Don’t cry for me, aw-gentle-junta

Well, the votes are in, and I owe a big thank you from my bottomless heart to all those who bothered to vote.

Judging by the handful of people who read this blog (talk about an ego deflator – the number of readers just about surpasses mom’s real age), it looks as though you’d like me to watch Desperate Housewives to see what the other Teri and I have in common, apart from the size of our minuscule fan clubs.

Is it more embarrassing to admit that you’ve never watched a single episode of Desperate Housewives and other television dramas aired after 1998 when your first child was born, or to admit that you've started falling asleep on the rare occasions you do watch TV, just like your mother does?

Anyway, the point I was trying to make - and there was one when I started, believe me - is that I won’t be shutting shop anytime soon. That is, not unless dad delicately clears his throat (as he usually does when he has something important to say, such as “Are you going to eat that last breadstick?”) and pointedly asks me to.

Being lord of the manor, and as such our resident computer fixer, the master commands quiet respect, and I might be inclined to obey him in the style of a pati-vrata woman, aka mom. She might not be the kind who observes Karwa Chauth, but at least she washes his dirty laundry, albeit in public.

As it is, I’ve already toned down the raunch factor on this blog for the sake of my grandparents who tend to mumble purification prayers and sprinkle holy water on the computer every time they log in to this site.

What would I not do for the man I love?

Will you still love me tomorrow?

All this talk of tumors and suspected cancer and watching Five People You Meet in Heaven have spurred thoughts of an exit strategy in my already-addled mind.

Thanks to the movie, I now perceive eternity as hog dog heaven scattered with treats and a nearby rainbow bridge I can lift a leg to while waiting for mom to join me.

Ever since we watched the movie together, mom’s convinced that heaven seems like a rather cheery place to settle in, provided she’s allowed to bring a laptop. If the bestseller is to be believed, the parade of people passing through our afterlives should be able to answer any questions and queries hitherto unresolved by Google.

Coming down to earth, my subsequent ascent up the stairway to heaven begs the following question: What will happen to this blog when I'm gone?

Should I sever all earthly ties and make a clean break or should I continue to write from eternity and beyond?

Get thee to the poll on the right side and vote.

I leave it up to you.

Kabhi alvida naa kehna

The veterinarian running his fingers through my coat straightened up and cleared his throat.

“Ahem, let’s see now, it could be one of a few possibilities,” he said, fingering the bulbous mass on my leg that I had licked until bloody.

Mom’s heart sank to her stomach as she listened to him list medical terms the average person can neither spell nor pronounce. The prognosis sounded grim, especially since the only word she understood was “carcinoma.”

“I recommend immediate lumpectomy," continued the doctor, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Here’s the estimate,” he said, handing mom an itemized list as long as her grocery receipt before a party.

“Is Terri going to die?” asked Anu quietly, as we walked to the car.

“Where’s Terri going?” asked his curious sister. “Can we go with him?”

The 'immediate' surgery recommended by the vet was scheduled three weeks later when there was an opening in his busy calendar.

Meanwhile, bracing herself for the worst, mom treated me the way a first-born should be treated before younger siblings usurp his rightful place in the household.

Lots of cuddling, followed by teary talks, unhurried walks, treats and even the occasional ice cream followed.

“Here, kiss Terri,” mom would encourage dad, as soon as he returned home from work each day. Needless to say, she had to pucker up and lavish dad’s share of kisses on me so I wouldn’t take the rejection personally.

Now I know why they call this an Elizabethan collar

Post-op:

I’m happy to report that grandma’s prayers to the Hindu pantheon worked. The magic word, “benign” was left on our answering machine this morning.

Relieved, mom called to thank the vet and discuss the results of the biopsy, but he had already left on vacation.

I hope he’s enjoying himself. After all, we funded part of his trip.

Au Canada

In spite of the snippy service by a snooty, fresh off the boat cashier named Poonam, the hot chocolate at Tim Hortons warmed the cockles of mom’s frozen heart.

As the warm liquid coursed through her veins and returned the circulation to her numb fingers, mom was thankful for living in a warmer climate - one that does not involve wearing thermal underwear year-round and wiping a runny, red nose à la Rudolf the reindeer.

In downtown Montreal for a week-long conference, mom had forgotten how frigid the Canadian weather could be, especially for someone whose teeth start chattering when the temperature dips to the 80s.

The cold didn’t bother her as much 13 years ago, when she was the lone desi in a southern Quebec university. Mom was younger and a lot plumper then. The average meat and potatoes québécois predicted she wouldn’t last the winter on a vegetarian diet, but the thayir sadam - chips - pickle padding on her hips, combined with the thought of returning to an English speaking country, kept mom alive through two winters.

Things were different on this trip. The thermal layers, gloves, scarf and jacket were no match for the gusty wind blowing in from the St. Lawrence River, and mom could only stare in awe at the petite young girls in Chinatown dressed for a Shanghai summer.

Bundled as she was in various layers of clothing, and dealing with a constant drippy nose, mom was somewhat surprised this time to find herself on the desi radar at the conference. While manning a booth at the trade show for her department, the lone desi female soon found herself neither alone nor lonesome for very long.

