The Devil wears Skis

I had never been SO excited about doing anything in my life. Not even sneaking out of Analog Communication class to watch Manmadhan ( I had officially bunked class to watch a lousy Tamil movie ..but oh what the heck)

I was going to to ski...!! Really ski..!! I mean on real snow!

God, this was a tough one to pass. I mean, think about it...could I even think about doing this in Madras? Even in Winter? Please, the place is so hot that ice melts even inside the refrigerator (but I love the place, so beat it!)

So NOW I knew why God wanted me here despite all my squirming. He wanted me to ..ski!

The Gods wanted me..to skiiiii!

Well, the Husband and I had a few concerns on whether we'd be able to do it, ski that is, considering this was our first attempt. So what was the big deal anyways? I mean, we'd have a an instructor who'd brief us on how to NOT break our vital parts, plus we'd be given helmets to protect our heads. Besides, I knew how to ice-skate decently as I'd done a considerable amount of it in 8th grade (courtesy Girl Scouts) so...it was just the Husband who had to balance on ice for the first time, technically.

Man, this was gonna be cool.

So, a couple of friends decide to come along with us on our skiing escapade on this bright Saturday morning. Hema and Vish (names not changed to protect identity 'cos they really don't care) were as excited as were were and what was skiing if you didn't do it with company?

So we reached Hunter Mountain which is in Upstate New York, filled up the forms and rented the skis and helmets. We looked like super Heroes on a roll. Or dorks, depending on who you were looking at.

On our way out to the snow-mountains, we were divided into groups where the Husband was put into the group that headed out first while I was put in another with the rest of our clan. No biggy, just that we started off almost an hour later.

The first group had a Chinese instructor who (later I'm told) apparently 'forgot' to teach his group how to 'stop' their skis from crashing into a wall while rushing down a hill uncontrollably. I thought these lessons were ALL about knowing how to stop the goddamn skis. Bah!

We, however, had problems of our own. An enormously fat lady as our instructor who made it difficult for us to concentrate while we were busy making cartoony pictures with our heads of her rolling off her ski's and into a wall, was a challenge on its own. But we were soon to discover that excepting for us 3 doofuses (thats a word 'cos this is my blog), the rest of the group comprised of skillful 'pros' who were born naturals from the moment they put their skis on. Actually they were all just kids half my age but deep down, I was willing to bet that they had skied to glory in their previous lives as well. It didn't take too long before it was evident that we stood out quite distinctly from the group, for all the wrong reasons.

As our fat lady started to sing instruct, the 3 of us tried to pay very special attention to what was our skiing lesson. I'd however take an extra minute longer in translating the American-accented instructions to the Indian ones in my brain 'cos I'm from the villages and I think white skin is so cool.

From what was being our first instruction that required me to put my skis on, I was the group's clumsy goofball. I'd feel as though I was falling off a hill, all this on a flat surface! As the instructions began to pour in one by one, I'd find myself accelerating uncontrollably down a slope each time I tried to follow the new instruction or a new move. It was crazy I tell you! I mean, all I'd intend to do is ski down a ramp for about 8 feet and then make a slight 'turn' towards the right or the left in order to stop the motion down hill ...but oh no, my skis would be on a jolly trip to the walls some 100 feet away and I'd have no other choice BUT to forcefully 'make' myself fall (if I were that lucky) as that would be the only way to impede a crash into the gated-walls. Charming, I tell you.

An hour later, our Instructor decides to free the class, a good 30 minutes before schedule. Why this early? To quote the fat lady 'This group barring a very few (which meant just me..grr) doesn't need any help..you are all born naturals'. Hema had given-up a good forty-five minutes before, and Vish...well, I don't know what happened to him...I couldn't even find him. So I was out there on my own, trying to have my skis on and not go tumbling down the mountain at the same time. Fun eh?

