Bum Bum Baaje

A couple of weeks ago, one rather early Sunday morning, I suddenly found myself surrounded by four little monkeys -- my EO, YO, the Nephew and the Niece.

I was still asleep when I felt a weight on my back. It was the Nephew. He was having a rather genial conversation with the EO from his comfortable perch, while the YO plastered my cheek with wet slobbery kisses, with the Niece saying, "Aee! Tumi tomaar mamma key lipsh-ey kishhie korchho!" (Hey! You're kissing your mum on the lips!) The YO glares back at her and says, "Naa! Lipsh-ey! Dekho!" (No! Not on the lips, see!) and proceeds to demonstrate.

Quite enjoying the attention and also curious to see what lay in store, I pretended to be fast asleep. Suddenly, snatches of the elder boys' conversation drifted towards me. The Nephew is heard asking my EO, "EO, why does your mum have such a big bum?" And before the EO can answer, he chooses to answer his question himself, "Oh I know! I know! It's because she's big and big people have big bums, that's why!"

As I smirked to myself I suddenly felt not one, not two, but FOUR PAIRS of hands playing my 'big bum' like a tabla. Yes, my bum is just that big...big enough to accommodate four pairs of hands to beat out a tune as funny and delightful as their giggles and squeals of delight.

And no, the treadmill is not going to be my new best friend. How else will my children play the tabla?

A Nightmare in London

"London Dreams." A misnomer if ever there was one. I mean, dreams are supposed to be pleasant, right? Well, this one soooooo wasn't! We actually saw this with friends last Friday and I'm still waking up shrieking as bits and pieces, feviquiked to my inner mind, suddenly pop out to haunt me!

That it was bad, you can probably get from my opening para, but just how wishing-for-a-migraine-attack-so-that-my-head-is-pleasantly-occupied bad, you can't even begin to fathom. Not even in your wildest nightmare, err, dream!

What made it so god-awful, well, 'let me count the ways'.

1. For starters, Ajay Devgn (no, that's not a typo, that's how he spells it now). Now don't get me wrong, I have no major issues with the guy. In fact, thanks to his portrayal of Bhagat Singh, I quite like the guy. But for some crazy reason, he's begun to think that he can pull off comedy. Yo! Jay! I mean this in the nicest way possible, but you can't! Not that this movie was a comedy, but I needed to get that out of the way.
   Here's the thing though, if you've been noticing his last few movies, it almost looks as if he's trying to reclaim his lost youth. This has to be said...Jay, you were too old for this movie. This role deserved a younger actor, and you, my friend, were so not it!
2. Which brings me to fogey #2, Salman Khan. Where do I begin? Yikes!! Crass, crude, ridiculous and, and..errrr...oh yes -- OLD!!
   What were the makers of this film thinking when they were handing out the parts? Yes, of course there was the mandatory shirt-taking-off scene and his body still looks pretty darned good, but the rest of the package? Bloated! Been hitting the bottle, my friend?
   I mean, come on, if you're gonna plan a "Rock On!" type of movie, at least get your band of brothers right!
3. Which in turn brings me to it being a pale, sad, pathetic shadow of "Rock On!" They tried so hard to copy from perfection and instead ended up massacring it, like a botched-up boob-job.
4. I mean, they even had a Farhan Akhtar look-a-like, frizzy hair and all. Now he was cute and all, and had I still been in school uniform I would have totally kissed his poster and all that, but baby-doll, a Farhan Akhtar you ain't!
5. The weaker-than-my-grandma's-punch story-line. Let's not even go there. It was the hastily done patch-up job to cover up the botched-up boob-job.
6. Asin. She's pretty. Pretty dumb. And that's how she came across. And Lolita-like relationships just make me really uncomfortable. I get all squeamish when they are forcefully inflicted upon me. And the recent Bollywood trend of pairing these uncle types with a fresh pair of boobs is really nauseating. You have Sanju baba (who should really be rechristened Sanju dadu) rolling around in the sand with a clearly desperate-for-any-role Lara Dutta in the recently made 'Blue', and in this movie you have AD and SK lusting after Asin. What's the matter guys? Overdoing the testosterone shots? Not getting any at home? Well whatever the reason, stop pawing these toddlers in mini-skirts! It's ugly!
7. And what's with the whipping?!?!?!?! DUDE!!!! I mean, seriously!! I mean WTF!! I mean DUDE!!!!!! That was soooooo a bad lift from "The DaVinci Code"! And it was so, so, soooo...DUDE!!!

