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Ceci n'est pas une egg.
It is fifty thousand words that can't be written.
Fifty thousand thoughts that just won't die.
26.5.15
29.4.15
How to be a domestic goddess. Or a domestic fraud.
I start a new job on Monday. And I managed getting a huge raise which means, for the first time in my life, I am completely financially independent. To me this translates as follows - I can pay my rent and still drink beer in pubs. Shady pubs, but I like shady pubs - they're infinitely more interesting than the other kind - so that's okay.
It's difficult not to be emotional about this (i.e. being independent, not pubs), because since graduating college, my ultimate goal has been to not leech money off my mother for rent. To stand on my own two feet. To walk the Path alone. (Don't ask me which path, I have no clue, but there has to be a frigging path somewhere.) To stand tall. (I also mean literally because though 5'3" seems short to most people, they are uninformed and do not realise I am above average height worldwide thanks to India and, of course, China.) To swim without sinking. To -
Etc. etc.
But seriously. This has been really important to me and it's one of the biggest things I've managed to accomplish in a long while, though, of course, it's an accomplishment nearly everyone...er...accomplishes.
Don't get me wrong. I'll still be making peanuts, but a few more peanuts than previously.
Anyway. Where was I?
Oh right. I start a new job on Monday. Back to the working life. Back to unforgiving deadlines and re-writing a single paragraph multiple times and spending three hours on producing a headline that isn't shit. (I'm not kidding, to get a headline that isn't shit, you sometimes have to write more than a hundred. And you usually go back to the second one you wrote but that's neither here nor there.) Back to returning home post-midnight, to having three days to come up with a pitch that will convince an important company to use your agency to sell it, and then a campaign to actually sell it. Back to banging my head against my desk, not having time to eat lunch, and being irritable and stressed nearly all the time.
I CAN'T WAIT.
Because you know what the alternative has been?
Being - egad - domestic. That means: making beds, keeping the house relatively tidy, and calling the guy from Onida to service my washing machine. Which isn't difficult. On the contrary, it's extremely easy, but it's also tedious. And quite frankly, I'd rather battle a shark (I've written a guide on how to do it anyway). At least it won't be boring - if I live to tell the tale which, let's face it, I probably won't. (Although it's a pretty kick-ass guide.)
But I've had to do it. The domestic stuff, I mean. Because even I realise, inconsiderate and selfish and lazy as I am, that it's completely unfair for S. to come home to a complete mess after a long day at work (which mostly comprises, I suspect, playing some infernal tank game he's discovered) when I've been sitting at home doing nothing.
We have a lady who comes in to help four times a week. But the thing about Vijaylakshmi is that she insists on making me dosas because she thinks I need to be fatter (she has a horror of collarbones) and then she runs off without cleaning the bathrooms or dusting the shelves. And how can you ask someone to clean bathrooms and dust shelves after they've made you dosas? I can't.
But once I start work, I won't be around to eat the dosas, so maybe she'll have to clean the bathrooms.
Ha ha, Vijaylakshmi, ha ha.
(I'm grasping at straws here.)
So I've been over-hauling the house at least once a week and doing some light tidying up everyday.
But Viji's taken her kids to Chennai for four days, which means I have to step up the ante. Especially when it comes to cleaning floors - thanks to the rain, a bunch of insects have made our home theirs and they are inconsiderate enough to die everywhere, at the same time ensuring their corpses are carefully positioned for human feet to tread upon.
And even though I hate cleaning, when I do decide to do it, I am pretty thorough.
Okay, sometimes I take short-cuts.
And so this guide has a two-fold purpose: to aid those who wish to clean thoroughly and, more importantly, to aid those who wish to make it seem that they've cleaned thoroughly.
1. On dusting
The thorough way to do it, henceforth known as You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Remove all objects from surface. Wipe surface with a wet and soapy cloth. Then wipe damp surface with a dry cloth. Repeat on the removed objects. Then put them back.
For ceilings, use that long ceiling cleaner thing every ten days. Cover any furniture that dust may land on. Alternatively, just brush off the dust from the furniture before attacking everything with a jharu.
The quick way to do it, henceforth known as the Last Resort
Keep objects where they are. Use wet and soapy cloth to clean all the spaces around objects. Move cloth briefly over objects themselves. Put faith in the air or whatever to dry the bits that have been cleaned.
Ignore ceiling. And never look up.
2. On dishes
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Rinse dish thoroughly. Then clean with dish-cleaning liquid or whatever it's called. Rinse again. Check for any bits that are still stuck to the dish. Repeat process with focus on the bits. Wipe with dry cloth until the dish is dry. Then place dish on shelf or in cabinet/drawer.
The Last Resort
Rinse. Use liquid. Check for bits if you are on the fussy side which I am. Do not check for bits if you are lazier than I am. (Improbable, but not impossible.) Leave on sideboard or whatever and let the blessed air or whatever do the drying. Use dish from its place on the sideboard. This also leaves cabinets empty for more important things - your cat's bed, for instance.
3. On sweeping floors
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Switch fan off. Remove carpets. You may air them which you probably will if you're following this method - do it before you start sweeping. Sweep floor with a jharu. Pay close attention to corners and under-sofas. Use a dustpan to gather the dirt. Throw dirt in waste-paper basket.
There will always be a bit of remaining dirt that will refuse to be swept on the dustpan. Sweep it out the door. If door has a slight ledge to it, use a flick of the wrist (or a low tennis backhand sweep if you're feeling energetic) to send dirt flying out. The amount should be minuscule if you've done your job properly so calm yourself; it doesn't matter.
Then fill a bucket with soapy water. Use mop to clean the floor. It is extremely important to make sure that there are no dustballs or hairballs left, otherwise they just stick to the floor. Which is disgusting.
Re-fill bucket after cleaning every room otherwise you'll be using dirty water which defeats the point of this exercise.
