Some people are wise, and some, otherwise

Seven times in the last five days! God, this woman is insatiable.

If you ask me, certain activities should only be performed when the children are asleep. Preferably in their own beds. Of course, this is not a requirement, but it’s definitely more enjoyable, not to mention intimate, without frequent interruptions.

You can do it solo, but it’s nicer with a like-minded adult who enjoys it as much as you do.

Now, mom’s the kind of person who only wants to do it on a weekend, once the kids are in bed and the dryer’s humming in the background. Dad, on the other hand, is not picky - any time is a good time, even if the kids are playing in the other room.

Mom likes to dim the lights and prefers the privacy of her bedroom, while dad favors the couch in the middle of the family room.
“Let’s go upstairs,” she’s been known to interrupt, especially when she’s bored. “I’m feeling cold.”
“Now?!!" dad will look at her as though as she's lost it. "Why didn’t you tell me before we started?”

Surprisingly, despite all the finickiness, mom is the one who usually initiates it. Dad would rather work on his laptop or read a good book – go figure! The mood will strike her on a Friday night, somewhere between shoving leftovers into the refrigerator and turning the dishwasher on.

Mom: “I feel like watching a movie.”
Dad: No response.
Mom: “I said, let’s watch a movie.”
Dad: “Hmm…”
Mom: “Should we go rent something?”
Dad: “Why don’t you go? I’ll watch the kids.”

Right, there’s nothing mom would enjoy more than drive to Blockbuster ALONE, in the dark, and stare at the DVDs on the wall for a half-hour while clinging couples all around her decide what they want to watch TOGETHER.

And so it was, with dad and the kids away in Florida for the holidays, mom went all out and averaged about seven movies in five days. (But for work, she would've averaged more.)

She let the dirty dishes pile up in the sink and watched until her eyes watered. She watched until the telephone would ring and jolt her out of her television stupor. She watched until Vidya Balan morphed into George Clooney, who then morphed into Angelina Jolie and Shahrukh Khan in strangely suggestive dreams. She watched until headaches forced her to bed at night.

Paheli made her wonder if the birds milling around the bird feeder outside were, in fact, blithe spirits. The woman looks at me oddly now and has started shutting the door when she uses the restroom.

Parineeta was another forgettable film we watched (what’s with the "happy" ending? Isn’t life about pining for what you’ll never have?) Not a single screenplay appealed in its entirety, but that didn’t deter mom from sitting in front of the idiot box for more than 15 hours.

She was on vacation, after all.

Terri’s Movie Law: if everybody else raves about a film, chances are you’ll hate it (and start having serious doubts about the people who recommended it).

Can the apple fall far from the tree?

It’s a weekly ritual that mom wouldn’t give up for all the chocolate fudge walnut brownies in the world. She looks forward to it with eager anticipation, even though it leaves her feeling sullen and a little irritable at the end.

There’s no telling when the mood might strike her – she could be doing the dishes in the kitchen…driving around town…grocery shopping with the kids…sick with the flu…if possible, she would do it whenever she could, maybe even everyday.

But with different time zones, not to mention a hefty telephone bill, mom has to control her urges and limit her calls to grandma to once a week.

Mom: “Ma, why don’t you just use MSN Messenger? I downloaded it for you on my last visit.”
Grandma: “How do you turn the computer on? What if I press the wrong button and break the machine?”

Mom sighs and changes the topic to common ground like the weather, kids, dads, family friends and extended families. Grandma fills her in on who visited, who called, who passed on, who’s expecting, who got married (“Inter caste only, but what a catch! Bada businessman. You should have seen - the bride was covered in gold and diamonds from head to toe.”)

The conversation then progresses to tense territory. The F word, “food”, is introduced.

Grandma: “What time is it over there? Have you had dinner, yet? What have you made?”

Mom: “There’s some left-over pasta in the fridge.”

Grandma: “Pasta? Aiyyo, junk! Why don’t you feed the children a nice balanced meal of paruppu with green vegetables? What’s there in pasta? You should see my neighbor’s grandson. He’s as old as Kuki, but, appa, soooo roly-poly and chubby. I tell you, these north Indians, they know what to feed their kids. That’s why they never fall sick; not even when they eat ice cream in winter. Now, are you still dieting or have you come to your senses?”

Mom: “Ma, I never diet.”

Grandma: “You need to eat healthy food. You look so sickly and pale. Look at your friends. They’re slim, but they have a healthy glow. They’re not anemic and wasted away, like you.”

The conversation continues while the telephone meter goes ka-ching, ka-ching.

Grandma: “You know, you’re getting old now. You have to start looking after yourself. If you can’t look after yourself, how will you look after your children? It’s winter there, so you have to be extra careful that you don’t get any infections. Make sure the kids are warmly dressed. Did they get their flu shots? Did you ask the doctor about the rash on Kuki’s back?”

Mom: “It’s just a little eczema, that’s all.”

Grandma: “Don’t say that! Especially when you come to India, don’t go around telling people that she has eczema. Use some common sense.”

Mom: “But, why? Eczema isn’t contagious. It’s just…”

Grandma: “Enough! Show some maturity. You should know when to open your mouth and when to keep it shut.”

Mom: “OK, I think Kuki’s getting hungry. I have to go.”

Grandma: “Alright, quickly then, your cousin’s flying back to Texas soon. Do you need anything from here? Now, don’t say ‘No’. Every time I ask if you want something, you say ‘No’.”

Mom: “I really don’t need anything.”

Grandma: “What would the kids like for Christmas? Cars for Anu; bangles, pavadai for Kuki?”

Mom: “Ma, don’t send things through other people. It’s annoying! Just bring it when you come here.”

Grandma: “What do you mean? Every time we travel, that aunty from A block sends so much stuff for her children there.”

Mom: “Exactly, and who has to mail all that junk? Ma…, Kuki’s starting to whine.”

Grandma: “Did you finally find your mangalsutra or not?”

Mom: “Ma, believe me, as soon as I find it, you’ll be the first person to know.”

Grandma: “I still can’t believe you lost it. How can you be so careless? What will your in-laws think? And you had to announce to the whole world that you lost it. What if Mysore mami hears about it? What will she think?”

Mom: “Ma, I haven’t seen that mami in 10 years. How does it matter? Anyway, now she’ll think I’m so careless, she might not send any packages through me to the U.S.”

Grandma: “Don’t laugh! You should be ashamed of yourself. You think this is all a big joke? Do you have any idea what the price of gold is, these days?”

Mom: “Ma, Kuki’s crying. Really, I have to go.”

Grandma: “Fine, fine. At least say Hanuman Chalisa once a day. Only god can take care of you. Look after your health. Take care of the kids. Call Coimbatore chithi who’s visiting her sister’s husband’s twice-removed cousin in Chicago. Next-door neighbor aunty will be in San Francisco next month. She said she’ll call you. You should see her granddaughter … only 3 years old, and she can already recite Vishnu Sahasranamam from beginning to end. Her mother talks to her only in Tamil even though she’s born and brought up in the U.S. I keep telling you to talk to the kids in Tamil. You should never give up your culture. If both of you don’t talk to each other in your mother tongue, how do you expect the children to learn? But, where will you listen? ...”

As I mentioned, mom’s sullen and a little irritable at the end. But she wouldn’t trade this for all the chocolate fudge walnut brownies in the world.

Not even if they were served à la mode.

