These are a few things to help those well-meaning or inquisitive or trying-to-help-to-heal-people out there. The following points may help you all. In future when talking to divorcees or twice or thrice-married people, please carry a print out of this.
My kids were always viewed with suspicion whether they were gonna do drugs or drink or run with the wrong crowd or hang out at some street corner. Why? They came from a broken home. Broken home = broken kids. I haven't defined this, society has, for years.
If my kids were half an hour late or fared below average in a paper, it was put down to "trauma from divorce" and I took home the award for "Bad Mother of the Year". Oh cos kids from undivorced homes all stand first, eat their veggies and are home before curfew and are in bed before the boogey man hits the streets.
If these divorced kids have transitioned in style and wear clothes of the current trend, short dresses or tiny shorts or a crew cut then it's put down to rebellion but the kids from normal homes are just fashionable. (From now on, am going to refer to the two as divorced kids and normal kids, I know you are wise enough to distinguish between the two).
If my kids go on to land a great job, it's greeted by "I hope he sticks to it and does not mess it up". A normal kid, well he's gonna become the next CEO of the company or maybe president of the country. If a divorced child is silent in polite company or socially then he's depressed or has withdrawn and needs counselling: a normal child is possibly trying to revise the Pythagoras theorem.
A divorced girl if she has a few relationships then she's either looking for a father figure or just a plain slut and a normal girl "Oh my Lordy, she's so popular". Oh yes the mother of all is "they too may get divorced" since that's what they've grown up with and will have relationship issues, like divorce is a disease you contract from your parents! And yes, even after 6 or 7 or 8 years you will be asked socially "so any news of your ex-husband? Is he in touch with your children?" Seriously!!!! If I wished to be in touch with him I wouldn't have divorced him.
Why is bad behaviour met with excuses. Sorry, I raised my kids to respect everybody and speak with kindness so what's the excuse for rude, bratty, undiscliped kids from undivorced homes???
Today am standing up for kids who come from divorced families. Don't look upon them with suspicion, trepidation or stare at them. We parents don't constantly need validation on how well we've raised them, and they don't need validation on how well they've turned out. We don't judge you normal people. The kids are only divorced, they haven't grown a tail!
Monday, November 16, 2015
Sunday, November 15, 2015
Coffee
I am excited about going to sleep so I can wake up to that perfect brew. I can smell it. Shut your eyes and smell the coffee with me....Now you may continue reading. I need my quiet while I follow my morning ritual of spooning my dark coffee and just a table spoon of milk. Exceed that spoon of milk and I am visibly upset. I should be able to see the angry shade of wet earth on a rainy day in my mug and smell the beans.
Am not sure if am partial to any particular brand of coffee, it should just be a dark angry brown. Hate the flavoured vanillas n berries n strawberries. Why deconstruct a perfect creation. Hate the typical coffee available at Indian roadside spots, canteens and in offices. It's over-boiled sweet milk with coffee flavouring : positively nauseating. The coffee culture does not really exist in India except for the south; the filter Kaapi decoction or the typical chickory-enhanced concoction at the roadside carts.
I am not a fan of an Espresso, it's too bitter for me. I like them dark not black. Now that was not meant to be racist. Putting a disclaimer as in this age of being politically correct... to get back to the perfect dark I tasted - it was on my flight on Thai Airways from Bangkok to Hat Yai near the Malaysian border. It was nirvana when I had the first sip of coffee. I had to sip again to be sure and third time for the gastronomic orgasm. Yes coffee does that to me. I called the sirhostess and asked if she could tell what brand of coffee it was. Initially she seemed a bit worried thinking I was going to complain about poor service but I had to assure her that I wasn't; when convinced, she only smiled but didn't say anything. She either didn't understand or maybe it's a national carrier secret "do not reveal how to pleasure our customers with coffee".
