Monday medley

..and no “work” work still.  I know this is the lull before the storm, and I am milking every moment of it dry (crappy mixed metaphors).

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My meager excuse-of-a-garden is perking up a tad bit, despite the serious lack of green thumbs.  The moon flower vine has let out buds, as have the Dahlias.  The Rangoon Creeper continues to grow beautifully, but no semblance of flower yet.  Does anyone have any tricks up their sleeve to get it to bloom?  Don’t ask me to do risky stuff, like sing to it, or do a tribal bloom dance around it naked – I want it to bloom not die of shock.

The first crop of mint is ready to be harvested for Biryani tomorrow.  The curry leaf plant has become a tree.  I am tempted to plant more – plants, not curry leaf trees.  Despite the serious lack of green thumb.

Butterfly season is in full swing in our neighbourhood.  Between 11 AM and 12 PM, walking on the road is like being inside a snow globe, except that the snow flakes are actually butterflies.  The beauty is unbelievable.

Will it rain? Won’t it rain?  It had better.  The city is reeling under intense water shortage.

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A listless websearch for “healthy tea time snacks” throws out the likes of muffins.  In which world is a concoction of white flour, sugar and butter “healthy”, may I ask?  Closer home, it is “samosa fried in olive oil”.  Right. Olive oil makes everything healthy, even if you are deep-frying white flour coated stuff in it.  Sheesh people.

And on the other extreme is “fruits”.  I will have fruits with my tea when I relocate to Mars.

I am still searching.  And going crazy.  I have somewhat optimized the other meals, but tea time continues to frustrate me.  Yes, I have been in charge of the familial nourishment for 15 years now, and I am still optimizing meals.  What’s your point, huh?

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The kid said something extremely funny yesterday and I wanted to record it here. I forgot what it was. Dang.

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Does the male gender have poorer self-preservation skills than the female?  A few happenings of hear-say make me believe that men lack the basic instinct for safety – and I don’t mean physical safety alone.  Perhaps I am being sexist.

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I will probably share my world later today, once Cee publishes her questions.

The Jinx

Alright, it’s official.  This blog has magical powers.  Godly magical powers.  Or someone among the 24 readers of this blog has magical powers. I rant about not being able to laugh-out-loud in this blog and within ten hours, I am suffocating (no exaggeration) because I can’t stop laughing , as are my my kid, my friend L and her daughter, as we sit around the table trying to eat Thai and Chinese food and having the rest of the diners shoot daggers at us for the ruckus we are creating.  There wasn’t even any uterus talk involved !  Either the people at Flower Drum spiked all deserts (“kachang”, there I said that again) with alihotsy, illywig wings, Knarl quills and the like, or our pons were infarcted because that is when things got out of control and the four of us made noises that would scare the hyenas away.

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Ice Kachang spiked with laughing portion

There was one particular woman across from me, who was dining with a gentleman, perhaps husband.  She shot a wistful glance at us every now and then. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. I could not stop laughing long enough to walk up to her, pat her on her shoulder and say, write your yearning in your blog, it will change.

My stomach is bunched , my voice is hoarse, my throat is sore and head, light.

Thank you magical blog.  Thank you magical reader.  Most of all, thank you L for the laughs you gave me today.

 

 

The day that is

The flavor of the day seems to be pensiveness.    Possibly sleep deprivation – I got a little less (don’t ask how less) sleep than my body needs, and my brain is responding by spiralling into thoughts that won’t slow down no matter how mindful I try to be of them.

It started at the temple this morning.  Having completed my morning chores early and home alone, with no pressing deadlines, I walked to the neighbourhood temple. As I was perambulating the altar, I heard laughter like, as the cliché goes, a gurgling brook.  I shamelessly turned to see a middle aged woman (my age +/- 5 years), sitting with a man (probably husband, but like I said, she was laughing, think what you will), eyes watering with mirth, holding her stomach and shaking uncontrollably.  Unbridled mirth.  I was dying to know what was so funny in what he said that made her laugh so, unmindful of where she was and who was around.