If a pig loses its voice, is it disgruntled?

A giggling gaggle headed to the Persian Room last weekend to spend some quality gossip-time together.

The grand staircase, whispering fountains, well-heeled patrons, a one-hour wait and a ceiling painted to resemble the night sky had charmed mom on her first visit to the restaurant three years ago. Naïvely equating a decadent ambience with good food, she was sorely disappointed to discover that despite sharing a continent, Iranian cuisine bore no resemblance to Indian cuisine, and the vegetarian dishes on the red meat-dominated menu were clearly an afterthought.

Mom headed out with the girls in a spirit of camaraderie despite a severe bout of laryngitis; she figured she wouldn’t be able to get a word in edgeways, anyway.

The evening started out pleasantly enough. The group was led to a semi-private room where they presumed they could prate in peace while delicately sipping on water with no ice and chewing on complimentary Iranian nan.

As soon as the women warmed their seats, however, about 25 raucous Iranian men, ranging in looks from ugly to ugliest, occupied the table opposite and proceeded to sing and chant Masha Allah, rather loudly, every time they tired of leering at the women.

To make matters worse, the dimwitted Iranian waiter messed up their order.
“Um…, excuse me, we ordered the eggplant with no meat,” said the women.
“But this is no. 36,” he insisted.
“But it said no meat on the menu,” returned the women.
“Well, then, you should’ve asked for 36-A,” he replied sulkily, before taking the dish back to the kitchen.

After 10 minutes of eating tasteless skewered vegetables served on a bed of bland basmati rice, somebody flagged down Mr. Tube Light to ask him when the dish would be ready.
“What dish?” he asked, with a blank stare.

When the eggplant finally did arrive, it tasted as though it had been simmering all day long in a pot with an old leather boot thrown in for seasoning. (Either that, or the broth had been laced with a sizable quart of cow's urine.)

The table was quick to refuse when the waiter returned to inquire about dessert. The women did, however, dip into the candy bowl at the counter on the way out. Sucking on the hard, sticky sweets loosened a few tongues and the ride back to their sleepy suburb was peppered with salacious stories and risqué revelations.

If only mom could talk – what tales she’d tell.

Cold nose, warm comfort

Mom’s been weepy lately.

“With good reason,” she snaps, if you ask her why.
(Probably that time of the month, if you ask me why.)

First, a co-worker lost his teenager to an asthma attack on Thanksgiving Day. The boy died peacefully in his sleep while his parents slept in the other room.

Second, Chippy, her uncle’s dog and a family favorite, passed on. He brightened his humans’ lives for 14 long years and eventually became too weak to move. The family made the painful decision last week to end his misery.

Mom hugged me to her chest and bawled like a baby after she spoke with them. She’s worried that I’m approaching my sunset years and hopes she never has to make such a painful, gut-wrenching decision. I licked her salty face and let her hold me until she calmed down.

It could be something as personal as the death of a family member, or something as remote as an article about a molested child in Russia, or even a picture of an abused animal in a laboratory – there’s no telling what can upset mom and when.

When her heart is heavy, she'll come sit by me on the carpet, hold my silky head in her hands and press her forehead to mine. The tears will flow, quietly at first, until the reservoir bursts and heaving sobs rack her entire body, almost threatening to spill out her soul.

I listen quietly as she buries her hands in my fur and empties her grief. We don’t talk – there’s no need for words.

Some time later, she'll wipe her red eyes and snotty nose on the wadded-up tissues strewn around us. My neck is damp by now, but I don’t move. Her breathing gradually starts to even, as she absently strokes my ears.

We sit together in the stillness, until a low hum in the garage signals the arrival of the children. The garage door is thrown open and the brats burst into the house with their cheerful banter. I’m quickly forgotten as the children spy mom excitedly and sweep her away in their happy prattle.

I give myself a good shake and rush to join the familial brood, all the while staying close to mom – just in case she needs to stroke my ears again.

Since you asked ...

In what will undoubtedly be the last show of solidarity, the AZCool humans got together this past weekend to bid adieu to cherished A-list members Bineet - Sarita, a couple that got along famously with everybody, and one that everybody will sorely miss.

The evening started out with promise: people arrived within the hour with arms laden with food; the barkeepers dutifully poured shots for everyone; and, Idris-Rajesh's combined bawa bawdry reduced the audience to hysterics.

For perhaps the first and last time, even wallflowers shook a leg. Consenting or not, couples were hoisted on a bar stool to perform, and in one case, exchange a rather quick kiss, while the DJ thundered in the background and threatened to rupture eardrums.

'Twas a night of revelry tinged with sadness, however. Sure, people danced; they got drunk; somebody even threw up, but the gay abandon of April 9 was absent this time. Certain people were tipsy-happy, but the majority moped as they contemplated social lives and future gatherings bereft of Bineet's bonhomie.

Unlike the last occasion, nobody was drunk enough (the lights weren't low enough) to throw sexual caution to the winds. People pawed their own spouses; um ... except for that stray hand that lingered on mom's derrière.


Hey, dude! if it happens again, you'll discover that my bite is worse than my bark.

Sorry, wrong number

I'm in a foul mood; I don't feel like writing any more.

I've been told by someone I love deeply (but don't always see eye-to-eye with) that it's in bad taste to wash the family's dirty linen in public. Seriously, I didn't think my folks were that dysfunctional, and the idea was not to malign them or their friends; but, I've been told to "behave" from now on and think about consequences before I put paw to keypad.

So, I'm just going to crawl under a table for the time being and lick my chops. I'm not sure when my mood will lift, if it does at all.

Drama in High Heels

Rustling silks and politics. Heavy jewelry and mud slinging. Air kisses and name-calling. Manicured nails and double dealing. Christian Dior and chicanery … no, it’s not the latest saas-bahu offering on Zee TV, but local shenanigans playing out before my very eyes.

As surely as the sun rises every morning, throw a motley group of women together and watch as they pretend to get along for the sake of propriety, all the while baring their claws behind their backs, waiting to scratch each other’s eyes out.

Even after 10 years, mom hasn’t learned her lesson. With alarming naïveté, she continues to extend dinner invitations and arrange potlucks that bring mortal enemies face to face.

A can’t stand B; B hates C; A and C hang out with D but not E and F; E pretends to like B outwardly, but hates her inwardly; G and A are best friends this week, but there’s no telling how the tide will turn next week; D likes E and F but doesn’t want A to know about it; and, F’s husband wonders why everybody can’t just get along.

This past weekend mom issued an open house to her friends under the mistaken impression that nobody got together for Diwali. (Apparently, private gatherings are the norm these days.) When it’s a group invitation, participation usually depends on the guest list. Some will immediately decline, others will wait to see if their friends are attending, and then there are those who will keep the host hanging until the last minute with their maybes and call at the nth hour to decline saying their kid is sick.

It doesn’t matter if one family shows up or 10, mom turns into a harridan the day of the party and makes the entire household miserable. She starts cracking her whip at dawn, insisting everybody join in her cleaning crusade instead of relaxing with the morning paper and a cuppa. It is only when the house fills with the aroma of good food, and all the invitees congregate, that mom starts to unwind and go with the flow.

The last get-together served as a precursor to the next, eagerly anticipated gathering. Furious planning was underway to make the next party a memorable one. Tempers flared, a few manicured nails were almost ready to scratch, votes were taken, polls were conducted, opinions were aired and a consensus was reached about the menu.

