I probably kill myself a little everyday by dipping my hand into that bag of chips, but today watching this movie called 'Ishk in Paris' I actually felt I was dying slowly, very slowly.
I was browsing youtube and came across Preity Zinta's new movie called 'Ishk in Paris'. There are some movies, not promoted as much, not really mainstream cinema but can be exceptionally brilliant. I thought this movie was one of those. But while watching the movie I realised why no one was talking about it. There was a risk of a pandemic death, a slow one at that. Millions of Indians would be at risk and so this movie was brushed under the carpet or to be more current sucked into the vacuum cleaner, it's bag discarded into the hazardous waste bin.
Now I love a good romantic movie, ask my husband the number of times he's caught me watching Notting Hill. And 'You've got mail', is oh so romantic. Close your mouth, don't be so shocked, I like to watch chick flicks, well not all of them, but I do watch them.
So when I saw that Preity was starring in a movie set in Paris, which was not talked much about, I had high hopes. And then there she was, this French woman, speaking in Hindi, with an Indian accent narrating this love story. I knew I should've just shut my computer and gone back to my book just then, but hope kept me going.
The skeleton of the movie is something like this:
Boy meets girl. They don't fall in love. They spend a whole night together, totally platonic. They part ways, meet again. Then the inevitable sleeping together, which is now shown in a rather awkward manner in our Bollywood movies; the progression from rustling bushes and roses making out has been quite hard. After that the realisation of falling in love which is followed by an argument and results in one party leaving, the boy. The other party, the girl, then realises what a fool she is and chases the boy. They profess their love and get married and are all happy together.
Most Bollywood movies have worked wonders with this concoction, not this one though. The clichés were so many they should've named the movie Clichéd in Paris. Now I tried memorising a few:
Example 1 : The 'I hate goodbyes' person; This person went out of style at least two decades ago and that line should be banned in all movies all over the world.
Example 2: The 'I never want to get married' person; yes, it's now more common for women to say this, now that we're independent, make loads of money and want to support the whole feminist movement. Also, to be on up on the guy before he crushes your ego.
Example 3: I don't remember, please don't make me go back and watch the movie, the second time might actually kill me.
And when there were no clichés, it was the predictability. Now I like predictability when it's like a puzzle, not when it's staring you in the face.
Example 1: Boy delivers a judgemental speech berating the girl, while she's walking away. Girl turns around, walks towards him and slap! See, predictable.
Example 2: Boy and girl go into museum. Boy sees a portrait of girl's mum, tells her she should also get a portrait done by that artist. Girl storms out of museum and guess what. That portrait was painted by her father, who left them while she was little. If you watched the movie from the beginning, you would make that prediction as well.
Example 3: Wedding takes place in India. French mother all dressed in Indian attire looking very beautiful, then enter the Indian father who left when girl was little. Scene ends with a group hug and happy family picture.
I'm still not sure why I watched this whole movie, thank goodness it was only about 90 minutes long. Some of my brain cells must've involuntarily shut down because they couldn't take the torture that was this movie. And they were probably the brain cells which controlled by ability to shut down the laptop and stop the picture.
Another revelation, Preity Zinta can be a terrible actor. How a girl who lives with her French mother, in Paris manages to speak Hindi, English and French in an Indian accent is a wonder. Like the Austrian nun turned governess speaking in a crisp British accent. Haven't people heard of Meryl Streep?
And I almost forgot, there was this dice. A dice that told you what to do in an evening. I think the sides were Party, Drink, Movie, Coffee, Sex,... don't know the 6th one. And conveniently they all turn up in sequence very nicely, not messing with current events where they'd otherwise have to drink coffee at a nightclub. Of course Sex being the elusive one doesn't show up at all, though the boy fervently hopes it does.
Allegedly, the release of this movie was delayed twice, that should've been taken as a sign to burn up the reels and pretend nothing ever happened.
So now having watched this movie, I can tell people of my near death experience, slowly.
Friday, August 02, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
The Pregnancy Diaries - The Miracle of Birth
If my previous post scared you, I suggest you don't proceed further to read this one.
I think there is a reason why most mothers tell their daughters "Oh you'll forget the pain once the baby comes" when posed with the inevitable "Does having a baby hurt?".
