This, that and the Rest of It

Some things are facts of life. Like butterflies flap their wings. Fact of life. Or there's always something you've been dying to see on TV the day before an exam for which you haven't studied a whit. Fact of life. Or every time you think you can trust someone, you'll have it hammered home again that you really can't. Fact of life. (Just kidding, y'guys. Thought I'd be all un-flaffy and scare you folks :D). The sky always seems bluer on days when you have to stay stuck in a lab somewhere killing mice. Fact of life. Yes?

But some things just aren't facts of life. Education is necessary is not a fact of life. Nuh-uh. Not even close. Guys are assholes isn't one either. Yeah, I know. That one sounds like a fact of life. But it isn't. Really. (Or so they tell me.) Time heals everything. Not a fact of life. Fallacy. Big one. Women aren't bitches to work for, especially when you yourself are a woman. Even bigger. Saying you're sorry isn't worth jack-shit. That is so not true, people. It's worth a lot. I love apologizing (that sounds weird but it isn't really).

Thing is, learntwas reminded of a big fact of life today. The Y chromosome's dying, dudes. You gotta get your act together. Otherwise, we're thinking a world without men.

Pretty cool, no?

A Ship In A Bottle Set Sail

She sat on her bed staring at the photographs stuck up haphazardly on her closet walls. And she didn't even like photographs. She would tell people gravely that it was because she believed like the Africans that each time the camera clicked at you it took a piece of your soul away. Because it was easier to laugh at their expressions when she said that than to confess that she hated the hypocrisy of it. The fake arms around you, the insistence of the camera that you be happy. Now. But then here she was staring at photographs. All those smiling faces. Her people.

She sighed and picked up the duster from the floor. She always missed home on spring-cleaning days.

No points for guessing the song :)

Take Your Chances on Everyday

She noticed the man watching her while she waited to cross the road. She crossed the road hurriedly and made her way towards the shuttle stop. She heard his footsteps following her. Forced herself to not look back, not seem afraid. Why did I wear heels today? What was I thinking? She clutched her purse tightly to herself and tried to walk faster. But subtly. So he wouldn't notice. Her walking faster. She kept hoping someone else would show up. Anyone. Even the homeless guy whom she normally crossed the road to avoid. The sun was still out, there was a breeze, gentle but there, ruffling her hair. This was the most pleasant fifteen minutes of her day. Normally. The footsteps came closer. Faster. Harder. Should she run? Turn around and confront him. She didn't have her MACE with her. She felt her heart beat harder. What if she had a heart attack before she could fight him? A car passed by. Supersonic speed. Did the people inside see her? See the guy following her? Would they remember? A girl in a suit, black heels and a red scarf. The red scarf should stand out, no?

Since we now have a DMB fan club on this blog :D and cos I adore this vid.

Why I've Been Rolling My Eyes Constantly since I started Grad School

Or Why Are All Grad Students Such Social Retards

Or Is It Just Me or Does Noone Understand Verbal Communication Anymore

Elevator-talk. At its best.

He: Been losing weight? You look kinda scrawny.
(He calls a girl scrawny! Scrawny!Has he ever spoken to a girl? Like ever?)

She (blushing and giggling a little): Yeah, I've lost weight recently.

He: Why's that? You in love? Or something?
(One finally decided he was being funny and one empathized muchly with his family)

She: With you?
(Honestly, I think she was being serious. She sounded serious. And looked a little confused.)

He (baffled pause later): No, no. Umm. Just generally. Like with someone. Else.

She: Umm no.

He (after 10 heartbeats. I counted): Yeah. I was just kidding. Kinda.

Me: You've *gotta* be kidding me! (in my head only. Though maybe I should have said something. Tips on How To Talk to People)

What to Do with the Rest of the Day's Afternoon?

She decided to go to the book store. Amazon was fine and all but there was something about those rows and rows of books. Smelling of paper and print and untouched-ness. She imagined walking down the Austen shelf, trailing her fingers along the spines. Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Persuasion. She'd read them them out in her head. Count the leads off. Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy. Fanny Price and Henry Crawford. Anne Elliot and Frederick Wentworth. And Edmund Bertram. Poor Edmund. And then maybe she'd sit down and read Northanger Abbey for a bit. She couldn't think of a better way to get over a broken heart. Irritation's such a perfect melancholy-obscurer.