To make things easier when it’s time to bid my humans adieu, I’ve helpfully compiled a list of mom’s favorite delicacies to prepare at their farewell party (if they ever leave, and if they’re ever honored with a party, that is).

In no particular order, mom (and, by extension, dad) would like Shivani’s paneer makhanwala; Shruti’s mom’s dal-baati and ginger tea; Gauri’s fruit crisp; Sandhya’s paal payasam and her mom's deep-fried modaks (among other things); Manisha’s mother-in-law’s sponge cake; Viveka’s nankatais and tomato saar; Vijaya’s red curry and her dad’s badam halwa; Zeenat’s bruschetta; Sucheta’s chaat creations; Ashwini’s Maharashtrian dal; and, Nandini’s white lasagna and Thai soup (among other things).

And, please, hold the idlis.

The Coffee-Mate Crook

Boy, oh boy, is mom pissed!

Some cheapskate at work has been dipping into her liquid Coffee-Mate. Despite a sign on the refrigerator door in the break room requesting people not to steal food, a cretinous coworker managed to consume a 32oz. bottle of mom’s caffeine creamer in less than a week. As if that’s not bad enough, the pilferer stuck the empty bottle back in the refrigerator.

When the woman in the next cubicle was missing money from her desk, mom thought the cleaning crew was to blame. Now, she’s inclined to believe there’s a serious klepto on the loose on her floor; someone who doesn’t balk at filching food or drink.

Mom’s hit upon a plan to deter the Coffee-Mate crook. She’s going to stock the refrigerator with a feeding bottle filled with Coffee-Mate but labeled BREAST MILK. If the bottle’s still tampered with, mom’s going to presume the culprit is a perverted male colleague.

She hopes the feeding bottle will be left alone because, frankly, she has no other bright ideas.

Perhaps you can help.

See. Sea. Si.

The family went to Rocky Point last weekend - without me, of course. I’m rarely included in these family outings because most places are openly hostile to pets. I say if children are allowed in establishments, so should dogs. We’re less messy, better behaved, cuter and don’t need to be force-fed or rocked to sleep.

Most relaxing family vacations in this household begin with the humans arguing right before they leave home. This road trip was no different. Dad blamed mom for delaying the trip by two hours and mom retorted by raking up past issues that had absolutely nothing to do with the current trip. So, by the time they pulled out of the driveway, the humans were definitely NOT talking to each other.

They finally made up somewhere along state route 85, partly because sulking takes too much energy, and partly because the scenery was so boring there was nothing else to do.

After a pit stop in Ajo with nary a McDonald’s or a Burger King in sight, the humans crossed over into Mexico and felt they had landed in a dusty shantytown in India. Except for the absence of cows and pigs on the streets (local delicacies, no doubt), the countryside was similarly littered with reckless drivers, potholed roads, festering garbage, unfinished homes, mangy dogs and street vendors.

As only my humans would, they consciously planned a vacation in a seaside resort and were then befuddled at the lack of vegetarian choices in local restaurants. “No meat? No problem; we have fish,” offered a helpful waiter at a restaurant touting choice seafood, where the humans ended up paying top dollars for chips and salsa, lard-coated chile poblanos and cheesy enchiladas.

Persnickety mom didn’t favor the roadside taquerias either, where juicy cuts of beef sizzled alongside her cheese quesadilla and lard seemed to be the cooking medium of the day.

Life was good on the beach, though. Despite the name Rocky Point, the beach was sandy and clean. The upscale resort, with half-naked Caucasians lolling on the beach, reminded mom of past holidays in Goa and Mahabalipuram. All in all, the view was spectacular, the sea was calm, the company was delightful, the cheese-filled food was filling (albeit constipating), the kids were happy, the weather was perfect and Viveka’s nankatais were delicious.

What a pity I wasn’t there to enjoy a single thing.

Divine intervention needed

Apparently, it was Diwali yesterday. But, in this household, it seemed like a regular day. Sure, the humans exchanged Diwali wishes and I smelt some scalded kheer in the air at night, but the occasion lacked festivity.

Compared with Halloween excitement the night before - costume planning, preparation, trick or treating, candy gorging - Diwali seemed more like an afterthought.

Grandma religiously calls mom every major festival to remind her to impart her heritage to the kids. But my humans aren’t very religious people. They’re too darned lazy to actively invoke god other than when they’re in trouble. Usually, guilt drives them to the temple … and, on occasion, good food.

Despite her upbringing in a traditional Hindu household, mom’s always felt claustrophobic in temples, especially in the inner sanctum. With no ventilation, the chamber usually smells of ripe coconuts, musty silk, flatulence and jasmine flowers. The windowless inner sanctums are burglar-proof, but not critter-proof; so, while the people around her are seemingly lost in a trance, mom passes time checking out scurrying rats out of the corner of her eye, or nervously avoiding the yellow geckos milling around the tube light.

Of late, however, mom’s been invoking the gods fervently because she’s misplaced her mangalsutra. She’s looked everywhere and is praying that it will somehow materialize in her drawer before grandma gets to know about it. (This 30-something woman is still afraid of her mom’s disapproval.) Grandma will be upset, not because mom lost her mangalsutra, but because she took it off.

Like Macha, one of our friends, looks high and low for a sacred thread before he pays a visit to his folks in Madras, mom will have to improvise the next time she goes to India, or risk a half-hour lecture on tradition, sanctity and sheer carelessness as soon as she lands.

I recommend she call Ajmeri Baba.

Couldn't rise to the occasion

It’s been exactly a month since mom started working and disrupted not one, not two, but four innocent lives. Starting with the youngest member of this household, to the wisest one – moi – our smooth lives have been dramatically altered because the woman feels she can do more in life than cook and pick up after everybody. (Since when is housework not fulfilling enough?)

To mark her one-month work anniversary, mom lunched at a nearby Indonesian restaurant, topping it off with a slice of cake at the Better than Sex Cake Café. Mom’s been intrigued by the name for a while, but could never take her family there, because, how on earth do you explain sex to a seven-year-old?

Anu: “What does ‘sex’ mean?
Mom: “Ask Appa.”
Dad: “Ask Amma.”

At this rate, the poor child might grow up associating sex with cake. Imagine if, at the next birthday party, once the samosas and sandwiches have been consumed, Anu loudly asks, “Is it time for sex, yet?”

Anyway, mom brought some cake home for the kids to share and Kuki helpfully dropped it on the floor, so, for a change, I had my cake and ate it too.

I bet you want to know if the gâteau really lives up to its name. All I can say is, I don’t know who the owner is having sex with, but I’ve definitely had better ... cake, I mean.

In this case, I have to say, abstinence is better than s-excess.

Rock-a-bye, little cribby (and don't come back!)

I have bad news and good news.

The bad news is that Bineet and Sarita are going home.

The good news is that they’re taking our baby crib with them. The humans can finally be rid of a $300 investment that the kids in this household never used, not even once.

I still remember the day dad lugged the honey-oak crib upstairs to the master bedroom, seven years ago, and assembled it one steamy afternoon, while a heavily-pregnant mom hovered over him excitedly. She disinfected the new crib with baby wipes, layetted it in Elmo bedding, hung a baby mobile and stared at it lovingly for the next month or so, willing the baby to be born.

