Everyone has a hero. Could be real or fictional. Someone famous or someone known only to them. Dead or alive. Sometimes, the person needn't even be so much of a hero, but really more of a guru. Somebody who’s past actions you can use as a guide to help run your life better. Someone whose wisdom you can draw upon when faced with a conundrum in your own life.
I recently realised that I have one such guide in my own life. She's officially fictional, but people who know her (and many people know her) think of her as a real person. She has a name and an address and a career and a personality and a past and plans and a love life and friends and strengths and weaknesses and favourites and allergies and well, you get the idea. For all practical purposes, she’s a real person, and you could either like her or dislike her or just not care about her.
I personally fall in the “don’t really care either ways” bracket. How then is my guide, you wonder? That’s because while I have a don’t-care-to-bordering-on-being-annoyed-by-her attitude towards her, there is one aspect of her that I appreciate greatly.
Allow me to explain.
It’s like this. Being new-ish to America, I’ve found myself spoiled rotten for choice when it comes to shopping for clothes, shoes and accessories. (Is there any other kind that really matters anyway?) Every so often I find myself in a store trying out an ensemble and standing in front of a mirror, trying to figure out if an outfit really works for the occasion. Or for me. I add a different shoe or throw a different scarf and wonder which looks better. I ponder over colours and lengths. Can I really pull off such a bright green? Should I wear that with black or a grey? Does this show too much leg for a dinner party?
As I stand there, surrounded by endless possibilities, confused beyond belief and on the verge of just giving up and running home to my sweats and tee, I invoke the spirit of my guide and ask myself, “What would Carrie do?”
By Carrie, of course I mean Carrie Bradshaw, the heroine of the long running TV show and what now appears to be a franchise of movies – Sex and the City. The show supposedly broke some solid ground when it came to women and sexual politics but for me it’s lasting legacy will always be its contribution to fashion, specifically Carrie’s fashions. For six years, her very average-sized closet provided Carrie with an unending supply of clothes, shoes, hats, shoes, bags, belts, shoes, bras, those flower like pins that she made do damn famous and shoes. In every episode she would dazzle us by throwing together an ensemble that would probably be a joke in theory but that always worked awesomely on screen.
Sure, she had a body that could carry off a garbage bag if she were asked to but that doesn’t take away from the fact that Carrie always knew how to dress for any occasion. Formal black and white ball? Check. First date with an older businessman? Yup. Third date with geeky computer guy? Check. Sunday brunch with the girls? Check. Wednesday afternoon coffee with the girls? Got just the outfit. Appropriately sexy outfit for accidentally bumping into crush so she can entice him into asking her out? Of course. Appropriately sexy but demure outfit for breaking up with the dude ‘cause he’s just such a loser? Got it.
While Carrie often made mistakes and sometimes fumbled on the right thing to say at the right time, you could never fault her for not being dressed just right. Across cities and situations, Carrie strode through life, secure in the knowledge that even if life didn’t work out exactly the way she expected it to, at least she’d have the outfit for it.
It is this unerring and dependable knack of always being perfectly dressed that I admire so much. It is what has helped me come to a decision when that decision seemed impossible. When I was out looking for a great dress to wear for a formal ball I had to attend, it was the spirit of Carrie that guided my hand in getting the right dress, shoes, clutch and even the earrings. It was she who gave me the courage to spend some serious bucks on a pair of heels I earlier dubbed ‘too much’ for myself. At a time when I was torn over a decision to buy or not buy a scarf that I felt may be too fussy for spring, I asked the four magic words, “What would Carrie do?” Carrie would get that scarf and wear the heck out of it, came the answer and so I bought it and wore it and loved it! I used the magic mantra when I was tempted to get a sweater just because it was marked down, and decided not to get it, a decision I have never regretted.
It’s not that I copy Carrie’s sense of style. Let’s face it, it has been a few years since the show went off the air and styles have changed since then. Also, while some of her choices worked for her, they wouldn’t really figure in my closet. To me, Carrie is not a style icon to be followed blindly. She represents a woman who loved fashion and who loved to dress up and who was shallow enough to put style over comfort and clothes over food. All fine qualities that I aspire to. After all, there are many do-gooders in the world who’re getting through life in a pair of jeans and a smile on their faces. But when I’m faced with a choice between donating money to a charitable cause or taking off to the mall, I know what I’ll take. I simply have to ask myself, “What would Carrie do?”
Monday, May 18, 2009
Friday, February 06, 2009
Another Facebook Post
Facebook turned five recently and as we all know birthdays are a time for celebrating and reflecting. So I broke my diet with Betty Crocker's Super Moist Dark Chocolate Cake and sat down to reflect. And realised that if I ever took myself off Facebook, the only thing I'd really miss is it's version of Texas Hold 'Em Poker.
