tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24244749719559942832024-02-20T08:29:00.634-08:00Improper ConductParinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.comBlogger102125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-3872486651572317272012-07-12T04:58:00.000-07:002012-07-12T04:58:01.746-07:00(Not) Home Alone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ever since I've moved to the suburbs, I've made every excuse to get as far away as possible from the house as regularly as I can. This was ridiculously easy when I had a job. I'd take any reason to stay out late ranging from using random reasons to stay late at work to catching a 9.30pm screening of Titanic in 3D (GOD that movie is long!). And I don't even <i>like </i>Titanic. However, now that I'm unemployed, my means of physical escapism have somewhat dwindled. It wasn't so bad initially; I made sure I had plans on the other side of town for the entire week after my last day at work. Then I went on a trip to Goa for 10 days (I went by myself and it was awesome but the only thing most people seem to care about is that I didn't click any pictures except 20 of a dog I fell in love with and you just need to get over it because I forgot okay?).<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWVjd6LUT2zKtdVoCBJXCEDHU_2xFzqtYSWmBMAd9EQrS7fkW3-uH6RdlUy2vcMrYbuOdWbUMM8YCVJym5CvO-8DCWMDRSHQAoqORDaN9kS-hor3NNfLJ28XITO7RH2Bq7SPEu_DyXK0/s1600/2012-06-17_17-40-13_140.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWVjd6LUT2zKtdVoCBJXCEDHU_2xFzqtYSWmBMAd9EQrS7fkW3-uH6RdlUy2vcMrYbuOdWbUMM8YCVJym5CvO-8DCWMDRSHQAoqORDaN9kS-hor3NNfLJ28XITO7RH2Bq7SPEu_DyXK0/s320/2012-06-17_17-40-13_140.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's his nose. I tried to get a picture of his face but he thought my phone was a toy and jumped on it. But doesn't he have a cute nose?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
However, in the last three weeks that I've been back, I haven't been so lucky and I've been stuck in the house quite a bit. And now my mom quit her job as well. This is her second week of unemployment and I'm still dealing with not having the house all to myself. Having been a latchkey kid my entire life, my system has been thrown a little off by the presence of another human being in the house for an extended period of time. (As a kid, I could never understand what the big deal was when friends would extol the virtues of having the house all to themselves for a few hours or *gasp* for the entire night. Why would anyone <i>want </i>to stay alone at night anyway? It's dark, full of spooky noises and potential murderers/ghosts lurking just behind the door and you can't even go to sleep unless you've emotionally blackmailed a friend into talking to you until you fall asleep).<br />
<br />
<br />
Anyway the point is, I have to remember I'm not alone anymore which means there are certain things I'm not allowed to do; things which I may or may not have accidentally already done/said in mom's presence causing her to question my already flailing sanity.<br />
<br />
<b>I can</b><br />
Paint my nails red and sneak admiring glances at them (not more than thrice a day).<br />
<br />
<b>I can't</b><br />
Decide that red nails grant me evil overlord status and randomly practise my evil laughter.<br />
<br />
<b>I can</b><br />
Think back to a conversation I had a day (or a week) ago and come up with the perfect comeback. <br />
<br />
<b>I can't</b><br />
Dramatically reenact the conversation out loud with the comeback in tow and then loudly blame the universe for not making me witty when I need to be. <br />
<br />
<b>I can </b><br />
Hum a tune. Quietly. <br />
<br />
<b>I can't </b><br />
Burst into song at random/inappropriate moments including but not limited to when I'm reading a book, when I'm watching television, when I'm in front of the computer, at 8 in the morning when I'm supposed to be asleep, at 3 in the morning when everyone else is supposed to be asleep or when a particularly emotional/intense scene is being played out in mom's favourite soap opera. <br />
<br />
<b>I also can't </b><br />
Burst into dance in similar situations. <br />
<br />
<b>I can </b><br />
Spend the entire day reading a book.<br />
<br />
<b>I can't </b><br />
Start talking to the characters, provide them with sincere advice, emphatically belittle their questionable choices or yell "You're such a psycho!" at them more than three times in the span of an hour. <br />
<br />
<b>I can </b><br />
Stay in bed till noon.<br />
<br />
<b>I can't </b><br />
Accidentally stretch the wrong way and fall out of bed with a resounding thud, quickly scramble up and pretend I did that on purpose. <br />
<br />
So, have I mentioned I really, <i>really </i>need a job to maintain a semblance of mental stability? Because I'm pretty sure mom is this close to seeking psychological intervention. <br />
</div>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-38348062652788626562011-12-24T11:35:00.000-08:002011-12-24T11:36:36.681-08:00But they *do* say the darndest things!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At my old job, we conducted sessions where we'd go to a few schools, show the classes a few films and then talk to the kids. I still remember the first session I took at Navy Children School in Colaba. There I was, a clueless just-out-of-college-girl with an intense fear of public speaking (even when most of the public was one-third my height) paired with another almost equally clueless girl who wasn't very sure she even liked children.<br />
<br />
But I've come a long way since then. Okay six months. Shut up. But I <i>have </i>learned a few things.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<u>Things the sessions taught me: </u><br />
<br />
1) During the first couple of sessions you conduct when you are completely at sea about what to expect with a partner who's sharing your boat, a kid will fall and scrape his knee, a girl will throw up and a boy will poop his pants.<br />
<br />
2) Once Santa Claus interrupts your class, the kids go wild. Unless the games mistress has a whistle.<br />
<br />
3) If you can whistle using two fingers, you're officially cool. If you can't whistle, tell them you love dancing but never in public. Apparently that makes you cool too.<br />
<br />
4) Children cannot walk into a room that has a projector facing a screen without breaking out into a shadow puppet show.<br />
<br />
5) A ninth grade boy will call you Aunty just to mess with your head.<br />
<br />
6) Never shake a kid's hand or sign his notebook howmuchever he begs and pleads. His friends <i>will</i> notice and you <i>will</i> be mobbed and end up being stuck in the room for twenty minutes.<br />
<br />
7) If you ask first graders why people need the sun, one boy will excitedly raise his hand to answer, jump up and down yelling "Me! Me!" and when picked on will go on to tell everybody how his grandfather died in an accident where a car set his car on fire.<br />
<br />
8) When an Australian asks third graders to guess where she's from based on her accent and a boy very sincerely and very innocently asks "Are you lesbian?", it's impossible to stop laughing hysterically without thinking of dead puppies.<br />
<br />
God, I'm going to miss those kids. </div>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-83154252835357878572011-12-23T00:30:00.000-08:002011-12-22T10:55:54.506-08:00Title? What title?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
So I just found this post from way back when (okay, August) which I meticulously wrote but then forgot to publish because I probably got distracted just as I was about to update. I have the attention span of a goldfish.<br />
<br />
Struggling to open a BEST bus window counts as my daily dose of exercise okay? By the way, why does nobody offer to help? Do they not see how difficult it is? I did it all by myself today and sat there feeling all smug. For about five minutes after which it started to rain. But I had opened that window and dammit it would remain open! So what if the right side of my body was getting soaked? It was the drench of victory! Victory of man over machine. Okay woman over glass and steel or iron or aluminum or whatever that window was made of but still.<br />
<br />
Is ignoring work to blog acceptable? What about reaching work late because you couldn't leave home without finishing your book?<br />
<br />
Memories of my graduation ceremony make me wish I had a <a href="http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Pensieve">Pensieve</a>. Ultra sleepiness makes me want to have a water balloon fight. Does sleepblogging count as drunkblogging? It should. I get pretty sleepdrunk.<br />
