No biggie. Just getting married. (*Secret giggle*)

Yours truly and Le Boyfriend are tying the knot. (Did I just hear a collective whoop? Or was that a groan of 'Another one bites the dust' from all the awesome single people? Just crickets? Okay.)

We're all blasé about it. Like yeah, yeah. It’s no big deal. Just getting married. Ho hum. But unbeknownst to the outside world, we are hiding highly mushy and uncool things like secret glows and countdowns and day dreams of getting our own place and arguing over the remote control.

And there are a couple of other whoppers lined up. How will LB put up with my cooking? Will we be a refreshing, non-barf inducing, super cool couple or will we degenerate into the stereotypical, blah hubby and wife duo? And what becomes of my budding aspirations to write for a living? And LB’s budding aspirations of home makeovers? Will there be Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters? All this and more, only on this very site, my good people. Don’t fall off the edge of your seats from excitement. You’ll surprise the crickets.

The Good, the Bad and the Coffee Mugs.

Coffee mugs no longer just hold your coffee until it goes down your throat and gets you caffeine stoned. We live in a civilized society with too many shopping malls. There has to be something more to them, damn it. And since there is precious little you can add to a coffee mug which won't make you look like a nerd, an unholy plot was hatched to market it as The Perfect Gift for All Occasions.

Birthday? Birthday mug. Anniversary? Anniversary mug. School farewell? Farewell mug. Sick friend in the hospital? Horlicks mug. (Free with every 1 kg pack of horlicks.) This trend hasn't just cropped up out of the blue, mind you. For instance, my parents firmly believe that newly married couples find nothing so infinitely useful as a clock. They go to every wedding with a neatly gift wrapped wall clock imagining that it's going to grace the couple's living room wall forever. FOREVER. Coffee mugs have become the new clocks.

It's been proved that madness is hereditary. So it was inevitable that I gifted people coffee mugs for a long time, happy in the knowledge that they're going to put it to good use. I was all, 'You can drink stuff from it. You can use it as a pen holder. You can keep it in the shelf and admire it. Or hit a serial killer on the head with it if you happen to come across one. It's a life saver!' It's obvious delusion runs in the family.

Anyway, one day I realized how truly lame coffee mugs are (and not a moment too late). Fast forward to the present: what happens now? Le Boyfriend asks me to buy one for him.

And I tried. I really did. I literally spent hours keeping a keen eye out for a decent mug, but everywhere I looked, the horrors ranged from dreadful pink mugs littered with red hearts to some truly abominable mugs with animal faces projecting from the surface which would have given children nightmares.

Even worse are the zodiac mugs and the ones which tell you how romantic and talented you are based on the first letter of your name. Because whatever my zodiac sign might say, I am not a social climber. I'm more like a social disaster. Just ask my mother. And I think my mother knows me better(sadly for her) than a strange coffee mug I've just met.

In the end, my Better Half got tired of not getting caffeine stoned at his desk for three weeks and bought a mug from Coffee Day. Huh. You'd think I would have thought of that. 

Behold, le BF's coffee mug! (And his amazing sidekick, the photo bombing keyboard!) 

Miniature golf? Kid Stuff.

Golf is a gentleman's game. You take a caddy with you, walk over the greens and putt to your heart's content while simultaneously making million dollar deals with your business rival and close personal enemy. I don't know if I suck at golf and I'm not rich enough to find out. I do know, however, that miniature golf is to golf what an escape shuttle is to the Starship Enterprise. Similar, but really not. Sometimes, the bigger the better. Am I right, ladies?

What I need are large acres of freshly mown lawns which take enough money to feed a third world country to maintain, plus one of those golf carts which come with an attached caddy to boost my ego and carry my clubs. Only if these conditions are met will I be able to unleash the golf monster within. These small patches of green with ridiculously convoluted obstacles and non-professional metal clubs which I can imagine using to prod cattle...no, no. In my heart I know that it just isn't right. It is an abomination unto golf.

In the event that someone does sponsor my entry into an exclusive golf course and gives me their prize irons, so-spotless-it's-scary golf attire, an obnoxiously expensive Rolex and a caddy who knows how to tastefully offer subtle compliments on my game, you will see that I'm not just all talk. I will hit every ball with accuracy anywhere you name except the hole.

