Dating life episode one: No means no.

Gah. I leave off blogging for a couple of days and then stories happen which I just have to blog about. It's strange really, how these things just happen. It's like I attract wierd stories or doings more than other people. Or maybe they happen to other people too, and I'm just the only one to write about them?

Anyway, I've recieved quite a few emails, NOT with confessions, like I had hoped, but from people who claimed to know who I "really" was. And to you guys, it's very nice and all, that you have figured out the woman behind eM, but please, please, I stay anonymous for a reason. If I truly wanted the world to know who I was, I would blog under a real name, but since I don't (because whatever little anonymity I have allows me to blog as freely as I want to) I would appreciate it, if you kept all Sherlock Holmes-ing to yourselves. Tell me about it, sure, but isn't it more fun to keep guessing who I *might* be?

Enough of that, on to my story. I went out with this guy I met recently--Dody-- yesterday, to a noisy little pub. We were just meeting up for a drink, I thought it might be fun to expand my social circle a little, and since he seemed to want to spend time with me, I naturally felt a little flattered.

Dody had just returned from out of town and so, to make polite conversation, I asked him how come he went. "To help my girlfriend..I mean, fiance, move house," he replied, seemingly oblivious to the look of shock on my face. Okay, so maybe I had read too much into the situation. He evidentally wasn't hitting on me. Good going, eM, I thought grimly, when did you become so egotistical that you thought every boy who asked you out for a drink was interested. But something still didn't feel right. I mean, I don't know whether it's okay in some circles to go out alone with a woman you've met maybe once before for a drink and still be only interested in a platonic relationship. I always thought that the simple act of asking someone out ALONE meant you wanted to explore the romantic possibilities. Anyway, I was rather relieved, when the bruises on my ego began to fade, because this meant I could relax and not bother about whether to impress or not, because hell, he had a fiance for fucks sake.

So we discussed K, who apparently was a friend of Dody's, and a couple of other common friends and professional acquaintances. And we discussed movies (his favourite: Fight Club. My favourite: Reality Bites with Magnolia a close second) and books (his most recent: Eats, Shoots and Leaves. My most recent: Incredibly Loud and Extremely Close) and music (his preferred genre: hip-hop. My preferred genre: Alternative). And the evening seemed to be going pretty well. He showed me a new tattoo on his forearm, we talked about the difference between champagne and sparkling wine and it was all going swimmingly well.

Then, regretfully, because I was having a nice time, I decided to leave. It was getting rather late, I had had two drinks and the place was empty. I didn't see anything amiss when he asked me whether I could give him a lift home, I mean, he lived right there, right?

So I dropped him and we did the whole socialite two-cheek-kiss thing when suddenly I realised that two cheek kiss was turning into a full-on mouth kiss, with tongue. "Um.." I said, smiling nervously, "I don't think this is such a good idea, I mean, you're engaged and all." "Live in the moment," he breathed, trying to cop a feel. Instantly Robot Woman emerged and I clamped my hands on his, prying them away finger by finger. "I DON'T feel comfortable with this," I barked. "Oh, c'mon, you know you do," he said grinning at me. "Um... not so much. And I have to go home now, goodbye." He refused to listen to me, until, like manna from heaven, my phone rang and I have never been so happy to hear from my mother. "I gotta go," I said, shaking a little, because it truly sucks, sucks, SUCKS to feel physically weaker than someone. For the first time in my life, I hated being tiny and skinny. I wanted to be huge, to be overpowering, to be like Lara Croft. (Actually, no, I've always wanted to be like Lara Croft. Now that woman is hot!)

Anyway, so I left him there and went home and felt a little sad, because if this was what dating life was going to be like, I'd much rather be single. And every other guy I've been with has known to stop when I say stop. Why do guys do this? And he probably thinks nothing's amiss, that I'm just being a little flirty, not realising the extent to which he's freaked me out.

There's this myth about women, that when they say "no", they really mean "yes". Well, guys, I'm sorry, that's not true. No means very simply, no.

The tables turn

I'm bored.

I want to be entertained.

For a while, I've run out of exciting stories, so here's a fun idea: email me some of your most confessional moments and I'll put them up here. C'mon, please? It'll be such fun! And you can remain anonymous if you want.
Coz I'm going to recharge my blog batteries for a bit, till I come up with some very good stories to write about.

Anyway, if you're in, email me at thecompulsiveconfessor@gmail.com

Ooh, please? :) *makes Bambi eyes*

ps: if you're not in and you still want to know what's going on with me, go read High Fidelity and listen to Macy Gray's I Try. That should sum it up for you.


UPDATES:

Yay! The first one's in, this one by Swinging Scab, who by the way, I've been admiring from afar for a while.

How about compulsive confession of the day? So I subbed this lady's copy about a fashion designer and thought I'd spice it up a bit, so added bits here and there, and put in a line on how her clothes were made for '24-36-24' perfect bodies.