You know, I can go on. But I don't want to nit-pick, because I can really go on forever!

This movie ranks on my "Top Ten Worst Big-Screen Disasters Ever" list at #2! Come to think of it, it may even rank somewhere on my list of "Top Ten Stupidest Mistakes I Ever Made"!!

Yes, good people, that bad. Only worse!

My Santoor Moment

I went for a superfantabulous Rabindra nritya-natya (Tagorean dance-drama) today. A friend of mine, rather well-known in Kolkata, was one of the PR agents and he organised the passes for Maa-Janoni and me.

Now my mom is a very open, warm, gregarious and friendly person. She attracts friends like I attract cellulite. She can talk to anyone and everyone and people tend to open up to her very easily. I am so the opposite of her that growing up I got and still do get, very often, "I can't believe you're her daughter!" Yup, shy, reserved, timid wallflower -- that's me. But then, I'm also Daddy's girl.

But I digress.

So, we're sitting in the auditorium. My Ma-Janoni in the meanwhile has managed to get chatty with her neighbour. My friend has just made a speech in perfect Bengali followed by excellent English. The two women start singing his praises and Ma-Janoni tells the woman that he's a friend of mine. Woman looks over at me, takes in my appearance from over the top of her spectacles, and then smiles.

Woman: Tomaar bondhu? (Your friend?)
Me: Hein. (Yes.)
Woman: Bhishon talented chheley. (Very talented young man.)
Me: Hein. (Yes.)
Woman: Khub bhaalo gaan korey. (He sings very well.)
Me: *Nods and makes a note to make him sing the next opportunity she gets*
Woman: Toh, kono future-ttuchure kichchu achchey? (Toh koi future-wuture ka chakkar hai?-- the 'with him' is implied.)
Me: *Totally albeit pleasantly zapped!!* Ki?!? Aamaar? Aamaar biyey hoyey gechchey aar duto chcheeley achchey. (What?!? Me? [the 'and him' is implied] I'm married with two sons!)
Woman: *Totally zapped and open-mouthed*

Hehehe! God bless oily skin! I cribbed throughout my adolescence, but it sure is coming to good use now!
(Aur bure nazar waale and jealous cats, tere chehere pe 100 pimples!!)

Uncle Sam and the EO

There are times when I think the EO is an American by osmosis. He's picked up quite a few Americanisms thanks to his beloved Mamu. Phrases like "Aww! Man!!", "Are you kidding me?", "Aww! Come on!!" and "Cool!" flow fast and furious from his lips. He can also happily set up camp in McDonald's and Pizza Hut.

So while we were away on Saturday, my parents decided to indulge their grandsons and took them out for a Happy Meal, which by the way is so aptly named. I mean, find me another meal or dish that so perfectly describes the state of being that you will be transported to upon consumption. 'Amrit' and 'ambrosia'? Don't think so. While 'Amrit' has a nice, village-belle from Punjab ring to it, 'Ambrosia' sounds like what you would name a porn star's boob.

Anyways. So on Saturday. thanks to doting grandparents, state of happiness was achieved.

Sunday, the MIM and I are driving back home with a car full of excited, jump, yelling-with-all-their-lung-power boys (our two brats, the Nephew and S1) when we drive past one of Calcutta's most famous landmarks/heritage sites/tourist attractions.

The EO, eager to show off his knowledge, jumps up and down on his seat, points out said famous-landmark and shouts, "Look! Look! Victorrrria McMorial!"

Looks like Ronald McDonald has gotten a good grip on my son. It'll be a steady diet of shukto-shaak-maachcher-jhol-bhaat and Rabindrasangeet for my boy for some time now.

English and the YO

The struggle to turn the YO bilingual continues.

While the EO picked up English simultaneously with Bangla, thanks to me being the primary care-giver (oooh! that's a big, scary, professional-sounding word!!), the YO did not get the benefit of me and my education as I was too busy ferrying the EO all over Kolkata thanks to school, extra-classes and his very busy social life. The YO, therefore, spent a lot of time and still does, truthfully speaking :( , with the ayah. So it comes as no surprise that his vernacular is much stronger than his foreign language speaking skills.