Baby arrived and hated the crib. Mom thought it was the Elmo bedding and replaced it.

Baby still cried.

Mom thought it was the location. She made dad dismantle the crib and reassemble it in the nursery this time.

Baby still cried.

Mom made dad dismantle it again and reassemble it in the master bedroom, this time moving the crib to the other side of the bed.

Baby still cried. Dad refused to dismantle the crib again.

The baby bed stood, empty and unclaimed, in the master bedroom for the next few years, rapidly becoming an eye-sore and a serious toe-stubber in the middle of the night, while the marital bed morphed into a family bed.

For a while, the crib relocated to another friend's house, but was back again when our family expanded. The new baby reacted to the crib in much the same way her brother did - only more vociferously.

The crib relocated to another friend's house a few months later, and finally made its way to Bineet and Sarita’s home, from where it’s about to relocate again – this time across the seven seas - to Bangalore.

I think it’s safe to presume the humans aren’t planning any more family additions. And if they do, this time they’ll bypass the darling crib with the must-have layette at the local baby superstore and wisely invest the money in Kimberly-Clark shares.

Live and let live

For the first time in her life, mom bit into a chicken sandwich today.

By accident, might I hasten to add, lest you do a double take.

Looking forward to a company luncheon, mom skipped post-breakfast, pre-lunch snacking at her desk and sat through long-winded speeches by movers and shakers of the company in the conference room, all the while eyeing the spread from Wildflower Bread Company on the table in the background.

She patiently stood in line, stoically bypassed the bags of potato chips, Coke cans and cheesecake slices and carefully selected a sandwich that certainly looked vegetarian with sprouts and salad leaves sticking out of it. She took one bite and bit into something chewy - almost paneer-like – only tasteless, and definitely lifeless.

Mom reacted as though she had found a finger in a bowl of sambhar at a restaurant. Not knowing where the restroom was located and not wanting to hunt for it with the offending material in her mouth, she threw mealtime etiquette aside and proceeded to dry heave into her paper towel in front of her co-workers.

Back in line again, this time, she did full justice to the potato chips and cheesecake. In fact, she spent the rest of the day ingesting anything she could lay her hands on to remove the meat after-taste in her mouth.

As an impressionable child, mom thought if she ate meat, the animal might somehow mysteriously come to life in her stomach and try to tear out of there. Remember the movie, Aliens?

Older (but not necessarily wiser), she now classifies meat in the same category as coffee, alcohol, cigarettes and karela: Consume at your own risk!

How to Care for a Sick Child 101

Kuki, poor baby, is under the weather.

It started last weekend with a runny nose, high fever and a nasty ear infection, and just when we thought she was better, Kuki is sounding like an Alaskan baby seal this weekend.

The humans had to take time off from work to watch her last week. Mom would leave in the morning before everybody awoke, return at lunchtime, only to have dad dash off to work, often until midnight.

Contact between the caregivers was limited to garage talk: “Temperature's about 103.2. Gave her Motrin an hour ago. She hasn’t eaten anything. Bye, see you later!”

As expected, mom’s now racked with guilt. The woulda, coulda, shoulda kind of person that she is, she blames herself for leaving the kids in the care of virtual strangers in a daycare center, exposing them to germs and goodness know what else. And look at how much weight Kuki's lost in these three weeks - the poor child's starving because her mom's not there to spoon-feed her. And, of course, she's going to get fired if she takes any more time off.

So, how exactly does this woman handle a crisis? She does what any self-respecting, mature, normal, 30-something desi would do - she goes crying to her mom.

"How soon can you get here?" she whines into the phone, knowing fully well that grandma will be torn between leaving grandpa to fend for himself for the next six months (he gets bored here in less than a week,) and lending her daughter a helping hand.

"That's why I keep telling you to move back to India," says grandma. "Or at least move to Singapore/Malaysia if you still want to live abroad."

Not a bad idea.

When mom becomes CEO of the company, she'll seriously consider it.

Aiyo Rama!

Bird flu is coming! Gracious, goodness me, the sky is falling! The sky is falling!

The local newspaper featured the avian pandemic as the lead story a few days ago, so I guess the situation is grim. Usually, our daily rag has its head buried in the sand, like most American media outlets, and prints world news as an afterthought.

But this bird flu is beginning to worry me because I’m a serious bird lover. I especially fancy sparrows. I know, most people like pretty, colorful birds like macaws and toucans, or talking parrots, but I dig puffy, petite sparrows. They’re compact, juicy and the right size for a quick snack.

Mom grosses out when I pick up dead birds from the bushes on my daily walks. She shudders when she hears crunching bones and sees a feather or two sticking out of my mouth.

I feel sorry for this woman. She doesn’t know what she’s missing. I mean, how long can you chew cud without going crazy?

Recently, Ms. High Horse found herself in a tight spot in the deli aisle at Albertsons. Curious Kuki, who’s going through the “Why?” phase, dropped some prepackaged salami into the grocery cart. As mom scurried to put it away, Kuki demanded to know why.

Mom: “Because we don’t need it.”
Kuki: “Why?”
Mom: “We just don’t.”
Kuki: “Why?”
Mom: “We don’t eat meat.”
Kuki: “Why?”
Mom: “Kuki…let’s go!”
Kuki: “Why, Amma? Too yucky?”

Of course, mom didn’t want to launch into an anti-meat diatribe in the deli section of a grocery store, especially in front of a 2-year-old whose immediate follow-up question would’ve been, “Why?”

So, she stood mutely by as Kuki retrieved the salami and walked away, hugging the packet to her chest.

Hey, it could've been a lot worse. At least the scene didn't play out in the birth control aisle - over a box of condoms.

Puppy love

Looks like there's another missing mutt in the neighborhood. The lamp posts and stop signs are plastered with notices about a lost chocolate lab.

Poor thing! It's so easy to get lost among these cookie-cutter houses, even for a dog. For all you know, that poor pooch could be lost in the Indian reservation bordering our community, or worse, he could already be a part of the asphalt.

It's no fun being homeless, take it from me. I'm not sure which is worse - the hungry gnawing in your belly or the fact that nobody gives a rat's patootie about you. It's like being in a roomful of people and knowing that nobody will miss you if you were to walk away.

Now, mom would beg to disagree, but I chose her to spend my life with. She believes it was destiny - the stars aligned and our paths crossed at a time when she was yearning for some unconditional love.

Picture it: A warm sunny day in 1996. I was walking down the street minding my own business and checking pee-mail among the bushes, when along came Animal Control and rudely plucked me off the street. I was unceremoniously dumped in a cold, noisy, smelly kennel, where I languished, unclaimed, for a week.

It was around this time that mom was volunteering at the local animal shelter, instead of staying home and packing on the pounds, as most H-4 brides are wont to do.

OK, who am I kidding? She packed on the pounds, regardless of whether she stayed home and ate potato chips all afternoon in front of the TV or not.

She spotted me one afternoon at the pound, in a reeking cage with another puppy. She bent down to get a closer look at the pup, but I pushed myself between them. Mom didn't stand out like Angelina Jolie in a Third World orphanage, but she sure looked like a sucker for a wagging tail. So, I turned on the charm and tried to look as cute as a seven-month-old-scruffy-pup-badly-in-need-of-a-bath could possibly look. Something must have tugged at her heart strings, because she opened the door to my cage.

I made a leap of faith into her arms, and in that brief moment, as my honey-colored eyes locked into hers, I knew I had her at hello.