Leave fan on high. And make sure your feet are clean otherwise you have to repeat the entire process which is just depressing.
The Last Resort
Switch fan off. Ignore corners and under-sofas and carpets for now. Once dust has accumulated, sweep it into corners, under the sofas, and under the carpets. No one will know.
Mopping is optional.
4. Laundry
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
If you have a washing machine, use it. If you are insane, fill your time with other things - cleaning the machine on the outside, for instance.
If you do not have a machine, fill a bucket with soapy water. Energetically dip clothes in the water several times. Then scrub clothes with a scrubbing brush (or use one part of the garment to scrub the other part, this helps with stains). Then rinse clothes until all the suds are gone. Then hang them up to dry.
The Last Resort
If you have a washing machine, use it.
If you do not have a machine, just rinse with water and hang out to dry. There shouldn't be any smell. If there is, just spray deodorant on the offending garment.
5. Making beds
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Strip down all sheets and bundle into laundry (if you've been using them for more than a week). Take out new sheets, give them a vigorous airing, and use them to make the bed. Tuck them into the corners, smooth the wrinkles. Repeat this entire process with the pillows and their covers. Air the bed cover (according to Mawii, it's unhygienic not to have a bed cover) and cover the bed, making sure that it doesn't drag on the floors and covers all the bits underneath and hangs evenly on all sides of the bed.
The Last Resort
Make an attempt to smooth existing sheets down. Throw bed cover haphazardly on bed. If anything offends the eye at first glance, throw a bunch of cushions over it.
If you haven't changed your sheets in a while, and don't intend to for a while longer, place a clean t-shirt on your pillow before going to sleep. This ensures that the dirt and oil on your pillow doesn't seep into your face and resurrect the acne of your teenage years.
6. Folding clothes
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
According to my mother, there is a particular formula to folding clothes. First you do this, then you do that, blah blah blah. She has shared this formula with me many times - I have also observed Mawii doing something similar - but there are limits to my patience so if you want to know, email me at trishdutt@gmail.com and I'll put you in touch with one of them.
The Last Resort
Just sort of fold your shirt or whatever so it looks reasonably folded, like a sort of square shape. Or, you could do what I do, and just toss your stuff in a cupboard and let it pile up. If you reach a stage where everything falls out the minute you open the cupboard door, a little re-stuffing will do the trick.
7. Ironing
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Adjust iron to the setting required for your garment. A cotton garment has a different setting from a silk garment. Lay garment out, sleeves unfolded. Iron front. Iron sleeves. Pay close attention to the edges. Flip garment and iron the back. Flip again and iron the front. If you are as incompetent as I am, you will probably have to do this several times. Fold whichever way you wish to fold.
The Last Resort
Do not purchase clothes that need ironing. If you must, find a dhobi. If you are particularly daring, attempt to start a non-ironed clothing movement. Interestingly enough, using a hairdryer can also be pretty effective.
Friend once claimed that he used his laptop to remove creases from his clothes. You may try this but if you saw Friend, you wouldn't.
8. Bathroom
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Put on yellow gloves (they're always yellow for some reason) and attack drain first. Pour the relevant liquid/cleanser down the drain. Don't ask me which one to use. I'm not promoting products, mostly because I don't pay attention to them - I usually just use whatever liquid thingy I have lying around. Then pour water down. Foam may rise, but it usually goes away, so that's okay.
Use your gloves to scoop up any muck.
Yuck.
Then pour that cleaning thing made for toilets. Harpic. HARPIC! See, I know Harpic. Leave there for at least twenty minutes while you do the rest of the bathroom.
Mop floor. (Using a jharu is unnecessary.)
Clean sink, pay close attention to taps.
Then use toilet brush to scrub the inside of the toilet. Then flush.
The Last Resort
Ignore drain. Dump harpic in toilet and let it stay there until the next time you flush. Pour soapy water over sink and all over the floor. Leave bathroom and only return when it's relatively dry.
This brings me to the end of my guide. Perhaps there are more things I haven't covered, but quite frankly, I've been covering the bed (with a bed cover, I hope you're happy, Mawii) everyday for the past three weeks and I'm done.
I sincerely hope the content of this post has been illuminating.
And if it has been repugnant - in the sense, made you shudder increasingly as you picture the effort required to keep a house clean - I sincerely hope you feel a new appreciation for your job.
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It's difficult not to be emotional about this (i.e. being independent, not pubs), because since graduating college, my ultimate goal has been to not leech money off my mother for rent. To stand on my own two feet. To walk the Path alone. (Don't ask me which path, I have no clue, but there has to be a frigging path somewhere.) To stand tall. (I also mean literally because though 5'3" seems short to most people, they are uninformed and do not realise I am above average height worldwide thanks to India and, of course, China.) To swim without sinking. To -
Etc. etc.
But seriously. This has been really important to me and it's one of the biggest things I've managed to accomplish in a long while, though, of course, it's an accomplishment nearly everyone...er...accomplishes.
Don't get me wrong. I'll still be making peanuts, but a few more peanuts than previously.
Anyway. Where was I?
Oh right. I start a new job on Monday. Back to the working life. Back to unforgiving deadlines and re-writing a single paragraph multiple times and spending three hours on producing a headline that isn't shit. (I'm not kidding, to get a headline that isn't shit, you sometimes have to write more than a hundred. And you usually go back to the second one you wrote but that's neither here nor there.) Back to returning home post-midnight, to having three days to come up with a pitch that will convince an important company to use your agency to sell it, and then a campaign to actually sell it. Back to banging my head against my desk, not having time to eat lunch, and being irritable and stressed nearly all the time.
I CAN'T WAIT.
Because you know what the alternative has been?
Being - egad - domestic. That means: making beds, keeping the house relatively tidy, and calling the guy from Onida to service my washing machine. Which isn't difficult. On the contrary, it's extremely easy, but it's also tedious. And quite frankly, I'd rather battle a shark (I've written a guide on how to do it anyway). At least it won't be boring - if I live to tell the tale which, let's face it, I probably won't. (Although it's a pretty kick-ass guide.)
