A Midsummer Day's post.

Apart from the sweltering heat that is dry roasting us during the day, there has been no other hot news from my side over the month. Like fasting is followed in some religions so that the rich realizes the pain of hunger and poverty, summer is here to make us realize the pain of air-fried potato wedges.

In other news, appraisals are coming soon but from the work front, the only part of me that is working overtime is my sweat glands. Had Shakespeare been in the Middle East he wouldn’t dare think about venturing into the comedy genre and label it ‘A Midsummer night’s dream’. I mean you don’t get any dreams on midsummer nights, my friend. There is an AC and fan too, but the hard hitting reality strikes on such nights that nothing, NOTHING can cool you down. Oh and the incessant worry that the washing machine is about to breathe its last.

The last thing you want broken in this time of the year is the washing machine. You may have guessed air conditioner, but that is wrong. I can explain. Chances that four air conditioners will go on strike at the same time are very less. However washing machine is only one. If you have to clean, feed and change its diapers three times a day, even that is fine as long as it works. There are just three of us in this house and the number of clothes in the laundry bin is greater than or equal to the total number of clothes in the wardrobe. Despite all that, the males in the house have to wear socks, even when the reality is literally burning under their feet.

Image Courtesy: Here

In the Middle East there are two types of people. People who have air conditioners in their kitchen, and people who don’t.  This makes a hell of a difference because more cooking happens only in no-AC kitchens. For example on a typically hot day you walk into the kitchen and start the stove, there are two things that get cooked. One is the thing on the stove and the other is you. In case of red meat which takes more time, then you get cooked faster than it does. This does not benefit anyone though. Well, benefit is not a word one uses in Middle Eastern summer.

Another discovery I made in the recent times is that kids get hyper active during summers as if they got recharged from solar energy. Of course I happen to be one of those adults who supervise this downright mean activity of outdoor play every evening out of helplessness. This ritual is rightfully named as the ‘melt hour’. In addition to the misery, the sun just burns our skin and sanity; it has chosen not to burn any calories.

Also in summers as the water from the taps are only a few degrees away from boiling point, the vessels and cutlery are sterilized when they are washed. As for us humans we don’t have to drive to the gym to get a steam bath. It is available right here in the ‘comfort’ (lol) of our homes. Mild cries have been overheard outside restrooms during midday, due to nature’s untimely call, if you know what I mean. Suryanamaskaar in this time of the year has a whole other meaning, which is begging the Sun to spare us from this horrific episode called summer. When it is not summer, we do not know what Suryanamaskaar is. This fiery catastrophe is expected to continue till September.

If you happen to have any enemies living in the Middle East, this is your time to party.

Minutes of a Party!

It had been a month that was delightfully eventful. Some of my son’s friends had kid parties for their birthdays and he had been on a sugar high all month.  Aaron’s five year old friends, majority of which are girls, arrived floating at each of these parties like they just dropped down from heaven. Of course it doesn’t matter for the boys whose lives revolve around their tee shirts and denim.

This could be the official theme of every kids party!
 Image Courtesy: Here

So the other day at a party I caught him sporting a confused face amidst two arguing girls. The girls and my boy had a bunch of balloons each. My son was witnessing the argument and was highly amused. He offered to exchange his bunch with the girl who was not satisfied with hers, but the girl declined. Who wants boys stuff anyway? Eww. Meanwhile, one of their mothers arrived trying to console the girls that the balloons were exactly the same. The girls were convinced that they weren’t. I analyzed both bunches and realized there was a pink balloon in only one of them. My son could not decrypt the argument even after I pointed at the pink balloon and explained the matter to him. He tried, but still did not make anything out of it because for him it was nothing but a pointless debate. I don’t blame him. Guys don’t see anything. Like my husband who wouldn't know if I get a plastic surgery, forget haircut or eyebrows. It starts at a very young age, you see.

There was a slide in which all the children played at the party. I kept an eye on that, because it always starts with happy squeals and ends in a war. After gliding quickly down the slide, my son looked back to see an almost teenage looking girl coming slowly behind him. 

He quipped ‘Why are you so slow?’

Pissed off girl: ‘Yeah I AM a bit slow’

He: ‘Are you a baby’?

The girl, both hands on her hips looked down at him. ‘Do YOU think I am a baby?’