Take it from me, it's a pain you'll never forget, never ever. And how do some girls go through all that again, knowing the facts and experiencing everything first hand, is beyond my understanding. There must be some divine intervention that clouds your judgement.
The Chinese are the compassionate ones, "You poor thing, you've been to hell and back, you should not be put through that ordeal again." Go China!
I wanted to have a normal birth, I mean who wants to drug their baby right? But knowing that I had a very low threshold for pain I had an anaesthetist on standby. And a lousy one at that, who gave me a frigging 75% dosage so that I would be able to cooperate with the birthing team when it was time to pop the baby. If you're taking the drugs, take them right, don't settle. Or else like me you'll end up with a 100% pain concentrated in about 25% of your labour area and will probably pop out other things along with the baby.
So to continue from where I left off, I got the drugs that I was begging for and they worked beautifully for two hours. Then I felt this wrenching pain in the left side of my stomach. Something evil was having a rave party in there. I asked for the drugs again, and by now you should know the response; a big fat no.
Their apathetic rebuttals to my pleas triggered the following:
- I cursed the anaesthetist
- asked the nurses to give him a call that very minute
- told the nurses that I wanted to talk to him on the phone
- told them that the fellow was an idiot for not giving me a dose enough to keep me out of pain
- doubted whether he was a doctor at all and posed that question rather loudly to everyone in the labour room
- screamed my head off
And then magically I felt another cool thing down my spine; they had just administered another dose, of course not 100% because I was still in pain. But I guess the screaming had some effect.
In between all that they had hooked me with a catheter because I refused to pee on the bed; I was not going to do something that I had tried so hard to kick off millions of years ago.
There was a nurse asking me to breathe, and believe me I was trying. All that I learnt during the pre-natal classes took a flying-'the thing you have to do to make a baby'.
I was doing the hee hee - hoo hoo breathing which didn't do a damn thing to ease the pain but made me look like a runaway from the psycho ward.
By then I am sure that the whole scene in the delivery room was reminiscent of the Exorcist. My obstetrician made an appearance, I imagine with a bible and holy water and stood at the bloody end of my bed. The nurse was holding my hand, mumbling to herself; she might have been asking god to save her from this vicious thing that had possession of her hand.
And then it was time to get the baby out. I was told to push
But I had no clue what to do, what do I push, how do I push. I made the sounds and faces that I saw on TV but they were not pushing anything out. Then the nurse said, "bikki, bikki". This was not the time to improve my vocabulary in the local language. I told her, not very politely that I didn't understand. And she, to rid herself of me told me I had push in a way to stimulate bowel movement; of course she didn't tell me in so many nice words. They were all in the local language, said in a tone as you may to a child when they are being toilet trained. Once I received clear instructions I started doing what I had to do. I pushed and I pushed and I pushed some more.
And then she came out, looking more like a reptile than a human, but she was my little baby. So tiny and screaming her lungs out, I forgot the damned pain for a second, but only a second, we had made a baby, a real live baby. It was a frigging miracle!
I think there is a reason why most mothers tell their daughters "Oh you'll forget the pain once the baby comes" when posed with the inevitable "Does having a baby hurt?".
Take it from me, it's a pain you'll never forget, never ever. And how do some girls go through all that again, knowing the facts and experiencing everything first hand, is beyond my understanding. There must be some divine intervention that clouds your judgement.
The Chinese are the compassionate ones, "You poor thing, you've been to hell and back, you should not be put through that ordeal again." Go China!
I wanted to have a normal birth, I mean who wants to drug their baby right? But knowing that I had a very low threshold for pain I had an anaesthetist on standby. And a lousy one at that, who gave me a frigging 75% dosage so that I would be able to cooperate with the birthing team when it was time to pop the baby. If you're taking the drugs, take them right, don't settle. Or else like me you'll end up with a 100% pain concentrated in about 25% of your labour area and will probably pop out other things along with the baby.
So to continue from where I left off, I got the drugs that I was begging for and they worked beautifully for two hours. Then I felt this wrenching pain in the left side of my stomach. Something evil was having a rave party in there. I asked for the drugs again, and by now you should know the response; a big fat no.
