Capri-cious?

Third time's a charm! The Fed is depressed again (remember Ivan Lendl and his Wimbledon trauma?) but what do we make of Rafa's capris?? An informal/totally unscientific survey:

1. He can wear what he wants as long as he's playing tennis.

2. Finally, a male tennis player who's not afraid of being a Nike design team guinea pig.

3. Eww... so terribly... gay.

4. Who cares?

Vote now!

pic courtesy: AP

Gay Assortment of Things

It’s one thing if my roomie and I are acting like a couple but it’s another thing if friends start treating us like one. Last week the two of us were invited to meals by common friends. I couldn’t make it to one of them and M opted not to go, either. Then both of us wrote individual sorry-can’t-make-it notes to the invitee with the word "we" jumping out of the message. This is too much. I feel so.. so stifled.
As it happened, Gay Pride Day was on in full swing at Dupont Circle this Saturday and it was great fun to see the different kinds of floats in the parade. With the number of jolly same-sex couples carousing the streets, we (see, just can’t help it!) could pass off another pair. Just the holding hands part was missing. In India, there are plenty of straight men holding hands or putting their arm around each other in affection. Somehow, if two straight people of the same sex dare to touch each other here, people start raising eyebrows. But I digress.
So our friend A had just topped her French cooking class and in that honor, she had cooked... an assortment of things. But I knew we were in for a treat anyway. Her boyfriend J had gifted her a pasta-making machine and she made ravioli from scratch. It’s a really tedious process and no wonder people get the readymade stuff. J and A’s friend S from Boston acted as her sous chefs and did the chopping and frying. There were shrimp pot stickers with a tangy ginger and soy sauce; spinach salad with balsamic vinegar dressing; beef ravioli with tomatoes and olives; and finally, blueberry tarts with light cream. Really good flavors. We stuffed ourselves silly and talked about everything related to food... and recounted how our families have the habit of sitting down for a meal and discussing the menu for the next meal while eating!
J also has this very cool fish tank, but I wondered how can a Bengali girl live in the same place with a shrimp floating around without wanting to eat it? "It has long tentacles, so no point," she explained. Both M and I also stared in quiet wonder at J’s super efficient cleaning abilities, which explains the German in him. What else did I learn? Not to underestimate the collaboration of 3 MIT grads in the kitchen. It definitely produces amazing results!

Peacemeal

Can 4 cooks spoil the broth? There is potential for a lot of tension but you can still manage to put together a decent meal.
It was supposed to be a relaxed Monday night dinner where A would show off his desi cooking talent to me and M. The menu was discussed and the ingredients were debated. We were told to show up anytime after work. When I turned up, I was informed that chilli powder – that essential ingredient for desi cooking – was missing from the pantry. I trudged to the store and sneaked a peek at the “list of stuff” A had made. It included ginger! garlic! cilantro! More do-or-die ingredients. Grrr. Would there be enough time for all the chopping and cooking? A is totally unperturbed - so what to make? Aargh. Did I get conned? Again?? This time M was coming to help, but she mentioned work delays – smart move. Oh, but K was visiting – he would definitely kick ass in the kitchen.
When K came, he let out a diatribe of four-letter words (in a good way) to describe his third honeymoon since his Dec. marriage.. but this was only an adventure trip to the Amazon. “I haven’t slept in 4 days man,” he says. “And it was because of the snakes and bugs.” We told him to chill out... help out in the kitchen... another spew of four-letter words (not in a good way) followed. Oh, the poor thing is missing his wife.
The menu was finally decided: okra, chhole, daal, chicken. Some leftover peas and mushroom and baingan ka bharta (spiced eggplant) which M claimed – “Don’t touch it! It’s ALL mine!!” Then the tamasha began. A’s chopped okras became a joke, I burnt the onions, K started swearing about chicken not being marinated properly. We finally simmered down over wine and Yanni. When it was time to chop chop, the boys did a good job. K marinated and cut the chicken in such loving fashion we didn’t know what to do with it next. M made noises about the lack of whole masalas (which were eventually found at the back of the cupboard) but salvaged the okra and chicken. I made my standard chhole (slightly low on salt) and A made the daal (slightly high on salt) but when we finally ate… at some 10:30 p.m. … and listened to the soundtrack from Fanaa, it was quite good, subhan’allah!