A brief period in my life I had to give up coffee for 15 days. The first thing I requested on my return was not a bath or a hairwash. It was the perfect brew of dark coffee. The first sip brought a flood of tears, the second sip a prayer and the third was me, one with my coffee. I am ok about drinking a cappucino if nothing else is available, though I tend to stop at a sip or two and push the cup away. An expensive waste. I think it's for the pseudos. When at a restaurant I always order my coffee black, milk and sugar on the side. I like building it myself. There's a certain pleasure in giving birth to each cup rather than just a premixed. Oh and the coffee sachets, they should absolutely be banned!!!
Am not sure if am partial to any particular brand of coffee, it should just be a dark angry brown. Hate the flavoured vanillas n berries n strawberries. Why deconstruct a perfect creation. Hate the typical coffee available at Indian roadside spots, canteens and in offices. It's over-boiled sweet milk with coffee flavouring : positively nauseating. The coffee culture does not really exist in India except for the south; the filter Kaapi decoction or the typical chickory-enhanced concoction at the roadside carts.
I am not a fan of an Espresso, it's too bitter for me. I like them dark not black. Now that was not meant to be racist. Putting a disclaimer as in this age of being politically correct... to get back to the perfect dark I tasted - it was on my flight on Thai Airways from Bangkok to Hat Yai near the Malaysian border. It was nirvana when I had the first sip of coffee. I had to sip again to be sure and third time for the gastronomic orgasm. Yes coffee does that to me. I called the sirhostess and asked if she could tell what brand of coffee it was. Initially she seemed a bit worried thinking I was going to complain about poor service but I had to assure her that I wasn't; when convinced, she only smiled but didn't say anything. She either didn't understand or maybe it's a national carrier secret "do not reveal how to pleasure our customers with coffee".
A brief period in my life I had to give up coffee for 15 days. The first thing I requested on my return was not a bath or a hairwash. It was the perfect brew of dark coffee. The first sip brought a flood of tears, the second sip a prayer and the third was me, one with my coffee. I am ok about drinking a cappucino if nothing else is available, though I tend to stop at a sip or two and push the cup away. An expensive waste. I think it's for the pseudos. When at a restaurant I always order my coffee black, milk and sugar on the side. I like building it myself. There's a certain pleasure in giving birth to each cup rather than just a premixed. Oh and the coffee sachets, they should absolutely be banned!!!
Friday, October 30, 2015
Sidewalks
I want sidewalks without the slums, the smells, sights and utter hopelessness of poverty staring at me every time I step onto the broken paver block pathways. I don't have anything against the poor. My heart goes out to their plight, but I want my sidewalk. Maybe sidewalks with flowerbeds and treelined like in the Hollywood movies. I want to walk along the beach without worrying about the laschiviousness that greets my clothes. I want to stand alone and stare at the sea or the long winding road without wondering whether the men think am there to be solicited.
These are the worries I face as a middle class Indian woman. I have to battle for walking space outside the square foot I call my home, as the pavement belongs to the slum dwellers and the skies to the moneyed. So what do I own in this city. My small 800 square foot. I am not allowed anger against the system 'cos am constantly reminded to offer thanks for small mercies and that at least our system is better than that of a few other countries. Like that's supposed to make me feel happy or safe. Yes I must also pay my taxes, but for whom are these taxes, yes to build the sidewalks.
They've now taken not just the sidewalk but also my street and I drive almost apologetically on it. Oh yes, now that I have a car I need to be careful about driving on the road so that the ones who live on my sidewalk can play, dance, sit and sleep on the road on which am supposed to drive. Yes, forgive me if I happen to interrupt their sunday game or evening slouch on the pavement with a cuppa in their hand, sorry, how silly of me for not being a little more vigilant about the leg stretched out on the road while slouching on the pavement and having an animated conversation with the neighbouring slum dweller.
For if I've run over them or nudged them with my car for no fault of mine as I definitely were not drinking. Am met with glares and groups who may take out rallies against me for being so insensitive. When I walk past their homes they stare at me angrily, a look of how dare you covet our space, go find your own, and a look of defiance when there's anger writ large on my face when I have to sidestep the mound with flies hovering over it or the puddle of wasted food from dishes washed on the sidewalk or peoples discards.
