Category Archives: Funny

An immenses conversation

On the way back from the beach yesterday.  Two moms on the front seat, two teenage kids at the back.

Kids singing some random song, completely out of tune and loud.

Mom1:  Can you please tone it down a little?  Mom 2 and I are trying to have a conversation.

Kids’ ears flap.  Moms’ conversation, they are sure, would be something they can crib about later.  E.g. “moms don’t know how to have fun, you know?”. “Moms are so jealous of anyone who has fun, that they have to get on our case if we laugh ” . (Actual quotes we have overheard in the past few days).

Mom 2:  I haven’t gotten my periods in three months now. I wonder if I have menopaused.

Mom1:  Lucky you.   You can set the calendar by me.

Mom 2:  I wonder if I am really that lucky.  Maybe when it comes, it will finally kill me.

Mom 1: More likely.  At least, when you are dead, you won’t get periods anymore.

Mom 2:  I am not sure.  My ghost will probably get PMS.

Kid 1: May be we are better off singing.

Mom 2:  Don’t behave like you guys don’t know what we are talking about.  Especially considering how crabby you guys get before your period.

Mom 1:  You know how they throw parties and have celebrations for menarche*?  We must have a celebration for menopause you know..makes more sense.

Mom 2: What do you mean we must have a celebration for menopause?  We must have a kick-ass party.  You know, invite all menopausal/perimenopausal women, have a big feast, dancing, singing, new clothes, drinking..the works.

Mom 1:  And banners.  “Take that, uterus”.

Mom 2: “Die, ovaries”

Mom 1:  “Hormones to hell”

Mom 2:  “Vale, vaginal vagaries”

Mom 1:  “Cheerio Cramps”

Kid 2:  You know how moms think we are crazy?…

Mom 2:  And we can have a cake shaped like uterus.

Mom 1: With red icing

Mom 2:  And not cut it, but each of us gets a knife and stabs it

The kids are stunned to silence until we reach home.

Later in the night, mom 1 gets a message from mom2: “Got my P :(”

Mom 1:  What?  No party then?

Mom 2:  More time to plan.

What can I say?  We are glass-half-full people.

* In India, a girl’s menarche is traditionally celebrated on a grand scale – feasting and all.  It still is among many families.

Edited to add:  A dear cousin wrote back saying “why so much hatred for the uterus?  Without it, you two would not have had your kids”.  I feel partly combative, but also bad.  Thirty odd years of pain and PMS shebang (the other mom in this conversation faints every period with pain, and I go through dark mental periods every month) seems like a steep price to pay for reproduction, considering that the other half of the procreationist gets away scott free.  That said, I’d face any pain all over again, and again, and all my life, for my kid. If I have inadvertently hurt anyone by this post, I am sorry. I considered deleting this post, but realised that that would be escapist.  I own these thoughts. They may be wrong, but they are mine.



All that’s white ain’t milk

My father was apparently a sickly child, prone to fevers.  Every time he was delirious, his mother would mix hot, sweetened milk with carbonated water (aka club soda, sparkling water, seltzer, fizzy water) and make him drink it, and as lore would have it, the fever would disappear.  I was thankfully a healthy child, and even the few times that I did end up with fever, my mother had enough sense to not let my dad treat it.

In grad school, my neighbour in the run-down grad-student housing was a North Indian grad student, whose name I have forgotten.  I once dropped into his house to pick up some candles (there was going to be a blizzard that night and the power always fluctuated during blizzards), and he offered me a drink. Since it was non alcoholic, I accepted it with thanks.  The drink was cold coca cola mixed with cold Vit D milk.  I actually liked it  (I like anything with milk) and continued to have it for two years of my life.  Two decades since, I have forgotten the taste of it,  and don’t intend to remind myself of it – do you know coke really cleans your toilet bowl to a shine?  With a pH of 2.53, why wouldn’t it?

Again, in Grad school, in an attempt to put on weight (I was uncharitably addressed as “2D LG” by the juvenile Indian grad students that my university was infested with at that time), I tried the eggy-milky-occasionally rummy drink of egg nog and was hooked.  The egg nog of my grad school days still stays with me, especially around my hip area and refuses to budge, aided by the tubs of rum-n-raisin ice creams of yore.

I have had Irish coffee back in grad school, but had not particularly liked it.

Life in the US killed my relationship to lactose – I suspect it was because grocery store milk in US was reconstituted, and never natural (this was before the “organic” tag gained respectability or was affordable to a grad student).  I became severely lactose intolerant and stayed off all forms of milk products for many years afterwards. Only recently, after 20 years of de-americanising my stomach and re-setting it with what passes off as milk in India, has my tolerance to lactose and diary returned.

My forays into alcohol began only after marriage, but lest you think of me as an alcoholic needing intervention, my frequency of having any form of alcoholic beverage has been once or twice a year.  The last time I had wine was in Italy, last summer, and it was divine and very feebly alcoholic, except for one occasion that made me giggle uncontrollably.  The summer before that, my sister-in-law had brought us vodka and Scotch, both of which I hated because less than a sip made me throw up and gave me a phenomenal migraine for hours afterwards.