A Hearty Breakfast

9:15 a.m. I am just getting my daily fix of coffee and croissant. I catch an old lady talking to a young girl from the corner of my eye but turn to pay for my stuff. Suddenly, a voice behinds me says: “Do you mind getting these things for me?” It was the old lady. She didn’t look homeless and was holding a glass of orange juice and a bowl of hard boiled eggs. “I’ve stopped receiving my disability checks,” she explains. I couldn’t see any form of disability on her. “It would be so kind of you,” gently – no, liberally – spooning out the sucker in me. Obviously, the young girl she had spoken to earlier had not been so kind. I offer to get the juice. “I have a weak heart, I need the eggs,” she whines. “Eggs are not good for your heart,” I reply and fish out a little more than 3 bucks for the juice. For that much money, she could’ve got a gallon of juice at the supermarket. Anyway, I request the nice lady at the counter to give her the eggs for free and she agrees. A brief thanks from the old lady and I dashed off. It’s probably better to get food/drink for someone than randomly shelling out cash, but I wonder if the word “sucker” is written all over my face? I really didn’t mind helping her, but someone who needs a good meal and a disability check is the homeless man with elephantiasis near 17th and K. He can barely walk to the nearest coffee shop.

Ce'st Magnifique

Overheard on the Orange Line.
Confused Gay: I think I’m going to break up with him.
Bored Girlfriend: Shut up.
C.G.: yeah but I don’t know when I should. I mean, we’re going to Paris for god’s sakes!
B.G.: oh yeah, Paris.
C.G: not just Paris. Roland Garros for god’s sakes!
B.G: oh yeah, French Open.
C.G.: who am I talking to? When was the last time you played tennis?
B.G: Bitch, I played tennis with your grandma. Shut up.
C.G.: So I guess we’ll have a good time in Paris... but what if we get back together?
B.G: You’re going to France! f*** him, f*** FedEx and stop f***ing with my brain.
C.G.: I guess that means I shouldn’t break up with him now.
Speaking of which, FedEx almost cruised to the third round by beating Ascione 6-1 6-2 7-6 (8). At least the Frenchman put up a fight in the third. It could have dragged on but Fed hammered in some aces as if to say, “let’s just get it over with…”

Memorial Update

Sometimes you read about someone like Barbara Holland and think hmm, I hope I’m living a full productive life even if it’s not as smoke-filled or Scotch induced as hers. But even though the weekend was lazy and chilled out, it was well lived. There was lots of sleeping (what’s new, you say?), good eats and drinks (kathi rolls! truffles!! bloody marys!!!), impulsive shopping (that brassiere was dying to go home with me) and some escapist interludes courtesy Shrek and Pirates (some cheesy lines, all good fun).
The soaring temperatures also made me run to the pool. But imagine having to swim in a lane with 3 other men who are all super competitive. I quickly realized that a) it was like driving on a freeway (and I know all about that one, right) and one must stick to the right side if you’re slower than the others and b) if someone wants to overtake you, keep maintaining same speed and distance or else you will be hit. After 45 mins. of this madness, I was all but ready to get out and collapse when some random dude who is just learning how to swim, says – “Oh, that’s it?” Oh, Shut Up.

