Tag that!

My first tag! Coinciding with my first anniversary! And I owe both to the same person.

Thank you, Arati, and everybody out there, for never tagging me with inanities like ‘How many blogs have you read?’ or ‘Five indispensable items in your glove compartment.' Wouldn’t you rather know what I think of your spouse or what kind of birth control my humans use?

But, wait, the first ever tag I receive wants me to list how weird I am. Hmmm …, in the spirit of good sportsmanship, I accept the challenge as a perverse testament to my popularity, rather than presume a good friend is extracting revenge for all the times I was unconsciously snotty to her.

I have to confess, though, that I spent a sleepless night trying to find something weird about myself. I asked around, but didn’t get a straight answer.

Me: “Dad, do you think I’m weird?”
Dad smiles, opens his mouth to say something, but shakes his head, instead, still smiling.

Me: “Anu, do you think I’m weird?”
Anu: “What do you mean?”

Me: “Mom?”
Mom: “Come here, my cutie pie, let me give you a kiss. You’re such a good boy; you’re the only one in this house who listens to me.”

See what I mean?

I had no problem, however, coming up with weird things about the humans I share my home with. And since I’m generous, I give you two for the price of one:

Dad

• While on vacation, he prefers to relax on a hotel bed all day with the television on, rather than sightsee.

• Always orders the same dish at a restaurant. (For that matter, he even likes to frequent the same restaurants.)

• Will not throw away textbooks from his undergraduate days, but will hoard them in cardboard boxes in the garage. Would rather throw away mom’s India knickknacks to make room for books “I-might-need-someday.”

• Will not discard ratty T-shirts and sweatshirts from his alma mater.

• He can live without water, but he cannot live without yoghurt. The man can finish a whole tub (32 oz.) of yoghurt in one sitting. Poor mom slaves in the kitchen all evening preparing dinner, only to have dad add spoonful after spoonful of yoghurt to his moru kozhambu or pasta or noodles or pizza.

• Seems to be content with what he has (provided a tub of yoghurt's at hand).

Mom

• Can live without yoghurt. (Hey, for a south Indian, that’s beyond weird!)

• Has absolutely no interest in any sport, other than lovemaking. People around her can be thumping chests and swinging from the chandelier when their team scores a goal or wins a championship, and she’ll wonder if they realize how stupid they look.

• Cannot fathom why Shahrukh Khan is such a superstar. Or Amitabh Bachchan for that matter. Would rather watch Naseeruddin Shah and Shabana Azmi stare at each other for two hours in utter silence.

• The orthodox community she belongs to traditionally eschews meat because “it’s a sin to kill animals,” but they have no qualms about hoarding or paying big bucks for silk. (Hey, don't blame mom for being weird, blame the community!)

• Will not eat before her children do, and will offer them the fleshy parts of a mango while reserving the stringy seed for herself - something she swore she would never do while watching her grandmother and mother do the same.
  

• Mixes miscellaneous food items from the refrigerator or pantry - anything going waste - into atta and rolls out rotis for her unsuspecting family. Mix-ins include, but are not limited to, orange juice, flat Coke after a party, flavored yoghurt, tamarind/green chutney, sambhar dregs, leftover curries, Complan, liquid eggs, puréed papaya, Priya pickles, pasta sauce, mushroom soup, etc. (No, nobody’s caught on, yet. Weird, isn’t it?)

If this tag is like a chain letter that needs to leave your hands before Ganesha gets angry and your head starts to roll, then Shoefiend and Mint Chutney, I'm afraid you're it.

I would tag Alpha, but I’m afraid to see what else she might reveal.

Lemme ask you...

The humans are thinking of going to San Diego for a getaway. I’m not sure what/who they’re getting away from since they’re all going together.

Mom wants to stay at a beachfront property, like the one at Rocky Point. Anybody have any suggestions?

As is typical, the humans have no itinerary. “Just chill,” seems to be the attitude among the males. Of course, they’re referring to chilled beer in the evenings and nothing else.

Mom’s been scouring the Internet to find something to do in San Diego other than watch killer whales turn tricks for food. I have a feeling the only useful thing they will do is have bajji on the beach.

Anybody have other suggestions?

One-up

8:30 a.m. Company parking lot.

You notice her confidently strutting on the sidewalk in strappy four-inch heels.
(You only wear flats because your husband is short.)

Her grapefruit breasts strain against her black stretch top, the alabaster-smooth cleavage rising almost to her chin.
(Nursing has reduced your breasts to the size of droopy nimboos. Even the most expensive push-up bra from Victoria Secret cannot create a cleavage for you.)

A gentle breeze billows her gauchos around her smooth calves and you notice her delicate toe ring glinting in the sun, drawing attention to her painted nails and smooth heels.
(Your toe rings are neither delicate nor pretty, but they’re fine silver and have a resale value – at least that’s what your mother said. Your last pedicure was two years ago when you went to India, and your heels have cracks in them the size of the Grand Canyon.)