Yesterday, I met my BFF over coffee.  The precious woman got me Bailey’s Irish cream and rum-chata, probably sick of my WhatsApp rants about how hard it is in India to get a decent bottle of alcohol that does not give me a migraine, at price that does not require sale of body parts.   After expert advice from Rob on how best to consume Irish cream,  last night, I tentatively sipped the iced milky beverage, almost sure that I was going to head to the sink to throw up.  Caramel, milk and whiskey?  What kind of combination is that?

A few many hours later, as my afternoon coffee with Rumchata fills my being and takes me to almost orgasmic ecstacy as I type this out, I can only be grateful that we don’t get Bailey’s Irish cream or rumchata in India.  I’d probably need an AA membership if we did.


Stop that infernal chewing

I have a fair share of personality quirks.  I have to change into fresh underwear before I go to bed at night.  I have “my spot” on the couch for work.    If I haven’t eaten curd rice for three days in a row, I get cranky.  I am the quintessential wall flower in gatherings.

There is one quirk of mine that I thought is completely crazy.  I can’t stand the sound of people chewing.  Unfortunately, my car pool kids are noisy chewers.  Whenever I make the mistake of bringing them a snack, I kick myself because their sounds of chewing make me want to drive the car into oncoming traffic. It takes all my willpower to not yell at the kids, because, hell they are not my kids.  On the rare occasion that my kid forgets I am in the room, and chews loudly, she gets hit by a tsunami.  Some of my relatives chew loudly.  I avoid going to family functions that involve eating because I feel like sticking my fingers into my eyes when I sit next to them at the meal table.  I believe that if I get a complete nervous breakdown in life, this would be the trigger. Just writing about the chewing sound is making me want to assume foetal position and scream.

I thought I was crazy. I AM crazy, but this is not the reason, because

drum rolls please…

MISOPHONIA is an established condition, it seems, and scientists even know what causes it !

I am thrilled by this news.  Now see, THAT’s what makes me crazy.

Say what?

I have been reading a book on art (as a favour for someone).

“According to Schelling, art is the product or consequence of a world view in which the subject becomes its own object, or the object itself its own subject. ”

And the book is full of such gems.  FULL.   Another example:

“art may be called play, though not in the sense of a worthless occupation, but in the sense of a manifestation of the beauty of life itself, which has no other aim than beauty.”



No, I am not referring to my late Tamil teacher from school who creeped the heck out of us.  I meant the white-throated kingfisher that perched on the gate-rod outside our house.


The wooded campus in which we live, houses a small pond-of-sorts (which is now dry, thanks to monsoon failure), surrounded by marshland.  It is home to migratory birds in winter.  Apparently they have arrived.  I am not sure if kingfishers are migratory, Wikipedia tells me that these are partly migratory, whatever that means.

There is another bird that I see every winter, in the woods in my backyard.  I am no ornithophile, (I know the name of the bird on my gate because I shared the photo with an ornithophilic friend, who mentioned its name in holy rapture) so I don’t know the name of the regular visitor – she is a brown bird who camouflages beautifully with the woods, but when she flies, her elegantly long white wings are unexpected for so plain a creature on land.  I searched for “ugly brown bird with beautiful wings” on google images and landed on the following picture, in an obscure site with no name – yeah that’s the bird (not the exact same bird, but you know what I mean) in my backyard. I am sure my ornithophile friend would know its name.  This is an elusive bird to photograph (not that I have tried too hard).


Regular bird walks are conducted in our neighbourhood, and I have gone on a couple.  But the facts that these walks start at 5.30 AM and  that people point randomly in all directions and call out names like “moor hen” or “grey headed stork” or something, when all I can see are some misshapen tree branches, have prevented me from going on them more frequently.  Perhaps I should hang a pair of binoculars around my neck like the others, equip myself with names of exotic birds from Wikipedia and randomly spew them out during these bird-walks.  Must be fun, no?


Third post in a day.  The brain needs to stop at some point, I say.

Coincidences reinforce a train of thought that I have been having today. This morning (yes, at 5.15 AM), as I was struggling to keep my eyes open and my stomach from churning, I remarked to my chirpy, never groggy better-half about how amazing it is that he can wake up fresh as a daisy while I take longer to boot than buggy Microsoft Windows. He said “its all in the mind – if you want to wake up fresh, you just have to behave that way”. Of course, I would have dumped the scalding cup of coffee over his head if I hadn’t needed that caffeine to jolt my eye from its non-cooperation movement.

This evening, my neighbour, who was visiting our golu, exclaimed that her father has a tremendous attitude towards life and would advice her that if she chooses to be enthusiastic about everything, she will be.  This came out when we were gushing over how we both hate cooking.  Two people saying approximately the same thing within 15 hours? It felt like a message to me from the great wide open.

So, I took both the better-half and the neighbour’s father to heart, filled my lungs with air and marched into the kitchen to get dinner rolling, because cooking is so much fun.

You know what?

It doesn’t work.  It really doesn’t.  Someone should put an end to stupid philosophy like that.