Feat of Clay

Over the weekend, I did some strength training by carrying 4 bags of groceries over 6 blocks and cooked some pretty decent chhole and met a dear friend who felt I had made great strides in my personal growth. All fine achievements, wouldn’t you say? But all that was nothing compared to some serious tennis action. According to the ramblings of an old, old man: Rafael Nadal runs his clay court win streak to 81 (81!!) matches. Then Roger Federer fires his coach, Roche. Then, Rafa and The Fed Express meet in the Hamburg Masters Series final. Then Rafa wins the first set 6-2. Then Federer evens things up with a 6-2 set of his own. Then, Federer ends his personal clay court losing streak to Rafa (0-5) by blanking him in the third and deciding set. And then, the 20-year-old Rafa says, "Well, I lost against the number one and one of the best in history." What a gracious guy! Man, I can't wait for the French Open! Can't wait! http://tinyurl.com/243s3k

Georgia State of Mind

I wish I could post the pics from Atlanta but of course something is up with my camera. But I did see Dr. Sanjay Gupta, the chief medical corres at the CNN Center for all of 20 seconds before he stomped off looking v.busy with a production assistant. He is short and cute and presumably very smart (doctor, na). He is quite a rock star down there… huge billboards of him all over.
I also saw Margaret Mitchell’s apt. which she shared with her husband, John. She was a reporter for all of 4 years at the Atlanta Journal, which she called the Black Hole of Calcutta because soot from the nearby trains would make the walls dark. When she had to sit at home with a foot injury, John would bring her books from the library but she would finish them so fast, that he finally went and got a typewriter for her and said, “Write your own goddamn book.” She did and called it Gone With The Wind. I remember it as my First Big Fat Book ie. more than 200 pages, before I moved on to the Biography of Charles and Diana at age 12. Mitchell seemed to have fashioned Scarlett after herself (stubborn, pretty and rebellious) and Rhett after her first husband (dubious profession, charming, alcoholic).
Later I dragged my friend’s sister to the Botanical Gardens. We huffed and puffed our way over, thinking it wasn’t a bad walk. Big mistake. Anyway, 45 mins. later we entered a real oasis – the gardens were not just lush and green and full of all things blooming (except the roses, they looked so sad), there was also some sort of exhibit of Big Bugs… ladybugs, caterpillars, ants, spiders, etc. that were made by some artist and scattered all over the garden at strategic locations so you could jump out and say ‘Ooooh! There’s a bug.’ Other highlights were the beautiful orchid conservatory and some bullfrogs that were enjoying the lily pond.
Atlanta doesn’t have the best transit system – the MARTA – but parts of it reminded me of Boston and Chicago. Perhaps it was the old geyser platforms or the marble stone carvings that were being passed off for artwork. But what’s a big city without a dirty subway system? Sadly, the subway also has remnants of the Old South... where segregation still exists and some surrounding counties don’t want the subway to be built for fear of “bad elements” entering their localities.
What Atlanta does have is classic Southern hospitality and food. The people are really warm and friendly, saw the women with pearl necklaces and the church lady hats on, saw the porches and swings that spoke of a lazy summer's day, and of course I had the best chicken and biscuits. I’ll be back for more.

Soul Sistahs

I was going to write about my Atlanta trip after returning to DC but so much happened in the past 2 days, it was hard to keep it all in my head! A few highlights from the show:

• First, a taste of history. Spelman, one of the oldest historically Black colleges for women founded by antislavery activists, played host to a dialogue betweeen Anne Roosevelt, the granddaughter of Eleanor and FDR, and the Rev. Mazie Ferguson, the great-grandniece of Mary McLeod Bethune on race, class and gender. Both agreed those 3 things were artificial constructs and gave some insights into their foremothers' great friendship. One story was how Bethune went to visit Eleanor and was told that she had to take the stairs, not the elevator. She went up and Eleanor took her back down in the elevator and then said: "Oh, I forgot something, we need to go up again." They forgot to have tea :) Roosevelt, a vice president for Boeing, and Ferguson, seemed to show the same concerns as their relatives. "If they were alive today, they would be fighting for the same things," said Anne. "Amen," said Ferguson.
• I met some cool grandmothers. They were in their 60s, running corporations or contemplating retirement and all very passionate about education. There was Patty who was into designing e-learning tools and crazy about hot rod cars, there was Ann a former CEO who talked of how a trip to [the former] East Berlin changed her outlook and made it possible for her to go to HBS after having 2 kids at 22. The word they used often was "intentionality." If there is intent, or a will to do something, the stars align themselves.
• And finally the American Indian tribal leaders. Fierce and proud. And still carrying wounds of the past. Someone asked Beverly, a tribe member from Martha's Vineyard (yes, they were there before the Kennedys) "What kind of an Indian are you?" All of us were stunned into silence. Brenda, the first woman chief of an Indian tribe - the Houlton Band of Maliseet Indians in Princeton, Maine - spoke of still existing rascism and finally, Sharon from a Texas-based tribe ended on an emotional note: "We just want to be included in the conversations. When you talk of Hispanic, Asian, Whites and others... don't forget about us.. we're human beings, too and we want the same respect."
• My media panel went off pretty smoothly... I was a kid compared to the veterans surrounding me and the lady to my left was this publisher honcho who kept plugging her magazine (and i refuse to plug it here for her benefit). anyway, she forgot to switch off her cell phone!!!! ugh. thank god it was ringing while she was speaking. and then at some point she was in the middle of telling some anecdote and it required her to take off one of her shoes - aren't they cute?, she says - and i didn't know whether to duck my head for cover.

Market Value

After much serious dancing and revelry on Friday night, I was looking forward to a relaxing Saturday morning walk (think 11 a.m. not 6 a.m.) with my former roommate’s husband’s ex who was somehow fated to be my neighbor. Angie and I subsequently bonded over random things like the key change to a 16 track song, where to find the best burritos in town, and the ability to speak in a Maldovian accent while picking apart the Paris in Prison sentence. Eez veree good, no?
Since Eastern Market was still quite gutted from last week’s fire, we decided to trek to the RFK Stadium Parking Lot No. 6 for another version of a farmer’s market. Less hip, more hick. Less quaint, more urban chic. After about 40 minutes of walking past New Orleans-style porches and Tudor facades, the rose bushes and the jasmine trees, we obviously crossed some sort of “invisible line” where the gentrification stops. But the smell of barbecue from church stoops and the stares from the barbershops kept us going. We reached lot no. 6 to see a football match in progress in a baseball stadium parking lot. The match clearly attracted a large South American crowd and I was reminded of those lechy Delhi men. Luckily, we managed to find the market towards the other side of the lot.
There were the sunniest of oranges and the reddest of potatoes and the greenest of spinach leaves. It could be so pretty in a cobbled lined street with overhead umbrellas. The only thing below was a layer of concrete asphalt and an overhead bridge where metro trains periodically kept rattling over. We ogled at the produce before making a bee line for the food van emanating smoke signals. But first, a sign that read: “Candy Man’s Candy Shop This Way.” Oooh, that’s what 50 Cent was talking about! More like Willi Wonka methinx... a dollar for all kinds of tasty treats... but we resisted the temptation and moved on. At the food pit, we ordered up our rib sandwiches and looked at each other and said – “Well, here we are sittin’ at the parkin’ lot and havin’ some barbecue.” How country do y’all wanna get? Since rain was imminent, we took lunch back home where her two Black Labradors were waiting with wagging tails. Since the hubby was out, the girls – Java and Laska – had patiently entertained themselves by watching Squirrel Reality TV in the backyard. Now they sat and cuddled with us, blissfully napping. How do you get a life like that?

What Was I Thinking?