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I watched Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - Part 2 and it was really terrible. But I still sobbed through most of it anyway.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Wearing a convocation robe made me feel like someone straight out of Hogwarts. I strutted across college like Snape and very seriously considered stealing my robe. <br />
<br />
My mom knows someone who refuses to carry an umbrella even when it's pouring. He thinks that if cows and dogs and chickens don't need umbrellas to survive the monsoons, neither does he. Why do I not know such interesting people? Mom gets to sit at work and smile at John Abraham while I get to stay back late at work and miss ogling Abhay Deol and Farhan Akhtar.</div>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-44205969500737442642011-12-20T03:35:00.000-08:002011-12-20T04:38:02.571-08:00The City Of Dreams?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today, The Times of India had this splashed across the second page.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Excuse Me, Where's My Mumbai? </b></i><br />
<i>This city means many things to many people.</i><br />
<i>City of dreams, financial nerve centre, city that never sleeps, entertainment capital cradle of cricket and much more.</i><br />
<i>All apt descriptions for sure. But not enough to hide the one question that everyone wants answered but few dare ask.</i><br />
<i>What about </i><i><u>us</u>?</i><br />
<i>We, the citizens, who live, work, sweat and struggle to give the city its many colourful descriptions? We, with our desperate instinct for survival that's conveniently airbrushed as the "spirit" of the city.</i><br />
<i>What about a Mumbai where I can simply walk down a street without stepping into something I shouldn't. Or take a long deep breath without being petrified about waking up sick the next morning. Where I can race my kid to the nearest tree. Or commute to work without spending half my working life in traffic. And the other half paying through my nose for a roof above my head.</i><br />
<i>The truth about Mumbai is also its greatest lie. It's a city that can give us all that we work for but is hard pressed to give us all that we live for.</i><br />
<i>So there's a Mumbai for business and a Mumbai for careers. There's a Mumbai for entertainment and a Mumbai for investment. There's even a Mumbai for stray dogs and a Mumbai for party animals.</i><br />
<i>But is there really a Mumbai for me?</i><br />
<br />
I thought it was just me. Just me who's slowly becoming disenchanted by this city I once loved. I used to think this city,<i> my</i> city, was perfect. Now I'm becoming nostalgic for a life I've never lived; for trees instead of concrete, for a home instead of a house, for walks instead of runs, for the quality of life instead of the mundanity of existence.<br />
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<br />
There is a place where the sidewalk ends<br />
And before the street begins,<br />
And there the grass grows soft and white,<br />
And there the sun burns crimson bright,<br />
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight<br />
To cool in the peppermint wind.<br />
<br />
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black<br />
And the dark street winds and bends.<br />
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow<br />
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,<br />
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go<br />
To the place where the sidewalk ends.<br />
<br />
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,<br />
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,<br />
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know<br />
The place where the sidewalk ends.<br />
<div style="text-align: right;">
-Shel Silverstein</div>
</div>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-81011279320446316682011-12-13T08:06:00.000-08:002011-12-13T08:06:09.142-08:00The fact that I'm hungry has nothing to do with this post.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>I'm a hungry, hungry hippo.</i></div>
<br />
I think travelling by first class for two months spoiled me. I was mildly terrified of the ladies compartment today. Did you know that if you have to get down at Kandivali station, you have to shovepushscratch your way to the door two stations in advance? And then hordes of women invade your personal space and touch you inappropriately? How do people live like this?!<br />
<br />
There was a lady clutching the doorway who almost fell off and had to be pulled in by three women. But does she heave a dramatic sigh of relief at her narrow escape and scramble inside the train like a normal person? No, she decides that carrying on hanging from the doorway and laughing like a banshee is a better way to celebrate. <br />
<br />
I thought the universe was trying to make me feel better by getting me a rickshaw the moment I stepped out of the station. Then my rickshaw ride turned out to be a religious experience. I don't know what kind of murder-suicide pact my driver had in his head but the only thing I had in mine was "Please don't let me die, please don't let me die, ple - OH MY GOD THAT TRUCK ALMOST CRUSHED MY KNEE - please don't let me die." I swear my hands were shaking as I handed him his fare. <br />
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And to top it off, as I was clutching the rod in sheer terror and seriously considering cutting my losses and just jumping out of the vehicle, a man old enough to be my father whistled at me. I officially give up on the suburbs. </div>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-82069021214794021762011-11-07T23:33:00.000-08:002011-11-08T04:05:22.987-08:00Do Suburbs Cause Loss Of Sanity Or Does Loss Of Sanity Cause Suburbs?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm back after a life and a half and Blogger is upto shenanigans. What is with all these fancyschmancy changes? I preferred the old Blogger with its messy clutter. Now it looks too neat and clean looking. I distrust this sort of tidiness. Which is another reason my house always looks like The Wicked Witch of the West decided to cycle through it with a twister in tow.<br />
<br />
Speaking of upside-down houses, that's what mine is right now. I moved to the very distant Western Suburbs about a month ago and my house is still full of boxes! The blame for my lack of posts can be shared by my laziness (no it doesn't want to say hello, it's taking a nap) and the fact that I had no internet for a month and a half.<br />
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To make myself feel better about living an hour and a half away from my old life, I've become scarily obsessed with decorating my house. No, seriously, I get dreams about it. And then they turn into random nightmares where a clock turns into an Excel sheet and tries to strangle me.<br />
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I'm telling you, the suburbs are turning me into a nutjob. As if there weren't enough here to begin with. A couple of weeks ago, I went to a Jain mall. I spent about fifteen minutes stomping around the food court looking for meat and finally discovered that there were only two counters serving chicken; one of which was called The Non-Veg Kitchen which I decided to skip because it looked like it served dodgy pigeon meat instead. Succumbing to the inevitable conclusion of a vegetarian meal, I eureka-ed when I spotted an Italian counter. That feeling quickly went away when I saw that their idea of Italian didn't include either pasta or pizza but just papad with tomatoes and onions. I am never stepping foot in that mall again.<br />
<br />
The journey from my house to the nearest station takes a good twenty minutes. On the way, there is a joint called Fooodiiees with exactly that number of vowels.<br />
<br />
Once, as I was looking outside the window of my bus, some random guy yelled "Wassup!?" at me.<br />
<br />
To fix my chocolate craving, I went to the store near my house to ask if they had <a href="http://fc08.deviantart.net/fs20/f/2007/309/6/d/6d052e11b8a5a353.jpg" target="_blank">Nutella</a>. The attendant nodded enthusiastically and gave me a box of <a href="http://www.imliwala.com/images/nutrela-1b.jpg" target="_blank">Nutrella</a>, which I'm pretty sure is just some pseudo soy crap pretending to be edible. When I slowly told him I wanted the chocolate spread you apply on bread, he looked at me like I was the crazy person. I was this close to giving up on this place. But last week, I found restaurants that deliver chicken (thank you <a href="http://mumbai.burrp.com/" target="_blank">burrp</a>!) and life is good again. <br />