It's been close to a year since he started school and he's finally turning bilingual...except not in the language that I thought! Thanks to 15 of the 17 kids in his class coming from Hindi speaking homes, the YO is bombarded with the language. Add to that, there are story-telling sessions in Hindi in the school, owing to the fact that 96% of the students will eventually choose Hindi as their Second Language when they to to Big School -- so it's considered good practice for them from now. It's no wonder that he can recite "Machchli Jal Ki Rani" with more ease than "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

So you will understand why I nearly fell off my chair today, when my little one approached, me holding out his car on the palm of his hand, and said, "Hejj cawrring you." (He's calling you.)

After I lifted my jaw off the floor, I asked him, "He's calling me? Why?"

Nodding his up and down in a perfect imitation of his idol, Noddy, he very seriously said, "He want chokeett."

Aaahhh! The cheeky little imp! But I had to celebrate our longest English conversation till date and so I pulled out an Alpenleibe from my purse, slowly. On seeing the familiar wrapping, my YO's English flew out the window and he looked at me with eyes as round as Ben10 watches dials and said, "Tumi aamaar jonno rorripop enechcho?" (You got me a lollipop?)

Ah well, tis a good start. And while I won't be reading out Shakespeare to him just yet, I'm thinking Lewis Carrol? No? *Sigh* Guess I'll just continue with Mother Goose.

What I Learned About Balls Today or The Fat Busting Diaries, Again

Okaaaayyyy. Pilates and stability balls. The former, a generic name given to a medivial form of torture practised in the ancient world and most probably meted out by pirates from whom it gets its name; it has resurfaced in the modern world as a type of self-inflicted torture, practised by masochistic women. The latter, the torture device of choice.

Here is what I learnt today...

1. Stability balls. Seriously? You really couldn't find a better name for that one? In a Fickle Fest, it can easily go bouncing off with first prize, it's nearest contender a hormonal, teen-aged boy's heart.
   SOOOOO erroneously named. But then, to paraphrase the immortal words of the Bard, what is in a friggin' name? After all, would not the rack, by any other name, be just as body-alteringly hellish?
2. In Torture World, seconds are actually longer. So when the instructor says "Hold that position for ten more seconds", she means twenty.
3. Women on the floor, flat on their backs, legs in the air, moaning and groaning? Not always sexy. Even when the balls are between their legs. No. Really not sexy.
4. I always knew I had a jelly-belly, jiggle-jaggle-jugs and thunder thighs. I did not know I had knock-about knees. Now I know.
5. I must be the shortest woman alive.
6. Even the hair on my head is groaning in protest today.
7. Endorphins are over-rated. At least during the entire procedure.

I so recommend this to everyone! You might die by the end of it, but at least you'll die fabulously and not flabulously.

And now, there's a grave out there somewhere with my name on it. Heaven is hopefully a land where pain-killers grow on trees. And chocolate is fat-free and still delicious. And the angels all look like Johnny Depp, Hugh Jackman and Hritik Roshan. And...

Ouch! I just pulled a finger muscle typing that last sentence. Right now, I'll just settle for the pain-killer tree.

Building the Body Beautiful...or, How to Die a Slow, Painful Death or The Fat Busting Diaries, Contd.

I am pretty sure that 'pilates' were some sort of medivial torture-chamber routine designed to crack women, centuries ago. And I'm sure pirates were the preferred Masters of Death Ceremonies carrying out said torture. How else do you explain the one letter difference? (accent be damned!)

In my on-going quest to lose weight, I have joined a 'Body Balance' class at the swankiest health, fitness and beauty centre in town, 'Solace'. Although after today's back-breaking session, the place offers anything but! Once again, a little gem for my collection of 'The Bitter Ironies of This, My Life'.

My earlier venture did not bear fruit and was quickly abandoned. A lot of money, sanity and good humour was lost. I kid you not, but a law-suit was also considered for unethical practices, but I ran out of steam and patience. I still do think I'll write about my experiences to save others the trauma as well as a helluva lot of money, but who's gonna print it or believe it? You, my good friends and gentle readers, just believe me when I say, VLCC is all fraud. It is just a money-making machine -- STAY AWAY!!

Diets don't work. Except for one...water and one square inch of steamed tofu a day. But since I love food too much and hate tofu equally, we all know that said diet isn't even a consideration for moi.


At the ripe old age of 33, I have finally discovered the truth. And the truth is this...to lose weight, one must grant oneself a slow, painful, tortuous death. In other words, one must exercise.