He ran back to the slide, without answering that. I almost died laughing. I caught him calling a crying girl a ‘baby’ and annoying her further, few minutes after this incident. I realized I have to talk to him a bit about pissing off girls (or maybe I should talk to his Dad first?). How do boys get this uncontrollable urge to annoy peer girls? How hard is it to not laugh when a girl cries? I realized that it was high time for a little pep talk or no-TV threats if the first doesn’t work. However I cannot hover around him all day and watch what he is doing. This is the reason even atheist and agnostic parents become religious once their kids are in school.

Soon after when he was in a good mood, I told him that it is not cool to laugh when someone cries, trying my best to be casual and non-preachy. It is also very bad boy thing to be the reason another person cries, I added.  This talk was made when they distributed ice creams. He looked straight into my eyes (this rarely occurs) and thoughtfully said ‘Okay’. There was a moment of temporary peace. When he gave me that eye contact, he probably may have been thinking about donating that ice-cream to me because I am the official leftover eater. I know for one that when a male looks into your eyes and pretends to listen they are NOT listening. When they pretend not to listen and go about doing their thing when you are talking, they are in fact NOT listening either.

The next day as I dropped him off at his art academy, there was a notice board outside.

“Parents are responsible for the safety AND BEHAVIOR of their children”.

Bring home the glass show case!

Image courtesy: Here

Have you noticed, that the luxuries of today were just mundane things in our childhood ?  I envied sky scraper apartments when I was living in a villa of sorts with a porch and garden. I envied arcade games when there were grounds and wide open spaces to run. Stupidity has no bounds. Now even if we want our kids to play in wide open spaces, we have to drive to that place and pay for it.

Most of us grew up in independent homes, and even though we live in compact apartments now, deep inside we don’t see the difference. We live in the 12^th floor of a sky rise building with a living room smaller than the porch we used to have at our parents’ house. Our parents did not throw away things like cardboard boxes, newspapers etc. because SOME DAY we are going to use it. We talked of this ‘day’ like it was Judgement Day, because we are not quite sure it will come, still we don’t want to take any chance. If we have space for it, why not, right? However the day we used that box seldom came. The box housed rodents, grew mold and did whatever it could because it was bored just sitting there. Finally when some festival came that called for some clearing out, the box received it’s salvation. They kept bills from the day our first diaper was bought, even clocks they received from housewarming that happened at least two decades ago. Our kitchens had steel and aluminum vessels handed down to our Moms from beyond generations. They were used to house smaller vessels and cobwebs. There were toolboxes, paint tubs, old paintbrushes and what not. Our childhood homes consisted of all these elements and it gave us that kick for that nostalgic memory.

When we flew away from that comfortable nest that lodged stuff majority of which falls under the ‘will-be-used’ category, we took with us that tendency. Compact houses we live today have no room for anything. We look longingly at glass show cases and bigger wardrobes but we can’t own them.  Our homes are cluttered with the cardboard box in which the TV came, the books our kids used in nursery, and old toothbrushes. If you survive a year in an apartment just by routinely cleaning your stuff but not clearing them, the junk that accumulates is mind blowing.

We don’t need the boxes. If we have an equipment to sell, we need its bill, not the box. We know how to use the mixer grinder we are not going to refer the user manual anymore. We can save the books of our children and some of their clothes too, but not all of it. There are broken crayons under our sofa seats. There are newspapers we don’t need anymore. There are huge piles of plastic covers we saved to throw garbage, but we can never have that much garbage ever. There are spoons in our kitchen drawers which will never be used and we know it. There are medicines in the cupboard we haven’t checked the expiry dates of in a long time. There are bed covers and towels that have served its time. There are bills of stuff which were sold off long ago. There are chargers and cables whose purpose we don’t know. There are toys that are waiting to be disposed.

Remember, we are not living in our parents’ ancestral home where everything has got a room of its own with attached bathroom. We are flat dwellers so we better act like it. Last week I gave away one huge bundle of toys and another bag of old clothes. You wouldn’t believe the space that has started to see the light of the day. When the space is smaller it shows when you declutter it, whereas in bigger homes it does not make much of a difference.

Let us take charge and clear our homes first, and clean them later.

 Who knows, maybe we will accommodate the glass showcase!

Politeness Pays.In Installments.