You can bet your family jewels on it and I will not fail you. My keen sense of balance and intuition combined with my perfect aim and enviable skill will make sure you look like an amazing player when you play with me. I'm gifted like that.

Words don't come easy

I read in a blog that sometimes words come as easily as bunnies in a field, while other times it's like plucking the teeth from a rabid dog's mouth. I'm staring into the maws of the brute right now. It's stupid how it's so hard to pick up where you left and start writing again when you're rusty. I guess like all good things, it needs practice. That whole 'you need to work on something for 10,000 hours before you're really good at it' thing might actually be true. Damn.

Moving on, I've had a busy month. Apart from work, I was part of a beach cleanup and a wedding. Both of them rocked. The beach cleanup was messy and sweaty and fun. And incredibly satisfying when you look at what a difference you've made. I was completely beat when I got back home. It was great.

The wedding was also very cool because for the first time, I wore a dress. It's all very well saying saris are traditional, ethnic and beautiful. I agree, but I'll always be more of a dress person. Saris are for women who know how to drape and can manage to look graceful and non-klutzy in them. I possess none of these desirable qualities. I was thrilled to be wearing a simple dress to an Indian wedding. I really hope the trend catches on.

More importantly, the church was gorgeous and the reception was fun. The bride and groom looked fabulous!  There was a classy, minimalist feel to the whole affair, there weren't too many guests (rare in a South Indian wedding) and you could tell that people were enjoying themselves. I'm not usually a wedding person, but this one gets a double thumbs-up.

Don't skew things up

I recently read an article in the paper which talked about how men have to pay high dowries to the girl's family in China to get married. Why? Because there simply aren't enough girls. I think India is heading there too.

This means that really bad things could happen. I talked about PGD in a previous article and I could go on forever about the evils of sex selective abortions and the 'girl child' stigma. Although I can see conditions changing, there is still a deep rooted preference for male children in the conservative Indian psyche. There are very few families who don't wish for at least one boy.

I think people should come to grips with the fact that a skewed sex ratio is NOT going to help them. In the best case scenario:

Do you want to end up paying dowry for your son? (Because society is stupid like that, and this might sound like sweet revenge to most girls and their families.)
Do you want to make your son wait on a queue of several years in the marriage mart to glimpse a girl who might just consider him?

In the worst:

Do you want to promote social violence and human trafficking?

And that's just the tip of the ice berg. Think about it.

Snap out of it, girl!

If you happened to read my previous post which was written in a fit of the dismals after witnessing Hermione Granger's love life unraveling, I'm truly sorry. I did not mean to subject you to that, but my mood dictates the crap I write sometimes.

So in the meanwhile, something fairly insignificant happened.

I graduated.

Yeah, yeah, I know it's just a big, humongous fuss. You've already kicked and clawed your way out of the mouth of hell and are now wandering Middle Earth hoping to get to higher ground.  However, hell will call you back one more time, to congratulate you on your escape and give you a piece of paper saying you are now an engineer. Woo hoo.

Highlights included a final tussle with one of the brown nosing college staff, and I won! It may be unladylike to argue with a bald guy who thinks that we will submissively buckle as we did during our student days and oblige to listen to the load of crap they were trying to dump on us from the stage, but I did.
Ha! In your face, bald guy. That felt good.

The crap they were unloading on stage was even worse. God, it made me wish I had skipped the whole thing. Who wants photos with a black coat and a degree?? Well, apart from my parents.

Anyway, I will never have to go back there again. Now I can snap out of writing about how much I hate my college. Your days of agony are over, my faithful readers. You can now hear me complain about a ton of other stuff! 

Concern

How did it come to this? How did my friends and I get to this point from being gawky teenagers in a pink uniform? 

When you watch the tomboy you grew up with who used to chase you around the school ground prepare herself for an arranged marriage with a deceptively brave face, you will be concerned.

When you watch the Hermione Granger of your gang struggle with narrow minded people and her choices in love and still be thoughtful enough to get you gifts from a holiday, you will be concerned.