<br />
Do you have any ideas for decorating my new house? Please tell me or I will never think the house looks perfect and I will keep looking up more ideas which will probably lead to recurrent murder-by-home-decor nightmares which will definitely lead to me being declared clinically insane.<br />
<br />
Oh also, if you know anywhere I could get cool art prints or you make some yourself, please let me know because I've become obsessed with them. <a href="http://www.etsy.com/category/art/print" target="_blank">Etsy </a>has great ones but I might have to sell a body part to get a few shipped here.<br />
<br />
Another last also, I need to find a large wooden bookshelf. My books are currently lying in boxes and I keep buying more to dull the pain of their homelessness. My old books took up four cartons. <i>Four</i>. After the moving guys tried to convince me to leave some behind and were met with my horror-stricken expression, I think they might have sneakily tried to throw some off my balcony. </div>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-75754002065404503922011-07-05T11:53:00.000-07:002011-07-07T09:47:33.170-07:00But the Weasley home had garden gnomesThis house hunting business is sucking the soul right out of me. And cleaning the house to reduce the number of things we have to pack is even more frustrating! I get so emotionally attached to random inanimate objects that the pile of crap just keeps getting bigger. This mental instability is definitely genetic. My mom once mourned for an entire day and spent the rest of the week harassing me over a very old stapler I'd taken to college and forgotten to get back.<br /><br />I don't understand why none of my friends are getting married. Everybody else knows about-to-be-married people. What is wrong with my friends that they harbour absolutely no marital aspirations? Do I have to make shaadi.com profiles for them myself?<br /><br />I don't think arranged marriages were made for me. First of all I have to be able to tolerate the person enough to not throw a chair at his head. Second, he has to lovingly accept my mental patient status. Also, I've decided I want to marry a Banerjee. What are the chances of getting this three-in-one offer?<br /><br />Why are people who think social rules are stupid largely called weird? Who makes these rules? Why can't someone go watch a movie alone? Or refuse to carry a cellphone? Why can't grown ups call in bored to work instead of sick and spend the day making blanket forts? Wearing too little makes people go haw; wearing too much makes people go huh. You want to be a writer but you end up making presentations. You should be teaching kids to read and fly kites and instead you're trying to sell fairness creams (and your soul). People should be happy but people want bighuge houses with funparty lives. What to do?<br /><br />Whenever I start thinking serious thoughts, I look at <a href="http://www.thedoghousediaries.com/?p=278">pictures of donuts</a> (well, almost), think about bubble wrap being sold at Landmark (56 bucks for a roll!) and wonder <a href="http://www.thepictureofeverything.com/">what everything in existence would look like if it was all in one place</a>. I also think about the three ducks I met and named in Kerala. I wonder how Pondi, Cherry and Vishakapatnam are doing.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ2vMn_Sfg_TjO3nW7fkYBU97PzP5LRbE-er7qMUKiMV1khCb-Asc7LnojO28z8rF3l9ingeenqPFzK6Smi1dX8Km4IVyLRshsnebJe8Ehif6OuZEFwgM86zVPAgELSafhAnncfm_A8PA/s1600/ducks.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ2vMn_Sfg_TjO3nW7fkYBU97PzP5LRbE-er7qMUKiMV1khCb-Asc7LnojO28z8rF3l9ingeenqPFzK6Smi1dX8Km4IVyLRshsnebJe8Ehif6OuZEFwgM86zVPAgELSafhAnncfm_A8PA/s320/ducks.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5626652623801155538" border="0" /></a>I shall call him Squishy and he shall be mine and he shall be my Squishy.<br /></div><br /><center><center><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/yUWb84ER4O0" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="425"></iframe></center><div style="text-align: left;">If you've already watched the video because I forced you to, you can just watch it again because it's worth it okay? Okay.</div></center>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-59543842664798327212011-06-24T05:23:00.000-07:002011-06-25T06:53:21.090-07:00Pacman is the spawn of Satan. Yeah I said it.I got off the bus this morning and the first thing I wanted to do was drop to my knees and kiss the ground for making it out in one piece. People responsible for public transportation should <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> be allowed to relive their failed childhood dreams of becoming F1 drivers.<br /><br />I wish they taught us to play Pacman at school. I could really have used the practice. I played all day and I still suck at it. My coworker preferred Angry Birds on her laptop. Would it be unethical if I downloaded Chrome just to play Angry Birds at work?<br /><br />My Hindi was insulted by a woman at work yesterday who suggested I should switch back to speaking in English since I spoke so slowly in Hindi. I've been pretty proud of my Hindi in recent times so that was a complete slap in the face.<br /><br />I am such an office klutz. There are these long dangly things on the doorway near the boss's cabin. They look eclectic and pretty and all but every time I walk through that doorway, I get my hair entangled in them. <span style="font-style: italic;">Every single time</span>. And then I have to struggle to disentangle myself trying not to look like a complete idiot all the while hoping my boss or her son don't notice.<br /><br />And today after I had a serious grown up office talk with my boss's son, I walked into the door on my way out of the room.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD2zoq9oaDO2CHNUK738jmC9Dp54EpZJsBtNPwCLBu94fqL3pSrNutH2HxRcBPOPYL7s3MEgmLQcbFbJgWVsv_eRVWckc0jhBRXDcUlp-aT-Y3EJnw_EW0IG-SDKKZ-Bt2cmP4_-Ch4q0/s1600/clumsy+bag.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD2zoq9oaDO2CHNUK738jmC9Dp54EpZJsBtNPwCLBu94fqL3pSrNutH2HxRcBPOPYL7s3MEgmLQcbFbJgWVsv_eRVWckc0jhBRXDcUlp-aT-Y3EJnw_EW0IG-SDKKZ-Bt2cmP4_-Ch4q0/s320/clumsy+bag.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622154980617916930" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(102, 51, 102);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">I need to carry this bag as a warning to everybody around me.</span><br /></span></div><br />And you need to listen to this song. (Courtesy <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0460627/">Bones</a>)<br /><br /><center><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/zb0x4_2xocY" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe><br /></center><br />You're welcome.Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-56691327993095473872011-06-19T04:40:00.000-07:002011-06-20T06:41:39.585-07:00Really? REALLY? Really.Oh look. I'm just going to blog twice in one day 'cause<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWbztTea3Zx7OdYJCVxqdXyK4ZSeZe39hH3_ni8KuXBnZAVG2CB16jylQGQ6pBC0MtHj8oNSaVv3petixGXmddMSso2vHz4I26LWAXhInq88gEptB4oeubvkx2SgxtYj-DtFX4_JV93PI/s1600/roll.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 302px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWbztTea3Zx7OdYJCVxqdXyK4ZSeZe39hH3_ni8KuXBnZAVG2CB16jylQGQ6pBC0MtHj8oNSaVv3petixGXmddMSso2vHz4I26LWAXhInq88gEptB4oeubvkx2SgxtYj-DtFX4_JV93PI/s320/roll.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619924601906322466" border="0" /></a><br />Okay so I'm a sucker for <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVKVoVubD7s">tacky songs</a> (I'm South Indian but I don't know what they're saying okay?), <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PYmpVwrmKT8">terrible (you say terrible, I say hilarious) movies</a> and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4bfRF2mQ7EY">cheesy reality shows</a> (even I stopped watching that one two years ago).<br /><br />Judging by the very first episode of Just Dance I watched last night, I'll have to add another reality show to my must-watch list. I love watching dance shows (I'm an award show junkie just because they have so many people dancing *hides face*) and I also love Farah Khan (she's my imaginary best friend). Put those two together and you <span style="font-style: italic;">know </span>I'm going to be glued to the TV every weekend.<br /><br />That show made me laugh so hard that I'd have choked on Pepsi had I been consuming any.