Now, I'm no gambler. In real life, I wouldn't even bet on myself. But in a Facebook poker room, I take on a different persona. I play with thousands of dollars as if they were nothing (they are nothing - it's fake money, but still), I take risks that could take me to dizzying heights or depressing lows. I think, I calculate, I bluff, I judge others on the table, I'm immersed in the game, making and losing fortunes over single hands. And amidst all this nerve-wracking, finger-biting gambling, the one thing I cannot bear is unnecessary chit-chat.
Being a married woman of a certain age, my interest in Facebook poker has always been purely in the entertainment it provides. I like to get in, make my virtual thousands and get the hell out. But as I've discovered during my many hours of poker playing, that many not necessarily be the case with my fellow players.
Take for the instance, the indiscriminate flirt. Here is a man who walks into a poker room and instantly buys everyone there a drink. Once the drinks have been bought and his entrance noted, he settles down and starts checking out all the players in detail - what they look like, how much they are worth - that sort of thing. Sometimes two or three females catch his fancy and he starts a conversation with all of them. Usually at least one responds to his come-ons and she's the one he continues to flirt with for the rest of the session. What these flirtations culminate into, I'm not really sure. Who knows, maybe one day, one of these couplings will live to tell their grandchildren how they met in an online poker room.
Then there is, poker buddy fanatic. I'm still not sure what a poker buddy is and what he or she is entitled to. But every day I enter a poker room where a complete stranger sends me a request to be his poker buddy. Some people have the courtesy to buy you a drink before they do that, most just send a request without even a precursory hi. Why anyone thinks I would ever respond to a poker or any other buddy request by a complete stranger is a mystery. Maybe this is all part of the whole accumulate-as-many-friends-as-you-can conspiracy FB is perpetrating.
Somewhere toward the end of the day emerges another species of chit-chatters: the Indian boy who feels obliged to strike up a conversation when he sees an Indian girl. As the western hemisphere prepares to sleep and the eastern hemisphere is mid way through their work day, poker rooms tend to fill up with young men in India taking a break from their day's work. No harm there, everybody deserves a break. But where is it stated that this boy-on-a-break has to say hi to you as soon as he sees you and ask you where you're from? Aren't my name and photograph dead give-aways of my ethnicity? And why do you think that just because we're both desis I want to make inane conversation with you about god knows what? In the real world, would you just go over to a stranger and ask her where she's from?? Then why this break from social proprietary in the virtual world? Why can't you just shut up and play your turn??
Of course, I understand that not everyone feels as hostile about chatting in a poker room as I do. There's a new-ish phenomenon in profile pictures I've noticed that's usually an indicator that you're here to play more than just poker - the two-girls wrapped in some sort of embrace profile picture. This picture is usually taken in a bar and shows two girls with their arms wrapped around each other as they smile or laugh or sometimes just glare. I was a little bit confused by this particular style of photography at first since I always figured a profile picture to be more of a solitary style snapshot. So that, you know, we may know what that person looks like? But clearly, some people believe in the two heads is better than one axiom. It also always works well as a conversation stimulant in a chat room.
So you see, a Facebook poker room is not only a great place to kill hours of your life but also a biting insight into the world of virtual human behaviour. Of course all this talk of poker has got me a antsy. Time for me to head into one of those rooms, close my ears to the incessant chatter and make my monies. I'm just a few thousands away from making pro-250 K.
Now, I'm no gambler. In real life, I wouldn't even bet on myself. But in a Facebook poker room, I take on a different persona. I play with thousands of dollars as if they were nothing (they are nothing - it's fake money, but still), I take risks that could take me to dizzying heights or depressing lows. I think, I calculate, I bluff, I judge others on the table, I'm immersed in the game, making and losing fortunes over single hands. And amidst all this nerve-wracking, finger-biting gambling, the one thing I cannot bear is unnecessary chit-chat.
Being a married woman of a certain age, my interest in Facebook poker has always been purely in the entertainment it provides. I like to get in, make my virtual thousands and get the hell out. But as I've discovered during my many hours of poker playing, that many not necessarily be the case with my fellow players.
Take for the instance, the indiscriminate flirt. Here is a man who walks into a poker room and instantly buys everyone there a drink. Once the drinks have been bought and his entrance noted, he settles down and starts checking out all the players in detail - what they look like, how much they are worth - that sort of thing. Sometimes two or three females catch his fancy and he starts a conversation with all of them. Usually at least one responds to his come-ons and she's the one he continues to flirt with for the rest of the session. What these flirtations culminate into, I'm not really sure. Who knows, maybe one day, one of these couplings will live to tell their grandchildren how they met in an online poker room.
