Caped, Winged and Gorgeous

You're in bed after a hard day. 

You've surfaced before the muezzin did. 

You got 3 meals defrosted, cooked, packed and dispatched by the time the early bird sashayed by looking for that elusive worm. 

You yanked, pulled, threatened and howled the fruits of your loins out of bed, into bathrooms, down stairs, into uniforms, fed to the gills and out the door. 

You smiled a professional goodbye; the kind that lulls the aforementioned defendants into the belief that your heart breaks the minute they walk out the door. 

You stand in the sudden silence that the exodus has strewn in its wake. 

You make that cup of coffee, grab a newspaper and head to your favourite chair. 

You sink in and move your hand abstractedly looking for the furry head that will nuzzle into it and fit and you thank God for you've been endowed with:

12 pairs of arms [Kali ain't got nothing on you]

20/20 vision [and not just in hindsight]

Bat sonar hearing [can hear the premonition of doom in pin-drop silence and react accordingly]

Telepathic skills [can foresee the future and can always be relied on to say "I told you so"]

Multi-compartmentalized brain [got the rice on a timer, the milk on the boil and the dhobi at the door and none of it will faze you]

Mean chef skills [can take one single ingredient and pimp it up in 10 different ways. Case in point: ragi porridge quickly gets called blancmange!]

A doctorate in all juvenile medicine [blood, gore, guts, phlegm...you can mop up the lot ad nauseum]

Selective hearing [any tone that sounds remotely whiny is muted in seconds]

Cast iron stomach [can wipe a runny nose or the effects of a runny stomach in the middle of a meal and go right back to it without any loss of appetite]

Eyes at the back of your head [because that's the coolest thing about you - makes you a bit of a monster]

You, my dear, are a super star.

All your poor sod of a husband has managed to do in the same time frame, is dangle out a sorry finger, in a weak attempt at pressing the snooze button on his alarm. 

Time to swish that cape across your shoulders and get scarce before that strong sample of masculinity you married needs to get babied

My Kingdom for a Clavicle

Ever since I started doing my humungosaurus impressions, [and I've been doing them for the last 4 years] the first thing I notice about people are their clavicles.  The sight of a set of one can drive me to immediately start pushing pudgy digits into the vague direction of my neck [since my neck and chest are one homogeneous unit, you can appreciate the dexterity the task demands] desperately searching for mine.

Rationally, I know they exist, [how else can one explain the fact that my torso hasn't folded up on itself - and no - it's NOT my gravity-defying stomach that's multi-tasking here] But rationality has precious little to play when visibility is non-existent.

So, I find myself back on familiar territory - A territory I visit with alarming regularity every Monday morning [Can't seem to start my week on a Sunday yet, despite of having lived in the sandpit for almost three years now] The hunt is on! I WILL get those reticent bloody critters to come out and assert themselves, if it kills me [which they won't, if I continue to live in and around the feeding trough, as is my wont]

Since the territory is familiar, the journey itself is like second nature:

Any given Wednesday

• The buttons on my jeans won't come together [not if I want to be clothed and breathe at the same time] 
• Fingers and toes are looking decidedly well-fed
• I've taken to being air-conditioned by the refrigerator [to heal the pain]
• Depression has settled in nicely - The same cannot be said for the 6 samosas that were consumed as a light snack

The Thursday from hell

• Pulled out my pregnancy pants because can no longer wear aforementioned jeans, since have just had a bath. [Jeans of those intimate proportions can only be worn when both themselves and the blimp they are clothing are dirty. When either is freshly washed, they seem to exhibit outstanding opposite polarity and repel with great gusto]
• Catch glimpse of myself in the mirror. Walk away. Come right back and do and Amitabh Bachchan from Amar Akbar Anthony and give mirror self a right royal dressing down
• Feeling supremely insulted and consequently invigorated
• Spend the months entire internet package ogling at Youtube fitness videos and Before and After miracles
• Spend the rest of the day ignoring gainful employment, immersed as I am in putting together the fitness schedule that will drop 22 kilos in 2 weeks
• Eat copious amount of Romaine Lettuce and other such profanities
• Slept fitfully [due to starvation]