But I've had to do it. The domestic stuff, I mean. Because even I realise, inconsiderate and selfish and lazy as I am, that it's completely unfair for S. to come home to a complete mess after a long day at work (which mostly comprises, I suspect, playing some infernal tank game he's discovered) when I've been sitting at home doing nothing.
We have a lady who comes in to help four times a week. But the thing about Vijaylakshmi is that she insists on making me dosas because she thinks I need to be fatter (she has a horror of collarbones) and then she runs off without cleaning the bathrooms or dusting the shelves. And how can you ask someone to clean bathrooms and dust shelves after they've made you dosas? I can't.
But once I start work, I won't be around to eat the dosas, so maybe she'll have to clean the bathrooms.
Ha ha, Vijaylakshmi, ha ha.
(I'm grasping at straws here.)
So I've been over-hauling the house at least once a week and doing some light tidying up everyday.
But Viji's taken her kids to Chennai for four days, which means I have to step up the ante. Especially when it comes to cleaning floors - thanks to the rain, a bunch of insects have made our home theirs and they are inconsiderate enough to die everywhere, at the same time ensuring their corpses are carefully positioned for human feet to tread upon.
And even though I hate cleaning, when I do decide to do it, I am pretty thorough.
Okay, sometimes I take short-cuts.
And so this guide has a two-fold purpose: to aid those who wish to clean thoroughly and, more importantly, to aid those who wish to make it seem that they've cleaned thoroughly.
1. On dusting
The thorough way to do it, henceforth known as You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Remove all objects from surface. Wipe surface with a wet and soapy cloth. Then wipe damp surface with a dry cloth. Repeat on the removed objects. Then put them back.
For ceilings, use that long ceiling cleaner thing every ten days. Cover any furniture that dust may land on. Alternatively, just brush off the dust from the furniture before attacking everything with a jharu.
The quick way to do it, henceforth known as the Last Resort
Keep objects where they are. Use wet and soapy cloth to clean all the spaces around objects. Move cloth briefly over objects themselves. Put faith in the air or whatever to dry the bits that have been cleaned.
Ignore ceiling. And never look up.
2. On dishes
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Rinse dish thoroughly. Then clean with dish-cleaning liquid or whatever it's called. Rinse again. Check for any bits that are still stuck to the dish. Repeat process with focus on the bits. Wipe with dry cloth until the dish is dry. Then place dish on shelf or in cabinet/drawer.
The Last Resort
Rinse. Use liquid. Check for bits if you are on the fussy side which I am. Do not check for bits if you are lazier than I am. (Improbable, but not impossible.) Leave on sideboard or whatever and let the blessed air or whatever do the drying. Use dish from its place on the sideboard. This also leaves cabinets empty for more important things - your cat's bed, for instance.
3. On sweeping floors
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Switch fan off. Remove carpets. You may air them which you probably will if you're following this method - do it before you start sweeping. Sweep floor with a jharu. Pay close attention to corners and under-sofas. Use a dustpan to gather the dirt. Throw dirt in waste-paper basket.
There will always be a bit of remaining dirt that will refuse to be swept on the dustpan. Sweep it out the door. If door has a slight ledge to it, use a flick of the wrist (or a low tennis backhand sweep if you're feeling energetic) to send dirt flying out. The amount should be minuscule if you've done your job properly so calm yourself; it doesn't matter.
Then fill a bucket with soapy water. Use mop to clean the floor. It is extremely important to make sure that there are no dustballs or hairballs left, otherwise they just stick to the floor. Which is disgusting.
Re-fill bucket after cleaning every room otherwise you'll be using dirty water which defeats the point of this exercise.
Leave fan on high. And make sure your feet are clean otherwise you have to repeat the entire process which is just depressing.
The Last Resort
Mopping is optional.
4. Laundry
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
If you have a washing machine, use it. If you are insane, fill your time with other things - cleaning the machine on the outside, for instance.
If you do not have a machine, fill a bucket with soapy water. Energetically dip clothes in the water several times. Then scrub clothes with a scrubbing brush (or use one part of the garment to scrub the other part, this helps with stains). Then rinse clothes until all the suds are gone. Then hang them up to dry.
The Last Resort
If you do not have a machine, just rinse with water and hang out to dry. There shouldn't be any smell. If there is, just spray deodorant on the offending garment.
5. Making beds
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
The Last Resort
If you haven't changed your sheets in a while, and don't intend to for a while longer, place a clean t-shirt on your pillow before going to sleep. This ensures that the dirt and oil on your pillow doesn't seep into your face and resurrect the acne of your teenage years.
6. Folding clothes
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
The Last Resort
7. Ironing
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
The Last Resort
Do not purchase clothes that need ironing. If you must, find a dhobi. If you are particularly daring, attempt to start a non-ironed clothing movement. Interestingly enough, using a hairdryer can also be pretty effective.
Friend once claimed that he used his laptop to remove creases from his clothes. You may try this but if you saw Friend, you wouldn't.
8. Bathroom
When You Have Too Much Time On Your Hands
Use your gloves to scoop up any muck.
Yuck.
Then pour that cleaning thing made for toilets. Harpic. HARPIC! See, I know Harpic. Leave there for at least twenty minutes while you do the rest of the bathroom.
Mop floor. (Using a jharu is unnecessary.)
Clean sink, pay close attention to taps.
Then use toilet brush to scrub the inside of the toilet. Then flush.
The Last Resort
This brings me to the end of my guide. Perhaps there are more things I haven't covered, but quite frankly, I've been covering the bed (with a bed cover, I hope you're happy, Mawii) everyday for the past three weeks and I'm done.
I sincerely hope the content of this post has been illuminating.