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Star moment of the show no. 1</span> (See? I'm plugging the channel also. They should just give me a job there. Preferably as Farah Khan's gal pal)<br />A nineteen year old guy with a medium-sized tummy came onstage with a (in Farah's words) <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbqSylcqJg0H7TgAPCpO8Jft-IEs0zr7wUlUJFZmUJcJ-1hfMFoqlHN2SlPBbq1-LFMLLtp1Ct78orH6ZIdgdQ37fmqKBWp8SMsH_InWfiGdsXP19XMGXZMchOgkU0lO6KwC0CcYtRU04/s1600/wonder-woman.jpg">Wonder Woman star on his forehead</a> and started belly dancing. YES. What was truly scary was that he actually could shake what his momma gave him. Just a little bit.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Star moment of the show no. 2</span><br />A person who looked very much like an engineering student (how many of you have I offended?) came onstage and touched all four feet of the two Hritik Roshan cutouts that were behind him. He then talked about how much he looked forward to unleashing his inner crazy while dancing and went on to do exactly that.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Star moment of the show no. 3</span><br />A guy walked in, said "I love you so much ma'm" to a horrified Farah, gave her a melted Dairy Milk bar ("Oh it melted! You're so hot, the chocolate melted.") and when asked his name said "Ashish. <span style="font-style: italic;">Naam toh suna hi hoga</span>." Her reaction? "Why do my fans have to be the crazy ones?"<br /><br />What I don't like about this show is the ludicrous amount of fakeness they expect us to digest and the elevated sense of superstardom they've thrust on Hritik Roshan. Getting to meet him is supposedly the specialest of special moments in every single person's life. If the contestants qualify, they get a bracelet with the initials HR - which made me roll my eyes three separate times. And they refer to him being godlike on multiple occasions. God of dance this, god of dance that - oh SHUT UP.<br /><br />What I like is watching fellow rhythmically challenged people on this show. Hey at least I don't showoff my lack of dancing skills on national television.Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-37439157406093968572011-06-17T04:21:00.000-07:002011-06-19T06:02:46.506-07:00This post is bananas B-A-N-A-N-A-SMe and my workmate had a gigantic pile of work which made me just want to mentally slap everybody across their faces. But instead I chose to laugh hysterically at honking cars, squawking parrots and my grumpy co-worker. She very seriously thought that the stress had broken my brain (I was kind of afraid of that myself) and very helpfully called me a freak.<br /><br />And then right in the middle of this very important thing that we had been working on for a very long time which seemed to be magically multiplying because it didn't seem to be getting over <span style="font-style: italic;">at</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> and was slowly but surely driving us both bananas (<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIoYcF809Dw">B-A-N-A-N-A-S</a>), this happens<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnz0S2pvmZDAeBMOB7vvKTfD4s4oRCGEqmNyOTQ8rtE8WFIm7FFunh1LxY0loFgJrFeT_k_4_MrDFCW5ipPnrZMFvlQ4P603vddJVqM0DU1amC2ar6anPOCqhhfxE4T66mAtosKgYJ-ok/s1600/cartoon.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 144px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnz0S2pvmZDAeBMOB7vvKTfD4s4oRCGEqmNyOTQ8rtE8WFIm7FFunh1LxY0loFgJrFeT_k_4_MrDFCW5ipPnrZMFvlQ4P603vddJVqM0DU1amC2ar6anPOCqhhfxE4T66mAtosKgYJ-ok/s320/cartoon.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5619881467527455154" border="0" /></a><br />Where is the K3G love I ask you? Do you know how unbelievably hilarious Shah Rukh and Kajol were in that movie? It would have been an instant stress buster! But no, I'm a strange person.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span>It's okay though because she gives me chocolate and thinks I'm thin.<br /><br />In Harry Potter related news, you have to watch this or your life will remain meaningless (much as mine has become since I found out they've cancelled Sub of the Day at Subway and now charge for the cheese).<br /><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Wzaqf313SxM" allowfullscreen="" width="560" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe><br /><br />Has your mind been sufficiently blown?Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-82755439357517600892011-06-15T03:42:00.000-07:002011-06-16T11:16:11.850-07:00"Life is filled with ups and downs but most of the time I'm going sideways."I don't understand why there aren't more ghosts in the world. When I die I very seriously plan on haunting everybody I know. Also people I don't know. And Abhishek Bachchan.<br /><br />No, really. I could come back from the dead and help fight crime. I could be some sort of supernatural superhero. Or I could work with a hot cop partner. I would totally watch that show.<br /><br />I've decided I'm just going to like every single person who has big feet. Do you realize how emotionally traumatizing it is to shop for shoes that size? I had to have my mine ordered. <span style="font-style: italic;">Specially ordered</span>!<br /><br />I think buses defy all kinds of logic by being early when I'm late and then refusing to turn up for an hour when I'm early. But they've been behaving themselves lately so I'm not going to boycott them.<br /><br />You know we should just give up buses altogether. Just hire jet planes. I used to make ones made of paper at my previous workplace. We used to toss them across our desks. One of them accidentally hit my boss. She just asked us to aim better and spent the better part of the morning ducking.<br /><br />Using shall in a sentence makes me feel fancy. I shall now eat croissants and drink tea. I like coffee but it isn't as fancy as tea. Only the masses drink coffee. The classes drink tea. I want to end this with a rhyme but I won't. (We shall see.)<br /><br />I make up random nonsensical poetry in the bus because I have nothing to do. But then I forget them all by the time I get home. (Boo.)<br /><br />Why is it smartypants and not smartyhat? The head is where the smart is no? (Drat!)<br /><br />I don't know how to get out of this loop de loop I've created. (A monster! A monster!) [I don't know why I said that] {How many brackets can I get away with?} <does this="" count="" as="" a="">/Does this count as a bracket?\<br /><br />So I'm just going to end with this.<br /><center><br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/P-HD8JKPed0" allowfullscreen="" width="425" frameborder="0" height="349"></iframe><br /></center><br />I used to love this show!<br /></does>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-30922995916241398132011-06-09T10:57:00.000-07:002011-06-09T11:41:28.919-07:00"Parents should come with instructions."You know those friends who don't talk for ages and then meet randomly and feel like they've never been apart? That's the kind of relationship my blog and me share. So even if the last time I talked to it (I don't know whether my blog is a girl or a boy. What do you think?) was last Christmas, I'm still its friend. But not that kind of friend it could call at 11 p.m. because I would be sleeping. Why is going to sleep early socially frowned upon? I like sleeping early. People who don't get enough sleep are always grumpy.<br /><br />I'm done with college. Convocation's in a couple of months. I have a full time job. I almost feel like a grown-up. But then I pop <a href="http://www.boxofchocolates.nl/flashtrash/stayhappy.swf">virtual balloons</a> and sing <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJ9rUzIMcZQ">Bohemian Rhapsody</a> with my workmates and that scary feeling goes away. This one girl at work can sing the lyrics to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6v9at5RlFu4">Baby Got Back</a> at warp speed. I seriously think she has superpowers.<br /><br />I'm also thinking about starting a book review blog. Then I can ignore two blogs instead of one. I went to Landmark to get my friend earphones for his birthday and ended up buying two books instead. I'm a bad friend but I'm a pretty good bookworm.<br /><br />I've also been reading <a href="http://testimonialcomic.com/wp/?showcomic=536">comics</a> (people really are cool no?), <a href="http://localparty.tumblr.com/">tumblrs</a> (the name makes me want to have a tea party and speak in a British accent) and watching videos about <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPxXH7rCSHQ">schools being built from plastic bottles</a>. I feel guilty about the extra long vacation from my blog so I'm dumping a whole bunch of cool links to make you happy. Okay?