Exercise is the key to losing weight. And that's why, two months ago, I renewed my love affair with the water. That's right, I started going swimming, 3 to 5 times a week.

I enjoy swimming. I love it. I'm a water-baby. A mermaid. A siren with a song. And the results showed! After three years, I finally had a waist again! Oh indescribable joy! And waist meet sari petticoat and bust-line say goodbye to sari petticoat! That's right people, the sari is being worn at it's righful place on this particular female form again!

And here's the thing about losing weight. When it starts to happen, I mean, really, really happen, it makes you hungry for more. I have always wondered whether after babies, boobage and blubber, you can ever be what you once were? Or are you reduced to a wardrobe of black for the rest of your days? I don't know, but I knew I wanted to try. Even if not what I was eight years ago, maybe what I was six years ago? And so when a friend of mine said she was going to join pilates class, I jumped on the band-wagon with a yee-hah and a vision of me in white, sleeveless dresses!

Monday was supposed to be the first class, but since I had a fever, I skipped it. This morning, I had a body-ache thanks to the viral, but other than that, I was okay. So I thought, let me give this body something to really ache about.

So mon amie and I, along with her really sweet mom, went for pilates today. As we stated working out together, side by side, I felt like I was in a chick flick movie :)

And then...OH MY GOD!!! It was sooooo intense!! My body hasn't hurt like that in years! And the poetic names for those poses, like Reverse Swan, Equestrian, Submissive Warrior and Rag Doll, did nothing to make the process easier.

I'm up for eleven more classes. My body feels like it's was used in a game of football by a team of rhinos and elephants. And yet I feel like I'm on a happy high.

Maybe the endorphins have something to do with it, but I know for a fact that I am happy with myself. Proud of myself. For actually trying to do something about the thing that's been keeping me down and depressed for so long.

I owned up. I took responsibility. And I'm fighting to get fit. So three cheers for me!

Next visit to the torture chamber, Friday. Oh, and we'll be working with balls.

Hehehe.

Stability balls, y'all.

M4 Cracked a Funny

So I took my brood and The Nephew to the MIM's cousin's house, who shall hereafter be referred to as SilkLotus (hehehe!!). After the ear-splitting greetings, the bone-crushing hugs and some semblances of airplane whirls, SilkLotus takes some chocolates out of the fridge, one for each kid. She holds it a few inches above their head and makes them jump for it.

Now chocolate can turn the strongest of people into Circus-Trick-Performing-Pups/Clowns/Seals, and so these three boys, forgetting all sense of dignity and decorum, did the jump-and-snatch move. I am a chocoholic and I have no shame in admitting that I was mentally preparing myself to do the same.

SilkLotus: One for you (jump goes The Nephew) ... one for you (jump goes the EO) and one for you ... (stretch, jump and snatch goes the YO).
Then holding out two to me, "And two for Mamma!"
M4: Perfect! One for each butt cheek.

Yes, I did say I was shameless when it came to chocolates...

ROTFLMAO!!!!

Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god!! In screechy Janice-in-labour type nasal tones at that!!

I've just acquainted myself with the 16 men vying to be Mr. Rakhi Sawant and I must confess my funny-bone hasn't had a laugh like this in years!

These said worthies have hippy-hippy-shaked themselves from all over; from Jammu & Kashmir and even all the way from Canada. The age range is an incredible just-weaned-off-my-mummy's-breast 21 years-old to mature-enough-to-not-need-mummy's-permission 33 years-old.

And you won't believe what some of them have had to say!!!!

Ashwin Chaudhuri admits his mom isn't actually dancing with joy at the prospect of having a DIL who dances in skimpy clothes. So our dear little Ashwin says, "I wouldn't allow Rakhi to do item numbers in future, as this would affect the reputation of my family." Erm, Rakhi, did you screen these? Or is his promise to keep you forever happy good enough for you to overlook that exceedingly MCP statement?

And then we have dear little Raman Handa, a Vaastu consultant and astrologer. He believes that "she is only one who can bring about a revolution in this world." Sorry! I think I just snorted my dinner out through my nose!! I wonder if this is what Mr. Handa's stars have revealed to him?!? If so, then he must come from a galaxy far, far away!!

Don't judge me you guys, but if this is anything to go by, I think I'm going to give this show a try!

And After Potty-Training

All of us moms (and many dads too) and I mean all of us, puff up with pride when our little ones look into our eyes with a certain expression on their face and manage to say "potty" before pooping their pants dirty.