These days we come across a lot of people who got more than they could handle and spectacularly messed it up. The King of Good Times apparently couldn’t handle 9000 crores. Hrithik Roshan moves like a dream but a breakup was evidently beyond his grip. Fame and position are difficult to handle as they have a blinding effect. Thank God I don’t have to handle either :D

It is indeed a highly competitive world, and there is no place for politeness. People are stressed out all the time. You hear ‘Excuse Me please’, once in a while but you get ‘Hey! Move it!’ every now and then. When did we become so egoistic, rude and ill mannered? Are basic manners slowly becoming a luxury?

I grew up in a household where the majority of shouting was aimed at me (which was well deserved) but everyone else was treated with respect. Mom used to call rickshaw drivers ‘aniya’ which means younger brother, and sometimes she even went over the top when the said person was old enough to be her Dad. Still, end of day, all-Indians-are-my-brothers-and-sisters totally applied. 

Image Courtesy: Here

Nowadays, cuss words have become trendy, so is rude behavior. People who are superfluously loud are encouraged by the ones who are victims to them and don’t speak up. Sometimes a mere ‘WHAT?' that is loud enough can change them. One cannot survive with a Gandhian principle in this world, because silence and forgiveness are often used as stepping stones by 'smarter' people.

Recently I was at a dance event rehearsal for which my son was participating. As I waited outside the gates, a volunteer appeared. It was just a rehearsal, there were only a few parents waiting with me, and the volunteer was acting like she was handling the crowd of Filmfare Awards. Volunteers are supposed to handle crowds when they get uncontrollable. They are otherwise expected to be human. I repeat, they are expected to be human, nothing more. This lady started yelling at the top of her voice ‘once you have left your children with us, they are our responsibility, please leave the place’ and repeated that sentence on my face two times on top decibel. I found few kids playing outside the gates – probably those kids were not part of her responsibility. The way she said that – my eardrums partially damaged from her voice. It wasn't necessary. Why do volunteers and security people verbally manhandle people?

I have a voice and the choicest vocabulary to shut her up for good. I most honestly do. Unfortunately I do not unleash the demon in me for the most undeserving people like these. I am not programmed to lose my temper and yell at random people for no reason. I simply can’t. This does not mean I don’t want to. Honestly.

There are many people around, like me. We get angry, we are emotional, but we have evolved into a state in which the threshold that prevents us from getting bothered is high. We are the ones that stopped bothering about the ants under our feet. We are the ones who do not get provoked to say ‘you m*****f*****’ when a person overtakes us on the road. We are the ones who do not get into an argument when a person squeezes himself in front of us in a queue. We are the ones that say ‘It’s Okay’ if a person apologizes after crushing our feet with CAT shoes. We are the ones that forgive another child even if he hurt our own for some reason.

We speak up when it is necessary, not when there is an opportunity. We are the ones who know what dignified silence means. 

All the loud and short tempered people out there, do not take silence for granted from anyone, because if you do, some day you will meet the demon. It is not pretty. 

To kick or to kick-off

Yet another academic year has kicked off, bringing with it parents orientation sessions(YAWN), books, brown papers, name slips and what not! Well, covering books in brown paper is not a joke, my friend. At least not for me. Since my better half conveniently opts out of these activities citing inexperience, I become the undisputed owner of Project School Prep. This is one of those situations in life when you have no choice. There may have been eight books, and I took a solid no-break two hours to finish those. I was also standing the whole while. Imagine standing the whole duration of a movie. Even if feet hurt, at least in the end we are entertained. In my case, feet hurt, and that’s about it. It was a weekend activity, so I had a no-break sleep for four hours to replenish myself. However I have a pretty good handwriting, so once the name slips were stuck, they looked cute. Anyone may misinterpret those books to have been done by a book-covering-enthusiast. It is a fruit of my blood! MY BLOOD!

Kindergarten Phase two has officially started and I had been prepping my drama king of a son for that day. Luckily for me and my sanity, they did not shuffle the classes, hence only the new teacher had to be dealt with. As expected, the teacher realized the mischief quotient of my son on the very first day, as he apparently did what he does best- annoy her. So they are at loggerheads now and my headache for this year has also  kicked itself in.

THAT's ME !!! :D :D Image Courtesy: Here

On the school reopening day, we went a bit early  to help him get accustomed to the new classroom. All other parents also were present and the cacophony that rose from the room made us yell our throats out just to make small talk with other parents. I watched as all kids were seated, talking and laughing, but my son alone wouldn’t sit. He has to go from desk to desk, doing all types of antics, much to the amusement of his classmates. I noticed some ladies eyeing me sympathetically. I blame my husband for this. He was a well-known brat in his school back in our time, and decades later his teachers still remember that. Even though verbally I can safely transfer the blame and make the genes responsible for this mess, it gives only a temporary relief. Ideally before we get hitched to someone we should run a background check to the point where you know how mischievous the person was.