I want this city as I too belong to it as I cannot walk down the Altamounts, Woodehouses and Breach Candys. I get shooed away by the security who actually live on these sidewalks. I haven't come to gawk or steal, I just want to stroll in the shade or smell the flowers but am not allowed here either. So where does this forgotten middle-class woman walk?
These are the worries I face as a middle class Indian woman. I have to battle for walking space outside the square foot I call my home, as the pavement belongs to the slum dwellers and the skies to the moneyed. So what do I own in this city. My small 800 square foot. I am not allowed anger against the system 'cos am constantly reminded to offer thanks for small mercies and that at least our system is better than that of a few other countries. Like that's supposed to make me feel happy or safe. Yes I must also pay my taxes, but for whom are these taxes, yes to build the sidewalks.
They've now taken not just the sidewalk but also my street and I drive almost apologetically on it. Oh yes, now that I have a car I need to be careful about driving on the road so that the ones who live on my sidewalk can play, dance, sit and sleep on the road on which am supposed to drive. Yes, forgive me if I happen to interrupt their sunday game or evening slouch on the pavement with a cuppa in their hand, sorry, how silly of me for not being a little more vigilant about the leg stretched out on the road while slouching on the pavement and having an animated conversation with the neighbouring slum dweller.
For if I've run over them or nudged them with my car for no fault of mine as I definitely were not drinking. Am met with glares and groups who may take out rallies against me for being so insensitive. When I walk past their homes they stare at me angrily, a look of how dare you covet our space, go find your own, and a look of defiance when there's anger writ large on my face when I have to sidestep the mound with flies hovering over it or the puddle of wasted food from dishes washed on the sidewalk or peoples discards.
I want this city as I too belong to it as I cannot walk down the Altamounts, Woodehouses and Breach Candys. I get shooed away by the security who actually live on these sidewalks. I haven't come to gawk or steal, I just want to stroll in the shade or smell the flowers but am not allowed here either. So where does this forgotten middle-class woman walk?
Saturday, October 17, 2015
Deaf But Not Mute
Have you noticed how people do not listen to you or do they not hear you? Let me explain. Hypothetically, you talk about how your child does not toe the curfew line of 8:30pm and how you've set the slate right with a chat about the perils with grounding. You were affirming about having handled the situation well from problem to solution.
Now when you've introduced this subject as part of your conversation or tete a tete, it was not you whining, complaining, not a question, not a conversation starter, but there you have the wisest Magu or Rafiki (though I love and respect Rafiki) of the lot tell you (and I hear condescension) how to handle the situation with.... "If that doesn't happen, your child will get raped, molested or will become a drug addict or will become a waster and not succeed in life...."
All things you had already advised your child about (How to raise a family, how to succeed in life monetarily, how to socialise, how to be married happily ever after) - Noooo! but they the sermonisers hold the tablets and have written the commandment. And yes you must balance all these with a simple mind, simple measures.
You start talking to the Magus or self-appointed wise ones, you think you have them in rapt attention while your talking as they are looking at you - or are they looking through you? What gives them away is when they repeat everything you've just said as the solution to what they think is you announcing a problem.
Hey! that's exactly what I just said; so did they not hear me? All you are doing is stating, but you will promptly be given the SOP manual on how to handle the friend or gardener or maid or spouse and pretty much everything else.
Why do people not pause and listen? Like when you tell your spouse "Oh! I ate that cake at Rita's, now my jeans don't fit!" Promptly a head appears with a voice following "Who told you to eat that cake...!" I know I didn't need to eat that cake but it was staring at me, I just need a silent, patient hearing.
Oh well I've been guilty of this with the kids; all their banter and mishaps - which have been gracefully handled by them - is followed with sermons and stoic expression..
Now when you've introduced this subject as part of your conversation or tete a tete, it was not you whining, complaining, not a question, not a conversation starter, but there you have the wisest Magu or Rafiki (though I love and respect Rafiki) of the lot tell you (and I hear condescension) how to handle the situation with.... "If that doesn't happen, your child will get raped, molested or will become a drug addict or will become a waster and not succeed in life...."