Then there is, poker buddy fanatic. I'm still not sure what a poker buddy is and what he or she is entitled to. But every day I enter a poker room where a complete stranger sends me a request to be his poker buddy. Some people have the courtesy to buy you a drink before they do that, most just send a request without even a precursory hi. Why anyone thinks I would ever respond to a poker or any other buddy request by a complete stranger is a mystery. Maybe this is all part of the whole accumulate-as-many-friends-as-you-can conspiracy FB is perpetrating.
Somewhere toward the end of the day emerges another species of chit-chatters: the Indian boy who feels obliged to strike up a conversation when he sees an Indian girl. As the western hemisphere prepares to sleep and the eastern hemisphere is mid way through their work day, poker rooms tend to fill up with young men in India taking a break from their day's work. No harm there, everybody deserves a break. But where is it stated that this boy-on-a-break has to say hi to you as soon as he sees you and ask you where you're from? Aren't my name and photograph dead give-aways of my ethnicity? And why do you think that just because we're both desis I want to make inane conversation with you about god knows what? In the real world, would you just go over to a stranger and ask her where she's from?? Then why this break from social proprietary in the virtual world? Why can't you just shut up and play your turn??
Of course, I understand that not everyone feels as hostile about chatting in a poker room as I do. There's a new-ish phenomenon in profile pictures I've noticed that's usually an indicator that you're here to play more than just poker - the two-girls wrapped in some sort of embrace profile picture. This picture is usually taken in a bar and shows two girls with their arms wrapped around each other as they smile or laugh or sometimes just glare. I was a little bit confused by this particular style of photography at first since I always figured a profile picture to be more of a solitary style snapshot. So that, you know, we may know what that person looks like? But clearly, some people believe in the two heads is better than one axiom. It also always works well as a conversation stimulant in a chat room.
So you see, a Facebook poker room is not only a great place to kill hours of your life but also a biting insight into the world of virtual human behaviour. Of course all this talk of poker has got me a antsy. Time for me to head into one of those rooms, close my ears to the incessant chatter and make my monies. I'm just a few thousands away from making pro-250 K.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Feb 3, 2009
As the three people who are unfortunate enough to stumble upon this blog (or have been bullied by me to do so) know, I recently turned 30.
(Digression: I'm now 30 years and 3 months old actually and while it sucks as much and more, I have discovered a positive development that's taken place. My once famously volatile motion sickness has miraculously disappeared. From being unable to look at my watch in a moving car without throwing up, I have progressed to being able to get through an entire 3 night cruise on very choppy waters without even clutching at my bosom. It's a triumph and a mystery - one that can only be explained by my entry into the twilight years of my life.)
So anyway, like I was saying, I recently turned 30. And when you turn 30, you're forced to think about some hitherto unnecessary things. A good health insurance plan, comfortable footwear and the prospect of kids. It's the age-old (pun intended) biological-clock & aging-eggs scam that's been used to trick women into reproducing for generations. If you're not careful, you get sucked into the flawed logic and fake promise of family fun and frolic and before you know it, you've got on your hands a wailing baby and on your stomach giant stretch marks. But by then it's too late.
Fortunately, I've long held a strong opinion on the topic and simply put, I'm against them. Now before anyone who has ever borne a child gets their knickers in a twist over this, let me explain my point of view. I'm sure children are wonderful creatures who bring you joy like nothing else and who make up the most important thing you'll ever do in your life, but the way I look at it, child rearing is just too hard.
There's the 9 months of carrying it, the super painful labour (don't believe all those stories of Epidural, it's still bloody painful) and then the never ending bringing up. From teaching your kids to pee in a bowl to teaching them to do fractions. From picking them up from day care to dropping them off at piano lessons. From cleaning their spit-up after a feed to cleaning their throw up after they get drunk at a school party (you know it's going to happen!), it just never ends. And have you ever closely seen the faces of parents as they try to rein in their kids in a mall or restaurant? That expression they all share. It's called stress. Never ending, unrelenting stress.
So after years of observing parents and children, I'd come to the conclusion that having kids was basically more trouble than it's worth. The occasional smile they flash you or hug they throw your way certainly does not equal years of labour. It's just too difficult.
That's what I thought.
Until I saw something that got me thinking.
Look at this picture. That's two adults and six children. SIX. That's six times the crap, six times the fraction teaching, six times the after school activities and six times the general stress that comes with being a parent.
But look at them. They look... well, not-mental. As any normal couple surrounded by 6 children should. Of couse, in this picture I can only count five kids. Who knows? Maybe the sixth one really pissed them off and they left it behind on the plane on purpose. But even for a couple of Earthlings surrounded by five kids, they look very, like I said, non-mental.
OK, now I know they're Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. And along with adopting children, they've probably also adopted families to look after these kids. But in this picture they're actually braving their way through an airport with a sea of children and smiling beatifically through it all.