We break into cheers when they finally learn to put 'two and two togther', that is to say, depositing the stuff in the toilet bowl where it rightfully belongs. Our teaching is successful and as parents we can start dispensing 'potty training advice'.

And we think 'potty training' has come to an end!

Sadly, no. There is something far worse and icky and a bit gross in store.

Teaching them to clean the place from where it comes.

'Big School' for the EO starts on Thursday. 'Bum washing' training started today.

If We Are Who We Watch...

The EO is Ben10. Ben10 in a Bengali boy body. Really and truly. He lagaos the lingo and dons the designs. All that's missing is the REAL omnitrix. But for now, he's got two expensive, flashy, replicas made in China until he acquires the real thing.

The YO has become obsessed with Noddy. So much so that he has started looking like him...huge, big eyes, an impish grin and a wobbly head.

The MIM, if you look hard enough, bears a slight resemblance to Arnab Goswami. My man's just got a more squashed up samosa for a nose, is a couple of shades more wheatish in complexion and smiles a lot more. Glasses and passionate, argumentative logic firmly in place, though!

So why the hell don't I look like Kate Walsh or Marcia Cross!! No?!? Ok, Suchitra Sen or Sonam Kapoor? Awww come on! At least Kajol!!
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And speaking of Ben10...
There's something that's just so awfully thrilling and touching and enchanting about the fact that sometimes, just the very rarest of sometimes, your five-and-a-half year old chooses Mickey Mouse over his favourite, boy/10 alien avtaar superhero.
Believe me, it's quite a "YES!!!!!" moment.

Gentlemen – The New Endangered Species

A friend asked me to write this. He wanted a few lines...it became an article! Go figure! Anyway...I hope you enjoy...
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They say chivalry is dead and that ‘gentlemen’, as a breed, are extinct. I beg to differ. Chivalry ain’t dead, it’s just comatose and in the ICU while ‘gentlemen’ have probably boarded their father ship and gone back to the planet from whence they came. Or maybe they’re just hiding out in the bathroom with a smuggled TV set, watching hours of mind-numbing Test matches and James Bond flicks. Well, whatever the case may be, there’s not one to be spotted for miles around!

And if truth be told, I think it’s us superwomen who have scared them off good and proper! And we didn’t even need to show them the door. To preserve their sanity and their family jewels, they clawed through the walls to high tail it out of home and hearth. Seriously. Let’s sit back and review, shall we…

After years of male oppression, suppression and domination, we have finally broken out of the formulaic a-girl-is-born-to-get-married-to-worship-her-husband-and-give-birth-to-his-many-babies cycle. We have shaken off the patriarchal dust with a violent, Shakira-like flourish of our hips and stepped out of our keeper’s (read ‘Male’) shadow and into the light. We have trampled upon their innate God complex with Mother-Durga-astride-Her-lion like intensity only to establish temples in our glory in the form of designer boutiques and other places like the neighbourhood mall.

We climb corporate ladders with the grace of a ballet dancer and the skill of a chimp, often holding our laundry in one hand, a baby in the other and a grocery list dangling from our mouths. We can be Kamasutra babes in the bedroom yet Yashoda maiyya in the nursery, all the while keeping our CEO persona in the boardroom firmly intact.

Bras burnt and Wonderbras firmly in place, today we revel in our hard-won independence and god help the poor man who tries to get in our way. Like the mascot of our female tribe, Lady Praying Mantis, we just might bite his head off. Except, in our part of the animal kingdom, it’s called ‘bobbitizing’.

So, the last few gentlemen who were left ran off scared. “I am woman, hear me roar!” By the time we finished roaring, the poor dears were left cowering and unsure of themselves and their many intrinsic deeds and acts.

Were they still supposed to hold open the door for us? Or would we push the doorknob into their beloved nether regions for thinking us helpless?

Were they expected to always pick up the tab at restaurants? Or would we break the wine bottle over their heads for being so chauvinistic?

Was sending flowers still considered an act of sweet thoughtfulness and tender romance or condescendingly silly mush-mush?

And if they did lose their hearts to one of us, were they still expected to get down on one knee with diamond-ring-in-a-box and ask us to be theirs forevermore or were they supposed to wait for us to do it over an SMS or e-mail?

Poor guys. It’s no wonder they disappeared.

