Are my greys showing?
Must be...or why else would I be invited to 'kiddies' birthday parties? For Chrissakes!
I'm not against babies. Au contraire! I love them. I won't be able to have any of my own as my biological clock is furiously ticking away like a bomb with about 10 seconds before annihilation, but am working on getting some financial stability to be able to adopt them, and that too is taking quite a bit of 'working' on...my credit card bills keep winking at me evilly like Stephen King's joker in IT...cocking a snook at my inability to save.
But no I'm not against babies...I do love them.
Of course as they grow older, the 'seen and not heard' variety are preferable. The hyperactive, precocious kids, careening wildly from one corner of the ceiling like Spidey to swtiching on every possible gadget that you own, (and you can't even twist those Spock like ears as their indulgent mothers are watching from the corner of their kohl lined eyes, while all you can do is, smile a grin that gets caught between one ear and the middle of your nose, making it a sneer, and try and curb the urge to whack the child or better still tie its legs to the fan and switch it on), or opening the refrigerator like curious weasels in search of something that would most definitely ruin your upholstery or the carpet or the granite platform or the walls, basically anything that can be used as a beacon of destruction are a big NO! Like chocolates. When they spy your store of Bounty there's a sick thud! of your heart as you see them extend their eager beaver small hands, sickeningly grabbing at them while all you want to do is cry and plead with them saying, 'no no, not those, anything but those, leave them alone'! Only to realize it's mortal combat, where you are mortal and the combatants immortal. The battle is lost when the broken toothed yokel looks doe eyed at you with the Bounty held firmly and triumphantly between a chubby thumb and index finger. Yes! then you hate them, a vicious 'hate' emanating from the bottom of your sole...yes, kids should be 'seen and not heard' preferably found in a somnolent state, amenable to everyone including their harried but phlegmatic parents and equally harried neighbours (like moi). Give me back my Bounty you you you....he he he...cho chweet, you want one more? (gnashing and grinding teeth with a thought blurb, 'wait you wench, wait till I clobber you',) he he he...you want one more sweety?
So here I was invited to a kiddies' birthday party. As if one wasn't enough, it was a 'double bill' - sisters - 2 tiny tots (what's that they say about trouble coming in twos?). And then to 'dress up', drive mom and uncle and neighbors (and all for 'good neighbors' cause), to go to the 'party hall', espy 80 odd chairs, arranged in 2 neat contiguous columns of approximately 10 in each row, seeing more adults, (ok ok, that's a euphemism for 'old' people) with their 'greys' showing, silks rustling, and no sign of children, except the 'budday' girl, singing a song from 'Parineeta', father focusing his digi unwaveringly at his little girl, lest she vanish or be whisked away by some vulture, the mother doing her job as an MC, beaming in her rotund glory, was just a wee bit too much to handle. Oh God! Isn't it enough that I glanced through piles mind you, P-I-L-E-S of comic books to see if I could lay my hands on something that had 'Ganesha' stories, or the mind boggling array of 'Red Riding Hoods' or the toys that I could purchase with the budget straining at the leash like a dog on heat, and actually managed to come away with everyone satisfied - mom, the budget, aunt and now hopefully the 'kids'.
Why do adults have 'kiddies' parties where all they do is preen, prance, make small talk, have puris and malai paneer and go, 'the rasogullas are really nice', with the hosts beaming like rasogullas themselves, while the 'kids' in question are nowhere to be seen, or are bored, or....sigh! You get the picture don't you? Ugh!I should be awarded with the 'Good neighbors Param Vir Chakra' or some such... I put up a brave front. (The elllipses in this diatribe are actually an SOS...). My 'greys' must be showing. Why me????
Greg's men
India lost. Chappell and Dravid's first match as coach and official captain. I didn't see most of it. Was there a point? Listless performances I think. Now will be subjected to reams of newsprint on Dravid's able, perhaps astute captaincy or otherwise, Chappell's stratagems, or lack of it and the media circus will continue to cartwheel or gawk at the trapeze artists swinging wildly on a wire stretched thin. No huddle, no high fives, no pumping of fists in the air I was told by my aunt. Boring!No pizzazz! Sigh!
Bad Breath!
So we (yours truly and another girl) were the shrews, who complained, at the salsa class today. Bad breath, sweaty hands, and men who hold you under the arm pits. Gimme a break! Do I hold your crotch you cretin?! I truly wish I could knee them on their balls! Men have got to lead (like they're conditioned to believe that it's the ultimte truth), while women provide eye candy and do the twirls and shake their booty. If D ever reads this, he'll probably grin and say, 'women always shake their booty as always'..bah! At least we are bootylicious baby. Men on the other hand are malodorous, slippery, egoistical, flat footed, lecherous, swines...and am talking about the men at salsa. No offence to the really nice gentlemen out there somewhere... yes, somewhere! And when the bad breath hit me, I'm telling you, I have a pretty strong constitution, but even I reeled. Like someone knocking me plum in the solar plexus. I could feel myself swaying, the centre of gravity slipping and my equilibrium going for a toss. So now, a bottle of mouth freshners have been kept at the entrance.
TGTIAS! (Thank God Tomorrow Is A Sunday!)