Friday Fabulousness

• Killed it at the gym this morning! [Porcine impersonators on adjacent treadmills were shooting daggers my way]
• Orated ad nauseum at work today on the fool-proof fitness plan I've collated myself. I should really consider becoming a television evangelist given the awed speechlessness of my audience
• Turn down three plans for drinks for the weekend. Feeling superior and sanctimonious at the same time
• Ate dinner in the bathroom as inhuman family [can't believe I gave birth to two of those monsters wolfing down spaghetti bolognese!] was gushing over their repast. 
• Screw them!. I'll be laughing the hardest when I'm fit and fabulous! In fact, I'll start practicing now
• Husband knocks on the door wondering if I've misplaced my sanity

Saturday Sucks

• Nothing to report. 
• Unable to get out of bed owing to muscular paralysis from left ear-lobe down

And on Sunday God rested

• I'm nothing if I'm not religious
• Got down on my knees [walking is barely an option] and vowed that I will begin Monday. 
• Laughed at self for being sooo idiotic as to start a diet mid-week!. Which congenital idiot does that?
• Husband finds me at my usual haunt in the cheese tray of the fridge and passes some smarmy comment. I shoot daggers at him [while making mental note to bash bash his smirking head against nearest wall once arm has stopped throbbing] while looking for that fabulous herb butter I bought last week

Monday and all's well

• Clearly, I didn't mean this Monday! I obviously meant the first Monday of the month

Anyone got a good Biryani recipe? Give na?

One tight spanx!

The LBD is a travesty.

It is designed to clothe a woman who is little. I'm not. I was. That is the past. 

The LBD in my case, forms a tight fitting sheath for my left thigh. Think crepe bandage and you've pretty much got the idea.

Of course getting into that LBD became my raison d'etre for the foreseeable future

Spoiler Alert: From this point on, this little piece of prose is a Greek Tragedy

I tried the Spanx [such a friendly name for a medieval instrument of torture methinks] I spent 22 minutes behind the flimsy curtain in the changing room [ I suspect they don't build doors in these Spankvilles because of the high mortality rate behind those doors from embarrassment about the inability of being able to get out of one, once one has managed to pour yourself into it in the first place] I didn't have that problem [that's mainly because I'm a problem solver by nature and chose to not even try to get out of it] I merely minced out with my legs joined from hip to ankle [I was killing the Ariel look] since the Spanx prevented even the suggestion of me having 2 limbs. I was torso on trunk, so to speak. I met the sympathetic look of the salesgirl who wanted to know if the Spanx fit. I blushed prettily [the blush came from the fact that my entire blood supply was north of the Spanx - for those of you who grew up with Tintin, I was exhibiting  Bianca Castafoiresque proportions] and breathlessly rasped out that I loved it so much, I didn't even bother to take it off. She nodded sagely as she swiped my card and I slithered [I'd clearly moved from The Litte Mermaid look and was now doing Ana-the-conda] from the scene of my defeat.

If it weren't for the fact that the blood was ringing in my ears, I cant quite be sure, but I suspect there was some serious guffawing and desk banging accompanying my egress.

Make that two tight spanx!

I'll cough through it all

Have you ever noticed, that when someone reports sick.. for work or play and they do it over the phone, it does not really matter what they are the victims of.. cholera, malaria, diphtheria, a strange Alaskan bug... it always translates through the phone as a strange laboured cough and a hoarseness in the vocal chords that defies definition. 

An average conversation would go like this:

Hell..cough cough..hello?.. er.. I'm doing quite poorly... I don't [long pause for some serious lung expanding coughing] think I'll be able to come in today.

With an eyebrow that is firmly entrenched in my hairline [which, since it's receding only serves to illustrate how far aforesaid eyebrow had to travel to meet fellow-strand in disbelief] I ask: What exactly is the problem? 
I am immediately treated to a text-book audio sample of a terminal case of bronchitis through which I have barely managed to catch the word 'Myalgia'

Myalgia my a**! 

Using a strategically placed napkin to sop up the dripping sarcasm that is threatening to drench the side of my shirt, I inquire politely [side note: If I'm polite, you're in the crapper] 'What kind of Myalgia are we talking about?' I manage to decipher the phrase 'the indeterminate kind' from what is now the sound effect of someone going through a particularly rabid death throe [thought I had just made that word up, but for some reason the wriggly red underline for an incorrect spelling hasn't turned up - which only goes to prove that someone thought that word up before me -  Oh well!] 

