Finally it posts, it posts!*does drained bhangra*

I used to love flying in planes as a kid, now I'm shit scared, a lot of it because my favourite show is NATGEO investigates air crashes and one silly tube rubbing seductively against another causes a crash landing. Ufff. During air turbulence I'm still liable to shed a few secret tears from the eye facing the plane window (I always book aisle seats, in case of crash I want them to see through shutters and save me FIRST).Contradictory to popular literary opinion I have never been imbued with the feeling of the immortality of youth post 12 years of age. It's a wonder living in the glamorous war zone that is Khi and that too on the Other Side of the Bridge I've turned out as well as I have. What I do like about airports though is walking out of the passenger lounge, I feel so charitable and magnanimous because I'm responsible for the 500 megawatt smile of face-of-person-who-has-come-to-pick-me. (Except when I was constantly making one day trips between Lhr and Khi at which point Munchie would not even bother to enter the premises on foot, just drive up, Jamila Bond 007 style and say "Get in already".)

I have started work and the first day I just faded away into an orange whimper because there was nothing to do. After my one hour orientation, I worked for a while in my boss's office and then gradually fell apart with boredom as time passed. I was arranged in various pieces on the sofa when accidentally (given how there was no coordination in my body from lethargy) I dropped crushed face powder on his mint new two seater. I jumped up, tried to brush it off but it GOT INGRAINED IN THE FABRIC. Horrified, I hopped madly to the bathroom, came back with fistfuls of leaking water, flung it on the sofa to no avail. Then I espied with my ittle wittle eye a water cooler on the table next to the two seater and doused the sofa with a whole glass of water, drank some, picked up my stuff and rushed to the computer lab with great poise (doing the I'm-doing-nothing-but-I'll-have-you-know-I'm-still-fantastic walk that I perfected at Unilever). I waited until I thought it had dried and then walked back to sit on my boss's seat (he was a in a meeting with the Sindh Minister for something) and practiced Swiveling as if it were an extreme sport. Doing nothing is more exhausting and draining than working. I was so bummed out, I didn't even have the energy to play with my new lappytoppy. But today has been good work and definitely new stuff learnt. I think it's because I had a fantastic Dunkin Donuts breakfast.

Khalas (for King: maternal aunts) create soothing gardens in life. For me Punjabi is a beautiful language because my childhood has been spent in drowsy laps of aunts (I have mashallah five khalas, wait I have to count again, yeah, six sisters including my mum) gathered for till-2 a.m-does-us-part conversations the conclave of sisters had every summer and winter vacations when they got together, sitting spaced around and on a double bed in the air conditioner/electric heater's temp pool distributing mismatched mugs of steaming milky tea and random snacks from nimko to rusks. The cadence of that language and the laughter of my aunts just grows most precious with age. It is such bullshit that memories only come in retrospect. I think that's why I'm addicted to tea, I rarely care if its Twinnings or Tapal (but I will not stand for the shit that is Yellow Label Lipton and 'tis true ever since our family has switched to Tapal, Lipton seems to be in trouble). So my little khala is here and she is neurotic. I think she may be in love (well at least I hope) and I wish she would hurry up ant tell me about him so I can investigate and see if he is Sahibay Jaidad (possessor of fortune etc) and can fund my further education.

I love Nat Geo. Ever since I've got a TV and cable in moi room, daddy likes to come and sprawl on the double bed to watch TV instead of watching it in the living room. I was watching some cheetah kills and Baba got so damn upset it wasn't even funny. He kept on watching with fascinated eyes and kept saying "woh dekho, yay us ko bhi kha gaya. He gets them every time!" and shaking his head and looking genuinely upset even while I insisted its not the same damn cheetah, these are different clips. In the end I just switched it to ARY ONE "the only bleeping South Asia channel" live in Beirut. That harassed guy was irritating me with his constant reiteration of ONLY CHANNEL rhetoric, but marketing whatever, so live and let live. Encounters with the wildlife are thus limited to being harassed by monkey-wallahs on the road, who desperately want their chained simians to do a "salam" for me. Talk about privatization of public gestures. And like fast food franchise clowns, these monkeys scare me. We had stopped for a snack on the wayside post-MI3 viewing at the Cineplex and this monkey came GAMBOLLING from afar. I interrupted Beeny's story with a gasp and immediately rolled up my window glass.