I must admit it. I'm intrigued. In their own special Hollywood way Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have shown me a glimmer of hope where I thought there was none. Maybe having children isn't as bad as I thought. Maybe it is all family fun and frolic, just like the brochure promised. All you need is to be the two best looking people on earth with a combined salary of a few million dollars. And as soon as I'm there, I'll be ready to reproduce. Until then, you know where I stand.
(Digression: I'm now 30 years and 3 months old actually and while it sucks as much and more, I have discovered a positive development that's taken place. My once famously volatile motion sickness has miraculously disappeared. From being unable to look at my watch in a moving car without throwing up, I have progressed to being able to get through an entire 3 night cruise on very choppy waters without even clutching at my bosom. It's a triumph and a mystery - one that can only be explained by my entry into the twilight years of my life.)
So anyway, like I was saying, I recently turned 30. And when you turn 30, you're forced to think about some hitherto unnecessary things. A good health insurance plan, comfortable footwear and the prospect of kids. It's the age-old (pun intended) biological-clock & aging-eggs scam that's been used to trick women into reproducing for generations. If you're not careful, you get sucked into the flawed logic and fake promise of family fun and frolic and before you know it, you've got on your hands a wailing baby and on your stomach giant stretch marks. But by then it's too late.
Fortunately, I've long held a strong opinion on the topic and simply put, I'm against them. Now before anyone who has ever borne a child gets their knickers in a twist over this, let me explain my point of view. I'm sure children are wonderful creatures who bring you joy like nothing else and who make up the most important thing you'll ever do in your life, but the way I look at it, child rearing is just too hard.
There's the 9 months of carrying it, the super painful labour (don't believe all those stories of Epidural, it's still bloody painful) and then the never ending bringing up. From teaching your kids to pee in a bowl to teaching them to do fractions. From picking them up from day care to dropping them off at piano lessons. From cleaning their spit-up after a feed to cleaning their throw up after they get drunk at a school party (you know it's going to happen!), it just never ends. And have you ever closely seen the faces of parents as they try to rein in their kids in a mall or restaurant? That expression they all share. It's called stress. Never ending, unrelenting stress.
So after years of observing parents and children, I'd come to the conclusion that having kids was basically more trouble than it's worth. The occasional smile they flash you or hug they throw your way certainly does not equal years of labour. It's just too difficult.
That's what I thought.
Until I saw something that got me thinking.
Look at this picture. That's two adults and six children. SIX. That's six times the crap, six times the fraction teaching, six times the after school activities and six times the general stress that comes with being a parent.
But look at them. They look... well, not-mental. As any normal couple surrounded by 6 children should. Of couse, in this picture I can only count five kids. Who knows? Maybe the sixth one really pissed them off and they left it behind on the plane on purpose. But even for a couple of Earthlings surrounded by five kids, they look very, like I said, non-mental.
OK, now I know they're Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie. And along with adopting children, they've probably also adopted families to look after these kids. But in this picture they're actually braving their way through an airport with a sea of children and smiling beatifically through it all.
I must admit it. I'm intrigued. In their own special Hollywood way Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie have shown me a glimmer of hope where I thought there was none. Maybe having children isn't as bad as I thought. Maybe it is all family fun and frolic, just like the brochure promised. All you need is to be the two best looking people on earth with a combined salary of a few million dollars. And as soon as I'm there, I'll be ready to reproduce. Until then, you know where I stand.
---------------------------------------------------------------
I was just thinking today that if I were ever start another blog I'd like to call it blogojevich.com. After ex-governor Rod Blagojevich of course. I have absolutely no interest in the man or his politics. I am, however, completely taken with his name. Spelt Blagojevich and pronounced Blay-go-yo-vich. I'm especially amused by how Americans will pronounce his name perfectly and completely fumble when it comes to a Karan or Nidhi.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
A Disgruntled Rant
The inevitable has happened. I hoped it wouldn't. Like "The Secret" advised, I visualised in my head what I really wanted but it just didn't work. What they say is true. The sands of time are like current stock prices. Once they start falling, no amount of prayers, bail outs or new presidents can stop them.
So as I was saying, the inevitable happened. I turned 30.
As ridiculous as it may sound, I truly believed that it would never happen to me. I'm not sure what I expected would happen instead, but whenever I thought about the future, near or far, I always saw myself as 20-something year old. There I am, celebrating my 25th anniversary, a glowing 28 year old drinking champagne out of an elegant flute. Oh, oh and there I am again, receiving a lifetime achievement award for excellence in writing, a totally hot 26 year old in a dress to die for. And look at me, a glamorous 27 year old, telling my teenage children to stop fighting with each other or I swear to God, no food for a week!
When I turned 29, I felt that things had gone far enough, that the madness would finally end and I'd stay that age forever. The night before my 30th birthday I sent out a fervent prayer to the almighty, asking him to please stop before it was too late. I was just not ready for such a big blow. Just give me a few more years as a 29 year old. But all I got was an extra hour in the day instead. As the country turned their clocks back, my countdown timer was switched on. From here on, it was all downhill.
