out why I was so good at musical chairs.
No one wanted to get in the way of my big caboose. I once pushed this guy out of the chair at a Christmas party. (I get ruthless while playing musical chairs.. who'd have thought?). We found him three days later under the tree. I used to have a huge crush on him. He never DID ask me out. Go figure.

8th grade- Getting ready for my annual class photo.
It was just after PT, and i was vain. So I ran to the nearest reflective surface to preen and adjust my uniform. Unfortunately, that reflective surface was the window of the Chemistry lab and every single 11th grade boy saw me fidgeting with and then tucking in my shirt. That taught me the 'perils of vanity'. I learned my lesson well. If u ever saw 'High school Sheryll' or 'College Sheryll', you'd understand. No one can look like that and still be vain. Actually, u can.. but then it would be call delirium.

11th grade- Pizza Hut.
There was a Pizza Hut in a nearby township in Kuwait. That was my family's 'place'. Birthday? Pizza Hut. Good report card? Pizza Hut. Weekend? Pizza Hut. So we went to India for vacation one summer and consequently, did not go there for amost two months. When we finally did go back (by 'back' I mean BOTH Kuwait and Pizza Hut... which to my muddled, muddled mind, is the same thing) yeah, so when we entered the restaurant, the entire staff clapped. GAAH!

Today- The fall and recovery
I fell down the stairs today. In front of my colleagues. I thought I recovered pretty well because I literally bounced back up and struck a pose. Apparently, that was funnier than my 'tumble'. How do I know? Because after my oh-so-esteemed colleagues 'regained their composure', they told my boss. In graphic detail. Hmm... Wonder if Gemini Circus is hiring.

Obviously, you can see that I embarrass pretty easy. I am also embarrassing. Very, very. But that, like 'The Cat in the Hat', is a different story.

Yellow Bikes, Puff Sleeves and Asianet - Oh my!

2008-09-08T09:11:00.001+05:30

I am a twisted, twisted person.

Why? Here's an example. I thought Russell Crowe was super hot as the troubled, emotionally stunted cop in L.A. Confidential, as opposed to (gluteus) Maximus in Gladiator. Maybe I couldn't get over the whole man-in-leather-mini-skirt thing. Thankfully i got over that by the time Troy was released. Come to think of it, I cant remember anything from that movie other than the fact that most of the characters wore my very favorite shade of blue. Well, that and Brad Pitt's thighs.

Well, there are some things I'll just never understand and in honor of those 'things' I give you

'Sheryll's Top Ten Things I don't Understand'.

1. Why my parents named my brother 'Swilin'.
Apparently it was supposed to be a combination of my parents' names -Sampson and Leena. But Swilin?? How did tat come?? WHERE did it come from?? What does it MEAN?? WHY?????

2. Yellow bikes and cars.
I hate yellow vehicles. Whenever I see one, I don't know whether to burn it, or do the Mexican Wave.

3. Elbow-length puff sleeves.
'Fashionistas'. Sure it may be/was in fashion. But elbow-length, puff sleeves look good on NO ONE. It just gives u super broad shoulders which, unless you're an NFL player, is NOT a good thing. So there.

4. My hair.
Why o Why must my hair misbehave so? I tell you, my friends, I'm not follicle-y challenged. I'm follicle-y FED UP.

5. Boys who diss girls who wear make-up.
From what I have heard, apparently girls who wear make-up are distorting their true looks (or beauty.. depending on who you ask.) I'm sorry guys, but girls wear make-up becoz we dont have any facial hair to mutilate into goatees/french-beards/Blackbeards.. watever. It's the same principle. Get over yourselves already.

6. Old people who say that the present generation is going to the dogs.
I'm sorry, was Idi Amin born in 1986?

7. The roads in Banashankari. And the route to Avenue Road.
I. Just. Dont. Get. It.

8. Wannabe 'non-conformists'.
'I'm gonna head-bang to Metallica, wear black and have an affinity to skulls and metal-link chains. Coz I want to be unique, JUST like everyone else.' Barf.

9. Asianet serials.
They begin every weeknight at 7 PM and end.. actually.. they never end. Want to watch American Idol on Star World? No! Because Enda Manasa Putri's on. World coming to an end? Not now, they just found out what happened to the baby-daddy on Swapnam. End ammo!!!

10. Newton's Third Law of Motion.
This one is really embarassing to admit. I mean.. here I am, an electronics engineering graduate and I still cant wrap my head around this one. 'Every action has an equal and opposite reaction'.
Q. So how do things move??
A. If the reaction is in the same direction as the force..blah blah Newton, apple, gravity, chandeliers, fuzzy woodland creatures.. I'm sorry, what?