As I watched my son laughing and jumping across tables amidst all the kids that were obediently seated, he suddenly turned and lovingly blew me a kiss.

**Heart melts**

So, what was I saying?

Weekend Musical

Music has a magical way to set the mood. Classy restaurants and local dance bars have customized playlists that play an important part in setting their respective ambience. Why this revelation today? Yes, yesterday being the weekend, my mood was kind of SET by music, and not in a good way.

On Friday evening, we had this horrible experience of driving into a popular mall, doing rounds in the parking lot, searching for a spot. Had this been a temple, at least we would have been blessed by the Indian Gods. Finally we gave up and took the exit. The husband who was driving got so pissed that even playing ‘I like to move it move it’ did not cheer him up. Trust me to make situations worse. Sometimes keeping quiet helps, you know. The next morning, he woke us up to go to the same mall. He is an early bird by birth, and we are early birds by fate. This time I was behind the wheel. Saturday morning, so roads were conveniently empty.

The climate was pleasant, kiddo in a great mood and everything looked just right to go to the mall and indulge. Me behind the wheels meant that he took charge of the songs that played in the car. It started with his routine melancholy songs. One, two songs later, he continued to ignore the kiddo’s request for Lungi Dance. Being a novice at driving (for the past two years) the right to request a song is still denied to me - I am supposed to FOCUS (as if I know how to do that). Fifteen minutes down, the mood inside the car changed from mildly- sad to drowning-in-sorrow. My kid was lost in a philosophical thinker expression and I was about to shed tears. The spouse was seen laid back with the front passenger seat tilted backwards, tapping his fingers by the window and enjoying every bit of the ride. I was still trying to stay sane, but the feeling of grief had struck me real hard.

Why would anyone ruin a weekend on purpose? I mean, choice of music is absolutely personal, but I do not want it to be the reason generally happy-go-lucky people becoming suicidal. I mean who listens to a whole list of grief inducing songs in a row? There was growing intolerance in the car. 

Finally I spoke. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ 

He reduced the volume, sat up, and pretending to be completely oblivious to the situation asked, ‘WHAT?’

‘What kind of horrible, sadistic playlist is this?’ I yelled. 

‘Am I not allowed to listen to music of my choice anymore? GOD!’

‘This is not a choice! It is a punishment! What did I even do to you?’

‘What did I do to you when you play I like to move it move it and Hookah Bar and Lungi Dance?’

‘What is WRONG with Lungi Dance?’

*long silence* *His music was an apt background score for the argument that was happening’

I took that comment about Lungi Dance rather personally though. The argument was highly amusing to the one who was watching from his baby seat at the back. Kids get amused for no reason.

At least his mood got straightened out. 

The February that was..

February had been cool climate wise, but logic took a back seat. Our annual office party was held outdoors, at a hotel by the beach. To be honest, I am not a fan of office parties. We have weekends to take a break from all those people we see every day, right? Oh well. Events were organized at least two weeks in advance, thus giving the ladies ample time to think things through. As the event drew closer, my interest to show up at this party hit rock bottom.

Even as I opened my wardrobe two hours after we were supposed to be at the venue, I did not search for anything new or party type. I wore something mediocre and paired it with pointed heels to add a punch. I should have thought this through. Colleagues who don’t give a damn during daytime wouldn’t care about me- forget my shoes at an evening party.

 To my surprise people seemed to be having a real good time with some spectacular events happening on the stage. I made myself comfortable in a place where I could see the people who usually sends emails with death threats as attachments during daytime. Out of the blue, they called all ladies near the stage area for a promotional Zumba. As I started walking, I realized that I have achieved new levels of dumbness. I wore pointed heels to an outdoor lawn party. With every step I dug into the soil with the heels and pulled it out for the next. I realized I was walking like a damn duck. Finally I made it to the stage and took the heels off when the Zumba started. However it was impossible even after to be seated and I had to walk around several times each time digging holes and pulling back. Basically I ploughed the entire party lawn thanks to sartorial sense combined with intelligence.

February had more in store. My housemaid left to India in early Jan and she gave me a temporary replacement in her absence. Miss Temporary had a temper and zero regard for time. Also Miss Temporary behaved like I stole from her ancestral property. 