It's not like I'm a negative person, unable to accept change. It's just that turning 30 really really sucks. First of, there are the physical changes.
The night I turned 30 I sprouted 4 grey hair and my digestive system stopped working. Honestly, I'd never heard of terms like heartburn and indigestion before but ever since my birthday, I eat one extra curly fry and there's hell to pay the next day. My already comatose metabolism is now officially dead and it seems that from now until my death, weight can only be gained and never ever lost. My skin has said goodbye to any kind of glow or shine and welcomed instead such permanent guests as dark circles, under eye bags and age spots. It does, however, continue to sprout the occasional pimple, so that now I'm in the market for an anti-aging acne cream.
My shopping list has also become been touched by the cold and grey fingers of the 30 curse. Anti aging creams for my face, hair colour for my grey mane, calcium and multi-vitamin tablets for my bones, extra-intensive care lotion for my hands and clothes in various shades of greys, blacks and browns.
Along with birthdays and anniversaries, my dismal calendar now has dates marked for mammograms and pap smears. I am now in an age bracket where my chances of getting every disease known to man have gone up exponentially. Plus there's the deafening tick tock of my biological clock. This is unfortunately not accompanied by the necessary ka-ching of the cash register, making it (thankfully) impossible to pay heed to.
People (old people) claim that turning 30 is great because you're wiser and more comfortable in your skin. In response, I would like to say that I would anyday take my youthful 23 year old skin over this 30 year old carcus. And as far as wisdom is concerned, I pretty much peaked at 27. Quite frankly, I've learnt nothing in the last three years that's worth getting old over. If anything, I am now a crabby and choosy old woman, waaaay less fun than the 20 something year old who was game for anything and did not shudder at the word spontaniety.
From gossip about who's sleeping with whom, my social chit-chat has turned to home loans and diaper rash. The hunt for a sexy dress for new year's eve has been replaced by the hunt for a child-friendly new year's party.
The other day I was complaining about being 30 to an older friend who consoled me by saying that things really go to shit when you turn 35. Although I can't see how it can get worse, I would like to issue a fair warning to everyone: If you find yourself in my way in 5 years, scram. I can promise you, I will not be in a good mood.
So as I was saying, the inevitable happened. I turned 30.
As ridiculous as it may sound, I truly believed that it would never happen to me. I'm not sure what I expected would happen instead, but whenever I thought about the future, near or far, I always saw myself as 20-something year old. There I am, celebrating my 25th anniversary, a glowing 28 year old drinking champagne out of an elegant flute. Oh, oh and there I am again, receiving a lifetime achievement award for excellence in writing, a totally hot 26 year old in a dress to die for. And look at me, a glamorous 27 year old, telling my teenage children to stop fighting with each other or I swear to God, no food for a week!
When I turned 29, I felt that things had gone far enough, that the madness would finally end and I'd stay that age forever. The night before my 30th birthday I sent out a fervent prayer to the almighty, asking him to please stop before it was too late. I was just not ready for such a big blow. Just give me a few more years as a 29 year old. But all I got was an extra hour in the day instead. As the country turned their clocks back, my countdown timer was switched on. From here on, it was all downhill.
It's not like I'm a negative person, unable to accept change. It's just that turning 30 really really sucks. First of, there are the physical changes.
The night I turned 30 I sprouted 4 grey hair and my digestive system stopped working. Honestly, I'd never heard of terms like heartburn and indigestion before but ever since my birthday, I eat one extra curly fry and there's hell to pay the next day. My already comatose metabolism is now officially dead and it seems that from now until my death, weight can only be gained and never ever lost. My skin has said goodbye to any kind of glow or shine and welcomed instead such permanent guests as dark circles, under eye bags and age spots. It does, however, continue to sprout the occasional pimple, so that now I'm in the market for an anti-aging acne cream.
My shopping list has also become been touched by the cold and grey fingers of the 30 curse. Anti aging creams for my face, hair colour for my grey mane, calcium and multi-vitamin tablets for my bones, extra-intensive care lotion for my hands and clothes in various shades of greys, blacks and browns.
Along with birthdays and anniversaries, my dismal calendar now has dates marked for mammograms and pap smears. I am now in an age bracket where my chances of getting every disease known to man have gone up exponentially. Plus there's the deafening tick tock of my biological clock. This is unfortunately not accompanied by the necessary ka-ching of the cash register, making it (thankfully) impossible to pay heed to.