I belong to a funny family myself.  My father has a wry sense of humour, some of which he passed on to me (I hope).  My husband is hilarious with words and puns.  My daughter has humour that surpasses her age, and thus often alienates her from her peers who don’t get it.  All three of them (dad, husband, kid) make me laugh a lot – I love humour, Wodehouse is my all-time favourite.  I get and crack all kinds of jokes, from the banal to the risqué.  But my laughs are momentary.  There is an upsurge of the pleasant feeling, which is spent within a moment as a snort or chuckle, and comes back to ground state.  I can count the number of times I have laughed uncontrollably, on one hand – most of it has been with my friend L, and we are usually talking about the travails of having a uterus.  Come to think of it, those are the times that I have chosen to off-load some daily life frustration or pain or upheaval to her, so perhaps it is a defense mechanism to lift the load off my chest.

When I heard and saw the woman in the temple laugh, I realised that it has been so long since I have laughed like that – the kind that when you are done, your stomach is bunched , your voice is hoarse, your throat is sore and head, light.  And it has not been because of lack of the daily life frustration or pain or upheaval from which I need that defense, because as long as there is life, and there is a brain in my head, it is going to frustrate me, cause me pain and upheave.  I was jealous of her, not just because she laughed like that, but because she was so comfortable in her skin that she could be herself in a public place, unfettered by consciousness of those around.  I have not felt that in a long time.  Perhaps never.

Have I become the stuffy ol’ woman who takes herself too seriously?

Or am I just sleep deprived today?

Sharing my world

Answering Cee and perhaps a bit more.  The end of this post will tell.

How do you like to spend a rainy day?

I claim that I love to dance in the rain.  I have danced in the rain in the recent past and embarrassed my kid.  In the not-so-recent past, I have danced in the rain WITH the kid – this was before the devil called teenage came to possess her.  I am known to take long walks in the peak of cyclonic storms that have eluded our city for two years now.  But my husband recently observed something about me when we were on our daily walk and were caught unawares in a downpour.  We were soaking within minutes, and while I claimed I was enjoying it, I was actually shivering and shaking and he said “you want to enjoy the rain, but your body does not let you”.  I hate to admit it, but he is right.  I get the chills when I am wet.  Even in peak summer, when I take a cold shower, my teeth chatter within minutes.

I used to think that I love sitting in the verandah, sipping a cup of hot chai and enjoying the pitter patter out there, but I have come to realise that such is a romantic fantasy and my inherent restlessness would not let me do it.

So what would I like to do when it rains?  I am not sure.

List at least five favorite treats. (They do not have to be sugary).

Varies.  As I type this out, I am craving for cake.  I haven’t had a cake in a year.   I almost bought myself a cake today, but the memory of last week’s GI and associated hospital experience was too fresh in my mind to indulge.

Peanuts.  In all forms, salted, caramel coated, plain, roasted, raw, boiled, in balls, in snickers, as butter…..all forms.

Bananas.  All varieties – malai, rasthali, elakki, nethram, sevvazai….even Mowries, although Mowries, I hear are bad for health.  So, I avoid them.

Sugar candy  or diamond kalkandu as it is called hereabouts.  I love the feel of the bite, the crunch and the sweetness that fills my being.  And they look like little diamonds.  I eat diamonds, I am rich !  And juvenile.

Milk:  If only my lactose intolerance would disappear – I would probably swim in a vat of the blessed stuff.  Perhaps add a few strands of saffron to it, while at it, and dump some sugar candy into it.  Oh man.

I am a foodie.  Or at least used to be until middle age took over.  Food is treat to me.

Where’s your favorite place to take out-of-town guests?

Back to the airport.  Kidding (or am I?).  I am not a great hostess.  Added to which, I don’t like to go anywhere much.  I would love to book an Uber for the guests and send them sightseeing wherever they want.  I will even foot the bill for them.

But, there is one exception.  The beach.  I will go to the beach with anyone, guest or not.  All a stranger has to do is tell me “Gobblefunkist, will you take me to the beach”, and they’ve had me at “beach”.

You are trapped in an elevator, who would you want to be trapped with?

Fat chance I would set foot in one.  Elevator rides make me nauseated (as do car rides, airplane travel, bus rides, swings, see saws, watching roller coasters, thinking of roller coasters, and living).   I have climbed fourteen floors in the past to reach my destination.  I’d rather have a cardiac arrest than nausea.

What are you grateful for from last week, and what are you looking forward to in the week coming up?

I am grateful that we live in an era and place where the toilet is clean and has running water. Nothing like a gastrointestinal infection to make you appreciate the important things in life.