And now for Sheryll's list of 'Things I DO Understand'.

1. Newton's First Law of Motion
I understand inertia. Anyone who's seen 'Sheryll at home' vs 'Sheryll at work' knows what I'm talking about. My motto in life was 'No fear, no inertia'. Erm.. Zero out of two ain't bad rite?? Oh to live in denial. (Just like most other Egyptians. Guffaw..)

2. Why I spend 75 bucks every two months and buy myself a copy of Cosmopolitan.
One word. Shoes. Glorious shoes. Clothes may come and go but a pair of high-heeled, red-soled, Christian Louboutin shoes is a joy forever. (My parents should fall on their knees every day, and thank the good Lord that He 'blessed' their oh-so-beloved-third child (that would be me) with feet the size of Godzilla's mother... the hormonal, pregnant one. Yay them. Bah.)

That's it. Obviously I don't understand much. Quelle surprise, I know.

'Conspiracies' - a musical

2008-08-22T08:57:00.001+05:30

The radio gods are against me.

How else can I explain them playing the songs of BOTH UB40 AND Wham! in the same hour?
'Bands' like UB40, Wham!, the BeeGees, etc. are like the Crocs of music - flashy, easy and unbearably offensive to anyone with good taste.

If music be the food of love, please.. Make. Them. Stop.

But not like I have such a refined taste in music. A certain friend (you know who you are!) decided that my erm... predilection for bands such as Aerosmith and Def Leppard is my most feminine characteristic. (Oh I feel pretty now! Pfff) I am what i like to call, a music adulteress. I rarely stay faithful to any one genre of music for very long. I still remember my Spice Girls and Aqua phase. That phase is over.

I do enjoy really cheesy music tho. The kinda music u'd want to 'disco- dance' to. Given it's at the right time and place. Coz tat's me - Eclectic by nature, flaky by choice. (Joy.)

This post was supposed to be entitled 'McQuirky' and I was gonna write about my oh-so-quirky nature (Because you know, I amuse myself so... Watever.) But that is for another day (Amen? How dare u!)

Sports, my Waterloo

2008-08-13T09:14:00.001+05:30

Sports and I, we're not a good team. K.. bad puns (and lousy grammar) aside, I'm obscenely bad at sports. So bad, that I'm injurious to YOUR health. Really. I kid you not. I once broke my friend's fingernail while playing basketball. Not the pretty ,'Oh my manicure' kinda nail breakage. Oh no.. it was the bloody, potential infection type.. the really fun kind. Ooh.. she was mad then.. The fact that we're both still best-est friends is testament to what a nice person I am.. or She is (you chose.)

It always bothered me tat I was so dismal at sports. Any kinda sports.. basketball, football, cricket, even foozball. I mean, I'd gladly give up my learning-to-read-by-myself, never-had-to-study-for-a-math-exam-till-college brain (the pinnacle of scholastic achievement I know. Pff) Yes, I'd gladly give it all up just so I could be phenomenally good at sports. Or even marginally, for that matter.

The other day I was 'attempting' to play foozball in the break-room at work. So some young, hot-shot-like nerdy boys decide to play against me. No prizes for guessing who's ego/pride/self-respect died a painful, painful death.

When I was younger, it bothered me SOO much that I couldn't imagine guys having crushes on me. All because i was soo athletically challenged. The first time I was 'asked-out', my reply was 'I can't throw, I can't catch, I can't run, I can't hit. Can you deal with that?' (I thought it was really cool at the time.. i wasn't too bright as a child) I was so petrified of people finding out my evil secret ( like I've said before, i obviously wasn't too bright as a child) tat I never played anything at all. Shivonne, my sister still teases me for reading Tinkle at a beach picnic instead of playing.

Well, things have changed now.. comparatively at least. I'm still pathetic at any kind of sporting activity. And I still freeze at the thought of competitive sport playing. But I've learned to let go.. to an extent. Maybe one day I'll find a sport I'm really good at. Maybe I'll get over my lame-ass paranoia. Till then I shall take heart.. I kick ass at thumb-wrestling.

Picture Imperfect

2008-08-06T16:15:00.001+05:30

I hate getting my picture taken. Hate it. I hate it so much that I've used the same passport photo for 5 years ... which was awkward since I had an extremely short boy cut then and looked well... like a boy. And whatever you say about post modern fashions, androgyny is not really the look for me.