<br /><br />They're not very hard to find, these nice people. They're all around you. Today's nice-people-around-me edition brings to you the two people who started following my blog even though the last post was so many months old and ended up making me feel like I <span style="font-style: italic;">had </span>to write a new post. Thank you nice people because I didn't realize how much I missed my blog.<br /><br />Thanks to work, I've been reading these adorable little quotes by kids on random topics. I'm just going to make their quotes my post titles from now on.<br /><br />My mom doesn't believe in pressure cookers. My mental problems are hereditary, I'm telling you.<br /><br />And before I go, will somebody please explain the point of LinkedIn? I don't understand it only.<br /><br />It's 12.10 a.m. and I'm still up. Do you feel special now Mister (Miss?) Blog?Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-44196397924280675712010-12-25T12:02:00.000-08:002010-12-26T06:27:12.545-08:00Powerpuff. Paapaf. Elphinstone. Elfistone. Can. Tin.<a href="http://for-the-wine.blogspot.com/">He</a> got me a Bart Simpson bag with a Happy Meal toy inside it. My grin is bigger and huger. He is awesomer. Go read his blog now. <span style="font-style: italic;">Now.</span> Happy DayAfterChristmas!<br /><br />Want to be featured on my blog? Buy me things. A balloon will also do. Bonus points if it features Spongebob. Send me an email at fireflyer08@gmail.com and I will send you my address. Not if you look creepy and stalkery but.<br /><br />Also, don't make fun of my email id. I made it when I was <strike><span style="font-size:100%;">slightly mentally unstable</strike> even more unstable than I currently am</span>. But now I'm very emotionally attached to it and can't let it go. So yeah. Bye!Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-60626423359598617052010-12-25T00:20:00.000-08:002010-12-25T12:05:48.605-08:00Mamma Mia is our name at XYZI've decided I want to read all the books Paro Anand has ever written (oh get over it, I read bachcha books). My friend got me <a href="http://www.flipkart.com/mom-me-paro-anand-subhadra-book-9350092279">this one</a> and it arrived today. So I have a bighuge grin on my face now. I also just realized that only one of the stories is by Paro Anand but the grin is still there. And I'm going to pimp his blog for free. So go read his blog! <a href="http://www.therealmadridfan.com/">This one</a>. It's <span style="font-style: italic;">awesome</span>. Okay I don't know because it's about football and I care <a href="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3207/2780446429_734a07dca1.jpg">this much</a> about football but he bought me a book so it must be awesome. If you want me to pimp your blog, buy me things.<br /><br />This book is called Mom and Me and talks about quirky mothers and how can I mention slightly unstable mothers without <a href="http://improper-conduct.blogspot.com/2009/07/certifiable-mothers.html">talking about mine</a>? The disturbing thing is that I'm starting to get the feeling that I might actually be turning into her. For one thing, I tend to lie wheneverhowever it's convenient for me/makes my life easier/prevents me from breaking out of my bubble of laziness. It's definitely hereditary. Mom frequently lies through her teeth not just to colleagues and friends but also to her only darling daughter. She once let me eat pakodas<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>made of leaves after specifically leading me to believe it was brinjal. Leaves. <span style="font-style: italic;">Leaves!</span><br /><br />Then there is my extremely low threshold of pain. I run for pain meds at the slightest headache and scream bloody murder when my tooth throbs even the slightest bit unnaturally. This I also blame on my mother. Her level of tolerance for pain was clearly demonstrated when I went to get my ears pierced. I held her hand looking for moral support in those difficult minutes full of emotional and physical trauma. And what does she do? Flings my hand aside like it's infected and holds her hands behind her back. "What if you squeeze my hand too hard when that man drills a hole through your ear?"<br /><br />I had a dream once where my mom was trying to incapacitate me by pushing me out of our fourth floor window. When that didn't work, she tried to set me on fire. I wonder if my subconscious is trying to tell me something.Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-52391066437958885762010-11-05T21:42:00.000-07:002010-11-06T10:32:09.541-07:00Cows go moo but crackers go BOOM!It's Diwali. Instead of gorging on <span style="font-style: italic;">mithai</span>, I'm online at 10 in the morning stalking random people's Facebook profiles.<br /><br />One person's profile said she was 19 years old. I felt sort of connected to her because woh bhi 19, main bhi 19. Then I realized I wasn't 19 anymore. I'm 20. Bubble bursting happened. But it's okay. I can make loads more bubbles. Because I bought 3 cans of bubble making solution from chowpatty. [<span style="font-weight: bold;">Edit:</span> A certain someone thought this was a joke fail. It wasn't supposed to be funny Mister Tanuj Lakhina. I just typed the first thing that came into my head!] [Also, FOOL!]<br /><br />It's Diwali and I'm dressed up traditionally waiting for mom to dress up untraditionally so we can go visit relatives. The last time I wore a salwar kameez was a year ago so I'm feeling fancy.<br /><br />But mom is looking at me like she's painting a picture of my marriage. So I'm not going to be wearing this too often.<br /><br />There is Facebook drama going on in my home page. But nobody is online. Who to discuss with?<br /><br />I can't build sandcastles. I can build sand mounds and then stick a stick at the top. Then use the mound to bury a friend's foot. But I can't build castles.<br /><br />My cousin (who is older than me by a whole 3 years BTW) just called me aunty because he thought I was my mom. At least it was over the phone so I'm not too offended. But he gets less <span style="font-style: italic;">mithai </span>than his brother.<br /><br />Happy Diwali!Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-4280385982045973052010-10-04T06:05:00.000-07:002010-10-04T06:37:55.843-07:00Those retards I call friends: The Juniors EditionEx Facebook wife, current Facebook daughter, godmother of future children (because she's named them all), this blog post features my fabulous junior Anandita Rao!<br /><br />She makes lameness cool. She comes up with toocoolforschool words [Me: I'm off! Her: Bata! (Bye+Tata)] and she makes up cooler-than-ice-cubes handshakes which make other people jealous. She's just too awesome for her boots, but she doesn't wear any so it's okay. (See even writing about her makes me as lo(o)l as her. That's the lame+cool word combo, like the ones you get at McDonald's. Also, stop thinking dirty thoughts).<br /><br />We met way back when at Polaris (Blitz Krieg is cooler) last year. I was freaking out over <a href="http://ic1.maxabout.info/people/R/2010/6/raj-singh-arora.jpg">Raj Singh Arora</a> being there (yes) and she wasn't judging me so of course pre-friendship happened. Then we re-met at our college trip in Rajasthan where we bonded over my compulsive need of stealing milk powder packets. I shared some of my loot with her and the friendship was cemented.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhydWW616hjOucnypQ9P_y9OKiXk7dGPNeh-80WnIbCyfh41x4MTs8sTomwmBbnSQSlbMI-c4N5tbjYhzkbGViUX_Ii7Kua13lQbSDNbuWmhS4qLbDS8Ozfo_wqqrQxqFZ186zfoRiunA/s1600/milk+powder.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhydWW616hjOucnypQ9P_y9OKiXk7dGPNeh-80WnIbCyfh41x4MTs8sTomwmBbnSQSlbMI-c4N5tbjYhzkbGViUX_Ii7Kua13lQbSDNbuWmhS4qLbDS8Ozfo_wqqrQxqFZ186zfoRiunA/s320/milk+powder.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524181799154262818" border="0" /></a></span></span></span><br />Milk Powder: Bringing people closer since 2009</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">She is so awesome that I am officially adding her to my list of people I'd date if I were gay. The list includes a professor, Konkona Sen Sharma (who got married! Whenwherehow?) and a friend who once told me she wished I were a guy so she could make me her boyfriend. Best compliment ever? I think so.<br /><br />Also, I made up a song for her. Okay so I wrote it last November but whatever.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_j936ZCVqSiziGnfd5bG192Qbn7BnCl76yufN67RengUjnZ6nI0Hsd2CQFFyWqZ0Z81lRq9MDXFgkkEE2D1SOrrXKnzEIfpvajYW2aeOUEi2BJ0Z03Nc90khsTOqAxTrphCx_dOQxXpE/s1600/anandu.