People (old people) claim that turning 30 is great because you're wiser and more comfortable in your skin. In response, I would like to say that I would anyday take my youthful 23 year old skin over this 30 year old carcus. And as far as wisdom is concerned, I pretty much peaked at 27. Quite frankly, I've learnt nothing in the last three years that's worth getting old over. If anything, I am now a crabby and choosy old woman, waaaay less fun than the 20 something year old who was game for anything and did not shudder at the word spontaniety.
From gossip about who's sleeping with whom, my social chit-chat has turned to home loans and diaper rash. The hunt for a sexy dress for new year's eve has been replaced by the hunt for a child-friendly new year's party.
The other day I was complaining about being 30 to an older friend who consoled me by saying that things really go to shit when you turn 35. Although I can't see how it can get worse, I would like to issue a fair warning to everyone: If you find yourself in my way in 5 years, scram. I can promise you, I will not be in a good mood.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The problem with Facebook
I'll be honest. Generally speaking, I'm a grade one Facebook offender, guilty of almost every Facebook crime there is to commit.
Like the quiz, the list of offenses is endless. While it took me some time to get onto the FB bandwagon, once on it, I was milking it for all it was worth. And it really is a great social networking tool (also the right place to learn how to play poker), perfect for keeping in touch and sharing your life's goings on with your friends.
Notice how I use the term "friends".
Friends. As in people you know and like and trust. People who you don't mind seeing your pictures and knowing your moods. People you want to stay in touch with even after you've moved cities and for years to come.
Not acquaintances, not random office colleague you haven't met in 10 years, definitely not the stranger you rode on the lift with once who's name or face you couldn't remember if your life depended on it.
Then why the endless friend requests from unknown people whose table you sat across from at a dinner for a 500?
Don't get me wrong. It's not that I fancy myself to be some kind of super woman who, to paraphrase Kung Fu Panda, blinds people with her sheer awesomeness!! I'm just an ordinary girl who happens to be on Facebook, and for some people that's all the qualification you need to be their friend.
Take a friend request I got some time ago from a guy called X. It said, "Hi! Remember me? We were both on Subhash's team for three days that time in Mumbai."
The truth is that I was last in Mumbai 6 years ago, I barely remember Subhash, I have no idea what team he's talking about and as far as X is concerned, neither his picture nor his reminder message ring any bells.
Then there is the guy who (I think) was at a potluck dinner I attended the other evening. He may have passed me a fork, although I wouldn't bet my life on it. But I can bet my life on the fact that through the course of the evening, not one word was exchanged between us. In fact, I don't think we were ever even within a 15 foot distance of each other. But sure enough, by the time I got home from the dinner, there was waiting in my inbox a friend request from the fork passer. And unlike X, he did not even bother with a "remember me" message. I guess he was running out of time since he had to hurry and add each and every one of the guests at that dinner.
There's also a particularly shameless lot of requesters who simply add you if the two of you have a common friend. That's just the height of laziness if you ask me. I mean, at least make the effort of stepping out and meeting people. Don't go poaching on other people's friends!
I get it. Facebook is not just a social utility site (or whatever they claim to be). It's a contest to see who has the maximum friends, so we may finally know who the most popular person in the world is. (The suspense has been killing me!)
Of course, by adding unknown people to your list the only suspense you're ending is of who the saddest person in the world is.
- Does my profile picture have me posing for all I'm worth under trick, dim lighting to give an the appearance of natural and effortless beauty? Of course.
- Have I ever untagged myself from photos posted by others where it was not my above rehearsed look but natural and very far-from-beautiful self that had been captured? Yes.
- Are my photo albums shameless attempts at convincing my Facebook friends that my life is a non-stop party full of alcohol and an endless stream of friends and clothes? Oh yes.
- Do I leave cryptic status messages in order to come across as cerebral and uncaring of what the world thinks of me, while really being quite silly and very concerned about trying to make an impression? Hell yeah!
- Have I refused to go to the gym because I had "so much work I could die" and spent that time on on Facebook taking endless movie quizzes (including the endless movie quiz) instead? All the time.
Like the quiz, the list of offenses is endless. While it took me some time to get onto the FB bandwagon, once on it, I was milking it for all it was worth. And it really is a great social networking tool (also the right place to learn how to play poker), perfect for keeping in touch and sharing your life's goings on with your friends.
Notice how I use the term "friends".
Friends. As in people you know and like and trust. People who you don't mind seeing your pictures and knowing your moods. People you want to stay in touch with even after you've moved cities and for years to come.
Not acquaintances, not random office colleague you haven't met in 10 years, definitely not the stranger you rode on the lift with once who's name or face you couldn't remember if your life depended on it.
Then why the endless friend requests from unknown people whose table you sat across from at a dinner for a 500?
Don't get me wrong. It's not that I fancy myself to be some kind of super woman who, to paraphrase Kung Fu Panda, blinds people with her sheer awesomeness!! I'm just an ordinary girl who happens to be on Facebook, and for some people that's all the qualification you need to be their friend.