Beeny: "You freak! What's wrong with you?"
M: "Look at that Monkey!! It's scrabbling over the car."
"So? It's not going to do anything"
"Rubbish. It wants to touch my privates"
"Jesus"
"I can see it in its eyes"

M reads Worst Book of 2005-2006

I finished reading one of the shittiest books I’ve read in a long time. It’s so vile I feel a public responsibility in warning people about it. It’s called the “Mistress of Spices* by Chitra Bannerjee. This is going to be the lastessssttttt time I ever judge a book by it’s name or attractively packaged cover. Had I been less of a book addict I may have taken the time to read the utterly insipid gruel of a blurb on the back but I just wanted enough books to make myself eligible for a Saeed Book Bank discount card (this being the shopping trip where I was chased from aisle to aisle by a good-looking Afro-American chap, an opinion I changed rapidly after his intense peering from the other side of the same aisle startled me into falling on my ittle wittle butt). It was the only rotten apple in my cart (the book, not the guy, I don’t shop for boys.Yet) and I am thoroughly disturbed at spending my meager gold coins on it. Retail therapy gone wonky. The book was AWFUL.AWFUL *closes her eyes and lets the spasms of horror pass* I knew it would have some claptrap about immigrant sadness (because that is every eastern author’s cash cow) but dear God, I’m not picky about plot lines, if you throw me a good one, fantastic, but if you don’t and if your writing style is good enough to synapse scenescapes in my head, I’ll still drink to you. The book was peppered with zabardasti kay (forced) metaphors, ailing language, inadequate vignettes but I finished it inspite of the writing and storyline because an unfinished book is a sad ass book and liable to upset the books it’s housed with. I’m going to try and pawn this book off at the second hand old book shops.

My library is burgeoning as ever Mashallah. I really want to get my hands on a hardback of the Chronicles of Narnia (I only have paper back here) and all of Joan Didion’s books. Adnan helpfully sent me on a whole spree of Lahore outlets of Ferozsons searching for “The Year of Magical Thinking” by Didion because he said he espied with his silly, obviously misguided and inebriated eye a Didion amidst the books somewhere there. Also want Sylvia Plath’s poems in ONE BOOK. Also want want want want froufrou of first editions in my library. They make for such dreamy, precious gifts. Want, wantier, wanting, wantingest = def. Unbearably constipated state of wanting.

Bookmarks I have used
1. Daewoo tickets
2. PIA boarding card flaps
3. Tapal chai cards (you know the ones that are used to firm the top of Tapal tea packs?)
4. Tissue paper, toilet roll (probably the worst, get compressed easily, can’t indicate the place of marking to save their lives)
5. Mickey Mouse bookmarks
6. Embroidered bookmarks (pink one with red clover leaves on it)
7. Steel-like rectangular bookmarks
8. Torn newspaper corners
9. Barrettes (most effective, because they open directly you pick the book)
10. Jafferjees leather jade coloured bookmark, with my name lettered in beautiful gold letters (a present from a very understanding ex, one which I have lost, and all of a sudden I’m VERY UPSET about misplacing it)

Bus, bahut ho gaya. I must look for it.

What Zidane said

If only rejoinders won a match. When Matarezzi grabbed Zidane’s shirt, Zidane had turned around and said “if you really want my shirt, you can have it after the match”. LOL. Matarezzi plagued by memories of neglected childhood and school kids calling him scrawny took this to be “super arrogance” so he shot back with an insult. He says though he didn’t say anything about dirty terrorism, or mothers (because “for me mothers are sacred”). Italian lip readers say it was about sisters. It looks like an issue that Ankh Morpork would have considered headlines. (Incidentally he also said the only terrorist in his life was his 10 month old daughter). I wonder if Zidane ever intends on giving his statement. For the record, for all those out there slighting Zidane for not being big enough to come out on the field post match, a red card disallows any entry on the field including one to receive a cup or medal.(I think, I am not a pro on football, only on Zidane).

While I was stuck in the traffic on Shahra-e-Faisal, resting my head on the door frame and staring glumly at the white corolla in front, the first bomb blast went off in Delhi. Loss of 160 lives. People rushing towards trains and platforms to help out passengers. It makes chilling sense to have two bombs in place then if aim is life loss. The first takes the standing, the second takes more. It’s a curiously sub-continental trait, to rush towards the incident rather than away from it. One gives you perfect logic without moral responsibility and the other is absence of logic overwhelmed with moral responsibility.