Image Courtesy: Here

So by end of January, realizing that some people are alive only because murder is illegal, I broke up with her unceremoniously over SMS. Instead I found another person who came all of February three times a week and did a good job without talking too much. However on the 29^th, he told me that his earlier boss wanted him back. Basically he dumped me. However he was polite enough to console me and said that he will check whether he can find someone who can help. I wiped my face and agreed between sobs.

The first of March had been an extremely busy day at work but I admit I was not a productive employee. I had just been dumped the previous day and I couldn’t begin to contemplate how the days ahead would be. Cleaning the house! The very thought of doing that by myself made be exhausted. The whole day went by and there was no progress in the maid hunting front. On the second of March post lunch, my phone rang. It was my old housemaid who had returned from India! She is back!

My joy knew no bounds. I have not been so happy in years.  However I suppressed my happiness and politely welcomed her back, but I was actually jumping around in joy. March has just begun. It has started on a good note.

I hope there will be no unpaid ploughing or break ups this month. 

The semi-private existence.

Of late, the newest thing that has caught my confusion-prone mind is friend requests from Facebook.  To begin with, my spouse and I having worked together at multiple organizations gave us, like 782 mutual friends. Facebook has thus bound us with its own virtual strings, that if he adds someone new, Facebook urges me to add that person as well.  Apparently, Facebook algorithms are so old-school that it doesn’t understand people can have friends, their significant others may not know. I mean jeez ...grow up, you! If he uploads a picture, Facebook pesters me to like it. Basically, Facebook wants us to be together, more than ourselves and our parents. I hate to break this to you, but being a programmer I doubt that rule one of Facebook algorithm could be ‘what God has joined together let app not separate’.

Image Courtesy: Here

When I was single and there was Orkut, new friend requests from cute strangers were like being asked out on a blind date. I visited that person’s profile, showed it off to my friends (if cute) and once done, clicked ‘Remove and block’. Even as a youngster and till date, rule one of my social media existence is to connect with people I already know. I never logged in to meet any stranger because my life is already crowded. Putting up with relatives and friends itself is exhausting I cannot take further shit coming from strangers.

This blog attracts a fair amount of friend requests from strangers, which I deny because people who read my blog have my page to connect. Then there are friend requests that come with attached strings – mutual friends. When I get a friend request with a mutual friend backing, this can slightly mar my peace of mind. To add or not to add? If it is a female, then mostly it is no issue because women hardly add me (they wait for me to add them). Problem is when it is a male I have mutual friends with. My imagination runs so wild until I start thinking; does this man think I am the type of girl who will add anybody that sends me a request? I know I have gone too far, but let me be frank here, I think that. The answer to this question lies in the click of the button which says ‘Remove request’. I answer my own weird questions. The bottom line is, I suffer from a condition, in which I want to look social but in reality I am not. (This hurts)

Some of my friends say that they add people if they can find mutual friends with that person. Mutual friends are like recommendations from previous employer. It could be a phone number or address that does not exist. May be these mutual friends added this person for the same reason. Once I found an anonymous phone number on one of my whatsapp girl groups for which I am the admin and none of the members knew whose number it was! Creepy, isn’t it? There shouldn’t be so many strangers in the world, I tell you. Being a semi-private person on social media literally sucks.

So what is meant by ‘semi-private’ you ask? It is a condition in which one posts a picture with a public setting and also blocks the strangers liking it.

Love and Laughter !

It is the season of love and essentially, one of Karan Johar. The day couples celebrate their love only to update every single detail on Facebook and flood Instagram servers. Single people need not worry; you can watch Kabhie Khushi Kabhie Gham on TV because for you, it is about loving your parents.

Image courtesy: Here

I had an unceremonious, rough ride of a romance. So, everything mushy and sweet annoys me and makes me sound like having a sour grape syndrome. It all started in year 2006. I was a fresher and so was he, and we fatefully joined as trainees in the same software firm. Cliché alert- we started off as friends. Soon we started texting and the more we got to know each other, the more we repelled. The fights we had were so bitter that we sent each other hateful messages. Eventually we became stone-hearted and bitter. Days went by.

One day, our employer decided to throw us a party. The restaurant was at least 45 minutes from home. Who cares about reaching home on time when there is free six course buffet meal? At the party I noticed my male buddy-turned-enemy chilling with his friends, having beers and acting like he was having the time of his life. My girl buddies saw it too, but did not discuss about it as my expressions were threatening enough to shut them up.