She paid the $40 needed to release me, signed on the dotted line and legally became my human.

To this day, mom naively believes that she rescued me to give me a better life.

Little does she know that it's the other way around.

Self-flagellation is one of her hobbies

Mom returned from dropping Kuki in daycare with a heavy heart and a lighter purse. A considerably lighter purse.

The poor child was screaming bloody murder as the teacher pried her away from her mother's arms. So, of course, now mom feels like she's the worst person on earth; especially, since she headed to the mall right after.

The woman is filled with doubts again about whether she's doing the right thing. She sees power women with immaculate hair and high heels dropping their kids off in school every morning and she sees leisurely, stay-at-home moms with a string of tots planning their day around naptime, and she's not sure which side of the fence is greener.

Newsflash, mom: you can't have your cake and eat it too. (By the way, this idiom makes no sense. What are you supposed to do - just stare and salivate at a slice of cake? Who comes up with these things? Can you eat bread instead?)

Ideally, mom would like to look like Aishwarya Rai and make as much as she does without having to do anything more stressful than getting a manicure, pedicure and hair massage simultaneously.

Since she doesn't look like Aishwarya Rai, mom would like the next best thing - doting grandparents to coddle her kids, a driver to drive her around, a couple of servants, a cook or two to prepare delicacies ... while madam spends the entire day shopping, or at the beauty parlor, or deciding what to wear to the cocktail party tonight.

Wait a minute! I know someone who's living this dream life but is riddled with her own share of self-doubts, anxieties and what-ifs.
Has she stopped worrying? No.
Has she stopped second-guessing herself? No.
Does she want more from life? Yes.

Aah, life is so much simpler if you're a dog.

Or a man.

Desperate Housewife no more

This is mom's last week of freedom.

And she’s savoring every second of it.

After close to a year of looking on and off for employment, she finally struck gold. (Mom swears it wasn't this hard to find a good husband.)

In a few days, this suburban hausfrau will be sucked into the corporate realm, to enter the exciting and thrilling world of human resources. She'll be part of an exceptionally talented team of professionals whose hard work and dedication in a dynamic and innovative power environment form the cornerstones of the company's success.

In other words, she'll be hunched over a computer in a windowless, gray cubicle in a sea of other windowless, gray cubicles.

No, she's not starting a new position at a giant semiconductor company where everybody I know works or wants to work. Apparently, there are other behemoths in the valley. Who knew?

Top 10 reasons mom accepted this job offer:

• Her commute time will be shorter than dad’s.
• She can finally afford the tuition for Bright Horizons.
• Her workplace is beside her favorite mall.
• She can come home for lunch and see me if she chooses to. (Or, she can kiss the carpet goodbye, if she chooses not to.)
• Her workplace is down the street from Anu’s school.
• For a change, she’ll be making slightly more than the janitor.
• She can trade in her maternal duds for high heels and a more professional look.
• From now on, she can justify her shopping escapades as legitimate, Back to Work-related expenses.
• She can finally use the “Work’s crazy!” excuse to not stay in touch with people.
• She'll be home in time to watch Astitva: Ek Prem Kahani.

Hotel Sampat

We're so disappointed. Orbit and Kariba won't be coming after all.

By the time mom got back to her friend, she had already made alternate arrangements, and a neighbor has been commissioned to watch them for the next nine days. (And we initially thought it was only for the weekend!)

Strange things have been happening in this house. Mom's been on a killing spree the last few days, trying to rid the kitchen of ants. For someone who doesn't believe in killing for food, this female seems to have no qualms about attacking when her cubs are threatened or her family's food supply imperiled.

It all started when a groggy mom reached for her Honey Bunches of Oats one morning and found an ant invasion in progress through the entire pantry. Assessing the situation, she sought expert advice from dad. He mumbled something about mom being a pack rat and proceeded to empty the contents of the pantry onto the kitchen floor.

"Why do you buy all this junk?" he asked, holding a packet of Chex mix, now covered with crawling ants.
"Kuki likes it," said mom quickly, not wanting to admit her own weakness for salty snacks.
"And what the heck is this?" he asked, holding a green packet that clearly said henna in English and Hindi.
"My mom brought it from India," countered mom defensively, stopping dad from flinging the bag into the trash.
"Yeah, but three packets! What are you going to do with them?" asked dad incredulously, as mom scurried to put them away in the bathroom.
"And how old is this?" he queried suspiciously, sniffing a packet of tandoori masala retrieved from the back of the cupboard.
"Well, you bought it," pointed out mom, smugly.
"Oh, OK," snapped dad, "So, if your mom buys it, it's not junk, but if I get it, it is."
And so it went, back and forth, for the next half-hour, with mom vainly defending her provisions against dad, until she remembered they were supposed to focus on the ants instead.

The humans have called a temporary truce and plan to attack with reinforcements on the morrow. A professional exterminator will be called in, money will change hands and the massacre will continue.

We've discovered the hard way that when it comes to ants, there's no such thing as airtight.

Please let this be a bad dream...

Mom's mood has just been ruined for the day and the rest of the week.

Why? It looks like Orbit and Kariba's family is going away next weekend for a short trip, so could she please watch them again, if it's not too much to ask?

You have got to be kidding! Again? After 20 days of being followed by a wet nose and bad breath, drowning in dog hair, picking up mounds of poop and walking three dogs in 110 degree weather, mom has had her fill of furry creatures and is even considering getting rid of me.

When mom went to cry on dad's shoulder, he simply shrugged and said, "What's the big deal? They're dogs; just leave them out in the backyard the whole time."

Clearly, this man would never qualify as a PETA spokesperson.

So, now, mom's hitting her head on the wall, frustrated at her inability to say No to a good friend, while little Kuki's toddling around saying, "Awbit, Keeba, Awbit, Keeba, do poo-poo pee-pee carpet."

At this point, even the geckos on the back wall are beginning to look more attractive to mom.

They're low maintenance, right?

The Writing on the Wall

I've been feeling awful the last few days - just general body aches and pains compounded by binge eating and unnecessary exposure to paint fumes.

Mom finally got her red bedroom.

After a decade of dreaming in monochrome, she can now enjoy vivid dreams offset by cranberry red walls and sheer white curtains draping the bed.

My dreams, on the other hand, are still the same - food and feline-related - and I wouldn't have it any other way.

In honor of family expected over the long weekend, I spent a traumatizing day at the groomer's recently, where I was shaved, bathed and had my anal glands expressed by an unfamiliar woman. Trust me, guys, this is not as pleasant as it sounds - not when the woman squeezing a certain sensitive part of your posterior is close to 200 lbs. and can smother you in her ample bosom.

Thankfully, Orbit and Kariba left before witnessing my indignity. I look like a plucked chicken without my coat and humans now mistake me for a schnauzer. And the catcalls I have to endure on my morning walks...

The only silver lining in this cloud is that dad returned home after three long weeks, just in time for his 10th wedding anniversary. He took mom to a pricey Italian restaurant where the pasta sauce did not come out of a jar and there were at least four vegetarian options on the menu.

Here's a first: mom and dad went out to dinner without the kids and found the experience strangely delightful.
Here's a second: they actually made it through dinner and the ride home without any arguments. That hasn't happened since ... wait a minute, that's never happened!

Could it be the red room, you think?