For those of you who may implicate that I didn't 'try' or put any effort to sustain on that battlefield, in my defence let me just say that I must have spent at least 50 minutes trying to master the 'wedge' (Plus I'd given up trying to locate the Husband and clan)

I should have packed my skis while I had the chance, but I'd decide to give another whack at it. And, try I did! The wedge, might I add, is an up-side down 'V' shape you form with your legs in a desperate attempt to stop moving at 500 miles/hr. Its supposed to work like a charm, and stop your skiis instantly however fast you may be skiing down. This trick, however didn't work with me (why aren't we surprised). Infact it would do quite the opposite in effect and I'd end up accelerating my way down a 100 feet slope in some 800 miles/hr on my way to Crashsville. All that snow. Christ, were was the sun when you needed it.

If you're still thinking why I didn't stop and give-up, well sorry to burst your bubble, but I quite did.

At around 4 pm I decided to call it a day and broadcast the fact that I proposed to officially quit my long and successful stint in skiing. The Husband, quite apparently had a jolly good time skiing his butt off and refused to come out till the authorities switched the lights off.

I on the other hand, had a couple of things I could use from this escapade...a ton of loony photos which me look like ludicrous astronaut, a couple of broken bones around my neck (from the thousands of times I came tumbling down, who'd think?), and a twisted tale to inspire fellow ambitious Desis.

Goooooooooooooooooooooooo ski ! :D

The Year of the Firsts or Happy New Year Folks

Every time the new year comes by, I think to myself however stupendously refreshing the following year may be, it can never outdo the previous one... in the good way or the bad way. See, I don't handle change very well so much so that I have this ridiculous inertia to write the year's number correctly for like the first 4 months of the new year!!
So, like every year, I warn myself of change that is inevitable and also assuage myself that it wouldn't be as bad (or as good) as the previous one. So its always best to start off with zilch expectation, you'll see how far that takes you. Having said, one other thing every new year brings me, is its innumerable Firsts, be it nice-firsts or horrible-firsts. Its always worth remembering my Firsts and I'm sure its the case with you too.

'08 gave me my
My first tryst with Snow...
My first 9-gajam saree...
My first online fraternity (whom all I love a tad too much)
My first Hindustani concert in the 8th row of Music Academy..
My first Embedded systems job (that didnt last for more than 4 months)..
My first wedding (and the last one mind you..) ...
My first long stay away from my parents..
My first scooty accident which wasn't my fault..
My first concert...
My first Tam-Bram thaligai..
My first kamalAmba navAvarnam...
My first fight over Gmail..
My first Amma/Appa-I-miss-you mail..
My first sip of Margareta (read sip. And let that be the last one thank you very much)..
My first Album..
My first parasailing..
My first Chinese food (Yuck.Period.)
My first sister-in-law...
My first flu..
My first Elizabeth Arden..
My first Deepavali with a new family..

Try this too, in your head if you want, what your Firsts were. I'm sure you'll have some you could talk about. Its fun and worthwhile.

Wishing you all a fabulous year ahead,
Confounded-Lady :)

Lessons my Elders (didn't) teach me

Flushed with the success of conducting a grand TamBram wedding (if I may), all my parents have to now do is sit back and watch discerningly as to how their li'l girl survives her new life.

No, I don't really mean to make it sound like boarding school or rehabilitation, but marriage (or post-marriage to be more specific) is indeed a big deal for any Indian parent and an even bigger deal for any Indian parent's child. So, I am work in progress, every single minute of the day.
The thing with marriage *I go on to say in wisdomous tone, lowering spectacles so that it rests firmly on nose to give intellectual look* is that there are very many loopholes and..I'm afraid that there are somethings only experience can teach you.


For instance, they say that you ought to shed your ego, every ounce of it, when you're starting off a new relationship with your spouse. Heck every relationship can do well with little or no ego, but I'm restricting my insightful thoughts to marriage as for now, cos...everything now is about what I think about marriage isn't it?

Yes it is. That was just a rhetorical question.


So.
As I was saying, amongst all the precious pieces of advice the Elders from back home had given me, like smile, be nice, be friendly, be neat, be less finicky, don't frown, don't use chilly powder as weapon, don't be yourself, shop at Debenhams (just kidding), yada-yada-yada blah-blah, the most common words of wisdom I'd received was to shed my ego ( I travel with excess baggage, that's sometimes so not very nice) and be truthful if I didn't know something.