While Singaporeans mourn the lack of protest (I would love to get a hold of Mr. Brown’s blog, that primed the government to suspend his printed columns), in Sindh alone the last six months have registered 2816 forms of protest which makes up around 15.14 sctivities of agitation per day. I wish they had given the cause of each protest too, I have a sour feeling that it may just be factions in a party bandying around. O vell. Statistics.

Went to Havana, smoked a cigar I didn't like, I hope B has a better choice next time and downed two large caramel lattes at Espresso. Lovely Espresso man got me Jazz from somewhere while I tried not get annoyed with Septimus in Mrs. Dalloway.Desperately wanted to steal the burnished, Hobbit like wood signs (I think they were to do with golfing) from Havana but the attendent would not leave the B and me alone in the basement for fear we might ruin his comfy leather sofas with torrid sex. Sheesh. In my head right now, I'm choreographing a dance to Pussycat Dolls "Buttons".

M does World Cup Final.

First half I was on Italy’s side. By the second half my brother had called Italians chutiya enough times for me to feel that France was more deserving. Plus they all looked liked they had walked out of old age homes anyway so naturally since I always back the underdogs my sympathy went up. When Zidane was red carded off I wanted to sit in his lap to make him feel better. (For the record it is a tactic that works with most people). Totti was as hot as ever. Liked him better with long hair though. I want to know what Materazzi said that pissed Zidane off so much that he would do butt him. He’s known to be a thinking player. Maybe that’s what worked against him. The Italian goal keeper, I forget his name, something like Buffoon looked like he was playing naked until I put on specs and then saw a pale piss coloured uniform.

What I don’t get is why the French offensive side was plagued with the disconcerting ratio of at least two blue shirts to one white. There would have been goals if only there had been someone to pass the ball to. Bro said French were too old to risk letting down their defence. I love them is-still. Italians looked like Pakistanis (except for Totti the hottie), the kind who stand around in Liberty and throw their phone numbers through car windows. I don’t care what people said. Zidane went out with a bang. I refuse to call it disgrace.

I finished Swallows and Amazons somewhere near the penalty shoot out. Today I will go choose a new book to read. Finally the summer vacation I wanted- sleeping late and reading books in gorgeous windy weather and watching The Simpsons DVDs.

Uff.

This is not what this post was supposed to be about. But I’m dying in bits and pieces inside. I hate periods. I hate the pre and post period feeling but at least there is no physical mind numbing pain. I am cramping so badly I kept phasing in and out of the interview. And on the way back father o’ mine is making incisive analyses such as “It’s very strange. You used to have this pehlay also. Thank God as old as your mother and I am we have never had such bad stomach aches.” All this while not once did he suggest I should see a doctor. And yes I know my mother had relatively painless periods. Whatever. So I’m not that lucky. I miss my girls so badly. Whenever the squirts hit with the bulldozing pain, they would pamper me, cuddle me, tuck me in, feed me loads of goodies and Brufen and Buscopan and Ponston. This sucks but has also been as usual moment of revelation and thankfulness. I love Always. I love God for putting in the idea that a soft surfboard is what a woman is most comfortable wearing. Nothing beholds, obliges, enamours one woman of another like the lending of a sanitary napkin in dire circumstances. Great networking tool. Plus ten points for P&G. Minus twenty for Unilever and weird ass thingies like Feminex. Feminex is like wearing a pillow for a horse. I die I die I die. Little ugly blue fairies called Nac McFeegles are rubbing chillies in my uterus. I’m going to @#$@#%$*&(* their armpit hairs. No exercise helps. Actually it does. I just remembered. Post Insiya’s wedding dance-marathon the squirts hurt less. I should spend less of time in the development sector and more partying. The other only good thing about periods is not having to say prayers for at least five to seven days. It’s such a relief to be able to go around without this nagging feeling you’re going to be struck down by a falling transformer. My mummy-wummy has made me tea and biscuits and a tikor bottle is upcoming. (The thing about homecoming is I don’t have to pay for food. I am no longer a poor student. Now I’m just poor) I think I’m going to adopt fetal position and watch the Simpsons. Munchie, Poput, Minchka, Saroo, Batool and Zehra- I miss miss miss you. May the Sisterhood of the Web live long (but I hope the “Web” part of our name is jettisoned in a hurry).

PS. Back in school girls used to have such funny names for the squirts. “Aunty aeii hain”, “Friends are over” or “Chums are over”. If you have to be euphemistic you may as well be creative like “I’m surfing the crimson wave” which is also very graphic and hence cool like totally. Suggestions are welcome.