Take a friend request I got some time ago from a guy called X. It said, "Hi! Remember me? We were both on Subhash's team for three days that time in Mumbai."
The truth is that I was last in Mumbai 6 years ago, I barely remember Subhash, I have no idea what team he's talking about and as far as X is concerned, neither his picture nor his reminder message ring any bells.
Then there is the guy who (I think) was at a potluck dinner I attended the other evening. He may have passed me a fork, although I wouldn't bet my life on it. But I can bet my life on the fact that through the course of the evening, not one word was exchanged between us. In fact, I don't think we were ever even within a 15 foot distance of each other. But sure enough, by the time I got home from the dinner, there was waiting in my inbox a friend request from the fork passer. And unlike X, he did not even bother with a "remember me" message. I guess he was running out of time since he had to hurry and add each and every one of the guests at that dinner.
There's also a particularly shameless lot of requesters who simply add you if the two of you have a common friend. That's just the height of laziness if you ask me. I mean, at least make the effort of stepping out and meeting people. Don't go poaching on other people's friends!
I get it. Facebook is not just a social utility site (or whatever they claim to be). It's a contest to see who has the maximum friends, so we may finally know who the most popular person in the world is. (The suspense has been killing me!)
Of course, by adding unknown people to your list the only suspense you're ending is of who the saddest person in the world is.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Faking an accent in the elevator
You know those people who go abroad for a month on some training program to New York, are made to stay in an apartment in Jersey City that's being shared by 3 other Indians, find an Indian store to buy groceries from, go partying with their Indian friends except for the one night when their local co-workers took them out (pictures of which are instantly put up on facebook), stay back an extra week to vacation with their aunt in NJ who takes them to Niagara Falls (the American side) and an outlet mall from where they buy a GAP sweatshirt which will be their uniform for the next 12 months, and then come back to India with an American accent?
I used to scoff at such people. "Bah!" I would say, secure and proud in my natural tongue, "I scoff at such people!"
Today, I'm not scoffing.
In fact, I'm the opposite of scoffing. That is, if the opposite of scoffing is cringing. With embarrassment. And a feeling of "Et Me Brutus?" (Or is it "Me Tu Brutus"? Damn you Google's language tools. You're about as useful as a bail-out plan that gets rejected.)
Anyway! Let's just tackle one language at a time. And that language is English. One that I thought i was fluent in, had spoken and written in long enough for it to be part of my identity. My strong, proud Indian identity which I love to flaunt whenever i can. And that identity comes with an accent. A nice urban Indian English accent with it's own rules for pronouncing a fairly decent sized vocabulary. And most importantly, an accent that I believed could be understood by all.
Not true.
It all began at Starbucks. As I rattled off a rather lengthy order to a cashier one day I found that instead of hurrying the process along, my regular speed of talking had doubled the time it took for him to figure just what the hell it was I wanted.
Evidently I'llgetacafemochatallandastrawberrycoffeecakeplease is as good as me placing my order in Hindi. Lesson 1: Speak sloooooowly.
The problem with speaking slowly then was that it made me lose my entire rhythm. You know, how everyone speaks in a certain rhythm? In any given sentence, you tend to go high on some words, low on others, elongate some, skip lightly over others and pause when you want to create an effect?
Like right now?
Well, with my normal speaking speed being cut by 60%, I'd totally lost my rhythm. I was coming across as ET trying to order a mocha and a strawberry coffee cake. I. Simply. Could. Not. Go. On. Speaking. Like. This.
Losing your rhythm when you're nearly 30 is not an easy blow to deal with it. Fortunately, this impediment only arose when I spoke to Americans. Unfortunately when you live in America you tend to speak to a lot of Americans and therefore the problem would rear its ugly head quite often.
Like a lumberjack without his saw, a musician without her instrument, a sitcom without canned laughter, I felt helpless and handicapped. I simply had no way left of communicating. And thus the unthinkable happened. Without even realising it (at first), I started to speak with an American accent.
It began small. Words like "like" and "mmm-hmmm" entered my vernacular. I found myself using "yeaaah" quite unnecessarily. Then the lilt of the words started to change. Soon a whole new rhythm was born, an ugly bastard of a child that was neither Indian nor American.
It horrifies me and grates on my ears. But for some reason, my brain has no control over my mouth! While I'm perfectly normal when I speak to my own countrymen, place me in front of the other 5/6th of the world and just hear me go!
There's more.
Lately, it's not just the way I speak, even the words are coming out all wrong. My car runs on "gas", I get my food "to-go", I travel in an "elevator" and horrors! I actually asked another Asian how much a "gallon" of milk in her country was.
Everyone's heard of ABCDs - American Born Confused Desis. I wonder - just what do you call an Indian-born super-confused recent-entrant-to-America desi?
