facebook, a pre teen and same old me

I have been elusive again and here's the excuse..

As I was sitting at my computer, staring at a blank screen, waiting for inspiration, I updated my Facebook status. "I hate when I stare at my computer screen and my fingers don't automatically start typing the brilliance that's in my head."

It's true. I always have awesome stories in my head, but when I go to write them down, the lure of solitaire or mahjong pulls me away. Sometimes I'm too distracted by the to-do list that plays a never-ending, continuous loop in my brain. Oftentimes, I'm too busy doing mom-stuff like reading to the kids, helping them with their homework, driving them here and there, signing papers, cooking, cleaning, laundry, and not to forget the editorial bit blah, blah, blah and can't sit down for more than five minutes at a time(wonder how I manage to keep my weight from falling!). But most of the time, I just have a hard time getting started.

So, tonight as I sat staring at my blank screen, Facebook called me to play. After I updated my status, Toshali commented on it, "maybe because you have a cookie in your hand :D"

Okay, so yeah, I had a cookie in my hand, but she didn't have to write it on my wall, for goodness sake! I mean, isn't there some kind of etiquette for these things? Everyone was supposed to think I was a tortured artist waiting for inspiration, not that I was too busy stuffing my face with choco chip cookies to type.

Toshali and I continued our conversation on my Facebook wall. I told her, "Be quiet and do your homework." We exchanged barbs online as I sat at my desk writing and she sat a couple of feet away on my bed, working on her homework. And you know what? I loved it. She could've worked in her room. She could've hung out in the family room, researching. She chose to hang out with me for a bit. Now I know she's a pre-teen and as such, prefers the company of her friends to dear old mom, but still there are those times when she'll come by me, plop down, and just chat. Sometimes we don't even talk. We'll just hang out. Other times, she'll make fun of me on Facebook. And it's all good. Keeping those lines of communication open is SO important even as our kids get older. Especially as our kids get older. Keep talking to them. And, maybe even more importantly, listen to them. They might just surprise you with what they have to say. I mean, I had no idea my daughter had been working so far ahead in her first year French class that she'd already learned to converse in that language and also sing a couple of french songs. Of course, I also didn't know she'd a whole new list of friends for her up coming birthday. See? Talking to your kids opens whole new worlds of information. So that adds to my to-do-list now doesn't it? Getting to know these bunch of new kids who have stormed into my girl's life in the past year!

Dressing woes

In the days BC (before children) I'd see kids in the store wearing the most crazy outfits and I'd think to myself, 'What on earth were their parents thinking???' Now that I have kids of my own, I understand. Kids like to dress themselves and it just isn't worth fighting over.

So, your child wants to wear a red sweat shirt, lavender(read purple) pants,I'm not sure why anyone would have purple pants to begin with..., yellow knee socks, boots, and a tiara in July. As a parent you have to pick and choose your battles. Generally it's best to save your energy for the more important things such as when the kids want to build a spaceship from parts they’ve taken out your sound system, blender plus a list of other gadgets or when the kids decide it would be a good idea to paint their bedroom door with nail polish. Stuff like The Hitting My Sister With a Smelly Sock Repeatedly Battle, or The He's Looking At Me Battle, just aren't worth the effort.

I've actually decided to stop buying new clothes for my kids. My son wears the same nasty old T-shirts day in and day out. It doesn't matter that he has a closet full of nice, new clothes. I'm sure his teacher thinks he's an orphan. And when I take the shirts away and toss them in the garbage, they somehow magically reappear in his drawer again and again. when he was younger, he did wear whatever I picked out for him. The only problem was - he liked to dress himself and 99% of the time, he put it on backwards. I mean, he's got a 50/50 shot of getting it right, yet his shoes are always on backwards and his tag is always sticking out the front of his shirt. I have not yet figured out why.

My daughter has nothing to wear. Again, she has a closet full of beautiful, untouched clothing, but I guess the clothes are invisible to her because when she opens her closet door, she sees nothing. She, more often than not, opts to wear my shoes as well. Hmmm maybe I could go raid HER closet for things to wear. I'm sure I'd look quite stylish in her little skirts( Hey dont you all dare check my weight!). This coming from a baby who didn't care what she wore as long as she got on shoes. First thing in the morning, she used to wake me up and bring me her shoes to put on. Before I change her nappy, I must slip shoes onto her feet. Pajamas and shoes. A diaper and shoes. Just shoes. And now my shoes plus the rest which she doesn't see!