If you haven't heard the song, you should. Least for the guitar (well, not in this version). And his singing. And just generally.

De-Linking

Click. Scroll scroll scroll. Scan for Delete. Click. Save Changes. Close Window.


And that, people, is that. BM has left the building. She isn't on my sidebar anymore. One is retiring to sulk. For a bit. Very short bit. Teensy weensy less than 24 hour bit. Sometimes, even us Revealeds believe in Silence.

This Happiness Shindig

Lying in bed at noon, staring at the ceiling. Last night had started out just fine, trailed into disaster and sometime at 3 in the morning, over kettle-cooked, pulled itself out of the dark hole in which it was languishing. Her feet still ached from dancing. And she hadn't even worn stilettos. She heard the bathroom door close softly and she turned in time to see the crack of light appear under the door. She only realized she was smiling after the smile had spread itself all over her face. This whole happiness thing was a lot easier than people made it out to be. No?

Inter-Blog Memo

We, the Administrators of this Blog, have recently been appraised of a rather startling state of affairs. It has come to our attention that a number of Bloggers other than ourselves have begun to exhibit symptoms of a certain emotional condition medically identified as Drama. We are disturbed to hear that these Other Bloggers have presumed to exhibit symptoms of this disease under the mistaken impression that this is allowed. The conditions of our contract however state explicitly (Rules and Regulations of FlaffLand Binder 5, Page no. 10776a, Div: Patented Articles, Sub-div: Emotional Kinetics, Sec: Theatricalities and other Exclusivities, Sub-sec: Drama) that the Only Blogger allowed to display a Dramatic Temperament is one, Revealed, Flaffer Extraordinaire. We request all other Bloggers, who were perhaps unaware of this provision in the contract because of their negligence in reading the Policies of this Blog, to update their memories by leafing through the above-mentioned sections and heretofore refrain from Drama of any kind, sort or flavor. We hope all of you have a very nice day and a Healthy, Happy Weekend. Remember, a Healthy Blogger is a Happy Blogger. Thank you.

Earring Woes

Black and sparkly. I adore black and sparkly. So course I wanted them. I lusted after them. I yearned for them. You get the picture. And just as I'm about to pay for them (in this country, apparently, shop attendants *don't* give away merchandise as gifts simply because you have a charming smile (though it's true that I was once allowed to ride the bus in exchange for my charming smile, but the driver there was male. an undeniably important consideration in such transactions), you have to pay for 'em and all. hmmph), god decides that it's time to Have his Little Joke. What sort of person thinks up these evil tricks to play on unsuspecting *and* righteous citizens? I know there's established precedents (what with Noah and Job - such a sap- and the Virgin Mary (poor thing) and just like a million others) but I always figured I wasn't Virtuous enough to be picked on by the All-Seeing One. And just cos I might have said *once* (or maybe a couple of times) to *one* person (or maybe on my blog) that god does not exist, does *not* mean he should get all vindictive and persecutionary, no? Where's the Justice in that? Where's the whole Meek Inheriting the Earth philosophy (I know I wasn't Meek, but shouldn't he have been? How else will he Inherit the Earth finally (after global warming and nuclear warfare and deforestation and species-extinction, when everyone else is done with it?)?

Anyway, long story short (such a waste of a long story, but I know you guys are all busy and stuff and I'm already in my second para) he refused to let me buy them. Hid my cards childishly, made me hunt frantically all through my car (not a mean task), finally give up and return home, only to find (voila!) my cards right where I left them in the glove compartment under a pile of old bills and chocolate wrappers. *Obviously* the work of a sadistic master-mind. We're not talking at the moment, he and I. He's in his room having some Quiet Time, thinking about what he's done. We will have a Conversation presently. Yes, we will *looks up meaningfully in his general direction with pursed lips and sternly drawn brow*.