Their apathetic rebuttals to my pleas triggered the following:
- I cursed the anaesthetist
- asked the nurses to give him a call that very minute
- told the nurses that I wanted to talk to him on the phone
- told them that the fellow was an idiot for not giving me a dose enough to keep me out of pain
- doubted whether he was a doctor at all and posed that question rather loudly to everyone in the labour room
- screamed my head off
And then magically I felt another cool thing down my spine; they had just administered another dose, of course not 100% because I was still in pain. But I guess the screaming had some effect.
In between all that they had hooked me with a catheter because I refused to pee on the bed; I was not going to do something that I had tried so hard to kick off millions of years ago.
There was a nurse asking me to breathe, and believe me I was trying. All that I learnt during the pre-natal classes took a flying-'the thing you have to do to make a baby'.
I was doing the hee hee - hoo hoo breathing which didn't do a damn thing to ease the pain but made me look like a runaway from the psycho ward.
By then I am sure that the whole scene in the delivery room was reminiscent of the Exorcist. My obstetrician made an appearance, I imagine with a bible and holy water and stood at the bloody end of my bed. The nurse was holding my hand, mumbling to herself; she might have been asking god to save her from this vicious thing that had possession of her hand.
And then it was time to get the baby out. I was told to push
But I had no clue what to do, what do I push, how do I push. I made the sounds and faces that I saw on TV but they were not pushing anything out. Then the nurse said, "bikki, bikki". This was not the time to improve my vocabulary in the local language. I told her, not very politely that I didn't understand. And she, to rid herself of me told me I had push in a way to stimulate bowel movement; of course she didn't tell me in so many nice words. They were all in the local language, said in a tone as you may to a child when they are being toilet trained. Once I received clear instructions I started doing what I had to do. I pushed and I pushed and I pushed some more.
And then she came out, looking more like a reptile than a human, but she was my little baby. So tiny and screaming her lungs out, I forgot the damned pain for a second, but only a second, we had made a baby, a real live baby. It was a frigging miracle!
Friday, June 07, 2013
The Pregnancy Diaries - The Truth About Labour
I've been promising to write this post for a long time now. Just to clear any doubts, I am not pregnant again, I am still recovering from the first one.
Disclaimer: Extreme content, reading of which may cause shock, blackouts and a possible gut wrench.
Double Disclaimer for the Pregnant Girls: Don't read this. If you're still reading this, beware, content may induce labour; keep your emergency contact informed.
It's been about four years since I found out I was pregnant, was a hormonal bitch, ate anything and everything that came my way, grew from being a huge cow to an enormous whale and then finally popped. I wish the popping bit was just as easy but no, here come the gory details. Have I mentioned before that I remember everything about my delivery? And no amount of watching birthing videos and burying your head in 'what to expect' can prepare you for this. For one, 'what to expect' makes childbirth sound easy and never tells you about the bitching pain that is labour. You'd think popping the baby would be the most difficult part right? Newsflash, it isn't.
Let me take you through what happened that day.
At about 11:30 at night, on the 15th of Dec, I felt an acute pain. But it came like a flash and was gone. When you read so much about pregnancy, you automatically analyse symptoms and then come to the conclusion that it is false labour and there is no need to panic or rush to the hospital. It could also be gas and to save yourself embarrassment you call it false labour and stay put at home. Half an hour later the pain came again, don't worry I won't be taking you through a half hourly tour of my ordeal. From about one in the morning (16th Dec) it became a little more frequent, so I decided to go to the hospital, just in case. I was very sure that the nurse would send me away saying it was false labour, but instead I was given a hospital gown, after being thoroughly prodded.
I thought,'This is not bad, the baby should be coming out maybe in another hour or two, tops'. Wrong again! The pains were now getting rough to handle and I was crouching like somebody had punched me in the stomach. I heard a few women in the labour ward screaming, like they were having Rosemary's baby and not their own.
I decided to remain calm, not cry, not scream and have a dignified birthing process. All of those things when right out of the window when the doctor decided to induce me with a drug from hell. You see it was twelve o clock in the afternoon, I was supposedly having frequent contractions since one o clock that morning and nothing really had progressed in eleven hours. That means, the doctor saw that I was not in 'enough' pain and decided to give me some more.