“Hello, myself Pitamber “Pete” Patil from Plano. Your good name please?” an invariably pot-bellied, balding guy in a plaid jacket would query, squinting at mom’s name tag.

Variations of “Where from in India?” “How long you been working for this company?” “They pay well?” would follow.

The bolder ones would shake hands, hanging on to mom’s limp palm while she looked around furtively for hand sanitizer.

“How long you have lived in America?” “You came for job or …?” “What language do you speak? Punjabi?” “Which hotel are you staying in?” “How much you paying for room?”

One particularly persistent admirer delivered his slickest pickup line with a leery smile, “Oh, you’re married? You’re kidding. Wow, you have children? Really, you don’t look old enough to be married even. How old are you?”

He proceeded to tell mom about his lonely status in Montreal because his wife apparently didn’t like to travel. “She just likes to stay home with the kids,” he said, waving his hand dismissively, while mom made a mental note to accompany dad on all future conferences.

“What you doing for lunch? I will look for you. You sit with me, OK? You like isus-spicy food?” he winked at mom, as she tried to steer herself away from him and attend to potential customers.

By the end of the trade show, mom was glad she wasn’t blonde and busty like the Swedish beauty in the next booth fending off advances from all nationalities.

Her last night at the hotel, after many days of eating bread, walking around in frigid, sunless weather, sleeping on overly-soft down pillows and surfing through the five English channels on television, mom sent an e-mail to dad.

“I miss you so much,” she typed, hoping that simple sentence would convey her anguish on being away from him and her longing, desire, yearning and inclination to be with him the next day.

Nearly a week later, mom is still waiting for a response.

Riding in Cars with overgrown Boys

After driving solo for a whole week, mom now has a carpool partner again.

Perhaps you know him? He’s Shaggy’s twin, Slobby.

Of all the desirable men carpooling on the I - 10, mom had to land a partner who seems to rate personal grooming and hygiene a little low on the priority scale.

In between driving 25 miles above the speed limit and weaving in and out of traffic, Slobby likes to scratch his head and whiskers rather vigorously, making mom suspect he has a dandruff condition that is likely to exacerbate as cool, dry weather sets in.

He also yawns without covering his mouth and snores loudly when mom is at the wheel. Rather than be insulted by this affront to her driving and conversational skills, mom is secretly relieved that she doesn’t have to make small talk and turns up the radio to resist the temptation of jabbing her elbow in his ribs.

After sharing a ride with two meticulous females who kept their cars in pristine conditions with nary a stray wrapper nor an errant french fry in the backseat, mom now endures the 60-mile commute with little alacrity.

The guy’s obviously single, and is doomed to stay so, until he vacuums the dog hair from his car, launders his coffee-stained jeans and realizes that women do not like to be kept waiting - especially women who spend the entire workday with an anxious eye on the clock. Little wonder then that he broke up with his earlier carpool partner, claiming she was too “high maintenance” and “cranky.”

A few more days and mom will dispense with all vestiges of politesse, preferring instead to bury her nose in a book when it’s her turn to be the passenger.

In the meantime, she stares at the crack in his windshield that’s starting to resemble a cartographic river and its tributaries, and steers clear of the dog drool on the window.

The only redeeming factor in this partnership is that the guy's a non-smoker.

Really, he has no idea how lucky he is to have mom in his car.

Show me the pie

Apparently pumpkin ice cream only sounds delicious.

Aaja meri gaadi mein baith ja

After carpooling the last six months, mom finds herself on her own again.

Instead of leisurely reading novels on her daily commute or catching 40 winks before her stop, she now listens to Himesh remixes, stares forlornly at bumpers and throws dirty looks at cars whizzing past in the carpool lane.

In between e-mailing random strangers on carpool and vanpool boards and considering posting her availability on a giant blimp floating over the I-10, mom has also briefly mulled over the following options to beat rush hour traffic:

1. Quit her job.
2. Start work at 3:30 a.m.
3. Sleep under the desk and go home only on weekends.
4. Quit her job.
5. Hitch a ride on a motorcycle if one can somehow avoid touching the rider.
6. Get pregnant and declare self-imposed bed rest.
7. Quit her job.

The practical solution for mom would be to trade in her gas guzzler for one of those hybrid cars with solo drivers that are allowed in the carpool lane, but that would mean not being able to exercise attractive options 1, 4 and 7 above.

The truth is, the woman is nursing a faint hope in her heart that dad - who’s never commuted more than 6.71 miles in his working life - will turn off the television, look deep into her eyes and say something along the lines of, “Take a break, my beautiful, talented, hotter than a jalapeño wife. These petal-soft hands (kiss, kiss) were not meant for working or driving.”

Hey, a woman can dream while driving, can't she?

Division of labor

“Awww! That’s so nice of your husband to take your car in for servicing,” gushed the women at work.

“Really?” thought mom guiltily. She always thought it was a man's job because dad treats his cars like objects of veneration - even long after the honeymoon is over.

She, on the other hand, views cars as metal boxes that transport her from point A to point B without mussing her hair.

Mom wonders if dad receives similar comments from his Caucasian co-workers.

Would they consider him lucky because his wife packs his dabba every day?

And what if they came to know she even (gasp!) launders his underwear for him?