All things you had already advised your child about (How to raise a family, how to succeed in life monetarily, how to socialise, how to be married happily ever after) - Noooo! but they the sermonisers hold the tablets and have written the commandment. And yes you must balance all these with a simple mind, simple measures.
You start talking to the Magus or self-appointed wise ones, you think you have them in rapt attention while your talking as they are looking at you - or are they looking through you? What gives them away is when they repeat everything you've just said as the solution to what they think is you announcing a problem.
Hey! that's exactly what I just said; so did they not hear me? All you are doing is stating, but you will promptly be given the SOP manual on how to handle the friend or gardener or maid or spouse and pretty much everything else.
Why do people not pause and listen? Like when you tell your spouse "Oh! I ate that cake at Rita's, now my jeans don't fit!" Promptly a head appears with a voice following "Who told you to eat that cake...!" I know I didn't need to eat that cake but it was staring at me, I just need a silent, patient hearing.
Oh well I've been guilty of this with the kids; all their banter and mishaps - which have been gracefully handled by them - is followed with sermons and stoic expression..
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
What's Desirable
Is the structured that is considered the norm for beauty, or is the variance in the unity of beauty what makes it beautiful?I don't have the simple answers but it's the standard unattractive that I consider attractive, actually sexy, or rather something that I want to possess and make mine.
Is it only me that sees the beauty in the unobvious? A misshapen object, not fired to the absolute in the kiln and instead letting nature warm it and taking a shape of its own, is like a man that does not fall into the standard tall and handsome category, which actually makes it more appealing.
Is it because his beauty is more dimensional than like the object which is sharp-lined, fired and hued right. The standard beautiful is just so boring, desired by all, its beauty is not sharpened by life's blows at a young age through rejections for being considered short, ugly, too thin, gangly, too much of a nerd.
Every rejection is a scar. Each scar is a story, a conversation. Time is what moulds these objects, with weathering they become the most beautiful objects, but one needs to spend time to look past the obvious physical flaws. How is it that what I possess, suddenly becomes the object of desire?
Is it because my discerning eye has seen what was after all, so obvious, or do only some like me have the gift to love that which others consider ugly but will want it only when possessed by someone else.
Is the misshapen vase more desirable only when it sits on my mantlepiece?
Is it only me that sees the beauty in the unobvious? A misshapen object, not fired to the absolute in the kiln and instead letting nature warm it and taking a shape of its own, is like a man that does not fall into the standard tall and handsome category, which actually makes it more appealing.
Is it because his beauty is more dimensional than like the object which is sharp-lined, fired and hued right. The standard beautiful is just so boring, desired by all, its beauty is not sharpened by life's blows at a young age through rejections for being considered short, ugly, too thin, gangly, too much of a nerd.
Every rejection is a scar. Each scar is a story, a conversation. Time is what moulds these objects, with weathering they become the most beautiful objects, but one needs to spend time to look past the obvious physical flaws. How is it that what I possess, suddenly becomes the object of desire?
Is it because my discerning eye has seen what was after all, so obvious, or do only some like me have the gift to love that which others consider ugly but will want it only when possessed by someone else.
Is the misshapen vase more desirable only when it sits on my mantlepiece?
Plastic
Amino collagen, Glutathione, CoQ10. No these are not antibiotics for a female thrush or dengue or made-up malady. These will help retard my ageing. Or so am hoping. Or so I’ve been convinced. Or so it’s been prescribed to me at the innumerable clinics where each pop makes me poorer by quite a few notes.
Post 40 we can be sold anything. From breasts to butt to thigh gaps to rhinoplasty (not the animal but the one that will rest on your face). Now don’t go thinking I’ve enquired about the following or subscribe to them. Just seen the effects on a few acquaintances. Would I consider them, possibly if I were brave enough.
My social life as of today is rustic and simple. My days are spent scouring the vegetable markets in worn linens and the evenings at the gym so I can score with panna cotta when it rears its head in my very vivid imagination at 10.40 at night watching the latest on the flat screen. So why bother wasting the precious when nobody’s there to ogle and go googley eyed and get slapped by spouse, girlfriend or whichever status is on the arm for staring too hard at the enhanced.