After twelve o clock, I am sure I was in hell and all the nurses and doctors were the minions of the devil doing his bidding, by ignoring my cries and pleas for the epidural. I actually begged for it, I am not making this up. Every time I asked for the drugs, my sheet would go up, there would be some prodding and a curt 'Now is not the time'. I think they were waiting for the time of the Blood Moon, the reverse eclipse, to offer me as a sacrifice. I kind of knew that at some time during my labour I would be reduced to a crying and screaming state, but begging, that too for drugs, now that was the low point.
And then there was this lady in a bed next to mine, who was moaning; the sounds were like sex noises but the labour ward, if anything, can definitely not turn you on. After about 20 minutes of some more moaning she was whisked away to the delivery room to have a baby! Here I was, the screaming, begging lunatic, with no sign of a baby coming out in the near future watching a slightly moaning lady being taken to the delivery room. 'She needs to be in more pain', I thought.
Anyway, at four o clock, after four hours of relentless labour, and still no baby, I heard the word,'epidural'. I was taken to the delivery room and pricked in the spine, but was way too exhausted to feel any pain. Then I felt this cool flow throughout my spine and the pain was magically disappearing. The doctor then tells me, that I would not be receiving a 100% epidural only 75% so that I would be able to cooperate with the nurses when it was time to push the baby out. I thought, 'Oh 75% can't be that bad, what is 25% of pain, should be alright.' Wrong yet again! This party keeps getting better.
The epidural gave me some relief though and I was feeling better. Of course, being in no pain is always a wonderful feeling. Santhosh came in around that time, he drove from Bangalore and came straight to the hospital; When he saw me all the blood drained from his face. It probably looked like the hell hounds got me but I was actually now relaxed and feeling rested, some drugs are just wonderful. I don't think he would've lasted even one minute if he had seen me in the state I had just come out of. If he stayed longer I am sure he would be in a hospital bed being treated for extreme shock and probably nausea.
Now that the idiot doctor had given me only 75% of the epidural, after 2 hours the pain was back. That pain was now concentrated on the left side of my hip, because it was supposedly reduced to 25%. It was so terrible that I thought my pancreas and left kidney would be coming out along with the baby. The screaming, crying and begging started all over again and went on for another three and a half hours.
What happened in those three and a half hours and the miracle that is birth, in my next post.
Disclaimer: Extreme content, reading of which may cause shock, blackouts and a possible gut wrench.
Double Disclaimer for the Pregnant Girls: Don't read this. If you're still reading this, beware, content may induce labour; keep your emergency contact informed.
It's been about four years since I found out I was pregnant, was a hormonal bitch, ate anything and everything that came my way, grew from being a huge cow to an enormous whale and then finally popped. I wish the popping bit was just as easy but no, here come the gory details. Have I mentioned before that I remember everything about my delivery? And no amount of watching birthing videos and burying your head in 'what to expect' can prepare you for this. For one, 'what to expect' makes childbirth sound easy and never tells you about the bitching pain that is labour. You'd think popping the baby would be the most difficult part right? Newsflash, it isn't.
Let me take you through what happened that day.
At about 11:30 at night, on the 15th of Dec, I felt an acute pain. But it came like a flash and was gone. When you read so much about pregnancy, you automatically analyse symptoms and then come to the conclusion that it is false labour and there is no need to panic or rush to the hospital. It could also be gas and to save yourself embarrassment you call it false labour and stay put at home. Half an hour later the pain came again, don't worry I won't be taking you through a half hourly tour of my ordeal. From about one in the morning (16th Dec) it became a little more frequent, so I decided to go to the hospital, just in case. I was very sure that the nurse would send me away saying it was false labour, but instead I was given a hospital gown, after being thoroughly prodded.
I thought,'This is not bad, the baby should be coming out maybe in another hour or two, tops'. Wrong again! The pains were now getting rough to handle and I was crouching like somebody had punched me in the stomach. I heard a few women in the labour ward screaming, like they were having Rosemary's baby and not their own.
I decided to remain calm, not cry, not scream and have a dignified birthing process. All of those things when right out of the window when the doctor decided to induce me with a drug from hell. You see it was twelve o clock in the afternoon, I was supposedly having frequent contractions since one o clock that morning and nothing really had progressed in eleven hours. That means, the doctor saw that I was not in 'enough' pain and decided to give me some more.