When your naive friend goes abroad and you can no longer yell at her for the stupid things she will invariably do, you will be concerned.

When your shopping soul mate is still finding her feet in the world, you will be concerned.

When your school tuition buddy's mom is sick and she carries the weight of the family on her shoulders, you will be concerned.

When the girly friend who takes forever to get out of the bath cries in secret because she is deeper and feels more than the world can perceive, you will be concerned.  

Don't I have anything more to offer than concern? 

Living right smack on solid, level ground

I'm currently in an emotional rut where I want to do a lot of things, but I convince myself that it is too impractical, or even impossible. I'm having issues about my freedom and accountability in the world. I have never been allowed to make too many of my own decisions when I was a child and I suppose that just makes me want to do anything I want to now.

What's the problem then, you ask? My parents have successfully programmed recklessness out of my system. I'm not a risk taker. I weigh the consequences, I think up reasons about why I can't do things, I worry about what people will think (sometimes) and I limit my world within walls which I've put up myself.

If I do try to break out of the system, I'm immediately confronted with a perfectly good reason (like security. Girls apparently don't have much of this) why I'm crazy. So I clean my room, attempt a bit of light cooking, watch movies and live vicariously on the edge through books.

How the Other Side Feels - The typical story of love at the workplace

Once upon a time, there was a guy and a girl who worked together. 

They were attracted to each other. (Naturally.)

However, neither of them wanted to admit it first. So they tortured the rest of their mutual friends at work by flirting blatantly with each other whilst calling themselves 'just friends'. Eventually, the mutual friends decided enough was enough. 

They had gotten sick of pretending to barf into their coffee when said guy and girl playfully exchanged witty banter cloaked in 'I'm into you' innuendos first thing in the morning. They did not want to hear them both call each other from ten feet away to play 'you hang up first' games anymore. 

The men disliked watching the guy lose his self respect and share girly moments with the girl in the hope that it will lead to The Perfect Moment. The women said it was adorable, but secretly thought the whole thing was disgusting because a) 'For heaven's sake, just get together already!' and b) they were women.

So they did the only thing which afforded them a modicum of entertainment. They teased the guy and the girl mercilessly. When the not-yet-couple arrived, eyebrows were waggled suggestively ('Ah, guess who's being mushy again?' *waggle, waggle*) , jokes were exchanged about the couple's prospective in-laws ('Hey, don't worry about cash. Mamaanar irrukaarla?' (daddy-in-law will take care of it)) and their future babies  were not spared ('Machi, you'll have two kids. I just hope neither of them look like you.')

Finally, the glorious day dawned when the guy and the girl decided that it was about time they stopped being 'secretly' in love and just admitted that they were together.Congratulations and slaps on the back are liberally donated. Girls say 'aww!' when guy feeds girl. Guys continue to barf into their coffee cups. 

The next day, there are two conspicuous absences at the lunch table. There are a couple of comments about how lovers ditch friends at the first opportunity, but everyone agrees it's very romantic and sweet. And no one says it out loud, but everyone is also extremely relieved.   

Am I the type of chick that likes to rock the beat?

This chick has been in bed for five days with a viral fever. Rocking the beat has to wait, but I love Willow Smith. Especially 21st century girl. And if you want, take a look at some of her pictures in Google. You have to be spunky to shave off half your head when you're hardly a teen. She's touted to be the next Rihanna, but God forbid.She can definitely do better.

Coming back to the original question, yes. Yes, I'm the type. 

   

To write or not to write

As many of you may not know (and good for you!), M&B is hosting a short story writing competition. I now face a dilemma. Should I go ahead and attempt to write a steamy romance or thumb my nose at it because M&B is not exactly of the same caliber as Gone with the Wind? 

On one hand, I pretty much hate generic romance novels where the guy has muscles like steel and the girl wears clingy sweaters and the both of them do it about five times before they realize they're in love. 

On the other, I'm bored! I'd really like something to work on now, and this might be just the type of pointless, frivolous thing that will snap me out of my boringness and give me something to laugh (and blog) about. 

Aye or nay?