Time passed. I was getting increasingly intolerant at the sight of this guy partying hard after pissing me off so badly over sms. I convinced my friends that we should eat fast and get the hell out of that place ASAP. They agreed as it was already around 8:30 p.m. This was the time my parents were likely to go to the nearest police station and register a missing case with my photo(which they probably took to upload in Bharat Matrimony).

As soon as we finished eating one of my girl buddies and I walked to the washroom. As we stood there admiring ourselves in the mirror, HE walked in, gave us a weird look and proceeded to the loo. We were flabbergasted.

Me: ‘I cannot believe I even thought of befriending this guy! Look how shamelessly he walked into the ladies washroom! Did you see that look he gave us?’

Girl Buddy: ‘I KNOW’ !

Me: ‘This time he has definitely crossed the line! What an irresponsible CREEP! Jesus Christ!’

We exited the washroom in total disgust and burning with rage. Outside, our friends were waiting near the gate.

Me: ‘When did you all go to the washroom?’

They: ‘Where were you? We dint see you either..’

I turned and pointed to the washroom I just exited from, on which was written ‘GENTS’.

Somewhere inside me, my ego was burning to death. My friend who accompanied me to that washroom looked at me in horror. Others were obviously laughing their asses off. However it remained a well-kept secret even after I started dating the same guy who pissed me off so hard.  

We got married in 2008.

Later, as newlyweds we went to a friend’s wedding reception.

Me: ‘Going to washroom. Here, keep my phone’.

He: ‘For once, try going to the one written ‘LADIES’ ’.

 This post is a part of #LoveAndLaughter activity at BlogAdda in association with Caratlane.

How well do you know a Programmer ?

 

Image Courtesy: Here

If someone genuinely asks me what I do for a living I politely dismiss that conversation by saying ‘Software’. This response is so generic that it is like asking me what I had for breakfast and I say ‘Food’. Most people do not ask further questions or prompt me to get into details because who has the time for that, right?  Yes, there are exceptions when a random curious George wants to know exactly what I do. In such scenarios, I humbly reveal that I am a programmer. I get an ‘Oh wow’ or mildly appreciative looks from guys and ‘You Bitch’ looks from ladies. It makes me feel intelligent. I like that feeling. I never had this feeling when I was a student due to obvious reasons, so it is special.

Programmers are NOT nerds and our lives do not suck like it is perceived widely. I mean we are not as hot as the ones you saw in the movie ‘The Matrix’. No, I did not understand any part of that movie but we don’t wear leather body suits and kill people like they did. If you have a programmer friend here are some things you may want to know.

• A programmer never does the same type of work more than once. Every scenario and logic is different. Hence, they get easily bored unless something or someone is very spontaneous and exciting. We hate anything that is mundane.

• There is no rule book for any programming language. If an extra space or worse, a dot is typed into the code, the program gets pissed and throws errors as if we broke up with it. We handle super-sensitive tantrum throwing humans with ease.

• A programmer analyzes codes; they are hawk-eyed by default. They read between the lines. If you plan to date a programmer, pay attention to macroscopic details. Bro, she is going to find that stain on your shirt, unkempt nails and unpolished shoe and judge you on the first sight.

• They apply logic not only in their codes but also in their lives. No programmer ever got hitched to a politician.

• Programmers get mad when they are required to change a code that was already written and tested. We don’t like change.

• Once a program is saved without errors it creates a version in the system. So, if we don’t murder you even after you show your true colors, you have successfully created a version with us and you are special, my friend, truly special.

• Programmers have debugged a lot of errors, so they know all typical error types. This applies to human beings too. We never forget. If the programmer in question is a woman, then God help you.

• Writing a program requires patience and passion. We cannot hate our job and write a logically correct program at the same time. We are driven by passion. We don’t write a single line of code just for fun.

• Programmers have dealt with a lot of major disasters which were a result of trivial errors. Do not mess with us. We have the experience of deleting entire programs and make it look like it dint exist.

If you piss off a programmer, just know that what follows will be a CODE RED situation.

Hit ESCAPE ! 

Evil resolutions !