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_j936ZCVqSiziGnfd5bG192Qbn7BnCl76yufN67RengUjnZ6nI0Hsd2CQFFyWqZ0Z81lRq9MDXFgkkEE2D1SOrrXKnzEIfpvajYW2aeOUEi2BJ0Z03Nc90khsTOqAxTrphCx_dOQxXpE/s320/anandu.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524184486547606482" border="0" /></a></span></span></span></span><br />[Must be sung to the tune of the Spiderman theme song]<br /><br />Andy-Poo Andy-Poo<br />Doesn't like being called Anandu<br />Corrupts my puppets, bangs their heads,<br />Why can't she corrupt hers instead?<br />Look out!<br />Here comes Andy-Poo.<br /><br />Lives in Vashi<br />Thinks it's cool<br />Defends it like a Vashi fool<br />Prefers Ad over the rest<br />Is in denial about Journo being the best<br />Hey there<br />There goes Andy-Poo.<br /><br />Her awesomeness inspires me *wipes tear*<br /><br />P.S. <span style="font-style: italic;">Now </span>do I get a Blitz tee for free?<br /></div><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></div>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-47130503173601275302010-09-09T08:40:00.000-07:002010-09-09T09:06:15.505-07:00Dear World<span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear short-people-on-the-street,</span><br /><br />Why are you so short? I'm sorry but it is really <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>annoying. Your shortness I mean. Not you personally. Your umbrellas tend to poke me. A lot. And sometimes really inappropriately. So please grow up (literally). Or at least hold your umbrellas up higher. Better yet, use raincoats. They're really fashionable these days. At least <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> see a lot of aunties wearing them so I'm sure you won't be ostracized or anything. Thanks.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear monthly-time-of-doom,</span><br /><br />You suck. No, really. I hope you know how much I hate you. That will be all.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear aunties-in-the-train,</span><br /><br />You get deodorants for Rs. 100 now. That's right, they're <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>cheap. That's like buying 10 packets of Lays. Or 5 bars of Crackle. Or 2 large bottles of Pepsi with money left over. Or one really cheap deo. Not that I'm implying you smell. Not all of you anyway.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear peacock feathers,<br /></span><br />Is it true that a feather a day keeps lizards away? You creep the hell out of me but if you have the same effect on lizards too, I'm totally ready to decorate my house with you. Even if I do secretly believe that I was pecked to death by a peacock in my previous birth.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear How I Met Your Mother,<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span>You, sir, are awesome. I didn't appreciate your awesomeness enough. But the episode where you left me teary-eyed totally opened my eyes. (Did you see that episode? With the whole blizzard thing and "We should own a bar"? And Lily and Marshall's six-pack-of-beer thing? How freaking adorable are they?! The marching band at the airport totally had me reaching out for tissues. Stop judging me.)<br /><br />In other news, I've made a pact with a friend that if we're both single at 40, we're going to marry each other. And if he's married and I'm not, he's obviously going to have to divorce his wife and abandon his kids. The pact is sacred.<br /><br />P.S. I'm totally saying totally a whole lot these days.Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-44950202382951194242010-08-20T07:05:00.000-07:002010-08-20T07:12:17.950-07:00If you're happy and you know it =DHumour is a rubber sword - it allows you to make a point without drawing blood.<br /><div style="text-align: right;">- Mary Hirsch<br /></div><br />A friend showed me this video and I fell in love with it.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="385"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/n9gbQKwOh68?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/n9gbQKwOh68?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="385"></embed></object><br /><br />Enjoy if not love.Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-74139891588604297912010-08-14T09:46:00.000-07:002010-08-14T10:50:31.377-07:00Seriously? Seriously!So today I heard something that might just have emotionally scarred me for life.<br /><br />Ekta Kapoor (yes <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>Ekta Kapoor) is going to produce a television serial that, get this, has been adapted from the Twilight saga. YES.<br /><br />You can't even make up stuff like this.<br /><br />According to an article I read (which calls them desi vampires by the way), the show is titled Fanaa and has <a href="http://www.desiclub.com/bollywood/tidbits/tidbits_images/vivan.jpg">this guy</a> playing Sparkles. Another article reports "If sources are to be believed, Ekta's desi Twilight (a phrase I never thought I'd hear) might not get to see the light at the end of the tunnel." Before you get too excited, however, the same article goes on to say "The viewers certainly will want to see this desi version of Twilight."<br /><br />Really? <span style="font-style: italic;">Really? </span>The only people who would not block Star One are those that have recently been hit by a very large train. No, no. Those retarded books and movies weren't bad enough that now Twilight has a television series? Produced by Ekta Kapoor no less? What? WHAT!<br /><br />And I thought the world was going to end in 2012.Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-45273775779556808162010-07-26T08:09:00.000-07:002010-07-26T08:42:06.635-07:00I am goldfish, hear me roar.I watched Glee so I'm happ-ee.<br /><br />My friend is sad so I'm feeling bad.<br /><br />Also, I just realized the last two lines rhymed. I'm a poet and I don't know it.<br /><br />One friend of mine has the habit of saying what to do? Habits are contagious so now even I say what to do?<br /><br />Today I was almost hit by a taxi, a motorbike and a cycle. Universe, are you trying to tell me something?<br /><br />I want to be a student in New York. I want to teach Creative Writing to kids. Not teenagers because they're mostly annoying. But kids because they're mostly not. I want to shop. I want non-ugly rainy day footwear. I also want new<span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span>glasses.<br /><br />Did you watch Inception? Do you want to? I didn't and I don't know if I want to. Avatar has put me off over-hyped movies. Except Harry Potter because Harry Potter is awesome.<br /><br />The paper I work for shares its birthday with Harry Potter. We have an anniversary issue coming up. We also had a birthday party. With kids. And chocolate cake. And games. And chocolate cake.<br /><br />My house is under attack. Ant attack.<br /><br />I also realized I saw how random a lot. Just ... not on this blog. How random. There. Happy?<br /><br />I am in love with Abhishek Bachchan and nobody came to watch Raavan with me and my friend told me he died. So I hate her.<br /><br />But she is sad, so I also feel bad.<br /><br />P.S. If you tell me what the title means, I'll send you an e-donut. Mmmm donut. (Doughnut? I don't know.)<br /><br />P.P.S. Why are goldfish so creepy looking?Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-84205925078980443582010-06-21T06:34:00.001-07:002010-07-12T05:11:19.171-07:00Five things I did not understand about the FIFA World Cup<div>1) The vuvuzela.<br />Who invented this instrument and why hasn't he been shot yet?<br /><br /></div><div>2) All the unnecessary excitement.<br />Everybody freaks out over almost goals and almost saves and corner kicks and swift kicks and whatnot. Even the commentators go crazy. WHAT?! They didn't actually score a goal. Calm down!<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>3) Scoring own goals.<br />How does the goalkeeper react? It's so crazy near the goal as it is. Everybody is freaking out and hyperly running here and running there. The goalie is trying to cover the entire goal all by his lonesome self. He sees his team member take possession of the ball. He breathes a temporary sigh of relief. And suddenly BAM! The team member shoots the ball into his own goal! Does the goalkeeper beat him up after the match?<br /><br /></div><div>4) Extra time.<br />As if ninety minutes weren't long enough, they have extra time? Why why why? They don't even show close-ups of the boys so how am I not supposed to be bored? It's just random figures in jerseys running around and what is the point of that?