As I went through the particulars of yet another gentleman sent by the efficient matchmaking services of Parents’ Network & Co., I thought to myself why not? It’s been a while since I had allowed myself to get set up like this and I kept telling myself: “It was time to step out of my comfort zone, take chances, if not now, when, etc. etc.” Besides, how bad could he be? My friends were already excited about him.
Older? Check = mature, knows what he wants.
Gainfully self-employed? Check = sitting on shit loads of money.
Spouting Shakespeare, showing off French? Check = incurable romantic.
Extra bonuses? Check = enjoys cooking, speaks with a lilting British accent and (claims to have) read Lord of the Rings.
Hmm, all quite intriguing. However, for a change, my mum wasn’t enthusiastic. Are you sure about him? Sounds bit shady. Forget the money, forget the cooking and the faux accent – is he a nice person? Well, if I don’t meet him and try to find out, I’ll never know, right. Reverse psychology was at work here…. aaaaaaarrrrgh.
So on my trip to NY this weekend, I finally decided to see what the fuss was about. Get it over with. Oh! Wait, gotta stay positive right… he could be The One and all that jazz.
Sunday, 1:30 p.m. lunch at Bukhara on 49th and 3rd. It’s 70 degree weather and he’s wearing a black turtleneck. And a scarf. And a jacket. Anyway, we get seated inside and he recommends the lamb chops and the chicken tikkas. He orders up a Scotch and I need a masala chai. It’s 2 p.m. and it’s down to the nitty gritty. The nitty gritty is all about him, his vision and his post-retirement plans ie. next year when he turns 40 and wants to travel the world twice over. zzzzz… what time is it already? Where are the lamb chops? Oh, here they are. Ummm, wonderful. Now about me… I haven’t got a 401k yet and retiring is not on my agenda for a while. I love traveling too but I need something to return to ie. some form of work. Great lamb chops, by the way. The man is sweating profusely now, because duh! the black turtleneck. On top of that, he asks if I am feeling too hot in my jacket. It’s cotton, so I’m fine, thank you very much. Great lamb chops, by the way. I ask him about his other interests. Music? Movies? Star Trek conventions? The poor chap hasn’t had the time to take a vacation in the past 15 years, forget about cultivating a hobby. He has seen 3 cities in all of India and they were all terribly dirty and so, so crowded, you know. Ah well, moving on… did I mention the lamb chops were excellent? I did.
Finally the time has come. For goodbyes. It’s 3:15 p.m. at Penn Station and after a fairly not-interested-in-that-way kinda hug, I promise to email and say I reached DC in one piece. Which I have and I can’t stop raving about the lamb chops. They were great, did I even bother saying that here? Tchah, silly me.

WW II... Well, Not Really

I had to put this one up after a recent chat about good ol' DPS (RKP) days... Meeta and I were in the same section in class 11th and 12th. btw, when I talk about nationalities mixing i mean the kids who were learning the language. the "overflow" refers to the 20 kids learning German who couldn't fit into the original "G" section for the German kids. "F" had the French kids and clearly, there was no way they could accomodate the Germans.
Meeta: what section were you in before the 11th? H?
me: I don't remember.. think the one with some Germans and Russians mixed
Meeta: ahh..overflow :)
me: every day was like coming to the Polish front.. but not.. haw haw haw

Bizarro Week

As if coping with this week's tragedy was not bad enough for everyone, NBC decided to air all the images and the video of the madman's rant. I'm sure they must be gloating about how they nabbed the "exclusive" but networks seem to have a double standard about what they should or shouldn't air. If you want to air the manifestos of psychos, why just stop with this one. Why not air the suicidal video rants of bombers and every other terrorist act. The last time they decided it was "ethically fine" to air disturbing images in the name of educating the public were the pics from Abu Ghraib. You can argue the video would land up on YouTube anyway and if you're in the news business, you wouldn't blink an eye to question the news value. But if the major media outlets even pretended to be a little responsible about this instead of going ballistic about ratings, it would be a far more different, and even more compassionate, story. And speaking of compassion, I was surprised to see Paula Zahn's complete lack of it. She was practically forcing students to admit how screwed up the university admin response was... NYT has more on the TV coverage here.
On another note, Sanjaya Malekar was finally booted off Idol for singing "Let's Give Em Something to Talk About .. other than hair, yeah yeah." Watching that cheesy show will not be the same again. I think Simon said it best somewhere: "He was like a good horror movie." And a quick mention of the Big Fat Bollywood wedding production which has captured the hearts and and wrists and minds of people everywhere. It was interesting to see that both of Abhishek's exes were there.. in spirit.. Karishma's grandma and uncle as well as Rani's current beau, Adi Chopra. No appearances of Salmaan in court or Vivek holding a press conference.