And if it has been repugnant - in the sense, made you shudder increasingly as you picture the effort required to keep a house clean - I sincerely hope you feel a new appreciation for your job.
P.S. The best thing to do, really, is to find a Mawii. Although a Mawii - like all good things - is very difficult to find.
28.3.15
The Art of Leisure.
I've lost it.
The art of leisure obviously.
Because of reasons I won't get into (not right now, I'll talk about it in a few months - it's a story that is full of hilarity with a small dose of horror) I don't have a job.
Hell yeah, I thought on Monday. This is glorious. I can do whatever I want.
Brilliant, I thought on Tuesday. I'm going to sit and home and revel in doing nothing.
I need to be productive, I thought on Wednesday. I will start writing A Book and I will clean the house from top to bottom (which just goes to show how desperate I was for something to do.)
Today I will grocery shop, I said to myself on Thursday. And I will continue to write My Book. I spent the entire day watching Downton Abbey but I actually did write.
Unfortunately, I also had a panic attack. I didn't realise it was a panic attack because I was relaxed and watching Downton Abbey. Suddenly, I noticed that there was a small, sharp pain with every beat my heart took.
I sent my brother a message on Skype. He told me to go to an ER. Then I messaged Mawii. She said the same thing.
"I'll go in the evening if it isn't better," I said.
"You might be dead by then."
I really should have been more careful when choosing my friends.
The pain changed then. It was just my chest, or my heart, that was paining continuously - not with each beat. My left arm started feeling heavy and then these sharp pains started cropping up. First on my shoulder blades, then to the left side of my chest.
I called my mother. She told me to call Dr. Vatsa.
So I called Dr. Vatsa, described the symptoms, and was informed it was a panic attack.
"A panic attack?" I said incredulously. "But I wasn't feeling panic when the pain started. I'm only feeling it now."
"It's quite common to not feel panic before an attack starts. It feels like a heart attack and then you start panicking and then the pain gets worse and the panic gets worse and - are your palms sweaty?"
I looked at my palms and informed her they were.
"There you go. It's a panic attack. Don't worry. It just manifests as a heart attack sometimes."
Brilliant.
And then my mother called again and told me to do these breathing exercises she always rambles on about - ever since she started yoga - and unfortunately, they helped. There'll be no shutting her up after this.
It took a couple of hours and lots of 'emptying my mind' and it went away.
Dr. Vatsa told me that it was because I had nothing to do.
"I love having nothing to do," I said incredulously. "I thrive on it."
"No, you miss work."
So then my sense of self got completely fucked, obviously.
On Friday, I greeted the morning with determination. I was going to continue writing The Book. Five chapters already and the rest outlined. I got to seven chapters before collapsing on the sofa with beer and moaning occasionally.
I tried reading, I didn't feel like reading.
I tried watching tv shows, nada.
So I just lay there and felt sorry for myself. I was going to have friends over, but I was still too busy feeling sorry for myself, so I cancelled and continued to revel in self-pity, staring blankly at a wall, occasionally sipping on flat beer.
And then I ate a lot of junk food and I went to sleep. (I've been doing nothing except eat the past ten days. Three weeks ago people were telling me I was looking skinny. Now I am being described as 'healthy'. This is not helping the misery.)
Today is Saturday and I am being rebellious and listening to Sunday Morning. I usually only play that on Sundays because it fits the appropriateness of things but to hell with that. I am also giving up on My Book because I was usually stoned when I re-read it and therefore laughed hysterically and thought I'd finally found something worth working on.
But I just read it for the first time when sober and it's so boring I want to gauge my eyes out.
So now, I will stop wasting time, and send my portfolio out, get a damn job, and go back to working life.
Being on holiday somewhere else is different from being on holiday at home. I thought I would love having nothing to do, but I hate it. Even my usual leisure activities no longer hold pleasure.
It's kind of like when someone wants to have sex with you, really wants to, and makes it obvious. And even if you're sex-starved and know you can tap them anytime you want, you won't.
It's sad because I always thought I could perfect the art of leisure given the opportunity. But I can't. I don't like having nothing to do when I actually have nothing to do. I only like having nothing to do when I have something to do and I'm not doing it.
I am deeply disturbed because this week has made me realise that I am not who I thought I was and I will have to re-examine my life perspective completely. I have spent fucking twenty-four years already examining it.
Trust me, it was not fun.
Most people thrive on happiness and joy.
I thrive on misery and self-pity and self-delusion.
So there's a silver lining then.
The art of leisure obviously.
Because of reasons I won't get into (not right now, I'll talk about it in a few months - it's a story that is full of hilarity with a small dose of horror) I don't have a job.
Hell yeah, I thought on Monday. This is glorious. I can do whatever I want.
Brilliant, I thought on Tuesday. I'm going to sit and home and revel in doing nothing.
I need to be productive, I thought on Wednesday. I will start writing A Book and I will clean the house from top to bottom (which just goes to show how desperate I was for something to do.)
Today I will grocery shop, I said to myself on Thursday. And I will continue to write My Book. I spent the entire day watching Downton Abbey but I actually did write.
Unfortunately, I also had a panic attack. I didn't realise it was a panic attack because I was relaxed and watching Downton Abbey. Suddenly, I noticed that there was a small, sharp pain with every beat my heart took.
I sent my brother a message on Skype. He told me to go to an ER. Then I messaged Mawii. She said the same thing.
"I'll go in the evening if it isn't better," I said.
"You might be dead by then."
I really should have been more careful when choosing my friends.
The pain changed then. It was just my chest, or my heart, that was paining continuously - not with each beat. My left arm started feeling heavy and then these sharp pains started cropping up. First on my shoulder blades, then to the left side of my chest.
I called my mother. She told me to call Dr. Vatsa.
So I called Dr. Vatsa, described the symptoms, and was informed it was a panic attack.
"A panic attack?" I said incredulously. "But I wasn't feeling panic when the pain started. I'm only feeling it now."