Ok. I toy with the idea of botox every morning when I raise my bed-head hair after brushing my pearlies to look into my mirror and see frowns, lines, nebula lines, crowsfeet. Terms I’ve Googled. Am the latest derma quack in my social circle. I even dole out Derma Wisdom over a glass of red (I sound more convincing after 3 glasses).
See, I told you earlier I do not have much to do these days, so I spend all my time on medical sites convincing myself and my family members that with every sneeze and rash its cancer or ebola or plague. These illnesses visit only my family. Ok am digressing. So botox I’ve struck off the list as after the third botox visit I may be approached to play Joker’s Sister in the Indian Batman version.
How about an enhancement? I could do with many inches - though my husband convinces me otherwise, saying “I love you anyways, Darling”, am sure its more out of insecurity that I may look better than him. A good enhancement costs about 5 lakhs a pair, well I could buy a pair of diamond studs too with that. Now honestly, which will be more visible. It’s all about the visual. So I shall sleep over this one on my stomach, which is my preferred position. See now with the enhancement, that would be impossible. There we go, let’s strike that off too.
With my ample thighs, the pounding and beating the treadmill seems to take under my red Nike trainers seems to be of no avail as the bulk stubbornly stays there. Now what purpose is that gap supposed to serve? With that much less fabric, reduce the cost of the outfit, let the breeze through, give me a clearer view of the person behind me. Let me know if you find the answer to that. That was not on my list anyways.
I’ve even considered sticking cello tape on my eyelids like the Koreans. I’ve asked my husband countless times and other pot-bellied male friends who display their belly with pride like we women do our toned bicycle-ridden thighs. Could I wear a sloppy t-shirt, yes with a belly the size they sport, with a pair of cargo shorts? And will we be loved the same? If we do, can we also be assured that they will have eyes only for us when a pair of long pins struts by with boobs that precede her entry and looking all dewy-skinned?
Hey, after all I too had pins and dewy skin once; not the orange peel and open pores the size of craters now. Ok so am I going to age gracefully? Yes, I shall embrace it.
{All Images (except those belonging to me) are sourced from the Internet and used for representational purposes only; these images are the property of their respective owners and no ownership is claimed over them}
RTI (Right To Indulge)
"One-two-three Squat! one-two-three Lunge! one-two-three Stretch! The shouts from my trainer, inspite of my groans and protestations about unwilling muscles and advancing age. Gym-scarred, I return to Buckwheat, Quinoa, Matcha. They are not my children's names. They are what you will find on my kitchen shelf.
Does this sound like am living the happy life? All the pain I subject my body to, in the pursuit of happiness, which I believe I can achieve only if I'm healthy and young. You're right. Denying the simple pleasures of a sinful burger or pasta. Every fourth day that I cheat on buckwheat with burger is with fear. Praying my love handles don't catch me out. The next time I fork that pasta into my mouth is with trepidation, hoping my non-existent thigh gap does not choke further with asphyxiation.
My parents never walked on a treadmill a day in their life, yet they've remained slim. When my parents visit they ask if I would like to join them for an evening of roadside junk, I pause and think of the red dress. I decline with my head hung low and go to my cupboard to feel her sinuous fall. Then go the fridge and pull out a buckwheat and quinoa salad and a glass of matcha and settle down to watch Jane Fonda spread her leg out wide above her head.
Yes, the simple pleasures I could have indulged in and had a one-evening stand with junk. So why am I putting myself through this rigour? Is it because there's a deep, dark conspiracy between the nutritionists, buckwheat companies and the government. Maybe I need to file an RTI application.
{All Images (except those belonging to me) are sourced from the Internet and used for representational purposes only; these images are the property of their respective owners and no ownership is claimed over them}
Does this sound like am living the happy life? All the pain I subject my body to, in the pursuit of happiness, which I believe I can achieve only if I'm healthy and young. You're right. Denying the simple pleasures of a sinful burger or pasta. Every fourth day that I cheat on buckwheat with burger is with fear. Praying my love handles don't catch me out. The next time I fork that pasta into my mouth is with trepidation, hoping my non-existent thigh gap does not choke further with asphyxiation.