My son's best friend and a regular at my place, spends most of his day just hanging out in his underwear. Maybe he's onto something. I'm sure it's very comfortable to walk around in nothing but your undies. But imagine ...well don't!

I have stopped blaming parents for the dresses kids wear!

An official evening and a gauche..

I am sufficiently old and I don’t know many things. Unlike Francis Bacon, all knowledge is not in my province. Come to think of it, my province is pretty small. And among the many things that I do(did) not know is that mince pies do not have mince in them but little bits of sticky fruit.

So, I am sitting here at this east-west official dinner and everyone is interrupting everyone else with their travelogues and the tiresome effort it is to get a good room in a good hotel in Paris, one can’t really stay just anywhere, can one, when these little food items arrive and the hostess says, "have a mince pie." I take one and bite into it and fill my mouth with a reasonably tasty clot of sticky sweet fruit. "Hey," I say, "this is sweet." "Of course," says my hostess, "it is a mince pie." Most people in my position would have heard the penny drop, picked up the drift so to speak and shut up. Put a sock in it. Let it be. Not me. I soldier on, regardless of the flak. "Fancy that," I say, "I always thought mince pies had mincemeat in them, you know like kheema, not fruit, mutton or shredded chicken or something." There is this kinda hush situation followed by a crepe of embarrassment and then a fellow countrywoman turns to me and says, "you didn’t know mince pies are sweet?" "No," I say, "didn’t have a clue, always thought they were like steak and kidney pies, only squishy." She gives a dry, mirthless laugh, as if to say she didn’t know this was an evening for intellectual slumming, where did this one come from, what sort of people are they calling to parties these days, gatecrashers!!


"Where do you live, says another guest, you have never eaten a mince pie. " "No, I say, never, read about it in the books but never really eaten one. Come to think of it, never knew what black pudding was, always thought it was one of those caramel custard things burnt black. " Countrywoman gives a shrill little trill and says, "where do you live, in the boonies, she thought black pudding was sweet, oh this is funny." And all these people from my part of the world they are apologising for my faux pas and prattling on about their impressive relationships with mince pies and the westerners are all looking at me pitifully as if I was one of those drifters who had drifted in and shouldn’t have, and I am looking at this tableau in awe and wondering why I should be ashamed of not knowing there isn’t any mince in a mince pie. Peasant.


Member of the great unwashed. Plebe. So down market, country bumpkin. Guess where these
unspoken but highly articulate remarks are coming from. My own kind. They are red-faced for me and on the way back to the car park I overhear this lady tell her husband, that journalist is so gauche, I mean what will they think of us, we don’t even know what is in a mince pie. And the husband, he is nodding wisely and looking ever so worldly, like he was the world’s leading authority on mince pies and had been fed black pudding along with gripe water in Ludhiana or whatever. By 'they' the lady evidently means the western element at the party. By 'us' she as obviously means all brown billion of us, the majority of which she would not like to associate with, seeing as how they won’t be tops on their mince pie knowhow. If it wasn’t all so tragic it would be mind-boggling funny.

Before I got into the party I also got into my stride and confessed that I was 28 or thereabouts when I learnt that Steak Tartare was raw meat and that the exotic sounding Mulligatawny soup was derived from the Indian words “Mullak thani,” meaning ‘country water’, or simply, lentil soup. I had no idea that a scone was a round piece of cake rather than some exotic food item slathered with hot, melting butter. As for a macaroon I thought it was stretched macaroni. So
what? No one was impressed, not after I had mince pie on my face. With pieces of fruit in it. And then I turned to Allyson and I said, so how come they didn’t just call it sticky fruit pie. And I bet Allyson has no idea what puttu is anyway so we are quits!

Home is never an obligation

A house is a house is a house-until love comes through the door, that is. And
love intuitively goes around sprinkling that special brand of angel dust that
transforms a house into a very special home for very special people: your
family.

Money, of course, can build a charming house, but only love can furnish it
with a feeling of home.

Duty can pack an adequate office/school lunch, but love may decide to tuck a little
note inside.

Money can provide a television set, but love controls it and cares enough to
say no and take the roar that comes with it.

Obligation sends the children to bed on time, but love tucks the covers in
around their necks and passes out kisses and hugs.

Obligation can cook a meal, but love embellishes the table with candles and a potted ivy.

Duty writes many letters, but love tucks a joke or a picture inside.