</div><div><br /></div><div>5) Little to no dancing.<br /><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5bUfz7UgPDw">This Coke ad</a> made me wait so excitedly for someone to break out into a quirky dance routine. But no. All people did was run around and jump on each other when a goal was scored. Waka waka was written for you guys. DANCE!</div><div><br /></div>I liked watching the game right after it was over. Not the actual game. Not the highlights. The segment right after. That's when they only showed all the goals scored and nobody got excited over rubbishy corner kicks and almost goals. And there were cute footballers running and being all happy and sometimes, if I was lucky, they took their shirts off.Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-15087348976881277062010-06-21T03:22:00.000-07:002010-06-21T07:44:30.467-07:00"I don't like jokes!" "I don't like you!"Yesterday mom tried to coax me off the computer to go eat lunch with her by saying <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Kuch</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Kuch</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Hota</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Hai</span> was on. As if that would work. It did but I didn't want her to know that. I got up five minutes after she gave me that piece of vital information - five agonizing minutes no less - because I didn't want her to think she'd won. Yes.<div><br /></div><div>Anyway, as I was watching the movie (I giggled wildly at every single joke) I remembered when it first came out. I was eight and wasn't at that stage of my life where I had to watch every new movie yet (I'm still not but that's because of lack of funds more than anything else). But everybody had watched this movie. <i>Everybody. </i>Naturally I *had* to watch it too. Except I didn't. Or couldn't. I don't remember why but what I do remember is having to hear everyone go on and on about it as I smiled and tried not to feel like the loser I secretly knew I was. </div><div><br /></div><div>What was my brilliant solution? I pretended I had watched the movie too. But since I was lying, I didn't really know what to say when everyone got into excited discussions about the plot and whatnot. I did the next best thing. Every time a discussion popped up, I would say "But Kajol looked so much better with long hair than the yucky short hair. Don't you think so?" Every single time. And then everyone would excitedly get into a discussion about that as I would stand and smile proudly at having overcome my loserishness by throwing around a piece of information I got through the posters. <i>So</i> smart I felt. </div><div><br /></div><div>So to answer your question, yes I've always been a weird person. </div><div><br /></div><div>P.S. I did end up watching the movie weeks too late in a very shady theatre with my mom after throwing a humongous tantrum. </div>Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-27709631121280638952010-05-19T01:49:00.000-07:002010-05-24T11:37:44.713-07:00Why yes, I *am* made of awesomeHow was your week? Not awesome? Aww that's too bad. Well not really 'cause I like it when my week kicks your week's butt.<br /><br />Why my week was awesome:<br /><br />Reason no. 1<br /><br />Someone accidentally recharged my Vodafone account with 400 bucks. So I had Rs. 333 more in my otherwise balanceless account than I should have had. Of course the stupidly efficient people over at Vodafone must have realized their mistake 'cause it only lasted a couple of days where I didn't take advantage of the free money at all but even then, the little time that I thought the good luck gods were smiling down at me was deliciously awesome.<br /><br />Reason no. 2<br /><br />I have a great job. And even though I'm just an intern who has to work five full days for no money, I love it. <span style="font-style: italic;">Love.</span> I love the small coffee cups and the same tasting pulao-with-raita-and-papad that I eat everyday. I love the dog who's always sleeping at the bottom of the stairs. I love how it's a graveyard in the morning and buzzing with activity in the evening. I love reaching early and leaving late. I love eavesdropping on melodramatic conversations. And I love what I do.<br /><br />Reason No. 3<br /><br />My raita was <span style="font-style: italic;">finally </span>enough for my pulao. Never had it happened before. My raita always ran out no matter how much I tried to save it to drown the not-so-bad-but-not-so-good tasting pulao in. But now I've mastered the art of saving the raita right up to the very end and I'm very proud of myself. Stop judging me.<br /><br />Reason No. 4<br /><br />I found out that the one bus I used to desperately wait for after work isn't my only alternative. All three buses drop me home. Or very near it. I discovered this when I was fed up of waiting for my chronically late crowd infested bus and just sat in the bus which annoyingly appeared every four minutes just to see where it went. And luckily I didn't end up in another part of the city. I was so elated that it dropped me in familiar territory, I didn't notice I was lost until I didn't know which way to turn. A nice aunty came to my rescue and helpfully told me how to get out of wherever I was to get to where I wanted to go. I even struck up a conversation with her and tried convincing her that I really did stay nearby but I just hadn't been to or known about the existence of this place I was at. I felt very Western too because hardly anybody in India strikes up conversations with perfect strangers. If a random boy so much as smiles at me, I glare suspiciously back. That's how I was brought up - to treat strangers with a mixture of distrust and hostility.<br /><br />Reason no. 5<br /><br />One of my co-workers left for Hindustan Times. Thursday was her last day and as she cleared out her desk, she found a lot of things she wanted to get rid of. The things included a lot of junk but also a Spongebob keychain, two Spongebob books and a Happy Meal toy; all of which I inherited. People couldn't believe how genuinely happy I was. Oh I also got yummy free farewell cake. Plus a yummy free farewell lunch. But what made my week was the surprise Spongebob surplus.<br /><br />And after the awesomeness that was last week, how did this one begin? With a lizard on my bedroom ceiling. And now I'm paranoid that it's going to fall on my face. Even though mom assured me that she shooed it out of the bedroom window when I was hiding out here. But I know she's lying because she said we should sleep on the bed today and not on the floor. Mom doesn't sleep on the bed during summer 'cause it's so hothothot. When I suspiciously asked her why not on the floor if there was no lizard, she didn't answer and turned up the volume of the TV. I called her a liar and said that I hoped the lizard would fall on her.<br /><br />So now I'm pretty sure the karma gods are going to make the lizard fall into my mouth.Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-4341403260108796502010-05-07T00:27:00.000-07:002010-05-13T09:55:56.572-07:00I wish my leg was haunted but all I got was a stupid coldIn the words of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lorelai_Gilmore">Lorelai Gilmore</a>:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Ugh, I hate having a cold. It's bad enough being sick, but anybody can have a cold. I mean, I'd like to have a good illness, something different, impressive. Just once I'd like to be able to say, "Yeah, I'm not feeling so good, my leg is haunted."</span><br /><br />So yes I have a cold. And I'm not happy about it. What kind of person is happy to get a cold you ask? Phoebe Buffay that's who!<br /><br />I am not a nice person to be around when I have a cold. I sneeze very loudly at regular intervals. I'm all disgusting with my runny nose and watery eyes. And I'm constantly grumpy with no qualms about stabbing people in the eye with my pencil if they so much as laugh too loudly. You wouldn't be averse to going on a murderous cold-induced rampage if you got colds like I did. My colds are never gentle with barely audible sneezes. My colds are violent and ruthless and everybody I come in contact with knows about them. I sport a permanent scowl and sniffle every few seconds which makes my nose itchy and my throat all scratchy and my head hurts and -- there! I sneezed again and nobody said Bless You. A legend holds that it was believed that the heart stops beating every time you sneeze and the phrase "bless you" is meant to ensure the return of life or to encourage your heart to continue beating (thank you <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bless_you">Wikipedia</a>!) So if my heart decides to give up on me due to lack of encouragement and I <span style="font-style: italic;">die</span>, blame the people working in the City section of DNA.