I think it began when I was about 13 and went to get my passport photo taken. I went to this little studio near my house. Now getting your picture taken, especially those of the passport variety, is a pretty big deal in my family. It's this epic ordeal of hair washing and styling, make-up, a suitable outfit which wouldn't clash with skin-tone or make-up, even a dash of nice perfume (I know.. like the picture is gonna come out literally smelling like roses.. Pfff) All in all, trying to get that perfect blend of drama and subtlety.. JUST for a bleeding photo. So anyways, there I was.. 13 years old and full of hope.. walking into the photo studio and coming out, about an hour later, dejected, sad and clutching a photograph in which I looked like the unholy love-child of a cocker spaniel and a beaver, only uglier. And so it began, my intense aversion to cameras of any kind.

Things only got worse in the 11th and 12th. Then, in every picture, I came out looking like either:

A boy. (Wonder if my super short boy-cut style hair was the reason.. Hmmm... the mystery remains. )
I was really high on some kind of narcotic/hallucinogenic.
I really NEEDED some kind of medication.
An unfortunately close relative of the canine family.

Well.. u get the picture. It got so bad, that I just stopped. taking. pictures. Or if I HAD to be in one, I'd make some lame-ass face so that even if I look mentally handicapped, it would be on purpose. Ahh.. the follies of youth.

So my cousins came to India recently.. and that spurred a whole string of photo-ops. Oh, how my cup overflows with happiness and joy. It helped that I acted so insane every time we hung out that now they probably think I've the IQ of a gnat (or flea.. or like Frenchie said in Grease, 'amoeba on the flea on a dog', well whatever's lower.) You really gotta love the 'I think she's like tat only' comment. It's such a great excuse. Yay justification!! Anyways.. so pictures.. yes.. Not. Pretty. Again.. It's like every photo should come with some kinda warning. Maybe something along the lines of 'Old people, young children and people with heart disease, please avert your eyes. The following pictures might be potentially detrimental to health.'

Maybe one day technology will bless us with a camera that makes everyone look amazing. Till then, Thank God for PhotoShop.

Comfortably Numb, Conveniently Dumb

2008-07-06T22:05:00.001+05:30

OK. Yes. I know. It's been two months since my last post. To all my fans (Yes, all two of you) I apologize. My beloved elder sister, in whom I am well pleased, came home for vacation with her son and husband. Therefore, I spent the month of May being pounced on/attacked by my 6 year old nephew. (Curse you Animal Planet and your documentaries about the Serengeti) Yes. During the month of May, I had a magical metamorphic transformation from 20 year old engineering student to African Water Buffalo. (Sigh... talk about ten years of therapy in the making) But I realized that I do like children... well, as long as they're not mine. (Egads!)

Ever heard a song that just reaches in and grabs your very soul? Like someone, somewhere, somehow listened to the meandering ways of your heart and put them to music? For me, it was 'Don't Cha' by the Pussycat Dolls. Naw, just kidding. But just imagine. Oh the humanity!

Anyways, so I was driving down Cunningham Road the other day, listening to the radio and cursing all the other errant drivers with erm.. how to put it delicately.. papillon d'amour (The great thing about foreign languages is that you can say the most vile and disgusting thing and it literally comes out smelling like daisies.) Papillon d'amour. I don't know what's grosser, the very idea or the fact that it's so common the French actually have a metaphor for it.
But I digress.

Anyways, I was listening to the radio and the song Comfortably Numb was on. I don't know what it was about that song. Maybe it was the fact that I was in a very introspective mood, or maybe I was just really bored. But it really worked for me then. Now I haven't listened to the song as many times as I'd like to have bragged about. But the title. It really got me thinking. About complacency mostly. See, I was always conflicted about the idea of complacency vs contentment. I mean, what's the difference? I've heard so much about how being complacent was a character flaw not an attribute. But contentment is an achievement. I mean, Huh?
From what I understood from the song, I figure it talked about how we sometimes shield ourselves from having extreme emotions, whether good or bad, about how we just exist in some kind of emotional limbo. How we become trapped in this comfort zone and no event, no matter how extraordinary, will jolt us out of that. It's a bit scary if you think about it.

Tomorrow's my very first day at work and I'm understandably super-excited. But I'm also a little nervous. It's a dog-eat-dog world out there, a rat-race, a zoo, a random woodland creature petting farm, whatever. I fear that in that race to be No. 1 (coz u know, no one wants to be number 2. Say it with me.. AIYYO!!) Yeah. in that race, what if I lose sight of what really matters? What if i get 'complacent' with my position in life aside from work? I'm not against the Yuppie dream of a big house, car and paycheck. Heck, I want TWO cars! But still, what if I forget that while that holy trinity of materialistic awesome-ness is important, it's not the MOST important? I sure hope I don't.