Gentlemen. The royal Bengal tiger. The Puerto Rican parrot. Water. Petrol. Precious, few and far between. And all in need of saving.

Such is Life,

full of up moments and down. One minute you're floating above the clouds, starry-eyed and all strawberry shortcake. The next, you're free-falling like an ugly bird, shot through the heart and headed straight for the sewers.

The day before. Sweet, oldish lady I was meeting for the first time. "So my dear, which college are you studying in?"
My mental response, "I love you! Can I adopt you as my grandmom?"

Yesterday. Man-friend I was meeting after two months. "Ho-ho! So are we expecting baby number three?"
My mental response, "Miserable vermin, you should talk. You look like you're the living Arnold Schwarzenneger Junior experiment!"
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This morning I experienced two more blow-me-up-like-a-balloon-only-to-let-out-the-fart-sounds moments again. I seem to be on a roll...

After dropping my EO off to school, I took my Daddy Dearest to the market for fish hunting and vegetable picking. Yes, I use those words on purpose for that is what the retired Bengali male does...he hunts for the perfect specimen of fish to lovingly hand over to his wedded wife who will, in return, lovingly turn the offering into the famous maacher jhol that the whole of India seems to associate with the Bengali palate. He also spends whole minutes ruminating over the colour, size, firmness and smell of each and every piece of vegetable that he picks up. Wars will start and end, but a retired Bengali man's vegetable choosing will go on for lifetimes.

Besides the point. So, I walked like a good daughter along with him to help him pick and choose and carry, and also to shorten the entire process, if possible. I had a baby waiting for me back home, not to mention a husband who needed to be cajoled out of bed so that he could go out and earn a living. From one side, I heard someone calling out to me to come and inspect his wares..."Oh didi!" Elder sister.
Good, good. Really good. Normally reserved for college going girls and unmarried PYTs. Yes, I felt two inches taller and 20 ks lighter!
A few steps later, another sobji-wallah calls out. "Oh boudi!!" Bhaabi.
Bad, bad. All bad. Usually reserved for fat aunty types with rolls of fat, trying to negotiate their way through the slippery, fish-scale strewn floor, theila in one hand and sari pleats in the other. I felt 2 feet shorter and 20 kgs heavier!

There's no escaping it. Jeans or not; sari or not, I am a fat auntyji. A boudi type!

Counting Tales...

"1,2,4,6,7,10!"...my little one finishes with a flourish.

It used to irritate me with the EO and with the YO I am more resigned. I mean what? Do the numbers just fall out of your head?!?

I think I have my answer now.

I went for a couple of rounds around the park yesterday. Try keeping track of the number of rounds you complete along with the multiple thoughts, songs and he-said-she-said issues in your head.

Yes, I've found that numbers do have a way of flying out the ear-drum.

I'm sorry my little ones, Mamma owes you an apology!

Wild Animals in My Bed...

I rceived this mail from a sender-whose-name-I-did-not-bother-to-look-at, asking me if I would like to take "a python to bed."

I have heard about men naming their partners-in-lust-propogation-and-the-pee, Mighty Lion, Roaring Tiger and Raging Bull. This is the first time I was made aware of the fact that those objects could actually be transformed into jungle creatures.

So then it's not enough anymore that the mere possession of one changes their personality from man to beast.

Well, I did what any dignified, sophisticated wife would do.

I forwarded the mail to the MIM.

Hee-hee-hee. I do have a sense of humour!

All This Holiday Hogging...

Ever met a human pig?

Well then, come up and see me some time!

"Mirror, Mirror on the Bathroom Wall..."

M4 : (through a mouthful of toothpaste and singing/mumbling/frothing in a falsetto voice) Winter is here, winter is finally here!

Mirror Image: Hmmm. Yes, I can see that!

M4: Excuse me? Meaning?!?

Mirror Image: The extra layer of insulation you've packed on speaks volumes about the volumes of festive cheer you've been consuming!

M4: Oh you kill-joy you! 'Tis the season to be jolly and all the other jazz...

Mirror Image: There's jolly and then there's folly. You my dear, have regressed quite a few letters back!

M4: Hahaha-blah! You think you're so funny!

Mirror Image: You'd be rolling on the floor laughing if you could only see what I really see! It's downright hilarious!

M4: Hey, so I might have indulged in an extra piece of rum ball or four, so what? It's the season of merry-making! I am revelling in the winter cheer and I'm not ashamed if my body shows it! That's what we have sweaters for!