Compulsion keeps a sparkling house. But love and prayer stand a better chance
of producing a happy family.

Duty gets offended quickly if it isn’t appreciated. But love learns to laugh
a lot and to work for the sheer joy of doing it.

Obligation can pour a glass of milk, but quite often love will add a little
chocolate.

This was my 100th post. Looking forward to more milestones. Share my joys, trials and tribulations as we skip along together.

Not the best mom..but a mom nevertheless..

I love my kids. I don't think anyone would disagree with that. I love them more than almost anything. They're the most important people in my life. But when the summer rolls around, they need to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE! My home is in a constant state of disarray (that's a nice way of saying that it looks like the aftermath of a gonu or a phet). And the fighting! Ohmygod, the fighting! They're at each other's throats all day long. I finally locked them outside told them to go outside and kill each other play so I wouldn't have to clean the blood off the carpet hear them anymore. That was all fine until I realized they'd flooded the car park with the fire extinguisher hose. I apologize to the watchman for the river running through the car park and the long red hose slithering like an angry snake on the floor, still gushing water as we talk. Hey, look at it this way, you just had the car park cleaned without any effort. Yay! Sorry (looking down apologetically). I couldn't even get mad at them for flooding the car park because I'd told them to go outside and play and well, they were playing outside. I didn't specifically tell them not to turn the hose into a snake and the car park into a lake.

Now, I love my bond, don't get me wrong. But really? Really??? Boys come up with the dumbest ideas! And not only do they think of stupid things to do, but they don't learn from them! They don't say, "Hmmm, that was a bad idea. I won't do that again." Nope. Instead, they think, "Hmmm, how can I make it more dangerous the next time?" There's always a "next time" with boys. Meanwhile, my daughters and their friends look on in amazement. They're not amazed that my son has managed some fantastic feat, oh no. They're amazed at how seemingly stupid the boys are.

What is it about the male brain? Do they have no concept of danger? Do they just not realize that they're most likely going to be injured? Or do they just not care because any amount of injury or punishment is worth the momentary thrill of flying through the air? I will seriously never understand the male brain. I guess I'll just have to thank them for keeping us females entertained and dumbfounded at the extent of their ummm, daring.

And, in the meantime, there are thirty-two hours and twelve minutes until my house can be cleaned and stay clean for more than twenty seconds, and the kids have some structure back in their lives! Not that I'm counting or anything.

Love - a high or a sigh?

Yesterday morning when I woke up I was still pissed off. So I decided do stop by his house and give him a piece of my mind. I was going to yell, scream, hit him, make him feel like shit. I had it all planned out. I drove to his house and rang the doorbell. He opened the door with a surprised look on his face. "Hey...?" he said, and gave me a hug. Damn, I thought. Why'd he have to hug me? I couldn't hit him then. I couldn't yell or cry or be angry with him at all. He has such influence over me it's disturbing.

We stood on his porch and had a big talk. I can't remember everything exactly but I told him how horrible he made me feel sometimes. How I felt like he was trying to replace me and memories of me with his girlfriend. I want him to have new memories, but I want him to remember old ones, too. I know at one point I started crying and he hugged me close to him. Then he told me that I made him feel like shit, too. A while ago. I told him to tell me everything that I had done wrong and everything that he was mad at me for... So he got it all off his chest. Everything came out. He was on the verge of tears, too. After we got all our anger out, things got softer. We talked about how we liked each other, how he's scared to be with me because he doesn't want to get hurt again.

As we talked, I was kind of flirting with him on purpose, like playing with his jacket strings and zipper and tickling his neck. At one point I put my hand on his chest, right over his heart. It was pounding. I let out a small laugh.
"What?" He asked.
"Remember when I used to rest my head on your chest and listen to your heart?"
He smiled.
"Yeah, I remember. It was your favorite thing to do."
And so I did again. He moved his jacket and pulled my head to his chest. His heart beat even faster. I smiled into his shirt and turned my head so that I was breathing him in.
"Are you smelling me..?"
I smiled again. "Yes. You smell good."
He laughed and asked what he smells like.
"Magic," I said.
I stepped away from him so that I could see his face.
"Do I have a smell?" I asked.
"Yes."
"What do I smell like?" "Good. Really good."
I sniffed my hair, and he chuckled and said, grinning,
"No, not your hair..."
He pulled my hair all to one side so that the left side of my neck was bare.
"Right there.."
He leaned down and smelled my neck, then began kissing it. He kissed my neck, each kiss getting closer and closer to my face. He was about to reach my lips when I turned away,
"No. I'm not going to be that girl again. The girl that makes the guy cheat on his girlfriend. I hate that feeling."
He looked down and nodded. We continued talking about each other. How much we loved each other's eyes, stuff like that. We reminisced on the night of our first kiss. He remembered what I was wearing, what the date was, everything. I started playing with his ear, something I do that began that night and which I have done ever since. Eventually both my hands were worked up in his hair and his were pulling me closer to him. Our lips were an inch apart. He leaned in closer and I put two fingers on his mouth to stop him. He groaned.
In a whisper,
"Come on..."
We gazed into the eyes of the other and it overtook me. In that moment I no longer cared that He had a girlfriend; it wasn't real, their love. But our moment was. I let him lean in once more and his lips brushed mine gently.