"It's quite common to not feel panic before an attack starts. It feels like a heart attack and then you start panicking and then the pain gets worse and the panic gets worse and - are your palms sweaty?"
I looked at my palms and informed her they were.
"There you go. It's a panic attack. Don't worry. It just manifests as a heart attack sometimes."
Brilliant.
And then my mother called again and told me to do these breathing exercises she always rambles on about - ever since she started yoga - and unfortunately, they helped. There'll be no shutting her up after this.
It took a couple of hours and lots of 'emptying my mind' and it went away.
Dr. Vatsa told me that it was because I had nothing to do.
"I love having nothing to do," I said incredulously. "I thrive on it."
"No, you miss work."
So then my sense of self got completely fucked, obviously.
On Friday, I greeted the morning with determination. I was going to continue writing The Book. Five chapters already and the rest outlined. I got to seven chapters before collapsing on the sofa with beer and moaning occasionally.
I tried reading, I didn't feel like reading.
I tried watching tv shows, nada.
So I just lay there and felt sorry for myself. I was going to have friends over, but I was still too busy feeling sorry for myself, so I cancelled and continued to revel in self-pity, staring blankly at a wall, occasionally sipping on flat beer.
And then I ate a lot of junk food and I went to sleep. (I've been doing nothing except eat the past ten days. Three weeks ago people were telling me I was looking skinny. Now I am being described as 'healthy'. This is not helping the misery.)
Today is Saturday and I am being rebellious and listening to Sunday Morning. I usually only play that on Sundays because it fits the appropriateness of things but to hell with that. I am also giving up on My Book because I was usually stoned when I re-read it and therefore laughed hysterically and thought I'd finally found something worth working on.
But I just read it for the first time when sober and it's so boring I want to gauge my eyes out.
So now, I will stop wasting time, and send my portfolio out, get a damn job, and go back to working life.
Being on holiday somewhere else is different from being on holiday at home. I thought I would love having nothing to do, but I hate it. Even my usual leisure activities no longer hold pleasure.
It's kind of like when someone wants to have sex with you, really wants to, and makes it obvious. And even if you're sex-starved and know you can tap them anytime you want, you won't.
It's sad because I always thought I could perfect the art of leisure given the opportunity. But I can't. I don't like having nothing to do when I actually have nothing to do. I only like having nothing to do when I have something to do and I'm not doing it.
I am deeply disturbed because this week has made me realise that I am not who I thought I was and I will have to re-examine my life perspective completely. I have spent fucking twenty-four years already examining it.
Trust me, it was not fun.
Most people thrive on happiness and joy.
I thrive on misery and self-pity and self-delusion.
So there's a silver lining then.
14.3.15
WOMAN LEAVES OFFICE AT 7 PM, REACHES HOME SAFELY
RSS's Mohun Bhagat calls for change, says Indian culture is being abandoned
Raj Thapar, TNN| Mar 10, 2015, 11.14 AM IST
NEW DELHI: In an occurrence that is becoming increasingly frequent throughout the country, 25 year old Manpreet Kaur reached home after work without any untoward incident despite leaving at 7 pm.
RSS representative Mohun Bhagat called it "disgraceful." "Indian culture is being abandoned." He went on to clarify.
Kaur, who works in PR, walked 15 minutes to catch a bus which arrived on time. The only occupants were driver Nikhil Sawney (36), conductor Ravi Singh (23) and 11 unidentified male passengers.
Apart from Singh collecting Kaur's fare, not a single occupant of the bus acknowledged her for the duration of the 1 hour journey.
After alighting, Kaur walked through the narrow alleyway to reach the 2 bedroom flat where she lives alone. Kaur reports that though she passed several local men playing teen patti and drinking in the alley, they did not glance her way even once.
"Honestly, I am hardly surprised by this now," commented Kaur. "I even frequent Chinese restaurants without feeling unsafe."
In the past month, at least 3 women have come forward to report similar incidents.
"I was wearing denim shorts and walking along a crowded pavement," says 19 year old Tanisha. "My bottom was not pinched by a single man."
According to 30 year old Riti, she was drinking at a nightclub till 2 am and waiting to be picked up by her boyfriend on the pavement outside. "The only man who approached me offered to stand with me until my boyfriend arrived." she claimed.
Last week, a Delhi MP stated that women being out on the roads after 7 pm was completely normal. He was contradicted by only 80 ministers.
"The way things are going, we will no longer be able to blame women for men's misdeeds," said a local Delhi constable who wished to be unidentified. He added: "We will have to turn our attention to atheists and non-vegetarians."
DT News Service
Copy from a spec ad I did at work, I wanted to update this blog, but I didn't feel like writing.
24.2.15
The most fascinating thing I've discovered this week.
Kim Kardashian apparently pees into her spandex.
And this is not a shallow piece of gossip - it actually requires a hell of a lot of mental processing.
Think about it, people.
Kim Kardashian pees into her spandex and, not stopping there, also chooses to share this information with the world.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2948412/Kim-Kardashian-reveals-struggles-not-pee-spanx.html
And they say social media doesn't bring us all closer together.
And this is not a shallow piece of gossip - it actually requires a hell of a lot of mental processing.
Think about it, people.
Kim Kardashian pees into her spandex and, not stopping there, also chooses to share this information with the world.
http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-2948412/Kim-Kardashian-reveals-struggles-not-pee-spanx.html
And they say social media doesn't bring us all closer together.
20.2.15
Three little kittens lost their mittens.
So I have two cats. They started out as S.'s cats but they're most definitely mine now - ours, I mean. Their names are Zorba and Eustacia. S. named them after some obscure literary characters. Maybe not obscure, Zorba is from Zorba the Greek. I can't remember Eustacia's origins. I think it's because his last cats were called Booze and Snooze. He wanted to move up the ladder a bit.
But this is not about my two cats, this is about their offspring.