Note to Self

Please don't go there. You've been here before, you've done this before. I've been here to see you do this before. So can we just not throw ourselves against the same brick wall again? There are so many brick walls in the world. Why do we keep choosing this one? I can see it coming a mile off. Which is why I keep telling you, woman, watch out. Why is it so hard to listen? I know it's not a question of trust. You trust my taste implicitly when it comes to clothes, earrings, even shoes (how many times have you borrowed my stuff?). You love it when I cook and we normally order the same thing at restaurants. We both adore chocolate (same as every sentient being on this planet). *Obviously* we're both on the same page taste-wise. So why this hesitation to trust my discretion when it comes to men? Is it so hard to hear me when I say please, let's not do *that* again? Because really *please* let's not do that again.

To The Social (or Otherwise) Rejects of this, the Desi Blogosphere

Have you been blogging for ages but noone gossips about you? Have you been blogging for ages, social networking, reaching out to people and yet having noone gossip with you about someone else (we are desi bloggers, for pity's sake. Why does noone gossip about anyone with me?? Why?)? Have you written spellbinding posts and received not one single fan mail? Have you never had a psycho stalker mail you with an anonymous death threats? Then, you, dear one, are eligible for application to the Society of Counter-Inners. We Count You In. This is our motto. Be warned though. Oversized, rhinestone studded sunglasses are a must-have as are silk scarves with sparkly threads. Oh and also there is the small matter of the Blood-Mingling-Ceremony that Must Be Performed before you can enter the club-hall (or room or hut or park bench or whatever). So pliss to perform your HIV tests and have the results handy before applying cos your Application Will Not Be Processed without the same (cept for you Ph darlin' cos you have been given an exemption as per our previous communication due largely to the No Weight Loss in Recent Times clause).

We are open to applications as of now. Citizens of the Blogosphere, this is a call to Arms. Yes, Arms we want and Arms we Shall Have or by God...well, something we will Have to Do (and it will Not Be Pretty).

Saturday Morning Blues

She woke up. Images of large cans of water glistening on the outside with condensed droplets flooded her mind. She removed the covers to get out of bed and stumbled. She frowned. She hated waking up drunk. This is why you shouldn't eat nothing all day and then chug down beers like it's the last supper. You are such an idiot. She got back into bed and waited for her roomie to wake up. On cue she heard bare feet padding to her room across the wooden floor of the living room. Her roomie flounced in, fell on to her bed and looked at her accusingly. "What?", she asked her. "Why didn't you tell me you had a crush on him?" "On who?.... Whom?" "That chap who's in your class, whatshisface?" "I don't have a crush on anyone from our class!!" Her roomie looked at her consideringly for two whole minutes before she started giggling. Hysterically. "Then why did you tell him you did last night?" Sometimes if you close your eyes things just go away and pretend like they never happened.

I Adore Imagining Other People are as Whee as Me

Her brow wrinkles in concentration and her ink-stained fingers tap the bench in rhythm. Coffee with what looks like whipped cream on top sits half forgotten next to her stack of notes. She looks up in time to catch a retreating smile. "I was singing out loud, wasn't I?", she asks the smiler. Exasperation Central.

In Which this Seriousness Thing is Carried to its Limits

To my regulars (and I'm including you in that group, BM, even though you've decided to lurk and not comment of late!): I know all this serious feminist (uh oh used the f-word I did) rambling is totally below the belt. I know you're all going into shock, shaking your heads slowly and sobbing silently that I've joined the Dark Side. I assure you, lords and leddies, that I have not. Really really. This is just a riposte to Those Individuals who Suggest I'm Whee! Like As If!!! So I have decided to exhibit my Dangerously Grave Side (less of course I get an apology from Certain Slandering Individuals (didja see how I made you CSI? Cool, no?)). Yes, I have *nods head righteously* And sides it's kinda cool to think that any not-so-regulars who stumble in will now think I'm a bra-burning serious-thinking feminist. Joy.