A penny for your thoughts

Penny, penny
easily spent,
copper brown
and worth one cent.

I was in a parking lot the other day, when I spotted a grimy old penny beside my car. I don't know about you, but I'm always in a quandary when I see unclaimed money lying on the street. Do I pick it up or do I pass by?

Now, I've read way too many Amar Chitra Kathas and listened to too many Hindu moral stories to not be perplexed about certain issues. Here's my predicament: what if goddess Lakshmi chooses that very moment to fly by and watches me walk away from that penny without a backward glance? She might mistake my honesty for arrogance and abandon me. Not a good situation.

What if, on the other hand, she spots me picking up the coin and thinks, after all that she's done for me, money has made me greedy? She might want to teach me a lesson and abandon me. Not a good situation, either.

If the said object in question on the street, however, were something remotely edible, there's no question what I would do. I would lie in the parking lot and lick, scrape it off the street. Which is what I do on my daily walks. Be it a bird or another creature that's been run over about 10,000 times by passing cars, I refuse to leave it adhered to the asphalt.

Humans are mortified when I pick carcasses off the street. I don't understand what the big deal is. That dead chicken in your sandwich is also a carcass, right? Besides, compared to the Purina crap I'm served twice a day, this baked-by-the-summer-sun stuff is so much better. It's 100% organic, free of pesticides and genetically modified material.

Best of all, it's free!

Time out

You wouldn't believe what happened today. I just hope you're not eating something as you read this.

Mom's not a morning person on the best of days. Today was no exception.

As she rubbed her crusty eyes and walked down the corridor, she tripped on a Lego block on the floor and almost fell nose-first on a trail of dried poop on the WALL!

That's right! As if it weren't bad enough to defecate on the carpet in the middle of the night, Orbit had used the wall as toilet paper and merrily wiped her a*** (pardon my French) on it. The trail continued down the corridor and ended on the master bathroom floor.

Luckily for me, Orbit's tush was also caked with turd, so there was no question who the nocturnal Picasso was.

She was swiftly whisked to the groomer down the street, where she stayed all morning, and came back stark naked!

Now, if you're not a dog, you have no idea how traumatizing a trip to the groomer's can be. While some of you might actually enjoy having a strange woman rub her frothy hands all over your body, I find the experience about as pleasant as a prostate exam or a dental visit.

Poor Orbit is now half her size and looks nothing like her old self. And she has a citrusy fragrance about her that's making me sneeze. But it shouldn't last too long. Come dinner time, she'll smell of pungent garam masala or sambar podi again, like we all do - depending on tonight's menu.

Of female hormones and eau de toilette

Panting ... heavy breathing ... moaning ... watching her every move ... groaning ... drooling ...

It probably sounds like an avuncular pervert from your childhood, but it's just Orbit following mom around.

Yes, my so-called girlfriends are back. For 19 long days, this time.

Kariba, whose ancestors were bred to hunt in the African veldt, is easily as tall as dad. And Orbit, a hirsute sheepdog, has a penchant for chasing approaching cars. When the three of us take mom for a walk around the neighborhood in the evenings, we usually run around her in circles, making her trip on our leashes. I'm usually sandwiched between the girls (and not in a nice way). The neighbors shake their heads and wonder if mom has finally lost it, or if she's illegally operating a dog-sitting service in a residential area.

The other night, mom caught Orbit drinking out of the toilet bowl. After she threw her out of the bathroom, we found Orbit downstairs, licking little Kuki on the face as she lay giggling on the floor, shrieking, "Tickle, tickle!"

The way she reacted, you'd think mom has never put anything non-food related in her mouth.

All this extra estrogen around the house is taking its toll on me. The females are loud, vocal and prone to mood swings - one minute, they're all over me like I'm their best buddy, and the next, they look right through me. I'm confused. Am I supposed to humor them or ignore them?

Hmmm ... maybe I'll just ask my human for help; he's bound to know something about mysterious feminine wiles.

Then again, maybe not; he's in the doghouse a lot.

What's love got to do with it?

The top dog of this house hates Lifetime TV.

He thinks it should be banned from the networks for glorifying weepy emotions and promoting unrealistic expectations of love. Really, it's entirely too much to dad to be uxorious about a certain brown-eyed woman, come home with flowers on occasion, enjoy bargain shopping for hours on end, and, make amorous advances only when she's in the mood.

Mom, on the other hand, is a sucker for sentimentality.

She likes to read How We Met stories in the newspaper, cries at the movies, and is thrilled to bits when little Kuki throws her arms around her neck and declares, "I wuv you!"

When Anu was but a baby learning to babble, mom tried to teach him to say "I love you," along with his ABCs. She tried saying it in English, then in French, Italian and Spanish, but a genetic predisposition makes him incapable of uttering the sentiment, even with token sincerity.

Disappointed, but not defeated, mom refuses to give up. She continues to liberally sprinkle the phrase around the kids, confident that their significant others will thank her someday for bringing up such expressive and emotive individuals.

With dad, on the other hand, she uses reverse psychology. Mom figures even if she rarely expresses her sentiments, somehow, dad will read her mind and be more affectionate toward her - almost as if to make up for her lack of sensitivity.

Confused?

Just be thankful you're not dad.

Story of my life...

Arabian stallion, anyone?

Looks like old King Fahd passed on yesterday. No, I'm not going to make a Freudian slip over his good name, but his death reminded me of Princess Sultana's chronicles.

If you haven't read them yet, the trilogy portray a world of opulence and oppression, a life where Saudi women are treated little better than their Filipina maids. Wealthy Saudi princesses can hop to Paris or Milan to buy feminine hygiene products, but can't shop at the local mall or go to the beach without tripping over their abayas.

Now, a lot of you will disagree (especially if you're married to some of the AZCool members), but, I think, people of Arabic descent are among the most attractive in the world; especially the women. Unfortunately, unless you're a harem eunuch, it's next to impossible to catch a glimpse of these beauties.

Ever wonder why Muslims like to swaddle themselves in layers of long, flowing robes? Duh, to keep cool in the dry heat, some of you might say. Eh, try convincing the co-eds at ASU to adopt that dress code.

I know the women are supposed to stay hidden so as not to incite lascivious thoughts, but why are the men all covered up? Here's a scary thought - what if the men are actually buck naked under their robes?!!

I have decided that in my next life, I'd like to be reborn as a fabulously wealthy Sheik. Except for that circumcision part that can't be too pleasant, life would be pretty grand if I had a couple of oil fields to my name. From what I read, I wouldn't have to become a software engineer with a mortgage on my head; I can engage in gratuitous sex in the name of religion; and, I don't even have to remember what grades my kids are in, because I'll have too many to count. I can pretty much do whatever I want and get away with it.

Well, so can the likes of Michael Jackson, you say.

Sure, but given a choice, I'd rather look like, let's say... Aamir Khan in Mangal Pandey, than look like MJ.

Speaking of handsome Muslims, what, in Allah's name, went wrong here?

The gift that keeps on giving

This is what mom would have liked for her birthday.

But she settled for a handbag instead. And even bought it herself.

As expected, she got a whole lot of love, blessings and thoughtful gifts from both sets of grandparents.

As also expected, most of you (her "friends") missed her big day.

Now, before you think dad came home empty-handed, I'll have you know he brought home some cheesecake - his favorite dessert.

