Back to the Past

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,

1. You still have lousy grammar.
   
2. You will like lists. So much that even your letters look like grocery lists. You do not have that many friends.
   
3. 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.
4. You will meet and marry a guy taller than you. No, height is not such a big deal. But yes, it does feel nice.
5. 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!)
6. You will turn in to one of those people who get excited by fresh vegetables at the store.
7. You wear saris to church now. And like it!
8. 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.
9. You will hate going to the beauty parlor. Your eyebrows now look like two woolly caterpillars on a date.
10. You will attempt to salvage your beauty with homemade procedures. Now you have a mama caterpillar and a baby caterpillar instead.
11. 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.
12. You will wear red shoes with your wedding dress and feel very cool and rebel-like.
13. No one notices your red shoes. But you like them anyway.
14. You will become so absent-minded that you will routinely forget your lunch box at work.
15. You will attempt to fix your absentmindedness with post-it notes saying “Take me home!!”
16. You will still forget your lunch box at the office.
17. 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!)
18. In 2008, you will become very super acquainted with a little website called Facebook. It makes stalking fun.
19. You have finally learned to peel fruit all by yourself. Take that, Shiv!! Hah! I need you not no more!
20. 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

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

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:

1. 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!

2. 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.)

3. Decepticons are way cooler than Autobots.

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

5. 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

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

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

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.