Mirror Image: Your body was all set for winter before it even arrived in all its nippy glory!

M4: Henh?!?

Mirror Image: Your boobs, my dear. They seem to have gone south for the winter and from the looks of it, I'd say they've take up permanent residency there!

M4: (picks up vase and takes aim...)

Fat Poem

Hey diddle, diddle,
The fat and the frizzle...
My thighs shake all on their own.

My tummy's all lard,
Of the jelly-type, that too...
And my hips are way past over-grown.

When Fat Cells Eat Up Your Grey Cells...

...you become an idiot.

And I, dear friends, am an idiot. Of the biggest kind (a certain pun intended...) Carry on gentlefolk, to read my story of how I allowed myself to be absolutely and thoroughly bemuddled into joining a weight-loss centre.

I got a VLCC gift voucher as a gift from a credit card company.

Now, everybody knows how much I crib about my weight...and why not? I am fifteen kgs overweight. I was never slim and trim, but I was never such a hot-air balloon like figure either. It's one of my major causes for depression. (Yes, I do suffer from depression...there! I've said it out loud and I feel strangely lighter...but the battle with the little demons that surround me, leave me feeling tired, unhappy and soul-less. {I can't believe I've just admitted all that!})

But as I was saying before I started rambling, I am overweight and I have tried to do things about it before. I started going for walks soon after the YO was born, and everybody said that the results were showing. And then, I just stopped. The only available time on my hands was the evenings, but that time is heavy traffic-time for me...chasing after the kids, sometimes dropping & picking the EO and my friend's sons from karate class, feeding my boys, putting them to bed...I felt very rushed. I know it's not a good excuse, but it's the truth.

Next, I joined a gym for a month. I didn't even go regularly, but in twenty-one days I lost three kilos! That should have been incentive enough for me to keep going, but I didn't, because the gym timings were in the morning and that meant I had to go after dropping the EO off to school and before picking him up. That meant, the being away from home during the only exclusive time I had with my YO. And I thought bonding with my teeny-tiny babe was more important than those then 10 extra kilos.

But now that the YO has started school, I have been toying with the idea of going back to the gym. And then this voucher fell into my lap. It gave me a 30% discount on slimming or beauty packages, plus Rs. 5,000/- worth of treatments free. Never one to pass up a freebie and considering that this was also going to help carve a slim-waisted figure out of a lumpy mass of fat and flesh, and also not to ignore the fact that there's a VLCC centre just half-a-kilometer away from home, I decided to drop in.

The lady, sales rep, centre manager or what-have-you, knew her spiel backwards. And even though I am not a naive bumpkin and went in there knowing that to avail of those beautifully-worded freebies I'd have to shell out some amount from my pocket, I never imagined that I would be thwacked in the face with the astronomical figure of Rs. 40,000/-!! This, Ms. VLCC claimed, was how much it would cost me to lose a measly five kgs (hah!) and to tighten my tum-tum and thighs (that had me really interested) in x-amount of sittings. I shook my head politely and said that thanks, but no thanks I would just take the weight-loss package that guaranteed to have me 5 kgs lighter in time for Christmas.

But Ms. VLCC was not to be outdone. She carried on trying to convince me to go for ten sittings, instead of 20, for the thigh and tummy toning thingamajig. That still meant Rs. 20,000/-. Her well-toned upper arms, which she purposely flaunted in that sleeveless kurta, obviously worn to woo desperadoes like me who craved for an unflappable pair, seemed to mock me. My resolve was weakening, I could tell, but to my credit, I sat firm.

Finally, a last ditch effort by Ms. VLCC....and I caved. The thought of slimmer thighs and being able to fit into a pair of jeans that didn't have an elastic waist-band to accommodate a growing person inside of me, was just too good to pass up.

Yes. I am indeed walking around with a post-it stuck to my forehead, loudly proclaiming me to be a "SUCKER!!!"

And thus starts the story of how I allowed myself to be bamboozled into joining a weight-loss and slimming centre. Just so that I could get some freebies. And hopefully feel lighter around my 'problem areas'.

And I must say, it's already working. My bank balance is already feeling lighter by several thousands of rupees! And so is the inside of my head...those grey cells must really be dwindling in number!

Mirror Gazing and Randomn Thoughts

It's a mystery to me why a woman never 'discovered' gravity.

You'd think they never had 30 year old boobs back then.