After twelve o clock, I am sure I was in hell and all the nurses and doctors were the minions of the devil doing his bidding, by ignoring my cries and pleas for the epidural. I actually begged for it, I am not making this up. Every time I asked for the drugs, my sheet would go up, there would be some prodding and a curt 'Now is not the time'. I think they were waiting for the time of the Blood Moon, the reverse eclipse, to offer me as a sacrifice. I kind of knew that at some time during my labour I would be reduced to a crying and screaming state, but begging, that too for drugs, now that was the low point.
And then there was this lady in a bed next to mine, who was moaning; the sounds were like sex noises but the labour ward, if anything, can definitely not turn you on. After about 20 minutes of some more moaning she was whisked away to the delivery room to have a baby! Here I was, the screaming, begging lunatic, with no sign of a baby coming out in the near future watching a slightly moaning lady being taken to the delivery room. 'She needs to be in more pain', I thought.
Anyway, at four o clock, after four hours of relentless labour, and still no baby, I heard the word,'epidural'. I was taken to the delivery room and pricked in the spine, but was way too exhausted to feel any pain. Then I felt this cool flow throughout my spine and the pain was magically disappearing. The doctor then tells me, that I would not be receiving a 100% epidural only 75% so that I would be able to cooperate with the nurses when it was time to push the baby out. I thought, 'Oh 75% can't be that bad, what is 25% of pain, should be alright.' Wrong yet again! This party keeps getting better.
The epidural gave me some relief though and I was feeling better. Of course, being in no pain is always a wonderful feeling. Santhosh came in around that time, he drove from Bangalore and came straight to the hospital; When he saw me all the blood drained from his face. It probably looked like the hell hounds got me but I was actually now relaxed and feeling rested, some drugs are just wonderful. I don't think he would've lasted even one minute if he had seen me in the state I had just come out of. If he stayed longer I am sure he would be in a hospital bed being treated for extreme shock and probably nausea.
Now that the idiot doctor had given me only 75% of the epidural, after 2 hours the pain was back. That pain was now concentrated on the left side of my hip, because it was supposedly reduced to 25%. It was so terrible that I thought my pancreas and left kidney would be coming out along with the baby. The screaming, crying and begging started all over again and went on for another three and a half hours.
What happened in those three and a half hours and the miracle that is birth, in my next post.
Wednesday, June 05, 2013
Coffee Shop Talk
Just when I thought I'd be posting regularly here. Oh well, old habits die hard. Also, I think this old blog needs a new look. It's oh so coffee shop, all beige and warm and so cosy that you can sit there all day lost in a book drinking a large cup of extra hot coffee that will last you long enough to keep you contained in the chair which is actually a mini couch. Err, I'm sorry, I guess I am in love with coffee shops and small cafes and that is why I haven't had the heart to change the way this page looks. And these kind of ruminations give rise to uncomfortably long sentences.
Do you enjoy your melancholy time in a coffee shop or have had that now lost pleasure and miss it? I know I have and do I miss it. Come to think of it, my daughter and husband are both gone during the day, I can brew myself a mean cup of coffee, I have a fairly comfortable couch and books all around. Why then do I not get that "feeling". Do you know what I'm talking about or is this just nonsensical babble to you. I know I'd be happier reading my book in that coffee shop than at home. But nowadays, that coffee shop is a far cry even though one just opened next door (I'm not making this up) and the majority of my reading is done in the public transport and my comfortable bed which puts me to sleep before I have read two pages, ok maybe fifteen, but that's not enough reading for a day.
One year, which was a long time ago, I was at Starbucks almost every weekend, eyeing my favourite chair while I waited to get my coffee and sandwich. I didn't think Starbucks made the best coffee, but it provided me with the most suitable ambience. It had the lovely smells, the best couches, tiny enough to be cosy and large enough not to be stamped on while the new guy goes scouting for a seat.
Have you heard about the "Starbucks Posers", apparently they are the ones who bring their work to the coffee shop, drinking their coffee and pretending to work. I hope we bookworms are not on that list.
Today as I was just getting out of the mall, I saw the familiar lady against the green background. I know there is no Starbucks in Oslo, but there was no mistaking this lady. I had to make a choice between picking up Kicky from kindergarten and checking out the newly opened coffee place. Of course, I was going to pick Kicky. I checked the Internet once I got home and it was true. Starbucks was here.
