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.