Here comes my “woo hoo” bit.  I completed ALL my work assignments today.  Even sent out the bills to all my clients.  I still have a small job to do for my husband , but that does not count as “work”, mainly because I won’t get “paid” !  But other than that, I have a clean slate.  But the most important thing is that I have nothing to do on the work front for the first time in more than a year.  I know I will start getting stuff to do soon enough, but this is a much needed rest.  I was beginning to break under the strain of constant work.

The icing is that I am alone this week at home – the better half is away at his childhood home, and the kid is off at school all day, which leaves me home alone.  I love the family to bits and all, but this is the first time in more than a year that I have had time to myself. Today, I got myself a much needed pedicure – the nail on my middle toe was disgusted enough at the aridness of its neighbourhood that it fell off its bed in its entirety last night.  And I actually had time to sit and not think about anything. Yay.

Yes, I know I am evil.  But a break is a good thing now and then, take it from me.

Finally

…the Sunday that I have been dreaming about for a long long time.  The slight unease doggedly follows me about, which I choose to ignore.  It’s gone way too long, I say

With a simple toast and tea for breakfast, and a minimal lunch out of the way in no time, all morning was spent reading and trying to ignore the periodic gnawing feeling that persists.  The kid has been, for quite a while now, asking for new shorts, the old ones being itsy bitsy by now, and I mustered courage to step out of the comfort zone of my toilet to get her a few.  Irritatingly, the toilet was needed after we bought four pairs of shorts and as many t-shirts. Thankfully, my friend G’s house was in the vicinity and I shamelessly invited myself over for a loo-break.  They say that the greatest generosity in all is the offer of food to the hungry.  I am pretty sure, the offer of a clean toilet, with running water and a hygiene faucet, to a convalescent midlifer is no less a virtue; God bless G.

Buying six numbers of clothes and going to the toilet at a friend’s house was apparently all that the body could take just yet, for when I returned home, I crumpled into a rag in bed.  When I woke up half an hour hence, the gnawing had resumed, indicating that the system needed an influx of calories. Being sick and tired of curd rice (which in normal times is my comfort food, but 18 consecutive meals of curd rice can be an overdose), finding nothing but apples in the fridge, and not quite in the mood for fresh apples, I let my imagination run wild.  Peeled, chopped and sautéed apples to a mush with a dollop of butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar,  dropped the hot mush on crackers and voila, a new favourite is born.

Of the three documents I was supposed to complete by this weekend, I completed one.  The second is half-done.  I could sit and work now, considering that it would be an hour before my system would require TLC, but a look at my daughter’s room on my right, into which I have been dumping the laundry without folding for the past many days, because she has been staying with me in my room with the dad away, makes me scream in agony.  I really need to tackle these clothes now.   The documents have waited so long.  They can wait a few hours longer.

Hope your Sunday was as relaxed as mine (minus the gnaw, of course).

 

 

Weak-end

This blog has become a rant fest of health issues lately, I see.  I promise you, I am no hypochondriac, and am generally a healthy person, save for periodic mood swings, migraines, sniffles, Carpal tunnels, stomach cramps…ahem, no I really am a healthy person, please believe me.  This past week has been an exception that does not seem to end.

The worst part is that I had plans for this weekend.  I had planned to complete my backlog editing work by Friday (and I was well on track until my sister-in-law came into my life), and spend the rest of the weekend deep cleaning my house and relaxing on the easy-chair with my kindle, sipping cups after cups of tea and tisane. Instead, at noon on Saturday I am obsessing over the three more documents that must be completed by tomorrow (damn, I lost two entire days to badly made French fries), and curling up in bed with  massive exhaustion that came out of having my blood pressure plummet to 92/54 yesterday, necessitating replenishment of bodily fluids from liquid in a plastic bag, hung ominously from a stand beside the hospital bed. But if I choose to see the glass as being half full (of crap, in fact), the runs have run dry, although the invisible hand that  squeezes the innards has not quit yet. I stopped all medications because they are suspected of pushing the sphygmomanometer readings into dangerous terrains.  Which, in turn, makes the invisible hand reluctant to call it quits.  Ah well.

It can only get better from here on, no?

A Q for your A

When a woman of medium advanced age, knocks over a glass jar containing sesame seeds, and while cleaning the mess thinks “yay, one less item in the kitchen”, does she need psychiatric help?

I think so too.