To give the guy some credit, at least he knows the way to mom's heart is through artery-clogging, cholesterol-raising decadence. Right category, wrong choice, though. Better luck next time, dude.

You can't really blame poor dad for his choice of gift. After all, mom is not known as the Queen of Returns for nothing. So, for the past few years, dad has been playing it safe by not giving her anything.

That's why, it's a little out of character, when he gets swept up in the whole gift-giving frenzy around Christmas time, a festival that holds absolutely no sentimental value for mom. Dad's always home late on Christmas Eve because he's out battling the crowds at Best Buy over pricey computer software for cyber-challenged mom.

There is one token from dad, however, that mom would never dream of returning or exchanging - a warm security blanket that wraps around her like a cocoon and keeps her cozy and contented.

This one is surely for keeps!

As ye sow, so shall ye reap

Another weekend, another party; same crowd, different gathering.

The humans came home at midnight, after stuffing themselves silly on potluck Indian food and bottled-in-U.S.A. booze.

Mom likes to have a full social calendar so she doesn't have to cook, while dad is more of a you-go-and-take-the-kids-with-you kind of guy, whose idea of a good time is playing Sudoku online, while slowly sipping red wine.

So, it's with some anticipation that mom looks forward to her girls' nite outings when she can leave her kids and inhibitions home and stay up all night gabbing with girlfriends, eating fatty desserts and pondering on the meaning of life.

These bimonthly outings are about the only time mom can enjoy a restaurant meal with no runny noses to wipe or a reluctant mouth to coax food into. She can also utter judgmental remarks in Hindi about the couples at the other tables and pass uncalled-for comments about what the other women at the restaurant are wearing, without being confronted by a disinterested stare or an indifferent shrug from her dinner companion (dad).

Mom usually returns home from these outings the same time the newspaper delivery guy does his rounds. Bleary-eyed, disheveled and hoarse, she vows never to do it again - until the next time around.

Hit or Miss

Lost in Translation.

Anybody seen that movie, yet? It's about two Americans (one bored, the other very bored) in a luxury hotel in Tokyo who cannot sleep. Which is funny, because sleep is the only thing that came to my mind less than five minutes into the movie.

Even the laptop I was watching it on shared my sentiments, because halfway through the movie, it froze. Or at least that's what I thought.

"It's overheated," concluded my human, when I gently prodded him awake, close to midnight.
"You mean when it freezes, it's actually boiling?" I was tempted to ask.
"You shouldn't have kept it on the comforter. It's supposed to be on a hard surface," he added, with a trace of irritation.
"Huh?!! Then why call it a laptop if I can't keep it on my lap?" I wanted to retort.

Granted his thighs (where the laptop mostly resides) are harder than mine, but it seems to me that laptop makers should perhaps rechristen the machine as tabletop instead of willfully misleading the unsuspecting public.

But I digress.

Coming back to the film, who knows what happens in the end since nothing really happened in the first place.

Morning Raaga is playing in the background as I write this. That Perizaad is eye candy and the Carnatic music divine, but nothing else happens in the movie. A pity, since the title sounds so promising. Which is what happened with Bride & Prejudice.

It looks like all the creativity and energy go into choosing the title and then end there ... sort of like this blog post.

Some things never change

Anu: "If the party's at 7, why are we leaving home at 7:30?"

Mom: "Because we don't want to be the first ones there."

Anu: "Why not?"

Mom: "Because."

Anu: "But why can't we be on time? Somebody has to be the first one there."

Mom: "Don't talk back! Go see what Appa's doing."

Flashback to circa, 1978, when mom was still naive about social mores.

Grandma: "OK, listen, when we go to my friend’s house, you need to behave yourself and not embarrass me.
• Don’t put your legs up on the sofa.
• If aunty asks you for thanda or garam, smile politely and say, 'No, thank you.'
• If she insists, you may have juice. But don't slurp on the straw and make sure you leave some juice in the glass.

Mom: "But why?"

Grandma: "Don't talk back! And remember, you can only eat what's on your plate. I don't want you to grab the last biscuit on the tray, even if nobody else wants it."

Mom: "But you told me never to waste food."

Grandma: "This is different! Now, let me get ready. Go see what Appa's doing."

Different situations. Same confusion.

Indian custom (or is it uniquely S. Indian?): Never finish everything on your plate. If you do, the hosts will think your parents starve you.

Indian American custom: Never be on time for desi parties. If you do, the hosts will hate you.

Just don't ask why.

Oops, I did it again!

I almost typed in bugger.com again to log in instead of blogger.com. Hey, hold on now, I wouldn't read anything Freudian into it!

Aw, come on, like you've never almost said penis instead of Phoenix?

I'm a little groggy this morning because I didn't get enough shut-eye last night. The humans returned from a party at midnight and by the time the household settled down, it was close to 1 a.m.

Mom and dad were so wired on alcohol and sugar that they kept tossing and turning all night. I think they're getting close to the age where if they deviate from their usual bedtime, sleep eludes them for the rest of the night.

They tried counting sheep, turned to the left, right, back, front, tried some new positions ... but to no avail. You'd think with the house deathly quiet and the kids snoring softly, my humans would indulge in their favorite nightly ritual. Not last night, though.

The comforter-rustling finally got to a point where I was tempted to stand up and yell, "Enough already! Why don't you two do what you usually do at night when the kids are asleep - Pick up a book and read!"

Carpe nocturnum, you blockheads!

Drumroll, please ...

Folks, I have an announcement! And yes, it has to do with the pitter patter of little feet.

It looks like there's going to be an addition to the family in early January 2006.

How did this happen? Don't ask me! I'm as surprised as you are. Who knew these people were going in for a hat trick?

I guess the first order of business would be to buy a larger bed. It's going to get a little crowded and rough with two adults and three kids trying to get through a night on one bed. The crib is practically brand new since the other kids never used it, so there's no good reason why the new baby would take to it, either. (My advice to future parents would be to bypass that darling crib with the ruffled bedskirt and matching canopy at Babies 'R' Us and wisely invest that money in a college fund.)

If it's a boy, I'm predicting the kids will call him Shahrukh, after their current idol. If it's a girl, Aishwarya, Rani, Kareena or Kajol.

So, join me, won't you, in wishing Sangita* & Bala (surely you didn't think it was my humans, did you?) the very best. With baby names like the ones above, they're going to need it.

*Sangita is everybody's favorite aunt on the east coast. If anyone deserves to have more children, that would be her. A mountain of patience, she can deal with temper tantrums, constant whining and general bratty behavior with amazing grace and equanimity. She has enough self-control to deal with an entire minivan of kids high on sugar and caffeine on a never-ending road trip. As if that's not enough, she's a big hit with the adults too for her unaffected charm and general bonhomie.

Hmmm ... maybe I should move in with her.

PETA (Please Eat the Animals)

Mom's devastated.

No, not by the terror attacks in London (although that's sad, too) but because she found out that P.F. Chang's Double Pan-fried Vegetable Noodles (her favorite dish) contains chicken stock.

She's always suspected restaurant food isn't vegetarian-friendly, but she found this nugget of information on the P.F. Chang's Web site and that's confirmation enough for her to bid adieu to another indulgence.

Dad's reaction to mom's reaction: "Ridiculous!"

He's petrified that mom will brainwash the kids into becoming vegetarian hippies who'll celebrate Thanksgiving with tofurkey, or become active PETA members, or worse, start listening to Michael Bolton.

