Winds of Change

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.

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iCook

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.

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

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:

1. Baby hands. Coz they’re so cute and small and pudgy. (What? I’m a girl. Get over it.)
2. My baby sister, Shivonne. No. Wait. Actually anyone who can make grape Tang slushee and give me the larger share.
3. People who gesticulate wildly while on talking on the phone. Like it matters. Hee.
4. Buttons. Buttons are way cool.
5. 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.
6. Open road, car with the tank full of petrol, and some really great music. Company optional.
7. Making tea. Coz it turns out that I’m not that bad!
8. 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.)
9. Hemingway’s six word short story – “For sale: Baby shoes. Never used”. Breaks my heart every time. That’s some good writing right there.
10. My two nephews, Sheldon and Leo. You light up my life.

Driving Lessons

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.

1. Driving barefoot is bad for your sole.
2. Music doesn’t necessarily make you a better driver, but it helps.
3. You CAN learn driving techniques from T.V. (I learned to parallel-park from Heroes. Don’t ask how.)
4. 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.
5. The hand wave dance thing is not cool ever.
6. Adding “Freestyle” to the end of a poorly constructed sentence does not make it a rap song.
7. To err may be human, but to obstruct traffic for no reason is bovine.
8. 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.
9. Traffic signals are not suggestions.
10. 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.