I'm not against babies. Au contraire! I love them. I won't be able to have any of my own as my biological clock is furiously ticking away like a bomb with about 10 seconds before annihilation, but am working on getting some financial stability to be able to adopt them, and that too is taking quite a bit of 'working' on...my credit card bills keep winking at me evilly like Stephen King's joker in IT...cocking a snook at my inability to save.
But no I'm not against babies...I do love them.
Of course as they grow older, the 'seen and not heard' variety are preferable. The hyperactive, precocious kids, careening wildly from one corner of the ceiling like Spidey to swtiching on every possible gadget that you own, (and you can't even twist those Spock like ears as their indulgent mothers are watching from the corner of their kohl lined eyes, while all you can do is, smile a grin that gets caught between one ear and the middle of your nose, making it a sneer, and try and curb the urge to whack the child or better still tie its legs to the fan and switch it on), or opening the refrigerator like curious weasels in search of something that would most definitely ruin your upholstery or the carpet or the granite platform or the walls, basically anything that can be used as a beacon of destruction are a big NO! Like chocolates. When they spy your store of Bounty there's a sick thud! of your heart as you see them extend their eager beaver small hands, sickeningly grabbing at them while all you want to do is cry and plead with them saying, 'no no, not those, anything but those, leave them alone'! Only to realize it's mortal combat, where you are mortal and the combatants immortal. The battle is lost when the broken toothed yokel looks doe eyed at you with the Bounty held firmly and triumphantly between a chubby thumb and index finger. Yes! then you hate them, a vicious 'hate' emanating from the bottom of your sole...yes, kids should be 'seen and not heard' preferably found in a somnolent state, amenable to everyone including their harried but phlegmatic parents and equally harried neighbours (like moi). Give me back my Bounty you you you....he he he...cho chweet, you want one more? (gnashing and grinding teeth with a thought blurb, 'wait you wench, wait till I clobber you',) he he he...you want one more sweety?
So here I was invited to a kiddies' birthday party. As if one wasn't enough, it was a 'double bill' - sisters - 2 tiny tots (what's that they say about trouble coming in twos?). And then to 'dress up', drive mom and uncle and neighbors (and all for 'good neighbors' cause), to go to the 'party hall', espy 80 odd chairs, arranged in 2 neat contiguous columns of approximately 10 in each row, seeing more adults, (ok ok, that's a euphemism for 'old' people) with their 'greys' showing, silks rustling, and no sign of children, except the 'budday' girl, singing a song from 'Parineeta', father focusing his digi unwaveringly at his little girl, lest she vanish or be whisked away by some vulture, the mother doing her job as an MC, beaming in her rotund glory, was just a wee bit too much to handle. Oh God! Isn't it enough that I glanced through piles mind you, P-I-L-E-S of comic books to see if I could lay my hands on something that had 'Ganesha' stories, or the mind boggling array of 'Red Riding Hoods' or the toys that I could purchase with the budget straining at the leash like a dog on heat, and actually managed to come away with everyone satisfied - mom, the budget, aunt and now hopefully the 'kids'.
Why do adults have 'kiddies' parties where all they do is preen, prance, make small talk, have puris and malai paneer and go, 'the rasogullas are really nice', with the hosts beaming like rasogullas themselves, while the 'kids' in question are nowhere to be seen, or are bored, or....sigh! You get the picture don't you? Ugh!I should be awarded with the 'Good neighbors Param Vir Chakra' or some such... I put up a brave front. (The elllipses in this diatribe are actually an SOS...). My 'greys' must be showing. Why me????
Greg's men
India lost. Chappell and Dravid's first match as coach and official captain. I didn't see most of it. Was there a point? Listless performances I think. Now will be subjected to reams of newsprint on Dravid's able, perhaps astute captaincy or otherwise, Chappell's stratagems, or lack of it and the media circus will continue to cartwheel or gawk at the trapeze artists swinging wildly on a wire stretched thin. No huddle, no high fives, no pumping of fists in the air I was told by my aunt. Boring!No pizzazz! Sigh!
Bad Breath!
So we (yours truly and another girl) were the shrews, who complained, at the salsa class today. Bad breath, sweaty hands, and men who hold you under the arm pits. Gimme a break! Do I hold your crotch you cretin?! I truly wish I could knee them on their balls! Men have got to lead (like they're conditioned to believe that it's the ultimte truth), while women provide eye candy and do the twirls and shake their booty. If D ever reads this, he'll probably grin and say, 'women always shake their booty as always'..bah! At least we are bootylicious baby. Men on the other hand are malodorous, slippery, egoistical, flat footed, lecherous, swines...and am talking about the men at salsa. No offence to the really nice gentlemen out there somewhere... yes, somewhere! And when the bad breath hit me, I'm telling you, I have a pretty strong constitution, but even I reeled. Like someone knocking me plum in the solar plexus. I could feel myself swaying, the centre of gravity slipping and my equilibrium going for a toss. So now, a bottle of mouth freshners have been kept at the entrance.
TGTIAS! (Thank God Tomorrow Is A Sunday!)
posted by Livin @ 7/31/2005 12:16:00 AM
1 Comments