My parents never walked on a treadmill a day in their life, yet they've remained slim. When my parents visit they ask if I would like to join them for an evening of roadside junk, I pause and think of the red dress. I decline with my head hung low and go to my cupboard to feel her sinuous fall. Then go the fridge and pull out a buckwheat and quinoa salad and a glass of matcha and settle down to watch Jane Fonda spread her leg out wide above her head.
Yes, the simple pleasures I could have indulged in and had a one-evening stand with junk. So why am I putting myself through this rigour? Is it because there's a deep, dark conspiracy between the nutritionists, buckwheat companies and the government. Maybe I need to file an RTI application.
{All Images (except those belonging to me) are sourced from the Internet and used for representational purposes only; these images are the property of their respective owners and no ownership is claimed over them}
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Friends or Lovers
Been chatting with the world. Why is the word "friend" scary. Do friends really exist. By friend I mean the sort that you can discuss your darkest secret and not be betrayed, I have been guilty of that and lost my closest friend.
By friend I mean whom you can chill with and talk trash with. Now if it were a guy, would it be possible. People confess that such relationships exist, none in my world, maybe cos I send out more mating signals than the back slapping sort. Can the ones I have slept with be converted? Nah!
I know a woman who has had a great sexual relationship with a man and now has one of the best friendships with him. They discuss everything that crosses their path and can go on to even discuss their new love lives and have decided to grow old together as neighbours. I envy women who have platonic relationships with men, especially if they are both good looking. Would they be tempted at some point I wondered? Always different conclusions. Maybe either is not attracted, or they are attracted at different points or are wise enough not to confuse the two and mess up something great like a true friendship.
I don't know. You tell me.
By friend I mean whom you can chill with and talk trash with. Now if it were a guy, would it be possible. People confess that such relationships exist, none in my world, maybe cos I send out more mating signals than the back slapping sort. Can the ones I have slept with be converted? Nah!
I know a woman who has had a great sexual relationship with a man and now has one of the best friendships with him. They discuss everything that crosses their path and can go on to even discuss their new love lives and have decided to grow old together as neighbours. I envy women who have platonic relationships with men, especially if they are both good looking. Would they be tempted at some point I wondered? Always different conclusions. Maybe either is not attracted, or they are attracted at different points or are wise enough not to confuse the two and mess up something great like a true friendship.
I don't know. You tell me.
Middle-aged Teen???
My 17-year-old borrows my clothes not because it's vintage fashion. People my generation listen to their music, hang out at the places they consider cool enough, my kids and their friends think we are swag (post 2014 introduction) enough to hang out with. They invite their friends to our parties but we do not do it in the reverse. I watch the latest reality TV soaps the kids watch. By this law, we are still teenagers living in middle-aged bodies battling sagging everything.
My generation suffered a huge parent gap, I think the gap now has diminished and at most times does not exist. Look at the careers we are choosing today. I know a lot of people post 40 are giving up their corporate jobs to pursue a life chasing that elusive dream, or go off the grid or travel or paint or start an eco-farm or just plain retire. Something my parents and their previous generations would have frowned upon and thought as courting monetary suicide. Isn’t that what we tell our kids today, “Don’t take that sabbatical!”, “Get a Job!”, “You’re already 21, time is passing you by”, but hey, we are doing that at 40.
I think we teenage adults don’t want to grow up. That’s why the surge in botox clinics. Not letting go of the short skirt I wore when I was 25, doing everything, even denying myself that piece of red velvet or spoon of panna cotta. Are we creating a future generation that will suffer from image issues because of our obsessions with being perennially young and being seen at the hippest clubs though they now play only EDM and trance and rubbing shoulders and back slapping our kids’ friends?
We are falling in love twice, thrice, four times, searching for that elusive love as we grew up on a diet of fairy tales and happily ever after. The very fairy tales and nursery rhymes that today are being retold in dark avatars, so dark they have an 'A' certificate. We are denying our kids a hearing of those very Grimm Brothers fairy tales. Like a child in a candy store refusing to share and saving it all for himself. So who’s actually the teenager...