Mid-Week Stupor

Like going home again, up the flight of stairs
And met with the familiar banter of so-how-was-your-day and stuff.
There were the suits and ties and frazzled hair,
That spoke of a day’s work gone by in a fluff.

Daniel was his name and he made key lime martinis,
For the birthday boy’s drink of choice was a gin and tonic.
But the girls gushed over and some got the freebies,
Between talk of whether Gonzales and Wolfowitz were truly apologetic.

In the middle a furry creature was found sitting in calm composure
Amidst the din of who did what to whom when and where.
“I think I’m drunk” was a tossed around phrase of guilt and pleasure,
But the usual lovers of all things malted surprisingly stayed (mostly) sober there

Finally, the troops remembered the curfew – we all had jobs to keep after all,
Trudged down into the pouring rain and the sleek wet streets -
To munch on Julia’s hot empanadas and mull over other birthdays to recall,
Before our knights in yellow armor drove us home to be tucked under the sheets.

Culture Vulture

Recently I went to two DC institutions for very different reasons. No, I'm not talking about Ben's Chilli Bowl or the Soviet Safeway. The Kennedy Center showcased the Spinning Wheel Film Festival where I saw 3 documentaries based on the Sikh experience. “My Mother India” was about a mixed marriage – an Australian woman comes to Delhi after marrying a Sikh and through historical and personal events, becomes more Indian than her daughter thought she could be. Very Sonia Gandhi-type story. Gurinder Chadha’s “Acting Our Age” was about a group from an old folks home in London who film and talk about their generation’s struggles. Lots of entertaining humor, especially a folksy song on taking to Guinness. Finally, Ali Kazimi’s very powerful “Runaway Grooms” which chronicled the stories of two women from Delhi and Punjab who met and married their NRI husbands, only to be abandoned by them in a matter of weeks. According to the film, there are 10,000 brides who are abandoned by their husbands (mostly from Canada) because they fail to pay dowry.
The other place was the 9:30 Club, which has been around since the 80s and is known for supporting alternative bands. So my first time there and a bunch of us went to see a UK band called the Kaiser Chiefs. The experience was complete with the mandatory club brawl, spilt drinks and the random crowd surfer (who fell down but got back up again with a triumphant woohoo!). I could hear a lot of different accents around the place and it was just cool to be around people who really knew their stuff on music. The band finally came on and put on a super energetic performance. The lead singer had very Bryan Ferry kind of vocals and the audience lapped up the curtain call number and yelled out the chorus: "Oh My God I can’t believe it I’ve never been this far away from home." Someone said that song should’ve been on the soundtrack of The Namesake!
Speaking of which, how many times can you see that film? Definitely not more than twice. Someone bought me a ticket by mistake and I had to run out after 10 mins. and snuck in to see 300 instead… not sure how accurate it was historically (did Persians have African slaves at that point? and did the more liberal-minded Spartan women dress like the Roman women?) but it was a wise choice if only to check out Gerard Butler’s very fine abs. So worth the ticket price!