I realize we are in the third week of 2016 already, and my blog is still in 2015 waiting to catch up.  During Christmas holidays, I was supposed to teach my son a dialogue to be recited at his school Republic Day parade. Like the terrible procrastinating Mom that I am, I did not even read the dialogue myself. Of course I was and still am not a fan of mugging up stuff, and definitely not a fan of doing anything during the holidays. Well, teacher put a lot of pressure on me after, threatening to pass that dialogue to some other child. This is Kindergarten I am talking about, my friends, kindergarten.  Sigh. Let’s observe a moment of silence to all the Kindergarten toddlers who are going to be ripped off their childhood, teenage and youth by this overbearing pressure under the excuse of education.

Soon after, the dialogue was learnt, and teacher said all is well but the word ‘Republic’ did not come easy to my four year old. To be honest that is a word even I don’t get right in the first attempt. Many unsuccessful recitals with Replublic, Republi and Relublics later, it came. Republic Day. 

Man. I have double the count of hair on my head now as I tore apart each and every single one of them in the process. 

New Year also rang in good things for our living room, gadget wise. New speakers, woofer and Surround Sound have come so that now, there is literally NO ESCAPE. Hubby’s movies, mostly involving more missiles than people are now creating war zone right there and I can feel fighter planes chasing me to the bathroom. I think in everyone’s life, there comes a time to sing ‘Let it Go..Let it Go…Turn away and slam the door’. Mine is now. There has never been a more meaningful song.

Image Courtesy: Here

Now that it is the third week from New Year one can almost hear resolutions crashing down on Pizza Hut. This is why I told you, not to have any ‘pla’. I dint and still don’t have a ‘pla’ so nothing crashed apart from my plans of buying new curios for the living room. Now it is occupied with so much stuff that it has been impossible to walk around freely. The silver lining is, I don’t sleepwalk so the chances of me bumping into a speaker and dying are minimal. Possible, but minimal.

Mummy’s cakes that got delivered around the 20^th of December were finished even before Christmas so, now there will be a long wait before I taste another piece. Yesterday I called her on Facetime and she showed me a piece she was eating right in front of me without even feeling guilty about it. Evil, I say.  In return, I gave her a piece of err… my mind. Few minutes later, Papa also appeared and before asking me how I was, he said to Mom ‘Did you show her the cake?’.

Apparently my parents’ resolution for New Year is to be evil.

Unlike other resolutions, it is running successfully in its third week. 

GRRR.

I Have No 'Pla' for 2016.Thank You.

From a blogger point of view, the good thing about year-end is the mandatory ‘year-that-was’ post. I am extremely proud to say that this year was as unproductive as the years before. As I have not set any goals for myself, I have no scope for improvement or anything to achieve. Wow that line would be perfect in the ‘About me’ section of my resume. Who wouldn’t want to recruit me?

If eating a lot of food, mastering few new recipes, visiting a new country and making some weird friends count as achievements, then yeah, 2015 had indeed been a fruitful one.  Like every year, I came across people I’d never want to meet again but there is no other way we can come back to appreciate the people in our lives. There had been no change in my patience level, though. However, I did meet some short-tempered people who taught me that I am more mature than I give myself credit for. When Monica asked Phoebe whether she has any plans, Phoebe's epic reply really defined my whole existence. 

Image Courtesy: Here

When there is no plan and you don't even try, that is when life is enjoyed best. I tell you, we are not going to the grave with our updated resumes (I don’t know about you, but I can go freely because my resume went before me).

Never in my life have I set resolutions for New Year. If I feel I should lose weight I take necessary measures from that day. If I feel I should let something go, I sing the ‘Let it Go’ song from Frozen and annoy everyone(but don’t let it go). I do not wait for the first of January to start doing anything because I do not like to think of life as a project which has a kick-off date and a deadline. It is completely ironic to feel this way because I am a software person and I am ALWAYS somewhere between a kickoff and a deadline myself. Still, surprises and suspense are best enjoyed when there is no 'pla'. But there is a catch to that. When something comes our way, we have to make a decision.

Decisions. They are hard. No one ever escaped from decisions. Even a baby has decisions to make- mostly whether to keep the parents up at night or show some sympathy and go to sleep. It is mostly up to the baby. We have decisions of a different kind to make. Most of them translate into –should I be stupid or wise? Stupid always sounds great. Wisdom is painful just like the teeth it is named after. Anyone can advise but in the end, decisions are ours to make- which is why always stupid sounds great. Anyway, what is life without making stupid mistakes, right? In my case, how many mistakes is the question. I still have (N+1) to make before I start getting clarity about people in general. Well, what can I say? I actually met a colleague from my hometown who said he will bring stuff from my Mom as he was traveling back to Muscat on Christmas. Later when he reached here, he came to my house completely drunk, and even missed to give me the gift Mom sent to my hubby on Christmas. Later, I had to ask him about the missing item (which was embarrassing for me NOT for him apparently), and then I got the hint. After the whole episode, my family pointed fingers at me – How do you even find such people and make them friends? That requires a special skill you know?