And I have to agree with him about vegetarianism.

I mean, think about it, at the rate some of my fellow beings procreate, slaughter and consumption is the only way they can be effectively stopped. Especially lowly beings like chickens who go around spreading rumors that the sky's falling.

Mom needs to realize that she's in a minority, and if everybody else in the whole world is doing it, can it be wrong?

No, wait, that argument won't work. She'll counter it with popular activities like smoking and illicit sex, and I'm not, um ... qualified to discuss that.

Or so she thinks.

Happy Birthday to You

Chaos! Pandemonium! Bedlam! It's Anu's seventh birthday, and the humans decide to celebrate it by inviting more pint-sized humans.

The smell of stale pizza is in the air, balloons are floating on the ceiling, wrapping paper is strewn all over the carpet and the house is filled with shrieking kids and one precocious pup who is still following me around.

Zoey mistook mom's finger for pizza and chomped down on it real hard. Instead of banishing her from the face of the earth as she would with me, mom picked her up, and she peed all over mom's leg.

I hear she's going home tomorrow. The next time I see Zoey, she'll be bigger than me. Ah, well, at least she won't pee on mom's leg anymore, because she'll be too heavy to lift.

The kids are waiting for the cake to be cut and the tot's already occupied my favorite spot under the table.

Hey, pup, it only rains food when Kuki eats.

What's next?!!

Orbit and Kariba leave and Zoey, a little ball of fluff, arrives for a sleepover.

I swear, this place is turning into a veritable kennel; and it's starting to smell like one too.

Zoey, a three-month-old bundle of energy, is bouncing off the walls and using the living room as a toilet. After eight years in this house, mom is finally resigned to the fact that every square inch of the living room carpet is now saturated with bodily fluids.

Zoey, meanwhile, has decided that I'm to be her role model. She follows me everywhere, all the time, even when I want to pee. Hello! What does a guy have to do to get some privacy around here? With eight humans in the house and one persistent pup, I'm hard pressed to find a quiet spot for myself. All the couches are taken, and the carpet is damp. The backyard is not even an option in this weather.

My humans, imbeciles that they are, have succumbed to Zoey's charms. Even dad actually touched her. But I need to act tough and let her know who the boss is before she completely tears the place apart.

Hey, don't get me wrong. I like kids as much as anybody else - but only from a distance.

It's bad enough sharing my turf with a rambunctious two-year-old human who likes to jab her fingers in my nostril. Even well-placed little nips don't seem to discourage her. And from what I hear, Orbit and Kariba are coming back next month, this time for a two-week slumber party.

Mom, sometimes, you just need to say NO!

Shut the door, will ya?

My eyes are red and watery; I've been sneezing a lot and feeling light-headed and dizzy - ever since mom decided to paint the guest room and expose the whole family to paint fumes.

She got a surge of inspiration after watching a show on HGTV and decided to rehaul the guest room. For two whole days, she stripped the room, prepped it, slapped primer on the walls and painted until 3 a.m., all with the windows tightly shut.

The result: A loud, hideous, unsightly, nauseous shade of yellow called Del sol by Glidden.

Think mango lassi with yellow food coloring in it. Or something I'm an expert on: concentrated urine.

In fact, the only positive thing I can say about the room is that I never ever have to go in there.

Mom, the eternal optimist, views the whole fiasco as a learning experience. She'll stay away from yellow walls, hereafter. Her next ambitious project is to paint the master bedroom a royal red.

I have a feeling she's going to exhaust all the colors of the rainbow to arrive at the conclusion that builder's white is right, after all.

Don't even go there...

The family primped for a party last night. Which essentially means dad took a shower on a weekend and mom spent an hour in front of the bathroom mirror.

She's usually dissatisfied with the way she looks - if she wears Indian clothes, she wonders if she'll be overdressed in a roomful of casual capris and jeans; if she wears jeans, she wonders if all the other women will be dressed to kill. If the dress code's Indian, she has a hard time deciding between a sari and a salwar kameez.

It's happened to her way too many times to count. She'll arrive at a party thinking maybe she's not looking half-bad, when somebody (usually a woman) will burst her bubble by exclaiming, "You look SO tired. What happened? Are you not feeling well?"

Folks, do me a favor ... if you have nothing nice to say, don't say it (yeah, I know, I would do well to take my own advice, sometimes.)

Believe me, mom doesn't need her dark circles and superfluous facial hair pointed out. So, unless she has broccoli in her teeth or her fly's open, or she asks you how she looks, please, just let her continue living in a fool's paradise.

Out, out, damned spot ...

My friends Orbit and Kariba are spending the week here while their humans are away in San Diego. We're all practically the same age and pretty much ignore each other. I mean, just because we're of the same species doesn't mean we need to get along.

I must say, though, that Orbit's habit of ingratiating herself with mom is beginning to annoy me. She follows her everywhere, even to the toilet. Really, the woman's not going to dole out treats while perched on the throne with the latest issue of People magazine. If you want tidbits missy, look under the kitchen table, stick your snout in the sofa, try the backseat of the car, check the carpet in the living room.

Heck, you can eat off the floors in this house.

Kariba the Rhodesian Ridgeback, on the other hand, sleeps all day. She wakes up to yawn and stretch, and then goes right back to sleep. Which is a good thing.

This morning, mom came down to discover a gift one of the dogs (not me, I swear) had left her on the living room carpet. As expected, she went ballistic, and in a fit of PMS-induced rage, threw all of us out into the back yard. Not a good thing.

Later, when she let us back in, Orbit barfed all over the floor, and promptly got thrown out again.

We don't bother dad much. He seems to have an electronic pet that hums and is constantly on his lap. The thing even goes with dad on his trips worldwide. In fact, dad has two of them; he takes one to work every day, and gives the other equal attention whenever he's home.

She went to J-school for this?!!

Whew, I'm finally here! It took me two frustrating days to register and I finally had to swallow my pride and ask my human for help - he had this thing up and running in less time than it takes him to pick his nose.

So much for me trying to be independent. At this rate, I'll have to start asking the kids for cyber-help, soon.

So, why exactly am I here?

It's my mom's fault, really. She's been wanting to do this for a while (and I really wish she would, so she'd stop talking to herself in the bathroom mirror) but she's so darned lazy.

I mean, how difficult is it to spend every moment of the day with a two-year-old and a bored six-year-old on summer break?

The woman does nothing all day but amuse her kids, cook, bake, provide snacks, drive them around to doctor appointments, swim classes, the library, playdates, the grocery store, etc. She might hit the mall sometimes to buy gifts for various birthdays, housewarmings, baby showers, dinner parties and other hostess gifts. She might paint a room or two in the afternoon, look for a job online, start making dinner - or at least open the fridge and stare at its contents for 15 minutes.

If I'm lucky, she'll walk me in the evenings with the kids in tow. Because of little Kuki who hates the stroller, I get to stop and smell every single bush and our 1/2-mile walk takes 1-1/2 hours. By now, everybody's tired, hungry and hot. So, with a cranky toddler clinging to her capris, mom drags her around the kitchen and puts together something barely edible in the name of dinner. What's more, she's ready to call it a night by 8 p.m.

Excuses ... just excuses ... say dad and I.

That's why I'm taking over. So, welcome folks, and sit, stay. Oh, and don't forget to wipe those paws. Otherwise, I'll get in trouble.