Unfortunately, as they grew older, for a couple of weeks, Zorba (who pretty much spends his life eating, sleeping and crying) decided to start bonking Eustacia. I didn't interfere obviously, but it's deeply disturbing. Because I knew them as kittens, as kitten brother and sister, and I guess it's sort of like seeing your children becoming teenagers and having incestuous sex all over the house with no regard for propriety.
Anyway.
The result of this was Eustacia got pregnant.
Two weeks ago, S. and I were sitting in our room talking about something, and all of a sudden, I heard this sound.
"I bet Zorba's stuck in your cupboard again," I said.
But then I realised that there were multiple meows in there. And for three seconds, the universe came to a stand-still while I struggled to cope with the fact that my cat had given birth to kittens in my closet.
Well, S.'s closet. (Thank god.)
I opened the door - I was terrified in case I'd see a stillborn, or blood - but I saw three little clumps of fur. I cautiously poked them one at a time. They moved. I breathed.
And then I became hysterical. (The joyful kind of hysterical.)
We didn't move them. After a couple of days, Eustacia moved them to the top shelf of the cupboard.
I can't even begin to describe how tiny they were. Too tiny to even pick up. We left them to their mother.
But I would rush to the cupboard every morning as soon as I woke up. And every evening when I came back from work. And every couple of hours whenever I was at home. The first thing I'd do was to check that all three were there (all the same colour, all sleeping in a pile, difficult to tell.) Then I'd check to see if they were all breathing. Occasionally I would poke them to make sure. And then, reassured, I'd stand there, beaming like an idiot.
And this was despite the fact that they were boring as hell, mind you. They weren't even particularly cute. They looked like blind and ugly lab rats that turned orange in an unfortunate experiment. Which I actually found quite endearing but I was clear-sighted enough to realise it was one of those delusional parent things. (You know - how most parents think their kids are beautiful despite all evidence to the contrary.)
And throughout, I was terrified they'd die. Because, as I have repeatedly mentioned over the years, I am extremely morbid.
And then, about ten days after they were born, their eyes started to open. Beady little black eyes. One lagged behind a little - it looked like a squinting pirate for a couple of days. That was funny.
I couldn't really tell them apart. But during the first week, one of them kept giving me heart attacks, because it would refuse to stay still unlike its sleeping siblings. I spent most of my time worrying that it would fall out of the cupboard. But I didn't want to move it either. So I piled some of S.'s shirts on the floor as a makeshift cushion. And I piled the rest to make a sort of fortress at the edge of the shelf.
"Have you seen the way you dress?" I said, in response to his feeble complaints. "Like it matters."
Later, when they were over two weeks old, we moved them to a carton on the floor of our room, after cushioning it with, er, cushions.
That's when I noticed that one of them had an abnormally large head - although, to be fair, he was larger in general. Just like his father. (Who, I might add, remained blissfully unaware of the existence of his progeny.)
Were the restless one and the big-headed one the same? I didn't know. But soon, it wouldn't matter.
Exactly a week ago, I went out with Jenny and some of the Indiranagar gang. S. and I met up around 10 and came home together.
As soon as I entered the house, I noticed that kitten noises were coming from behind the UPS in our living room.
"Eustacia must have moved them." I said, rushing towards it.
Two of the kittens were huddled together. One of them was lying on its back.
I have had many nightmares come to life. Here was another one.
I didn't touch it. I just glanced at it and started screaming and rushed into the bedroom. While I was curled on the edge of my bed, sobbing and shrieking, completely hysterical, all self-control abandoned, S. came in and, attempting to snatch some hopeless hope, I said, "is it definitely dead?"
It was. We thought that it had drunk acid from the UPS - it had been leaking some a couple of weeks previously.
I brought the other two into our bedroom and kept them on our bed, kneeling on the floor, with my arms around them, as if that would somehow help them to live forever, to never die.
We buried Kitten 1 the next morning.
*
The next day was Friday. I rushed home after work to check on the remaining two, but even though I was obviously nervous, I'd be lying if I said I was expecting anything to have happened.
I went to the carton - and there was the nightmare again. One kitten was okay, the smaller one. The other was on its side, not moving. I tilted the box and the smaller kitten tumbled gently towards a corner of it, looking up at me reproachfully. The other didn't look up. It didn't move.
I didn't have a phone. S. was at work. I couldn't afford to be hysterical. So I rushed to the computer and messaged him on gchat but he wasn't online. Neither was my mum. So I Skyped Zaev and gave him S.'s number. S. came online five minutes later and said he'd come home as soon as possible.
I rushed back to the carton to take the last kitten out. And I realised Kitten 2 wasn't dead.
Just dying.
And there was nothing I could do.
I've never watched a person or animal die before. I picked Kitten 3 up and held it against me. With the other hand I just softly stroked Kitten 2, and talked to it. It died a gentle death.
Hysteria was starting to set in by now. I noticed the remaining kitten had fleas and I went online and everyone was saying fleas can kill kittens. So I washed it as best as I could in the sink (it protested vehemently) and put it in another carton and sat in the kitchen talking to it inanely.
I also started singing to it. Mostly because my voice is so terrible, I was hoping if Death was hanging around nearby, it would flee in disgust.
S. came home bringing syringes and milk; he guessed that Eustacia, because she's so young, had probably stopped lactating. We called a vet who snorted at the flea story and said that yes, the mother had stopped lactating. He told us how to go about feeding the kitten.
We buried Kitten 2 that night, the same day as its sibling.
There is a coconut tree near our courtyard and coconuts often fall in the corner where S. was digging. I was torn between sadness and an unreasonable fear that a coconut would fall on S.'s head and kill him.
Sadness and the ridiculous intertwined as always.
*
I spent the next three days feeding the third kitten. It was not afraid of voicing its displeasure when milk went up its nose. We'd get a few ml down and then it would wriggle away and go exploring - on a pillow, extensive territory for it - and occasionally roll on to the floor before being picked up and subjected to more milk.