Pic credit : http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2622489/Pushing-100-chic-Meet-fashionable-stars-new-documentary-challenges-conventional-ideas-aging.html {All Images (except those belonging to me) are sourced from the Internet and used for representational purposes only; these images are the property of their respective owners and no ownership is claimed over them}
Monday, September 14, 2015
Mom, You Don't Get It!
I disappeared from the Wordsworth and words worth scene for a while as I’ve settled into wedded bliss- well second time around. Older – desperately trying to fight that, more mature- hopefully, promise not to make the same mistakes- do we ever follow through?
Things have changed, I am not in charge of my life anymore. One almost adult with barely-there whiskers and few hairs on the chest and another mid-teenager control my existence now. They know everything from sex to sin to wrong. Ask them anything about right and they will convince us what’s wrong about right. Well right aside, what’s wrong about what the kids of today convince you is their right style which is so wrong according to social diktat.
Now I’ve not laid down the diktat, it's been in existence forever, being tweaked by every generation in certain degrees. Just the bar is being raised ridiculously higher. Now my pet peeves are “Chill bro”, “What’s your deal Ma”, “YOLO”. Those are just expressions. Shall we slide into body language, ignoring you as they are having a bad day - which happens to be every few hours - or yes, “Love you and thank you for bringing us into this world” so that they can shout to me (as they are convinced am a little deaf) thank you for all the designer clothes and trips abroad and providing them with individual bedrooms so they can leave us wondering and worried whether we will be early grandparents inspite of our strong protestations.
I am actually exhausted with my belligerence, but hey I have just begun my rant, thank you Mr. Blog whoever –you-are-that-started the-blog-page, so other parents can read this and not feel alone. I am on my second marriage and countless relationships later, I still (according to my barely-there whisker and older and almost-teen) know nothing about love, lust and gender issues, as these issues have evolved with science or Eminem or whoever or whatever has had a greater impact. Watching Vampire Diaries off late and Sunny Leone who’s been given so much of print mileage, am convinced its not science.
I am not a prude, am considered highly fashionable and pretty risqué with my clothes choices post 8pm and yet I question the choice my almost teen wants to adorn her ears, nose, toes and other body parts with either no clothes or metal or whatever objects Rihanna and Izzy seem to be paid to sport. It’s a battle ground between father (yes he’s father for them - nurture wins over nature!) and five-times-pierced-teenager, as to why he’s not convinced by garters, thigh-high boots (which he calls “hooker boots”), she disagrees with raised eyebrows “Seriously??!” tone et al, and 3 button-open-shirt-with-cravat to a party which ends by 4 or maybe 5am. I sheepishly stay out of this as I have planted a few seeds of fashion in her head.
I know what you did last summer, do you know what I did this summer greets me as I walk through the door with my travel tote and suitcase. It sounds like a mild threat. She informs me, not seeks permission, that she has expressed her teenage philosophy about religion on her right shoulder blade in the High Valyrian script. Coming back to my peeves, it’s the curfew they dictate, and that they will be dropped home by some pimple-faced-scrawny-gelled hair-jeans-below-the-butt-crack-with-a-ghetto-swag-Goa beads around the neck-and 3 and 5 piercing on each ear, I’ve missed the one on the tongue punk home. That’s what’s wrong about the right or normal that I don’t seem to see or find with this generation.
Maybe my parents were too peeved over my torn jeans and cut off sleeves and coloured-scrunched-washed but uncombed-fingered-curls-hair. Choosing my career which was not banking or medicine or engineering, choosing the boy I went to marry and regret. I have just paused to sigh and remember my mother say, when you become a mother, you’ll see.
I had convinced myself that a generation gap does not exist but, based on the above rants, maybe a thin line does. So do we adapt, do we try to understand, walk in their shoes, I doubt that’s gonna happen as I do not see myself with 5 piercings or wearing garters or listening to Eminem or walking down with my pot-bellied, white-goateed, respectable-looking husband wearing beads with butt-crack showing jeans.