I also really hope I don't stink at my job too. But dare I ask of so much?

To all who are/will be joining work in the near future, All the best and W00t! W00t!! We're gonna be earning.. we're gonna get caaash. *does the raise-the-roof move*

Perceptions schmerptions.

2008-04-20T00:52:00.000+05:30

I think I ate my inner punk rock star. Ok not really… Duh. But either way, it’s gone. I kinda imagined my style statement to be sorta emo-punk-meets preppy-diva. You know, with wild hair and attitude to match. Behenji-gets-accquainted-with-flared-jeans? No, not so much. Somehow mild-mannered EC student by day, manic depressive by night, wasn’t quite the dazzling future I had in mind.

Lately I’ve been wondering about all of us, and our perceptions of us. Who am I? Who or what decides what a person is or isn’t? (Waddaya know? Megalomania and manic depression. Yes folks, I am the perfect woman. The line forms to my left. No pushing. And no, I won’t hold my breath waiting.)

So a friend, whose opinion matters a lot to me, told me the other day that I wasn’t as independent as I claimed to be. This got me thinking. See, I’ve always prided myself on being self-sufficient, self-reliant, one of ‘em Destiny’s Child-esque Independent Woman. Reflecting on my friend’s not so well received comment, I got to wondering. Who does decide who you get to be? Yesterday I would’ve said “Me! ME!!” Now I’m not sure. Come on, everyone of us is a little delusional. (Obviously, some more than others) I used to think I’d be this bad-ass biker chick with leather pants, the Harley, the open road and bugs in my teeth... the whole shebang... (For some reason, I’d always be blonde in the daydream… Hey, I was 10 and admittedly, not that bright =D) Truth is, I’d rather bake than bike and my idea of a perfect vacation includes sun, sand and some brightly colored fruity concoctions. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love zooming down a highway with the wind in my hair and my foot on the accelerator. So does that make me thrill-seeking speed junkie or spoiled hedonistic brat? Like I said before, who decides?

Oscar Wilde said ‘Some people are other people’. (Well, he also said,” Crying is the refuge of the plain. Pretty people go shopping’. That doesn’t mean I reach for my MasterCard every time I get yelled at. I like to assume that I’m pretty. My blog, my delusions) But it was really apt for what I was feeling. How much of us is ‘other people’? How much of our attitude is defined by another person? How much of it is triggered by our obsessive need for approval or in some cases, disapproval? How much do we suppress for fear of being rejected? What’s the point?

I’m not half of the free-spirited wild thang I’ve wanted to be. But if there’s one thing I learnt in the past few years, it’s the capriciousness of the human mind. I learnt that no matter what you do, how nice you are, or how you look, people will bitch. About you. Behind your back, in you face, at a 45 degree angle, whatever. And it’s not worth trying to be those ‘other people’ just to gain acceptance. That I learnt the hard way. I guess the best thing we can do is deal and get used to it.

Here’s to dealing.

Sheryll and the Traffic Police - A Merry Adventure

2008-03-19T00:24:00.000+05:30

Those *&^%@#% took away my license.

The title of this entry was supposed to be "My fun day at Leela Palace" but alas, because of certain beer bellies in brown, it was not meant to be.

The scene: Three well-dressed girls riding home in nice car after super fun boy/boyfriend-free day spent roaming around and intense picture-taking at Leela Palace

The characters: 3 super-fly girls (Hey.. my story.. humor me ok? please?), two bored/frustrated/insert-expletive-here traffic cops, one cell phone

The time: 5 30 PM, 14th Feb 2008 (Yes, i'm ranting a month late. Im lazy. Get over it)

The 'crime': Attending to phone call while driving

The penalty: Rs 1100/- (OK so my insurance papers died as well.. but ELEVEN HUNDRED???)

The outcome: Not nearly enough cash in wallet, hence resulting in confiscation of license till the fine is paid.

And then??: I had to bring my folks the next day, drive ALL the way to THAT police station, pay the fine and THEN when i asked for a receipt, was informed that getting a receipt would take THREE days (yes, coz they'll have to find someone and confiscate a pen too) and to come on Monday evening that is, IF i still wanted the receipt i.e. Policeman code for 'Check it out.. it's goin in my pocket and u cant do anything about it.. nyaaa nyaa'. Aah to know that my safety is in the well-oiled hands of such upstanding paragons of virtue. Joy.

