'Conspiracies' - a musical

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

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

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:

1. A boy. (Wonder if my super short boy-cut style hair was the reason.. Hmmm... the mystery remains. )
2. I was really high on some kind of narcotic/hallucinogenic.
3. I really NEEDED some kind of medication.
4. 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

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.

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

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!

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!