Does that mean I am going to be have a tryst every weekend with a tall, extra hot, cappuccino? Not likely, but it warrants one visit for old time's sake.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Running in Slow Motion
I have started running again. Yes again. Believe me, if I had a fancy phone that would track my runs and publish it on Facebook, you would be getting my progress report complete with miles run, calories burnt, average speed and how far I've travelled around the world with my running; Kavisha has now travelled from Oslo to Timbuktu in 18 days, 23 hours and 57 seconds. That's just an illustration I don't run that fast. And why Timbuktu, for one it has a nice (read funny) ring to its name, don't you think so. I'm sure it's a lovely place and all, but I'm ashamed to admit that in my younger days I thought it was a make belief land. I can't be totally blamed though, if we were annoyed with someone we'd tell them to take a flight (actually a "flying + profanity rhyming with duck") to Timbuktu. "Timbuktu" was the new "Hell"; so can you now see the logic of it being mistaken for a make belief place.
So yes I was running for about four months till it got too cold to run outside; I am a master at making up excuses. At -15 degrees and slippery ice, people are still running outside here, I say their brains need to go under the scanner.
About 5 months ago when I heard the couch groaning and the phrase "I have nothing to wear" was fast becoming a prophecy about to come true, I got desperate. I was not yet ready to give up on my gastronomic indulgences, so when I stumbled on a running plan that promised to get me running for 30 minutes at the end of nine weeks, I thought, this is what I need. There were so many podcasts for this programme, I was getting dizzy with choices. Do I pick Laura with the nice and encouraging voice, or Dmitri who made a certain dictator from the world war 2 look like an angel. Yeah, I picked sweet Laura who understood my pain and urged me to keep going even though my legs were on fire and there were paramedics on standby thinking I was going to have a heart attack.
It was almost the end of summer when I started running; of course we have summers here, for a whole two months! My first run was, obviously, excruciating; I had to run for a whole minute at a stretch, followed by seven more of these minutes with recovery walks in between. And if your behind has been as much on the couch as mine has, that minute can be the worst minute of your life. But sweet Laura egged me on and told me that everything was going to be alright; I had no choice but to believe her.
Did I mention summers here are not always sun and hay, there is rain too, lots of it. And guess what, yes people here run in the rain too. I was inspired, and ran in the rain as well and was soaked right down to the last piece of clothing on my body. But I kept on, along with Laura, feeling exhilarated with the rain in my face and literally every inch of me (err... are the Laura references getting a little too gay, I'll stop)
While I was running outside I was under the illusion that I was running like the wind. And why wouldn't I, my heart was almost beating out of my chest, and my legs were just short of going up in flames (coyote and roadrunner style). But when temperatures started to drop I took to running inside a stadium, which has featured in an Olympics (yes, winter Olympics) and is about less than half a sprint away from my apartment. It was in there that I realised I wasn't actually "running". My "running" was at best "jogging", that too in slow motion. Inside the stadium which has a circular track, there were some people going past me more than three times in one lap. Either they were three spawns of the same mother or it was one person just running "fast". Not to be disheartened I told myself that I was still a newbie runner, with extra baggage, which is a huge slowing down factor.
There will be a time when I will run like the wind; if that's even possible, but isn't it oh so poetic.
So for now, I am going to pretend to be the fastest runner there ever was, for the half an hour I run for, breaking my own small records and probably a little bit of the ground I run on too.
Friday, January 25, 2013
Spring Cleaning
So two days ago I decided to do a little bit of spring cleaning. Well it's not spring yet, it's just that I decided to spring right off the couch, in what seemed like months, and decided to clean. Hey I clean my house, superficially, whatever meets the eye and my damned allergies. You can't lie to your allergies, they know when you haven't got the vacuum cleaner running for a while. Also, the couch doesn't lie, talk about truth fairies. That deep imprint in one of the cushions, what I like to call the warm spot, is going to stay a while; you can say the couch is now probably scarred for life.
I was actually missing a few things, like my old phone; which I am keeping alive (barely) only because it has all my contacts on it; and I haven't managed (that means too lazy) to transfer them to my new phone. Ah my new phone, touch screen and all. If you've been an owner of a touch screen phone for a while now don't feel bad for me, my phone is new (that means better), so let me enjoy the sweet taste of technology.