I tell you. The ninth circle of hell is full of them corrupt cops and.. and.. and.. AUTO drivers!!!! They are truly evil.. necessary.. but evil.. with their SUPPOSED mono-lingual-ness(?), seriously tampered super fast meters (One kept on running.. even when the auto STOPPED!! True story) and ridiculous bumper stickers ("I date only models??? Love is sweet poison??? Hai Premalata??) But i have a plan. I will get my revenge I suggest we get them all together and shoot them. Not to kill, just wound so it hurts really bad and then NOT take them to the hospital unless they pay one and half (times the fare.. on the already tampered meters) Cue evil laugh.. MUHUHUHAHAHAHA ha. snicker..

Tea and Cake, or Death!

2008-01-21T19:03:00.002+05:30

So I'm on a diet.

Love the day just before the start of one. So full of hope and faith that this time around I will actually lose the weight, everyone will love me, and there will be world of peace and happiness wherein people will gather around every fireplace/bonfire/burning-house/witch-burning-at-stake, clasp hands and sing Kumbaya. Kinda like New Year's Eve. HATE the third day of diet, which is like the 15th or so of January when you realize that you're not going to get skinny, people will still hate you, there will not be world peace and yes, Britney Spears will prance around with no clothes, hit everything in her path and STILL manage to conjure up a new car everyday (Ok, so I watch E! news. Sue me). And also that yes, you're still very hungry. TEA AND CAKE, OR DEATH! I love Eddie Izzard. He's so bizarre. Shivonne introduced me to his comedy clip thingies on youtube. Its soo super funny (waddaya know... my first product placement. YAY ME! I’m a Bollywood movie!)

I only just realized that this is my first journal entry of the year (of the year? or in the year?? Oh where is Wren and Martin when u need it? I remember when we'd cover tat book with really ugly sticking paper. White with orange flowers... no less) I learnt a lot of things last year- tat no matter what happens, I'll never end up old and living with six cats (I'm allergic) and that contrary to popular belief, studying for an exam is more important than carol singing and showing off newly acquired toe-socks. And also that yes, other than my very erm… fresh potato salad of yesteryears, I can cook. Here’s to learning new things in 2008. Happy New Year y’all!

10 Things I Learnt From The Movies

2007-08-21T20:30:00.000+05:30

Everybody knows that movies make fantastic entertainment…but can they also make good teachers? Ladies and gentlemen, boy, girls and everything in between, settle down. School’s now in session.These are the top 10 things we can learn from the movies.
1. All the important events in your life will happen in slow motion.
2. If you are a mother and live in poverty, you are automatically qualified for saint-hood.
3. The “big man on campus” comes to college standing on TWO moving motorcycles..
everyday.
4. If you are in the ethnic minority, you are killed before the interval.
5. When you fall in love, you will get a wonderful singing voice and everyone, yes, EVERYONE will know the words.
6. There are people who live in public parks who, on sight of a couple, will leap out of random bushes and dance in sync until the couple leaves. They are recognized by their choice of clothing which is often in pink, yellow, purple spandex (or occasionally all three) accompanied by feathers and/or sequins.
7. If you are rich and oppose the couple in love, then you are a drug dealer.
8. Bad guys have only two looks:
a. Super slick in black leather
b. Ranjnikant wannabes in acid wash jeans, long curly hair and dirty sneakers.
9. Combat is always one-on-one. The other bad guys will dance around in a circle and patiently wait their turn. Also the sight of one’s blood gives him the strength of fifteen body builders.
10. The good guy always wins in the end. Even if he’s out numbered 10 to 1. However, if the good guy participates in a contest, irrespective of his winning or losing, he always gets the ‘slow applause’. And everyone knows that that’s worth more than the cash prize.
So next time you go to the movies, remember that there’s more to it than fluff and Abhishek Bachchan. Until next time, school’s out y’all!

Von-Trapped!!

2007-08-21T20:13:00.001+05:30

So I got a hair cut recently.. U know.. a new look and all that.. So I walked into the hairdresser's with a sense of adventure and mild trepidation... and walked out looking unfortunately like Maria VonTrapp. Between fighting the urge to run around singing about the hills tat are alive with the sound of music and sewing matching clothes for all the neighborhood kids, I try to comfort myself saying tat looks don't really matter. But then again.. who am I kidding? Marilyn Monroe wasn't exactly known for her dissertations on the works of Kafka now was she? Sigh. However, in spite of all the bad haircuts tat cloud my past, I am confident that the perfect haircut is out there somewhere.. and when we meet, the music will swell and angels will sing 'Hallelujah' (although I could settle with Right Said Fred's 'I'm too Sexy') But until then, I shall be of good cheer. After all, hair grows.