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.
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