I let out a big sigh [which my lungs do quite noiselessly unlike my phone friends-es] and say the only thing I can; When you do recover from what is looking like a fatal affliction and manage to get back to work, I'll be happy to make that indeterminate Myalgia fairly localised to somewhere just below your coccyx [of course that was the subtext] What I said aloud was 'Get well soon'


PS:

To those of you in the know, you know. To those of you who don't, I'll save you a quick trip to Google and tell you that Myalgia is medical jargon for pain; plain and simple. 

COME OUT COME OUT WHEREVER YOU ARE...

What is it about the hunt for the best pieces of meat from the meat and potatoes [and the other hidey-holey vegetables the cook puts in to throw you off] dish? 

You stand over that table, at the top of  what could be best described as a loose queue.. or a serpent caught mid-writhe.. You are in the middle of a conversation with Mrs.‘Hakoba-lace-petticoat-peeping-from-accordion-back-split-skirt’. You are discussing, how, while you agree that writing screenplays for the hindi film industry, does not quite constitute writing as such, it must figure somewhere as it IS a series of words strung loosely together with some effort at conjugation and punctuation. She looks at you in shock at your stupidity in even attempting an argument with her [and I must admit that almost anything she says makes you want to say 'but aunty..']. I look at the meat dish in front of me like manna from the gods.. playing its dutiful role as a conversation steerer. "Ooh!. Beef chilly fry! Its my favourite", I say enthusiastically, knowing full well that the cook is her sister, Mrs. ‘Slightly-opened-lace-curtains’. She predictably stops trashing my literary non-skills and attempts to see if I will attach suitable action to my declarations of love. Will I do justice.. or is it merely another bandying about of the word 'love'?

Now, here we have a real problem.. If this was my mothers beef chilly fry, it would matter not a whit, how long and assiduously I labored over getting the choicest pieces on my plate.. but this is a landmine.. The challenge is to serve myself enough to justify my excitement, while at the same time surreptitiously avoiding all the waste-of-space pitfalls of potatoes, carrots, big green chillies [tcha!..not spicy, baba!] and potatoes… all inserted into the recipe to create bulk and disguise the fact that only a half kilo of beef has actually been used. 

She stands breathing cuticura and eau de cologne at me as she peers at my plate. I can almost see her counting the pieces of beef I have taken. But I’m onto her and am actually quite a pro [ask my long-suffering sister, Christine..].. I can pick out the best pieces and cleverly hide a few under concave capsicum squares, the entire operation conducted at  lightening speed, which belies the fact that  I have won all the best pieces!.. How do I know I’ve won?.. As I walk off, I can almost see the next person now being forced to bend from the waist and peer into the dish to find a piece of meat.. any piece of meat.. any size.. something.. anything... to make the other little piece of meat on their plate get less lonely. 

Pre-emption and the dry tush

I was actually in bed.. tucked warmly into my artificially darkened bedroom, the bedroom with the brown polka dot saggy curtains [Saggy, because I got Mohanlal, the local ladies to tailor to make them, and he made them like he makes his clothes... saggy] ..... happy and content.. because I was doing what I did best.. what I wanted to do best.. what I truly excelled at.. my afternoon nap[Sleep, actually] .. and trust me, you would have to look very very far and very very long to find someone who can marathon nap, all the way from 1 to 4 every afternoon anywhere remotely south of 70 years.. I can sleep with the best of them octogenarians. 

Where were we?.. oh yes!. Sleeping.. It is now the unearthly witching hour of 2 pm.. when all excepting mad dogs and Englishmen are meant to be rapidly moving the eyeballs, and I find myself wide awake. Why, you may ask?.. Rational enough question really.. I find myself strangely diurnal, because my 2 year old big fat [A self-nomer, I assure you] is snuggled up next to me in my brown polka-dotted cave… without a pamper on.. Now any mum who has been awoken from the risqué places that she visits at will and without censure, by the gentle spreading warmth and slightly ammonic smell from the toddler next to her knows.. that what starts off as gentle and warm in an airconditioned atmosphere, will fairly soon[Read as immediately]  turn into icy wetness that reeks like a public urinal. So I’m up actually as a pre-emption.. because quite frankly if Maia doodi[Yet another self-nomer] wants to wallow in her own wetlands.. well.. what can I say?.. the rank stupidity of youth!.