Despite all the warnings that came my way, I began to feel I could save it. In my more optimistic moments, I fondly pictured my kitten and I, taking naps on the sofa together, sitting around in the courtyard (away from the bloody coconuts), being best buds. I let myself hope.
On the third day, I noticed it was weaker. It became more passive, it didn't object to the milk, if I put it down for a minute after feeding it, it would fall asleep instantly. S. didn't think it was a bad sign. It was resting, its heart beat was steady, its mouth was turning pink. But for me the fear returned.
I went late to work on Monday after a feeding session. S. stayed back for an afternoon feeding session and then went to his office.
One of us needed to go check on it early evening, but I was too scared to. I'd found the other kittens, I didn't want to take a chance with this one. So S. borrowed a colleague's bike and went home.
He messaged me an hour later, telling me it was dead.
He had to work late and I couldn't stand to be in the house alone so I went to my brother's after work and stayed there until S. and I could go home together.
We buried the kitten, the last one, the next morning. And I cried least for the one I loved the most.
I'd even given it a name, that Friday night, when I sat cradling it in the kitchen.
I called it Muhammad Ali.
Big fat help that was.
But to be honest, I like to think that it was appropriate. Because Muhammad Ali was the smallest and the weakest. And it fought. Really fought. Maybe not death - I don't know what fighting death entails. But definitely that damn syringe. We even had to switch to a smaller one. And Muhammad Ali lived for three extra days. Lived long enough to lick my chin. Long enough for S. and I to glimpse the beginnings of an individual personality.
And then Muhammad Ali retired, that's all.
But this is not about my two cats, this is about their offspring.
Unfortunately, as they grew older, for a couple of weeks, Zorba (who pretty much spends his life eating, sleeping and crying) decided to start bonking Eustacia. I didn't interfere obviously, but it's deeply disturbing. Because I knew them as kittens, as kitten brother and sister, and I guess it's sort of like seeing your children becoming teenagers and having incestuous sex all over the house with no regard for propriety.
Anyway.
The result of this was Eustacia got pregnant.
Two weeks ago, S. and I were sitting in our room talking about something, and all of a sudden, I heard this sound.
"I bet Zorba's stuck in your cupboard again," I said.
But then I realised that there were multiple meows in there. And for three seconds, the universe came to a stand-still while I struggled to cope with the fact that my cat had given birth to kittens in my closet.
Well, S.'s closet. (Thank god.)
I opened the door - I was terrified in case I'd see a stillborn, or blood - but I saw three little clumps of fur. I cautiously poked them one at a time. They moved. I breathed.
And then I became hysterical. (The joyful kind of hysterical.)
We didn't move them. After a couple of days, Eustacia moved them to the top shelf of the cupboard.
I can't even begin to describe how tiny they were. Too tiny to even pick up. We left them to their mother.
But I would rush to the cupboard every morning as soon as I woke up. And every evening when I came back from work. And every couple of hours whenever I was at home. The first thing I'd do was to check that all three were there (all the same colour, all sleeping in a pile, difficult to tell.) Then I'd check to see if they were all breathing. Occasionally I would poke them to make sure. And then, reassured, I'd stand there, beaming like an idiot.
And this was despite the fact that they were boring as hell, mind you. They weren't even particularly cute. They looked like blind and ugly lab rats that turned orange in an unfortunate experiment. Which I actually found quite endearing but I was clear-sighted enough to realise it was one of those delusional parent things. (You know - how most parents think their kids are beautiful despite all evidence to the contrary.)
And throughout, I was terrified they'd die. Because, as I have repeatedly mentioned over the years, I am extremely morbid.
And then, about ten days after they were born, their eyes started to open. Beady little black eyes. One lagged behind a little - it looked like a squinting pirate for a couple of days. That was funny.
I couldn't really tell them apart. But during the first week, one of them kept giving me heart attacks, because it would refuse to stay still unlike its sleeping siblings. I spent most of my time worrying that it would fall out of the cupboard. But I didn't want to move it either. So I piled some of S.'s shirts on the floor as a makeshift cushion. And I piled the rest to make a sort of fortress at the edge of the shelf.
"Have you seen the way you dress?" I said, in response to his feeble complaints. "Like it matters."
Later, when they were over two weeks old, we moved them to a carton on the floor of our room, after cushioning it with, er, cushions.
That's when I noticed that one of them had an abnormally large head - although, to be fair, he was larger in general. Just like his father. (Who, I might add, remained blissfully unaware of the existence of his progeny.)
Were the restless one and the big-headed one the same? I didn't know. But soon, it wouldn't matter.
Exactly a week ago, I went out with Jenny and some of the Indiranagar gang. S. and I met up around 10 and came home together.
As soon as I entered the house, I noticed that kitten noises were coming from behind the UPS in our living room.
"Eustacia must have moved them." I said, rushing towards it.
Two of the kittens were huddled together. One of them was lying on its back.
I have had many nightmares come to life. Here was another one.
I didn't touch it. I just glanced at it and started screaming and rushed into the bedroom. While I was curled on the edge of my bed, sobbing and shrieking, completely hysterical, all self-control abandoned, S. came in and, attempting to snatch some hopeless hope, I said, "is it definitely dead?"
It was. We thought that it had drunk acid from the UPS - it had been leaking some a couple of weeks previously.
I brought the other two into our bedroom and kept them on our bed, kneeling on the floor, with my arms around them, as if that would somehow help them to live forever, to never die.
We buried Kitten 1 the next morning.
*
The next day was Friday. I rushed home after work to check on the remaining two, but even though I was obviously nervous, I'd be lying if I said I was expecting anything to have happened.
I went to the carton - and there was the nightmare again. One kitten was okay, the smaller one. The other was on its side, not moving. I tilted the box and the smaller kitten tumbled gently towards a corner of it, looking up at me reproachfully. The other didn't look up. It didn't move.