Cups of Joe

I rolled out of bed on Sat. morning with a familiar crisis from the past few weeks: no milk for my java. As I set off with the intent of picking up said dairy product, I found myself instead wandering in to a place called Jacob’s Coffeehouse between D and Maryland Ave. I couldn’t believe such a nice place existed so close to where I live! The menu is classic café with baked goods, breakfast sandwiches and soup, all freshly made instead of plastic wrapped. While outside they have a nice patio space, I loved the inside, too: the freshly painted walls (the place only opened last October) was decorated with very nice art work – not the usual paintings of scenes from a café – and some interesting black metal stuff. Also dotting the premises were some beautiful bonsai plants and a dark wooden bookcase with a pretty decent collection… think PD James jostling for shelf space with Margaret Atwood… however, at 1 pm what won me over was a nice cushy single seater next to a glass top table on which was spread the latest issues of Vanity Fair and US Weekly. Nothing better to kill an hour with.
The next best cup of joe this weekend came from Café Bonaparte. I had gone to see my pal K who recently got married and had come down for a visit with his wife. We had intended to go for Sunday brunch but the hour-long wait turned it into some sort of mid-afternoon starvation exercise. At the parking lot across the street, a few of us ended up singing to Tom Petty songs wafting from the Marvelous Market next door and taking goofy SLR pictures of each other. But the wait was worth it: the crepes were yumm and so was the mocha cappuccino. I just didn’t understand the pictures of Italy in a French bistro... or the Russian waitress, for that matter. But the food and company was excellent.
Later in the evening, we decided to cook dinner at A’s place in Foggy Bottom. First a pit stop for the groceries where it was shocking to see A picking up chicken curry paste as opposed to making the real deal from scratch. He promised it would turn out well and there wasn’t much time to protest as we were literally herded out by K… he wanted to catch “Planet Earth” on the Discovery Channel and there was no way a convoluted dinner menu would get in the way. But we managed to get back on time – not only to watch the sad polar bears swimming for survival in the Arctic but also to make that chicken curry, daal and aaloo gobi for the junta. And actually, that curry paste wasn’t too bad either!
Finally can I just recommend anyone reading this to see "Blades of Glory." Best Will Farrell movie ever. 'Nuff said.

A Special Tête-a-Tête

Maybe it was something about the amazing weather we've been having lately here that people on the streets are being super friendly... and so I found myself lo! and behold! bumping into my landlord and exchanging real, actual, you could even say near-geniune, pleasantries. In the past, I often passed T on my way to the metro or coming home late one night when he too, would umm, be opening the door for his boyfriend. The conversation would be stilted due to several reasons - me knowing T hates me for still occupying his flat (why? see blog entry on "putting out kitchen fires"); T being generally awkward and unsocial; and me silently cursing him for getting action and at the same time praying that he would not say something, anything about the flat. or why I was still in it. But inspite of the banalities, I could still get hurt as it happened once when he totally ignored me on the street while walking home with the bf and so we couldn't even have that little awkward conversation which makes a landlord-tenant relationship so special. More reason to blame the new bf, I say!
Any-ho, Monday was the kind of day when the right temperature met the right gust of wind and decided to spread a general warmth and cheer around everyone. As I was yakking on the phone and about to cross the street, I saw T approaching. "Just a sec," I told my friend.
"Hi there.. long time. How are you?" I smiled at T.
"I'm good. It's a lovely day, isn't it?" he said, smiling back.
"It is indeed. We haven't seen you around. Have you been well? Out of town?" I asked.
"Yes I was in Chicago for a conference," he said (still smiling).
"Ah, well you know M is going to India next month. If you need anything, please let her know," I said.
"Thanks a lot but if I did tell her what I wanted I might give her a pretty long list," he said (STILL smiling. wow!).
"Oh I'm sure she won't mind," I said. "OK, well have a nice day."
"You too, enjoy the weather," he said. (OMG.. still smiling)
I called M and shared the brilliant news - he TALKED to me. what's going on? Daylight Savings Time, perhaps? I'm pleased as punch.. he doesn't hate me anymore.. does he?

So Sick of It

What are the high and low points of being stuck at home with the flu?
High:
1. the bed/couch is your best friend. you get to sleep really, really late or just nod off during the middle of the day not because you can but because you're so drugged up you can't help it.
2. you discover daytime TV. besides looking forward to Oprah, I finally caught up with the loves and lives of Ridge, Brooke and co. on "The Bold and the Beautiful." amazing how they still recycle those affairs.
3. the bad throat makes you acquire a certain something in your voice which in turn makes you call everyone you possibly know so they in turn can make appropriate sympathetic noises and give you all the home remedies they know about bad throats but finally say what you've been dying to hear all along: "you're sounding terribly sexy!"
4. can't taste a damn thing. can't eat much of a damn thing. lost 3 lbs!! best diet ever :)
Lows:
1. idle mind is a devil's workshop... figure that one out!
2. a stuffy nose just snuffs out all sensory pleasures, especially nice-smelling food... which is kinda good because then i'm not eating it, right.
3. made the mistake of going out to cover a Hill event... trying to cough v.discreetly inside a packed committee room is the most painful thing I've done since.. since.. since.. my gums were giving me trouble last week. plus couldn't shake hands with 22-yr-old cute congressional intern coz i would make him sick too. bah.
4. no booze while you're sick.. but the alchohol content in the throat syrup is making me feel pretty good!