That is sane advice, yes I know. So before I leave to my husband's place, I resolutely practice my lines in front of the mirror, "Sorry, I don't know how to do that", "Sorry, I'm new at this, can you teach me?" or "No I've never made tea all my life..can you make your own tea for the first 10 years of our married life?"
See, that wasn't so difficult. Everything just needs a little practice. Even the non-ego part like the Elders said, can be conquered with just a little determination. Yay for me.
Or so I'd think.

But its not as easy as I thought it would be you know, this no-ego thing.

You see, humans have this inherent tendency to say 'I do' without even the slightest hesitation (if you're Ross Gellar, you're a pro and I'm not even talking about you).
Its not just the weddings, its everything else in normal life..in dealing with people, things, situations, especially when they're new... I've learnt that it takes a lot of courage and strong-will to say 'Nope, sorry, I really don't know how to'.

So the other day when V asked me if I know how to iron shirts, I say 'yes' so matter-of-factly like I was asked if I knew how to eat thayir-sadum.
I surprise me.
I mean, how good was I at ironing anyway?
Lets see..All my life my mom ironed my school-uniforms.
I'd ironed my Salwars to college, but that was just because I loved ironing over large flat surfaces, it made me feel nice. I never really cared how it looked even if it looked far more wrinklier after I was done with the iron-box.
Then there was always the ironing my clothes before packing, so that they'd fit perfectly into my suitcase. It was clearly another case of ironing out of desperation, so it didn't really matter whether they looked nice or not..as long as they fit neatly in a row.
Wait, there must be more.
Oh yes, I remember ironing my Appa's shirts before he'd leave for work.
I am now beginning to realise that he wore the shirts which I ironed to work without much of a grumble JUST to not hurt my feelings. No wonder he never removed his suit at work.... he'd get sacked if anyone saw how an Investment Banker dressed to work at this Bank!

So! Not even bothering to consider my promising past with the iron-box, I daintily trot to the iron-stand and pick up one of V's shirts that need ironing on my way.

I JUST then realise that I don't know where to start. I iron over the flat surfaces (and enjoy the good feeling like the 'ol salwar days), and stop at the sleeves. I really don't know where the crease ought to be. I mean, in a proper shirt where you go to work not expecting to get sacked the very next day for looking like rubbish.
Same with his trousers, where is the goddamn crease??? At the sides or at the front?

After ironing all the flat parts (something I can do as professionally now), I go up to V and tell him that my father was a good man for wearing what I ironed for him all these years.
V gets the picture, he's a fast learner.
I give my sheepish grin (another thing I can do quite professionally).
V irons his clothes to work for now..and makes his tea (for now). I love his tea.
I take care of the cooking, and the fire-alarms that go off during the process.

I'm yet to go up to him and ask him where the crease falls.

The After-math, the Cook-book and Me

Retrospection on a profound level leads me to the conclusion that I was never really a home-girl.
I've always deplored the word house-wife, even the very way the term was coined 'h-o-u-s-e' 'w-i-f-e'. I mean, lets face it...what in heavens name did you wish you convey by the word house-wife? That you were a wife at home? Weren't you his wife outside the house? Eew.

Yeneways, kutti digress there.
As a kid who was perpetually hyper and restless (excepting for the times when I was asleep where I'd look like a mad- driver-woman on Prozac). I always had something to do solely because the very thought of being bored scared me out of my wits as I always associated 'boredom' to 'loneliness'. So, despite being the only kid to my parents which always saddened me..(still does to a certain extent which is why I resolve to get busy in the near future in order to prevent history from repeating itself :D) I made sure that I never banked on my house or my parents for solace...I'd explore the neighbouring streets on my bicycle, go out on walks on my own, make friends with the watchmen and gardeners in our locality.. whatever it took to get me out of the house, even if it meant knocking on random people's doors and asking them, ingratiatingly, if I could play with their kids if they had any.
It was sad you know, that parents sent their 6 year olds to Hindi tuition. I think I learned more Hindi chatting with the watchmen and gardeners.

