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.

Skinful

Some days, she can't remember who she is. Words like "And I’m not sure where I belong, And no where’s home and I'm all wrong....And all the dark and all the lies were all the empty things disguised as me" buzz around her head like peculiarly relentless bees, assuming malignant significance.

So she seeks out the sun. Lets the light wash over her face. Feels the warmth soaring through her. Watches her skin darken gradually into a deep mocha brown. Somehow this causes a release of relief. No more bewildering camouflage.

Browning skin reminds her elusively of something. Maybe half imagined, half remembered afternoons filled with the smell of Madras summers and the silent patter of flying feet. Long-ago tree branches conquered by dangling legs and lazy talk. Running around in pigtails, flushed and breathless, bent on some game more serious than all of life itself.
She doesn't know. But the reminder is reassuring, grounding somehow.

She steps back into the cool of air conditioning feeling like she's been reintroduced to herself. This is me, she feels like she's flying a banner. Proclaiming it contentedly to every one of the disinterested. This is me.

Like a pigmentary badge of honor, fleeting in victory, fading to anonymity in pokey disused corners of the attic, rediscovered on rainy afternoons. An affirmation of things that make a life.

Geneticist, Molecular Geneticist

So, you think that Molecular Geneticists are uncool, geeky people who squint through microscopes all day? That they're bespectacled, Einstein-haired freaks whose concept of 'Gourmet Dining' is limited solely to speculating endlessly on whether there's pepperoni or mushrooms on the (free, of course) pizza that they'll get at the Lunchtime Seminar on 'YVR00324 and it's Effects on Tumor Suppressing Growth Factors like TGF Beta-2 in the M22 Cell Line'? Perhaps you imagine that they're alright hidden away in their labs, but come a true crisis in the Real World they'd be as clueless as the rest of humanity?

I have one word for you : Ptuiii (and if I had another one, it'd be Ha! said in a sorta snarky, despairing, hopefully-cynical way). Cos, us Molecular Geneticts are actually more hip and happening (noone uses that expression anymore, do they? *decides to ask around but can't find anyone in her lab who knows*) than all the rest of your journalists, and novelists, and fancy analysts with your parties and your trendsetting clothes put together! You jeer. You mock. The cry goes up, "But how? Where's your proof?". You might expect to flabbergast us with these questions, leave us gasping for an answer in the face of your shrewd and inquisitive search for the Truth. But no! We stand firm. Cos, We have An Answer.

If the world was on the brink of destruction and the Only Thing (Only Thing, mind you) keeping it from complete annihilation was a 0.8% 300ml Agarose gel that had to be moved 3 inches on a soggy piece of filter paper in under 5 minutes, who dya think you'd call? What price all the James Bonds and Bill Gates and Che Guevaras then? See, why I said Ptuiii (and a possible Ha!) earlier? Cos noone, but NOONE, would be able to get you out of that fix quicker than your local resident Molecular Geneticist. So, bow down to the world-saving might of the Uber-Cool Ultra-Trendy Supra-smoking-hot Molecular Geneticists, and pray for their Mercy, Earth-cretin.

Update: I should warn you that the title won't make sense, unless you say it like Bond, James Bond.

Nostalgia

Two minutes in bed, waking up and listening to the war for the day. Stumble out of bed. Brush teeth waiting for the snatches of song in between the annoying chatter of the RJs. Jump into shower. Dry hair while trying to get into clothes. Think. Have to tell the boss about the fresh probe. The count seems low. Should she repeat it. And also have to place new orders for atleast two restriction enzymes. Annoying radio chatter. Tempted to turn it off. Hair refusing to stay in place. Dang it. Search frantically for clips, pins, bands, anything that'll help. Not satisfied but good enough. Find sweatshirt that matches or at least blends. Hop on one foot putting socks on. Search for lip gloss. Need the colourless one. Rummage in draw, cursing the Fates. Found: orange lip gloss from more than a year back. Pause. Slight smile. Open it. The sickly sweet smell of fake oranges. Smile widens. Her first snowfall, the smell of winter coats musty from disuse, bright scarves, clumsy gloved hands, the sting of fresh air. Sitting on the windowsill reading...what was it? Moving Pictures. Yeah, the Terry Pratchett phase. The buzzing of the phone. Excited squeals from the other end. What? Snow? Where? Outside your window dumbnut! Where else? Drop the receiver, run to the window. Look out. White drifting down. More excited squeals. Hasty walk undertaken. Struggle into layer after layer, rush out the door, scarf ends flying about, leave key in the lock. Soft chuckle. Dab the gloss on. Lock the door, hum a tune. Memories rock.

Goo Goo Dolls

They have long been a source of great wisdom to me (next only to Calvin and Hobbes, and I mean the boy and the tiger, not the philosophers! though of course the boy and his tiger ARE philosophers in their own right, even if they aren't acknowledged as such! I think I should stop writing in parentheses, they tend to take over the post).
Listen to these lines, and marvel with me.

"There's nothing you can do about,
The things you have to live without"

Well, do you bow before their philosophy?

Truly Worthy Verse

Lord Justice Bowen claims, quite lyrically one feels,

The rain it raineth on the just,
And also on the unjust fella.
But chiefly on the just, because
The unjust hath the just's umbrella

Heh! Pretty snappy, no? And of course this has NOTHING to do with the verse in Matthew 5:45.

And for those who would like to know what exactly it has nothing to do with, I enclose herein:

For he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.