A Tale or Three

Before I say anything else, let me report that there are 2 doves right now sitting on my porch railing who are shamelessly canoodling away to glory... one of them is definitely more aggressive and the other is happily accepting the pecks without any untoward complaint. i have recorded the event with several pics.. as you can see.. i don't think they will mind a little paris hiltoneqsue kind of fame. aww, the loveburrrds.
what else? friday was freezing rain here in DC and in the middle of all that action, I had to pay an emergency visit to the dentist. basically I was told (and I quote): "you've been a bad, bad, bad girl." and I need my wisdom teeth pulled out asap otherwise I will be damned in hell. since I had the fear of god put in me I made hasty appointments with the oral surgeon, etc. but the whole wisdom teeth thing in the U.S. is such a con game.. anything to serve the interests of the dental community. hrrmpf. but those who've had it removed say it's made a difference so let's see what happens. watch this space.
I think my folks have some sixth sense about what I'm talking about here. so I think baba felt sort of left out and guess what! he just managed to do something that warranted his presence here. and the story goes that he was coming back from kuala lumpur on a business trip and one of his hand bags got switched with someone else's. baba's hand bag contained: 1 bottle of Black Label, 2 bags of sweets. someone else's bag contained: 3 bottles of Black Label. who profits? your guess is as good as mine :)

Birthday Loving

I don’t want to get all senti, but I’m definitely going to miss throwing a nice party for my mum who turns 60 in the next few days and is finally retiring from a long, and highly rewarding, career. So I’ll do the next best thing: write about her crazy adventures! :)
It’s easy to describe your mother as a traditional caregiver, slaving away in the kitchen, a self-sacrificing woman with multiple roles who does everything to make home, hearth and everything in between complete. I’d like to think of Maa through a series of vignettes: as a 12-year-old, sitting on the rooftop of her family home, legs dangling and freshly-applied oil dripping from her hair, the clothesline behind her as she bites into an apple and frowns at the camera because the sun is getting in her eyes. Or at 16 when she aces her class and wins the basketball trophy at school, she gets a call from the principal’s office: not to be cheered or to be chastised, but to be asked if her parents would be interested in a certain boy who happened to be a relative of the principal’s? Then a stark studio picture circa 1965, wearing one of those tight kurtas of the day and a shy smile, but a confidence that perhaps came from riding the rickshaw with her best friend to Allahabad U. and enjoying the whistles and filmi songs along the way. Finally, the Sadhana fringe and the dark sunglasses and the crowded rides on the local train that came along with her move to do a master’s at Bombay U. She was always cool and she didn't even know it.
But Maa is basically having a party wherever she goes and no matter what the age. And just last week she was having another one at a friend’s son’s wedding. They were the bong baraatis going with every intention of having fun at the expense of a punju bridal party. Maa stuck to good old Coke and watched as two of her pals happily headed towards the bar. As Aunty #1 and Aunty #2 gulped down their Old Monks and JW, the intensity of laughter increased. The good times were rolling so well that Aunty #1 craved a fag after nearly 10 years of quitting. Aunty #2 told her to shut up and breathe the tandoor smoke instead. The three 50-somethings continued to comment on the food, the lovely bride and why Sonu Nigam was still as cute as ever and considering “these times,” how he had not managed to split up with his wife, a bengali, of course.
“We were sitting in one corner and just laughing so loudly, after a while your father had to come and shhh us up,” she said. “So after that I had to look after those two properly.” Will somebody grow up, please?! :) Nah, why bother.