<br /><br />My department people (all three of them) aren't here yet. The boss doesn't come in during the weekend (Friday is included) and I think the other two are following her lead. So now I'm grumpy about not doing anything productive today besides making a few phone calls.<br /><br />Also, the canteen has jalebis today. I don't want jalebis, I want rasgullas! They had rasgullas yesterday but by the time I got around to ordering, the canteen was out of them!<br /><br />Yesterday I happened to mention how I love Spongebob related merchandise. I was seriously considering buying childrens' DVD set from Crossword because you got a free Spongebob soft toy with it. So anyway, Nickelodeon sends a lot of goodie bags to <span style="font-weight: bold;">ya!</span> (lesson no. 1: <span style="font-weight: bold;">ya!</span> is always in bold) and my boss decided to give me a few Spongebob goodies. BUT THE STUPID OFFICE THIEVES STOLE THE SPONGEBOB COASTERS SHE WAS GOING TO GIVE ME! Yes, apparently my office has thieves and they deprived me of Spongebob! I hate them! Hate is too mild a word. I completely and utterly abhor them and (an idea I stole from the episode of Castle I watched this morning) I'd cheerfully pour honey on their eyes and set loose a nest of fire ants on their face.<br /><br />I think the cold is hampering my ability to type 'cause I'm having to use the backspace key a lot more than usual. So I'm also grumpy about that. And it's so cold temperature wise too. Whoever controls the office air conditioner obviously thinks our bodies have copious amounts of fur on them because jackets do absolutely nothing to counter the cold.<br /><br />Six sneezes in a row and not a single Bless you. Make that eight. Now I hope I die just out of spite. Their apathy and inability to utter two simple words will kill me and then they will have to live with that for the rest of their lives.<br /><br />Stupid cold.Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2424474971955994283.post-23558372205746738062010-04-26T00:20:00.000-07:002010-04-26T11:51:54.066-07:00My idea of housework is to sweep the room with a glance<span style="font-weight: bold;">Edit: I just saw how long this post actually turned out to be. So you're not obligated to read the entire thing. Except you totally are because you'd hurt my feelings otherwise.</span><br /><br />Mom put me on spring cleaning duty yesterday. I was supposed to clear out my monster shelf and make a pile of things to be given away to the raddiwala. Mostly because we're poor and need the money but also because our house is being overtaken by books. They're like these needy little things crying for a home and I have no space for them in my life! Well <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> do obviously but my house doesn't. Even though we ran out of shelf space for books a few months ago, I insist on buying new books and add them to the ever increasing pile of homeless books which are randomly dumped around the house in the hopes that someone, somewhere will take care of them. But nobody does. Until yesterday. Shelf cleaning = space = non-homeless books.<br /><br />Every time we try to clear the house, mom insists on tearing out unused paper from my old notebooks and keeping them in a safe place in case I ever need to use them in an emergency. Or in college. Every. Single. Time. Yeah mom because I'm really going to scramble around looking for the papers you hid when I'm trying to take down an important telephone number or address. Or I'm going to carry sheets of paper to college to take down notes on just so I can promptly lose and/or misplace them and not find them when I really need to study or when I have a project due and only find them the next time we decide to clear out my old books and you insist on tearing out notebook paper again! Yesterday I almost had a hysterical breakdown trying to convince mom that we don't need any more paper. Of course she still mutilated my notebooks anyway and didn't even tell me where she stored the emergency papers. She never does.<br /><br />I found awesomely random things while clearing out the shelf though so I'm still glad I did it.<br /><br />Right off the bat I found these two books which I found so hilariously epic that I have to tell you the names.<br /><br />HOW TO TALK TO ANYONE - 92 Little Tricks for Big Success in Relationships<br />and<br />PREMARITAL SEX - Morality of Dating, Courtship and Petting<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And Petting!<br /><br /></span>You think I'm making this up don't you? I'll click a picture when I'm not sleepy and prove that I'm completely serious.<br /><br />I also found:<br />1) Stationery - all of which I could have used during my exams.<br />2) Random bits of craft items<br />3) Folders. Oh the folders! I found so many I could probably start an office right here.<br />4) MY FYJC bus pass (for the uninitiated FYJC = First Year Junior College. Then there's SYJC i.e. Second Year Junior College. I'm semi-officially in TYBMM which is Third Year Bachelor of Mass Media. You're welcome)<br />5) MY SYJC fake I-card. By fake I mean they gave me a fake I-card when I lost my real one. I had to pay 500 bucks for a crappy piece of paper on which they stuck my photo. Stupid fake piece of crap.<br />6) My school calendar. I'm going to revisit some of my hymns later. I may or may not use them as blog posts.<br />7) Menus of restaurants in Colaba. I don't know why.<br />8) Notes dating back to SYJC<br />9)An envelope containing 4 Moserbaer CDs. Where were they when I needed them? Chilling out in my shelf apparently.<br />10) Old phone bills. Again I don't know why. Mom could have just as easily thrown them away rather than stashing them in my shelf. Then she made a big thing about how we should tear them up into little pieces before throwing them away because they have our phone numbers on them. I called her paranoid and didn't tear them up. Mostly because my number has changed.<br />11) Pamphlets that we had made for Cutting Chai last year as part of our P.R. strategy. Our contingent name was Chacha Chaudhary Champs. Yes, they obviously hate us. I also found a Chacha Chaudhary mask which amused me for roughly 5 minutes.<br />12) I also found P.R. stuff from Detour from the year before last. There our contingent name was No Parking. At least Jai Hind doesn't make its hatred to us known quite as much as Nationals does.<br />13) An empty photo album<br />14) Loads of empty printer paper. To go into the multitude of folders of course. Mom has stolen a lot of paper from her office over the years.<br />15) My diary from when I was 17. I read the entries and giggled. I was such a drama queen.<br />16) My diary from when I was 14. Slightly less of a drama queen then. And yes I had separate diaries because I could never keep up with the whole diary writing thing. I used to write for a few days and then get bored. I think I also have one of my 12 year old diaries.<br />17) A notebook which had a few snippets I'd written about this book series I was so determined to begin when I was 15. The whole series that I so meticulously planned was very embarrassing; so obviously I'll blog about it later.<br /><br />My favourite find however was these letters and cards and scrapbook type things from my friends and my ex-boyfriend. One of the cards reminded me how my friends used to "tease me with" (it's in inverted commas because I'm not sure whether it's a grammatically correct expression but we use it a lot so I'm going to say it anyway) this boy called Calvin from our French class back in FYJC. Why? Because I'd gotten mad that he got more marks than me in one of our exams. My inner nerd pops out to say hello now and then. I read a few of the letters and laughed and awwwed like crazy. There were also these letters from my ex and scrapbooks that he'd made me too (yes, we were <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>couple) which I read a bit of and laughed and awwwed again.<br /><br />So the moral of this story is that cleaning is not always the worthless exercise in futility I once thought it was. The End.<br /><br />P.S. I probably made a lot of spelling/grammatical/logical/numerical errors. But I'm really sleepy and I'll check them tomorrow OK?Parinitahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07731879749089945370noreply@blogger.com7