She tosses her blond mane over her shoulders and adjusts the studded black belt accentuating her concave stomach, its shiny sparkles matching the oversized dark glasses framing her oval face.
(You’re afraid to color your thinning hair lest it all fall out, so you hide the grays with henna. You can balance a laptop and a cup of coffee on your convex stomach.)

You fall in step behind her, both of you headed toward the same building.
(She works with similar-looking women in HR on the first floor. You’re surrounded by gult IT guys in a tube lit basement.)

Her delicate perfume trails her, its fragrance reminding you of a lush forest with a babbling brook.
(You took a shower less than an hour ago, but can already catch a whiff of your underarms.)

Your eyes are drawn to the gentle undulating of her narrow hips and you unconsciously mimic the rhythm.
(You just know that she likes being on top and has the expertise to reduce a man to a gasping beggar with a slight thrust of those very same hips.)

She stops to retrieve a buzzing cell phone from her purse and that’s when you see it - a broad band of elastic peeking from the top of her gauchos proclaiming, “Hanes Her Way.”
(You smile. That’s why you only wear dress shirts that reach your derrière.)

Dad's Day Out

You’d think at least on Father’s Day a woman would be sensitive enough to keep the kids away from dad and let him flop on the couch in his pajamas all day, with the television remote balanced on his belly.

But no, mom had to turn the occasion into a family affair. She set the agenda early in the day by asking dad to pick a restaurant of his choice for lunch. She even guaranteed herself an outing by whispering “restaurant” in Kuki’s ear as soon as she woke up, so the little princess danced around the house shouting “westwont” at the top of her voice until dad picked up the car keys.

“Sorry, madam, only Father’s Day special buffet today,” mom was informed, as she tried to order off the menu at the local Udupi café. Ditching her intention to eat sensibly, mom filled her plate with food and proceeded to dig in, only to discover that coconut-laced beans poriyal tastes rather like pepperoni when it’s been lying on a chafing dish for six hours.

Mom toyed with the idea of informing the owner that the beans were spoiled. But not one to call attention to herself, she pushed the offending beans to the edge of her plate and helped herself to a rubbery dosai.

“Mustn’t complain today. It’s Father’s Day,” she said to herself, taking a sip of sickly-sweet rose milk.

She looked around at her fellow diners. Skipping the tables with noisy families, her gaze rested on the two grad students sitting at an adjacent table. The girl, a studious type who would win grandpa's and grandma's immediate approval for wearing a bindi with her jeans, smiled at her companion shyly.

“Ah, young love,” sighed mom, straining to catch bits of their conversation. Whatever the young lovers were whispering to each other was bound to be more interesting than the exchange at her table:

Mom: “Kuki, please sit down, and don’t throw your food around.”
Kuki: “No!”
Mom: "Kuki, please finish your potatoes."
Kuki: "No!"

Mom (to dad): “I’ve been thinking, we need to call XYZ for dinner.”
Dad: “Hmm.”
Mom: “Should we call ABC also? How about next weekend? What should I make? South Indian or North Indian food? I'm thinking beans poriyal. What do you say?”
Dad: “Don’t ask me anything today. It’s Father’s Day.”

Mom: “Can you walk Terri later tonight?”
Dad: “Not today. It’s Father’s Day.”

Mom: “Should we stop by Home Depot on the way back and buy a fan?”
Dad: “Not today. It’s Father’s Day.”

Kuki: “I want to go pee-pee.”
Mom: “Darn, I just sat down to eat! Can you take her, please?”
Dad: “Not today. It’s Father’s Day.”

It took every ounce of self-restraint on mom's part to not empty her bowl of sambhar on dad's head that day. “Must control myself,” she thought, “after all, it’s Father’s Day.”

Generation Gap

Scene I

Grandma: “What would you all like for dinner?”
Grandpa: “Just make something simple.... Say, Bisi Bele Bhath with plantain pachadi. And maybe some cabbage curry with that? Oh, and don’t forget the vathal and appalam on the side. I think that should do…”
Grandma: “All right. What about you, Anu? You like cabbage, right?”
Anu: “Indian food again? Ugh! I want a quesadilla.”
Grandma: “OK, I’ll make whatever you want, my pet. Kuki, sweetie, how about you?”
Kuki: “I want wice with wajma.”
Grandma: “Sure, cutie. Go wash your hands, my darlings, and come sit at the table. Dinner will be ready soon.”


Scene II

Mom: “What should we have for dinner?”
Dad: “Just make something simple."
Mom: "Like what?"
Dad: "It's up to you. We can even order in.”
Mom: “I’m sick of eating out.”
Dad: “OK…Maggi noodles, then?”
Anu: “I want Mac 'n' cheese.”
Kuki: “I want wice with wasam.”
Mom: “Hello? This isn’t a restaurant, children! We’re all going to eat the same thing, understood? Now, go wash up while I heat the leftover dal from last week. We’ll have it with last night’s carrot curry. I'm too tired to cook.”