But that was yesterday. Now I'm just confused. He's with his girlfriend right now. Their families got together for dinner. He hasn't talked to me all day... I don't think he's going to tell his girlfriend about what happened... and I don't think he's going to break up with her.

His girlfriend: has been cheated on and doesn't know it. Her boyfriend likes and wants to be with me, his best friend. She doesn't know this either.
Him: likes and wants to be with two girls. Wants to be with me more than his girlfriend, but is scared to because I hurt him in the past.
Me: I'm in love with my best friend, but he has a girlfriend and even though he cheated on her with me he's not going to tell her because he doesn't want to break up with her.

I don't know what's going to happen. I asked him if he was going to take a chance and be with me, and he said, "Baby steps. I'll get there. Slowly. It might take a year; or more, or less.

Sigh.

This is not judgemental, this is just the way it is at times. Another attempt to understand the human mind.

How the wheels of society turn

THEY were not on the A list in social terms. More like a B or B plus. Not rich enough, not famous enough, not powerful enough. So, while they were pretty active on the city circuit they were never at the best places. Just second best. Sort of like there but not there, second stringers at best, desperately seeking the front row.

This irked both husband and wife so they devised a strategy to get themselves into the ‘in’ parties. They gate-crashed. If it was a top shelf gathering they’d be there.
Not in the clumsy or crude manner you might expect of barging in but with a little bit of panache. They’d call the hostess and say, "Awfully sorry, we were out of town and must have missed the invitation, but don’t worry we’ll be there, wouldn’t miss it for the world."

Once they called a host and said, "Our houseboy is such a nuisance, he never gives us the messages, no good help these days, hahaha, so sweet of you to be giving this dinner for the visiting MPs, sure you don’t need any help, we could get our cook to make something," On another occasion they gate crashed a private dinner by explaining how they had just landed from the airport and how they are so fortunate they got back tonight, right in time. And they always carried gifts or a bouquet of flowers to soften their entry.

The A list crowd were cruel in their comments but the ridicule was in private and even though they joked about the couple they never really came out and said, "get lost." Over the months the gate-crashing continued and the game took on a new twist. There was now speculation over whether the gate-crashing husband and wife would fetch up at a dinner or not.

And then one evening at a small dinner party for twenty of fairly important people the hostess looked distraught and uneasy. Guests asked her what was wrong but she wouldn’t say. Finally, she couldn’t hold back and she blurted out what was on her mind. The gatecrashers hadn’t gate-crashed. It was way past ten o’clock and there was no sign of them. she whispered. "They didn’t come,""Maybe they don’t think we are good enough for them," said someone half jokingly. And a legend was born.

Almost immediately the gatecrashers had been lionised and turned into society barometers. If they gate-crashed your party you were to the manor born, if they stayed away you were a has been, not worth the bother. The whole ludicrous scenario was further validated by the tacit approval of the giddy social circles. There was even an honour system that evolved in that the true test of your party’s worth and your standing lay in their gate-crashing you. If you invited them it did not count, it was a natural disqualification. They had to fetch up on their own. Things came to such a pass that the hosts would sweat with suspense until the couple fetched up or have a completely wretched evening because they had been dumped. Very soon the A list had been transformed according to this arbitrary yardstick and the gate- crashing couple had become famous and very powerful indicators. If they didn’t come to your party the message flashed across the city. These are yesterday’s people, not even worth gate-crashing.

Ah, how the rich live. You think I jest. You think wrong.

note: This is not about the White house gate crashers - Michelle and Tariq Silahi..though inspired for that news.