I didn't have a phone. S. was at work. I couldn't afford to be hysterical. So I rushed to the computer and messaged him on gchat but he wasn't online. Neither was my mum. So I Skyped Zaev and gave him S.'s number. S. came online five minutes later and said he'd come home as soon as possible.
I rushed back to the carton to take the last kitten out. And I realised Kitten 2 wasn't dead.
Just dying.
And there was nothing I could do.
I've never watched a person or animal die before. I picked Kitten 3 up and held it against me. With the other hand I just softly stroked Kitten 2, and talked to it. It died a gentle death.
Hysteria was starting to set in by now. I noticed the remaining kitten had fleas and I went online and everyone was saying fleas can kill kittens. So I washed it as best as I could in the sink (it protested vehemently) and put it in another carton and sat in the kitchen talking to it inanely.
I also started singing to it. Mostly because my voice is so terrible, I was hoping if Death was hanging around nearby, it would flee in disgust.
S. came home bringing syringes and milk; he guessed that Eustacia, because she's so young, had probably stopped lactating. We called a vet who snorted at the flea story and said that yes, the mother had stopped lactating. He told us how to go about feeding the kitten.
We buried Kitten 2 that night, the same day as its sibling.
There is a coconut tree near our courtyard and coconuts often fall in the corner where S. was digging. I was torn between sadness and an unreasonable fear that a coconut would fall on S.'s head and kill him.
Sadness and the ridiculous intertwined as always.
*
I spent the next three days feeding the third kitten. It was not afraid of voicing its displeasure when milk went up its nose. We'd get a few ml down and then it would wriggle away and go exploring - on a pillow, extensive territory for it - and occasionally roll on to the floor before being picked up and subjected to more milk.
Despite all the warnings that came my way, I began to feel I could save it. In my more optimistic moments, I fondly pictured my kitten and I, taking naps on the sofa together, sitting around in the courtyard (away from the bloody coconuts), being best buds. I let myself hope.
On the third day, I noticed it was weaker. It became more passive, it didn't object to the milk, if I put it down for a minute after feeding it, it would fall asleep instantly. S. didn't think it was a bad sign. It was resting, its heart beat was steady, its mouth was turning pink. But for me the fear returned.
I went late to work on Monday after a feeding session. S. stayed back for an afternoon feeding session and then went to his office.
One of us needed to go check on it early evening, but I was too scared to. I'd found the other kittens, I didn't want to take a chance with this one. So S. borrowed a colleague's bike and went home.
He messaged me an hour later, telling me it was dead.
He had to work late and I couldn't stand to be in the house alone so I went to my brother's after work and stayed there until S. and I could go home together.
We buried the kitten, the last one, the next morning. And I cried least for the one I loved the most.
I'd even given it a name, that Friday night, when I sat cradling it in the kitchen.
I called it Muhammad Ali.
Big fat help that was.
But to be honest, I like to think that it was appropriate. Because Muhammad Ali was the smallest and the weakest. And it fought. Really fought. Maybe not death - I don't know what fighting death entails. But definitely that damn syringe. We even had to switch to a smaller one. And Muhammad Ali lived for three extra days. Lived long enough to lick my chin. Long enough for S. and I to glimpse the beginnings of an individual personality.
And then Muhammad Ali retired, that's all.
5.2.15
Beef pickle.
The thing about this year is it has been a happy one. Which isn't saying much, considering we're just a little over a month into it, and there's always room for disaster.
But every day, every ordinary day, reminds me what a good place I'm in. (Touchwood - I have a fear of being fey.)
But I believe in the occasional happiness rocket. You find one, you recognise it for what it is, you tie yourself to it. And off you go. Whirling and spinning to a place that only allows you to visit now and then. It's a place that looks like five beers down - but more. Much more.
It turns you into a blithering idiot. It impairs your ability to function. And it makes you want to scream. To turn cartwheels. (Metaphorically in my case.) To run around telling everyone that their lives suck compared to yours.
I just got my first happiness rocket of the year.
Because Mawii's coming to Bangalore next month.
Mawii. Is. Coming. To. Bangalore. Next. Month.
MAWII IS COMING TO BANGALORE NEXT MONTH. I'LL BE SEEING MY BEST FRIEND AFTER TWO YEARS.
What is a Mawii? It's difficult to define, but here's an example.
She posted the (confirmed) news on FB. One of my comments was going to be, BRING ME BEEF PICKLE.
But I didn't end up posting it.
Later, while we were FB chatting (in caps), she said: I'M GOING TO BRING YOU BEEF PICKLE.
That is what a Mawii is.
I hope you have a Mawii in your life. Because good beef pickle is pretty hard to find.
But every day, every ordinary day, reminds me what a good place I'm in. (Touchwood - I have a fear of being fey.)
But I believe in the occasional happiness rocket. You find one, you recognise it for what it is, you tie yourself to it. And off you go. Whirling and spinning to a place that only allows you to visit now and then. It's a place that looks like five beers down - but more. Much more.
It turns you into a blithering idiot. It impairs your ability to function. And it makes you want to scream. To turn cartwheels. (Metaphorically in my case.) To run around telling everyone that their lives suck compared to yours.
I just got my first happiness rocket of the year.
Because Mawii's coming to Bangalore next month.
Mawii. Is. Coming. To. Bangalore. Next. Month.
MAWII IS COMING TO BANGALORE NEXT MONTH. I'LL BE SEEING MY BEST FRIEND AFTER TWO YEARS.
What is a Mawii? It's difficult to define, but here's an example.
She posted the (confirmed) news on FB. One of my comments was going to be, BRING ME BEEF PICKLE.
But I didn't end up posting it.
Later, while we were FB chatting (in caps), she said: I'M GOING TO BRING YOU BEEF PICKLE.
That is what a Mawii is.
I hope you have a Mawii in your life. Because good beef pickle is pretty hard to find.
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