But my old phone is the damned epitome of 'superhero can't die'. Fallen down the stairs, on the road, flung against the wall, which now has a dent, and in a pot of boiling water (don't try it, that's a sure shot way of killing your phone); also the last bit didn't happen to my phone I just added it for dramatic effect. But you get the picture, the incredible hulk of phones, only blue.
Like I was saying, my incredible hulk phone was missing. If you're thinking, I could've just called it and found out, wrong answer. There was no SIM in it and so untraceable. Among other things I was missing writing instruments too. I don't know if it has happened to you, but no matter how many pens and pencils we bring into the house they always, I mean always go missing. Do the elves now need them for their paperwork? Or is there another fairy for these things, who's just taking them and not leaving us any change.
Also, Kicky has been asking me for a week now, "Mama, where is my lemon? Have you seen my lemon?" Apparently she wanted to cook it for me, in her kitchen, yum. Of course its plastic, I am not eating cooked lemons for dessert.
Now if you have so many things missing and a 3 year old's incessant questions about her lemon, something needs to be done. Best place to look, in and under the couch. I moved the couch first, with my bare hands and feeling a bit like Mr.Incredible, and well what do you know. There was my phone, still charged and working; I mean I could view my contacts and set it up as a timer for when I'm baking, old phone = new kitchen timer. Along with it I found, Kicky's lemon, a little dusty but with one good wipe was good to go into the pot. There was also a very dry ball of blue fondant, which was now definitely past its expiration date and not on my list of missing things. Once the dust bunnies under the couch were exterminated, it was time to look into the couch. It's probably a bit like a prostrate exam, which I have just heard about btw, you strip the couch naked and poke and prod the insides till you find something. And yes, I did find pens, pencils, change (there must be fairy after all), crayons, hair clips (which also always go missing in our house) and dried fruits and nuts (something was having a party in there).
After cleaning and solving the case of the missing things (talk about two birds), it was time to get back on to the couch. The cushions switched places, so I could sit where I always sit, do what I always do and also give the underused cushion a "face lift", now that's ironic.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
And Another Resurrection
This blog could start a whole new religion at the rate it keeps being resurrected. Oh, I am allowed to say things like that. I have braved Sunday masses, dissected conspiratorial sermons and endured so called charismatic retreats, the ones where people start talking (read insanely babbling) in spiritual tongues.
So my attempt to start a food blog was not very successful; that means I have been too lazy to write, but I will call it lack of inspiration. I still cook though, I have to, I have a family to feed i.e my husband and toddler. The latter though will hardly touch anything I bake and most Indian food gets a suspicious look and a condescending sniff; sometimes it comes with a "What is that?" asked with a crinkled nose. But meat is devoured devoutly whatever the cuisine.
The last time I was here, I was telling you about my wonderful pregnant adventure. It's been 3 years since I was last pregnant, and no, I don't miss being in that state. In fact, I was supposed to write about the whole baby being born thing and I will. But if you are pregnant or planning to have a baby, I suggest you don't put it on your reading list. I do not fall into the category of women who has forgotten the birthing ordeal or who believes in the divine miracle that is birth. In a way it is a miracle, but far from being divine. If my husband was strong enough to be in the birthing room with a video camera I am sure some of the scenes would be reminiscent of The Exorcist, complete with the spitting and swearing and the rest of the gooey stuff.
And here are some facts for the record, even though my facebook page tells my life story:
1. Kicky is now 3 and going to school - I know she was just a baby when you last saw her.
2. Kicky is Innika, and if I haven't yet told you the story of why we call her that, I'll just post it as an entry on this blog.
3. I am yet to shed the weight I put on during my childbearing months, all 20 kilos of it.
4. We moved, yet again; but countries this time. We have been in Oslo for about a year now and have learnt to enjoy ourselves at -15 degrees.
5. Also 22 degrees is now hot, not warm, hot.
6. I watched 3 Bollywood movies in the cinema in 2012 in Oslo; an all time high over the past 10 years. People change.
7. Ek Tha Tiger was on that list of movies; no, I didn't have a lobotomy.
8. Resurrecting this blog was not a new year's resolution. I don't remember the last time I made a new year's resolution, and I haven't resolved not to make new year's resolutions.
I think that's quite enough facts, any more and I am going to sound like a self indulgent female canine; but isn't that the whole point of blogs. Until next time, ta!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)