Who's my shmoopie?

Mom’s cubicle neighbor is whispering to his wife again. Sigh! He calls her at least five times a day; more, if one of the kids is sick.

Mom shamelessly eavesdrops on him.

It’s far more interesting to listen in than to deal with the paperwork on her desk. Ask her about that unfinished report that was due two days ago and she’ll give you a blank stare. Ask her what color her neighbor’s bedroom is, and she’ll tell you why they chose Shy Blossom by Glidden over Yarmouth Blue by Benjamin Moore.

The mood’s a little cloying today. He’s teasing his wife about something she did last night. For all you know, he might be referring to the way she yawned without covering her mouth or the little fart that escaped her, but mom’s imagination kicks into overdrive, and she imagines something else.

She leans closer to the partition wall, holding her breath, but the conversation has veered to their July 4 getaway to Vegas. No matter. He will call again later today and mom will lend ear.

It sure beats listening to the IT guy behind her talk about creating employee hash tables.

Brats Without Borders

You know how you pack really carefully for a trip, but forget something, anyway?

On the way to Vancouver, mom realized that she had left her heart behind at home. En route to a five-day conference, maternal guilt kicked in the night before, as Kuki helped mom pack her bags.

Kuki: “It’s my happy birthday tomorrow. I want a pink cake.”
Mom: “I’ll bake you a cake as soon as I get back.”
Kuki: “Where you going, Amma?”
Mom: “I’m going to work. I’ll be back soon.”
Kuki: “Can I come with you? No…? Can you stay home with me? Please, Amma?”

On the plane, mom stared forlornly at her in-flight magazine, wishing she hadn’t missed her princess’s big day. The initial excitement of being out of the office faded, as she realized that she didn’t know a soul at the conference. "I'm going to have an awful time," decided the eternal pessimist.

As she walked out of the airport, mom thought she had landed in Singapore by mistake. In the melting pot crowd, the Caucasians stood out like a devout Muslim in a Hindu temple. Korean, Thai, Chinese, Malaysian, Japanese and Indian restaurants whizzed past as the airport shuttle sped downtown. Multiracial couples ambled along the sidewalks, sharing umbrellas and kisses. Mom stared at them wistfully and sighed, hugging her laptop case closer and looking at the empty seat beside her.

Once the conference began, mom discovered that most of the 1,500 participants from over 40 countries were hungry for company, as well. A warm smile, a polite handshake, a complimentary observation about a person's clothes or shoes were enough to break the ice and start a conversation flowing among the seminar attendees - almost all women in their thirties and forties.

The quality of men present at the conference eliminated any sort of sexual tension, and mom spent a glorious five days networking and collecting business cards during the day, while filling her mind with Robson Street eye-candy at night.

Nursing a smoothie at a roadside café, mom would watch Paris Hilton look-alikes shop at Hermès with a pug or a maltipoo in their arms; inhale the aroma from a roadside crêperie; catch snippets of Québécois French; debate between Yakisoba or vegetable biryani for dinner; and, marvel at the flatness of an exposed belly or the smoothness of a passing cleavage.

Eventually, five days away from the family proved a bit much for mom, and she looked forward to returning home and squeezing her children.

As 200 people snaked their way through U.S. Immigration and Customs at the Vancouver airport, a pair of identical twins in a double stroller pierced the din with their primal shrieks. While their harried parents filled out forms, juggled car seats, provided snacks and attended to the older sibling, the 12-month-olds spat out their pacifiers and voiced their displeasure at being strapped down.

Mom silently sympathized with the parents and fervently hoped the kids were not on her flight. As luck would have it, the brats sat right behind her. For three hours and 40 minutes, the babies shrieked, blared, cried, howled, screeched, shouted, shrilled, wailed and yelled, while the parents smiled weakly and avoided looking at their fellow passengers.

As the vexed travelers stampeded to deplane, a burly gentleman in a Stetson hat and cowboy boots walked up to the family. Fixing the parents with a steely glare, he said, "Ah got two words of advice for ya: 'Liquid Benadryl!'"

Story of her life

Every morning, the security guard at work waits outside the glass door and opens it with a flourish when he sees mom walk up.

“Good morning,” he says brightly, bowing slightly, and quickly follows mom to open another set of glass doors that lead to her work area. “Miss, may I say you’re looking beautiful today? Enjoy your day,” the guard will say, before resuming his post at the front desk.

Every day, mom gets a variant of “You’re looking lovely today! Sunshine! What a gorgeous smile! You just brightened my day! Do I make you blush?” Ordinarily, if it were dad or some other reasonably attractive male passing these comments, mom would be in seventh heaven.

As it stands, the only man calling her beautiful on a regular basis happens to be 74 years old, has five great grandchildren, and is short and stout.