So I shall continue to find fault with the choice in careers : DJing, fashion blogging if that pays, long sabatticals to find themselves, choice in clothes and yes getting home well past curfew, which I would ideally like it to be 10.30 and God knows what else that I am not privy to. And as my son so rightly convinces me, "its how I want to live, it's how you perceive it".
Things have changed, I am not in charge of my life anymore. One almost adult with barely-there whiskers and few hairs on the chest and another mid-teenager control my existence now. They know everything from sex to sin to wrong. Ask them anything about right and they will convince us what’s wrong about right. Well right aside, what’s wrong about what the kids of today convince you is their right style which is so wrong according to social diktat.
Now I’ve not laid down the diktat, it's been in existence forever, being tweaked by every generation in certain degrees. Just the bar is being raised ridiculously higher. Now my pet peeves are “Chill bro”, “What’s your deal Ma”, “YOLO”. Those are just expressions. Shall we slide into body language, ignoring you as they are having a bad day - which happens to be every few hours - or yes, “Love you and thank you for bringing us into this world” so that they can shout to me (as they are convinced am a little deaf) thank you for all the designer clothes and trips abroad and providing them with individual bedrooms so they can leave us wondering and worried whether we will be early grandparents inspite of our strong protestations.
I am actually exhausted with my belligerence, but hey I have just begun my rant, thank you Mr. Blog whoever –you-are-that-started the-blog-page, so other parents can read this and not feel alone. I am on my second marriage and countless relationships later, I still (according to my barely-there whisker and older and almost-teen) know nothing about love, lust and gender issues, as these issues have evolved with science or Eminem or whoever or whatever has had a greater impact. Watching Vampire Diaries off late and Sunny Leone who’s been given so much of print mileage, am convinced its not science.
I am not a prude, am considered highly fashionable and pretty risqué with my clothes choices post 8pm and yet I question the choice my almost teen wants to adorn her ears, nose, toes and other body parts with either no clothes or metal or whatever objects Rihanna and Izzy seem to be paid to sport. It’s a battle ground between father (yes he’s father for them - nurture wins over nature!) and five-times-pierced-teenager, as to why he’s not convinced by garters, thigh-high boots (which he calls “hooker boots”), she disagrees with raised eyebrows “Seriously??!” tone et al, and 3 button-open-shirt-with-cravat to a party which ends by 4 or maybe 5am. I sheepishly stay out of this as I have planted a few seeds of fashion in her head.
I know what you did last summer, do you know what I did this summer greets me as I walk through the door with my travel tote and suitcase. It sounds like a mild threat. She informs me, not seeks permission, that she has expressed her teenage philosophy about religion on her right shoulder blade in the High Valyrian script. Coming back to my peeves, it’s the curfew they dictate, and that they will be dropped home by some pimple-faced-scrawny-gelled hair-jeans-below-the-butt-crack-with-a-ghetto-swag-Goa beads around the neck-and 3 and 5 piercing on each ear, I’ve missed the one on the tongue punk home. That’s what’s wrong about the right or normal that I don’t seem to see or find with this generation.
Maybe my parents were too peeved over my torn jeans and cut off sleeves and coloured-scrunched-washed but uncombed-fingered-curls-hair. Choosing my career which was not banking or medicine or engineering, choosing the boy I went to marry and regret. I have just paused to sigh and remember my mother say, when you become a mother, you’ll see.
I had convinced myself that a generation gap does not exist but, based on the above rants, maybe a thin line does. So do we adapt, do we try to understand, walk in their shoes, I doubt that’s gonna happen as I do not see myself with 5 piercings or wearing garters or listening to Eminem or walking down with my pot-bellied, white-goateed, respectable-looking husband wearing beads with butt-crack showing jeans.
So I shall continue to find fault with the choice in careers : DJing, fashion blogging if that pays, long sabatticals to find themselves, choice in clothes and yes getting home well past curfew, which I would ideally like it to be 10.30 and God knows what else that I am not privy to. And as my son so rightly convinces me, "its how I want to live, it's how you perceive it".
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