Hennyway (and no, this is not a weapon, martial or otherwise), I sit in the backbench. Every lecture. Without fail. Even when I'm late. I have a buncha fellow backbenchers also. It's mainly cos I went through my first years in school being a front bencher (by compulsion not persuasion). Being emotionally and psychologically scarred by that experience at a tender age, I vowed to eschew anything resembling a front row for the rest of my life. As a corollary the only row I can inhabit during class now is the one right at the back, up against the wall. So, us backbenchers, we ask questions. Not incessantly. But whenever we can. Four of us are girls, the remaining eight are male. Of the four XXs, I'm the only one who asks questions. The guys all take turns being curious. Zat, m'hearties, is ze bachground and nov to ze foreground.

So, today during a really boring lecture on peptide analysis (yeah, it actually *is* as boring as it sounds), I had an epiphany. It was all because a girl in the front row asked a question (which had the unhappy incidental effect of waking up the guy sitting next to me who was taking what looked like a most refreshing break from the day's labor. He's Puerto Rican and he lends me all his Mana CDs so I really did feel bad that he was woken up). She is a confirmed prefacer, that one. You know the sort. Every question of hers is prefaced with an apology. "I'm sorry if this is a silly question, but...." "I think I didn't understand what you said right then but it sounded like...." " I'm sorry if you just said this and I missed it but..." Always. And then it struck me that all the prefacers in my class are female. Yes, it's true. Out of a class of a 100 people, where at least 10 questions are asked per lecture, with 10 lectures a week, that gives us a sample size of 100 questions. Of which prefacers are probably 25% or so. So that gives us 25 questions per week. And it's been 10 weeks since school started. Even a conservative estimate leaves us with a sample size of atleast 125 questions. In all this time only once was the prefacer a male.

I just wonder what those women are *really* apologizing for.

Cry Freedom

It is our pleasure to inform you folks (idle pursuers of class and excellence as you have amply revealed yourselves to be) that we are Back! Yes! No more dinosaurically long story to worry about. No more sleepless nights, spent tossing and turning, worrying about RCW and her Papa. No nightmares in which Baron F sneers at the 'Umble Authoress while JAP attempts to run Her over with his Ferrari or Bentley or Aston Martin or whatever else he's decided is the Car he Requires. No more nasty comments from Certain Unnamed Sources about how they Have Been Anupam-Kherized while they weren't looking (and I still hotly deny this accusation! This is my stand and I'm sticking by it). Stead we have Various Unnamed People prodding us on to "Now come up with something else that is not a story, for Goodness' sake!" Since, as ever, we only aim to please, we Bear our Cross Gracefully and with Stiff Upper Lips mumble "Yes, I'm on it" (very hard it is, speaking with Stiff Upper Lips. You should try it sometime. When you're at work with nothing to do. Oh wait! That was an oxymoron right there *beams triumphantly at successful spotting of clever literary devices*). So, we produces our Theory of Why Men are B-s and Why Certain Presciently Intelligent Authoresses should be Invited to Write for Broadsheet Salon.

Last weekend, sitting by the pool (suitably inspired by 7 beers downed in quick succession chased by 5 popsicles) with a bunch of goralog, I proclaimed that Men were the Same B-s they've been for the Past Oh-so-many Years, by and large (notice the qualifier). Immediately, everyone jumped down my throat (metaphorically speaking), including my roomie (et tu brute, tsk tsk), and claimed that I was generalizingly making sexist comments. So ('course) I launched into my Theory, the latest one (not completely polished yet) where I cunningly pointed out that though some things have changed, some things have not. This stumped half the crowd and while they were working it out, I sallied forth with the full force of my theory. See, here's the thing. In the most equal of societies (genderously speaking), a woman who works always feels the extra pressure of having to keep her home in order by necessity while the man experiences the gratification of having made "sacrifices" or been a "great husband/father" for contributing even the littlest bit to the upkeep of the household. All the phirangs (after they'd worked it all out) pityingly looked at me and said "Maybe that's the case in your culture, not ours". Oh-so-condescendingly.

So, here's to you, pretty boys (and the not-so-pretty-ones). I rock.

Psst. Here's a question for you guys (on a totally different random thought). Are there people in the world who get easily tired of people or are there people in the world whom people get easily tired of? Chew on that one and gimme a verdict.