I used to scoff at such people. "Bah!" I would say, secure and proud in my natural tongue, "I scoff at such people!"
Today, I'm not scoffing.
In fact, I'm the opposite of scoffing. That is, if the opposite of scoffing is cringing. With embarrassment. And a feeling of "Et Me Brutus?" (Or is it "Me Tu Brutus"? Damn you Google's language tools. You're about as useful as a bail-out plan that gets rejected.)
Anyway! Let's just tackle one language at a time. And that language is English. One that I thought i was fluent in, had spoken and written in long enough for it to be part of my identity. My strong, proud Indian identity which I love to flaunt whenever i can. And that identity comes with an accent. A nice urban Indian English accent with it's own rules for pronouncing a fairly decent sized vocabulary. And most importantly, an accent that I believed could be understood by all.
Not true.
It all began at Starbucks. As I rattled off a rather lengthy order to a cashier one day I found that instead of hurrying the process along, my regular speed of talking had doubled the time it took for him to figure just what the hell it was I wanted.
Evidently I'llgetacafemochatallandastrawberrycoffeecakeplease is as good as me placing my order in Hindi. Lesson 1: Speak sloooooowly.
The problem with speaking slowly then was that it made me lose my entire rhythm. You know, how everyone speaks in a certain rhythm? In any given sentence, you tend to go high on some words, low on others, elongate some, skip lightly over others and pause when you want to create an effect?
Like right now?
Well, with my normal speaking speed being cut by 60%, I'd totally lost my rhythm. I was coming across as ET trying to order a mocha and a strawberry coffee cake. I. Simply. Could. Not. Go. On. Speaking. Like. This.
Losing your rhythm when you're nearly 30 is not an easy blow to deal with it. Fortunately, this impediment only arose when I spoke to Americans. Unfortunately when you live in America you tend to speak to a lot of Americans and therefore the problem would rear its ugly head quite often.
Like a lumberjack without his saw, a musician without her instrument, a sitcom without canned laughter, I felt helpless and handicapped. I simply had no way left of communicating. And thus the unthinkable happened. Without even realising it (at first), I started to speak with an American accent.
It began small. Words like "like" and "mmm-hmmm" entered my vernacular. I found myself using "yeaaah" quite unnecessarily. Then the lilt of the words started to change. Soon a whole new rhythm was born, an ugly bastard of a child that was neither Indian nor American.
It horrifies me and grates on my ears. But for some reason, my brain has no control over my mouth! While I'm perfectly normal when I speak to my own countrymen, place me in front of the other 5/6th of the world and just hear me go!
There's more.
Lately, it's not just the way I speak, even the words are coming out all wrong. My car runs on "gas", I get my food "to-go", I travel in an "elevator" and horrors! I actually asked another Asian how much a "gallon" of milk in her country was.
Everyone's heard of ABCDs - American Born Confused Desis. I wonder - just what do you call an Indian-born super-confused recent-entrant-to-America desi?
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
The First Cut
Getting rejected is never fun. Getting rejected in a foreign land even less so.
Maybe I was just feeling overly confident after getting my visa at the first attempt and being let into the US without a strip search - where I come from, such feats make it to the papers, right below "athlete almost makes it to first round of obscure unknown Olympic sport". Maybe it was that hogwash 'secret' book I'd just read which claims that if you really want something the universe hears you and makes sure you get it. Because that fateful day when I walked into HSBC to open an account, I expected to walk out with a credit card. With a giant spending limit. First of all, what the hell is a person supposed to do here with a credit card and second, any activities I had in mind (read shopping, eating and shopping) absolutely could not be carried out without one. So imagine my dismay when the nice man behind the desk politely told me that I'd been rejected. Reason: no credit history. Err...I just got here 3 days ago, how am I supposed to build up a credit history if you don't give me a credit card?
So after rejecting me and rendering 80% of my list-of-things-to-do-in-America undoable, I was cheerily told to "have a good one!" and escorted right out of the bank. Ironically, the door to the bank was right next to the bus stop and the universe could not have done a better job of putting me in my place.
That was the first one. What followed after was like a rejection sitcom. Every week I would find myself in a not-so-funny situation where someone would turn me down (and secretly giggle about it, I'm sure!)
Gap Shopping Card? Rejected. Reason - no credit history.
State Driving License Test? Not allowed to take. Reason - not enough credit cards or shopping cards, thus not enough points required to take it.
ZipCar Membership? Not eligible. Reason - absence of state driving license.
You see?? You see how crap feeds on itself and gives you more crap to deal with? And do you see how no American movie ever prepares you for rejections of this nature? I mean, the worst thing that ever happened to Carrie was when her shoes got stolen at a party. And at the end of the episode, she even got that lady to buy her a new pair. Sigh. This was not what I signed up for.
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