I have friends, who are absolute gems. I don’t want to name them here, but they are there on messenger at 3 a.m. to listen to my rants. Then I meet people and make them friends and shit happens. End of the day one expensive Christmas gift sent by Mom to her son-in-law turned son is gone with the wind, thanks to my expertise in choosing friends.

I just hope 2016 is better wisdom wise. 

On a completely different note - All you 8 people who unfollowed my blog – what did I do to you? Please tell me! Of course, you unfollowed and are probably not reading this. I wish that the wrong people I met in 2015 meet you in 2016. Good luck! **evil laugh**

Happy New Year all MY READERS! May your year be full of fun, love and laughter! **smiling innocently**

Waiting for Santa!

December- when the living room mess becomes less noticeable as the Christmas tree stands tall and majestic in the corner. My living room has become jam-packed with stuff the existence of which has now become questionable. As if this is not disaster enough, it is during Christmas when there will be guests. Good luck all you guests. We will probably put your stuff under the tree. *Evil grin*.

My little one was very excited about decorating the tree that he was after me for putting it up from October itself. If only I had a nickel every time I said ‘No baby, the Christmas tree will be up only in December’ in various frequencies and wavelengths and tones and tunes all through November. So the first weekend of December, the enthusiastic Mom and son that we are, brought the box from the ruins and started tree building. However, my son was blissfully unaware of the pain part of it as he thought a fully decorated tree will knock the door, catwalk into the house and sit where it has to. I had a small discussion with the father and son that setting up a Christmas tree and decorating it involves effort, just like there is for cooked food on the table and fresh clothes in the wardrobe. Some feathers were mighty ruffled with that sentence as I got death stares and a collective walkout in protest.

When I opened the box and unpacked the tree which has a base, screws, and multiple bunches of leaves each having a code, corresponding code on the stem of the tree, and a user manual, the male members of my family had already vanished. Of course they will later invite their friends to see the tree and click pics alongside it, and pretend that they painstakingly built it from scratch, when I will royally stand in some corner like a complete loser. Story of my life my friends, story of my life.

*sigh*

Christmas shopping was a big deal when I was younger because that’s when we got new clothes. Well, nowadays it is a big deal if I don’t buy new clothes. When my son was younger he used to give me company during shopping. Now he is four, all man and can’t stand the sight of apparel stores. The Y chromosome, I tell you. It repels all things good, pretty and pink. Both father and son have to go to that video game store to stare at all the astronomically priced junk. I am like ‘Hey, I bought him snakes and ladders… Jigsaw puzzles, Ludo. …What is wrong with those games? They are cheap too. With this kind of money I could buy some gold you know’.

“Can you race in Ferrari cars with that gold?’ came the prompt response.

Image Courtesy: Here

 Of course, who am I kidding, right?
I just have to take it with a pinch of salt and hold on to my sanity just like I do when there are missing socks. No matter how branded they are, a pair cannot coexist. Then hell breaks loose. I always suggest buying cheaper socks. But, no. Socks have to be branded so when they are lost, you can look at the woman in the house and say punch dialogues like ‘It was a Hush Puppies sock!’ and loud sighs for dramatic effect.And women are considered to be drama queens.

Guys don’t care about any festival, birthday or anniversary. Everything has to be manly for them. How about a Christmas tree with a moustache and a beard? Will someone give me a hand then? If they are wearing a branded shirt, they will not dispose the trash. They will not temporarily put your phone in their pocket because it will make them look fat. They will never have a pair of identical socks. They will never agree with you. They think you are responsible for everything that goes missing. They look at you like you are secretly running a high-security personal website to sell their stupid junk stuff. End of the day, they say that women are complicated.

I can actually see my son’s vocabulary changing with inspiration derived from his Appa.

Past:  ‘Amma where did you put my green crayon’?

Present: ‘Amma where did you MISPLACE my green crayon?’

Future: ‘Where the hell is my green crayon?’

This Christmas, if Santa asks me what I want, I am just going to ask whether I can accompany him.