With such a manipulated state of mind that made me believe that one had a life only if it were outside the house, I grew up sympathizing all women who were house-wives, including my very dear granny and Mom. I'd ask my Mom time and again in the kitchen how they did it... How could one not go out, know places, meet people, get paid, get bankrupt, get into fights, get out of fights (the last two clauses were offered in copious amounts in our house..living with me is no joke mind you) how could you just be busy at home?'
I mean...with with due respect to what all the woman folk go through to keep a family running hale and healthy, how could you work, at home?? Wouldn't these 4 walls drive you plain mad?'

My Mom would just smile and ask me to switch on the exhaust fan on my way out.

A home-maker's job is no joke, I'm told, although I never try to understand the gravity of that statement more so because I know that the home-maker is never really..'me'.
I cant disagree with the fact that all of us are here, healthy and successful (to a certain extent at least) only because some woman/women in the house chose to care and see if we had food on the table and in our boxes everyday.

So as I pack my suitcases to a whole new world at the other side of the globe with a chunk of my stuff comprising of shiny non-stick vessels and brand new cook-books (the cook-book saga..ah! This surely deserves a post dedicated to itself), I still wonder to myself if I can map a vessel to its utility or turn the pages of Tarla Dalal's Continental Food Book without falling asleep looking at the picture on the front cover itself.

My colleagues from work will surely have fun reading this. They know.

Shady, Very Shady

Ok..so how different is my life now anyway?
Not very, really.
Except for the 'Neeya??!!? Kalyanam aa?? Bwahahahahaha ' reaction I seem to be receiving from my friends time and again (@friends :P), everything is peach normal.

Lets see now. Recent excitement contributed by mad mad shop-hopping which has made me all the more gleeful and happy. Nothing like seeing money float in the air (a bit creepy when its your money though). But you know, I never thought that shopping could leave me so pooped at the end of the day that I was too tired to even life my feet off the ground….To lie down of course (what were you thinking?)

A few interesting lessons shopping with family has taught me.


1. Enlightenment #1.
Sarees look gorgeous in shops. Gorgeous with a capital Gee. They're meant to.
But it's a different thing 'looking' gorgeous in them. When you're 153 centimetres short tall, a saree around you sometimes looks like a quilt wrapped around a pencil, or an eraser for that matter. Sad I know. But my family members are always supportive and diplomatic. And I go ahead with buying the most gorgeous ones in the shop anyway without the slightest bit of remorse.


2. Enlightenment #2.
My addiction to pink is a potential embarrassment to family. Being lured towards all the pinks in the saree section, ok understandable. But constantly groping the pink shirts in the men's section??
You think I have a problem??
Yeah, join the club. I need help. And how!
Ideas perhaps, anyone?


3. Enlightenment #3
Must confront conflicting choices regarding breathtaking colours in saree shop.
Not a wise move to ask person-at-saree-section 'Inda saree nannarikuma, ilati iduva?'
(Translate: This one will look nice..or this one?)
He will say, 'Rendumae edthukonga, wonga colour-ku wo-ho-nnum irikum'
(Translate: Take both ma, they both suit your complextion'
Yeah right, like we're gonna fall for that one. Ha! *conceited smirk*
I'm sure we can choose between Jyothika-Pinks and MS (MSubhalakshmi)- Blues on our own thank you very much.

Right, so where does all this leave me now?
Well, I'm still tired. And hungry. And yes, a bit tired too (wait did I mention that already?)
Ok, before you think I'm drunk too, I'm gonna make a dignified exit, lift my legs with both my hands, lie down on bed and crash.

I do, after all, deserve tonight's sleep don't I?

:D

Yours shopping-ly,

Confounded-Lady

Foot-note: Oh btw, we ended up taking both the above mentioned colours at the end of the day. Yes, these shop-keepers are a nasty influence on us gullible juntha. But what to do? Both colours were stunning. So much for complexion, flattery and all that jazz.

:D

Life's Lesson #280708

Your mysterious absence at work on a Friday can only mean one thing. And its NOT the flu or a sever cold 'n all that jazz.

Corollary:
Taking off to Blore with a couple of friends for the weekend seems far more plausible in the corporate world than 'unanticipatedly' falling ill just before a long weekend.