Everyone passes the copy and then the Deputy Editor scans it and comes out and asks shyly (he's an elderly man), "Aren't these proportions a little unusual?" So of course everyone just DIES laughing and I wanted to dissolve in embarrasment, but chose to keep shut...so now everyone thinks the contributor (it was a freelancer) is really silly. :p

Okay, now that was what I call a wicked confession :) SS, are you planning on owning up anytime soon?

Every hour of every day I'm learning more

While I'm waiting to update my last post (which can only happen when you WRITE to me) here's something I wrote that you might like. I wrote it tonight, thinking about my life, as I do often, listening to music, my cigarette smoking busily in the ashtray.


I grow older and I learn.

I learn that Chicken Soup For The Soul was right all along and kisses aren’t promises. Or handcuffs.

I learn that sometimes, even though you’ve been brought up to be very honest, sometimes, you have to be quiet about the truth.

I also learn that telling the truth is sometimes the toughest thing in the world, not for the consequences you will suffer but for the expression in the eyes of someone you love.

I learn that it’s not okay to cry, that being truly adult means being able to let a painful lump form at the back of your throat and smile at people and interview others and file stories, like a normal day.

I learn what it’s like not to think only of yourself, how to consider other people. I also learn to think only of myself and how to act in self-interest.

I learn happy things too.

I learn that the fur behind my dog’s ears, especially just after she’s had a bath is unbearably silky and soft and I want to curl up and live there.

I learn how to put on eyeshadow, without looking like a paint-by-numbers experiment.

And in baby-steps, in just-about-crawling, I learn to very slowly unclench my fists and let go. I learn how to take deep breaths, but still feel happy at the brilliant hot white sky, at the pool of sweat forming in my bra, at the fact that the goddamn birds are chirping, that I’m driving with the windows down, that I’m having an interaction with my friends, that I’m flirting and being flirted with, that I’m alive, no matter how cliché that sounds.

I’m learning.

A Visualisation Exercise (subtitle: Oh Say Can You See)

Why I ask myself, am I, a reasonably intelligent, reasonably attractive young woman, with no obvious psychopathic tendencies, still single? I don't even know if it's by choice or compulsion anymore. Sure, I meet men who seem to be interested in me, but there's always something lacking, something that doesn't match up to Mr. Designer Stubble Guy who's in my head.

My Daily Romantic Horoscope For Singles (yes, I admit it freely, I subscribe to this, it gets delivered to my inbox every day) said this today: When's the last time you made a list of exactly what you're looking for? A delicious equal, someone who understands your independence, a smarty-pants, someone exotic -- clarify your hopes and watch it happen.

Okay, I said to myself, my way sure as hell doesn't seem to be working, let's depend on the stars shall we? So here it is, forever recorded for posterity, the list of things that I want in a man. (Completely self-indulgent, I know, but hell, I am a compulsive confessor after all. You knew that before you started reading this post. So I can't help it if some of my posts are a little more cringingly self-absorbed than the others). Right, back to topic. Here goes:

1) I want someone who 'gets' me, who knows what I'm saying even when I can't articulate it.
2) He should be charming, intellegent and funny--but should know not to hide behind humour.
3) He should be kind to people and to animals and be able to intuit what a situation needs.
4) It goes without saying that he should be well-read, with an excellent vocabulary and a repertoire of literary allusions.
5) Actually the most important point of all: he should love me and need me, but not be needy, he should make me feel appreciated and appreciative.
6) He should be someone of independant means--but not on either the very rich or very poor extreme.
7) Also, he should have an independant lifestyle, not being too dependant on his parents or his friends or on me to provide what he lacks.
8) He should be able to understand that my job is demanding--that it leaves me with only so much free time and not whine about it.
9) And yeah, location-wise, preferably he should live somewhere that's not too out of the way.
10) Hmmm.. I think I've got it pretty much covered.. oh wait! He should know that while I like spending alone time with him, I am, by nature, a social creature and need to go out with the people I care about at least once a week, preferably with him.
11) And how could I forget--he should be a really good kisser too :)

I think eleven is about all the universe can handle now! It's a pretty hefty request I know, but I have great faith in these visualisation exercises (you better be right, damn Astrology.com!). Of course, if any of you know anyone who you think fits the bill, send 'em along, okay? : )

I think I'm ready to get back in the game, baby. Wish me luck.

There ought to be clowns..

Yesterday Devyani and I toddled on by to a friend's birthday party. Ragini, the friend in question, is someone I have known for years--her mum was friends with my aunt in Hyderbad and when she moved to Delhi, became friends with my mom. (I believe sharing friends is something that siblings do.) Anyway, so I've seen Ragini growing up, she's always been someone I feel intensely fond and protective of, being three years younger than me and an incredibly sweet person.

When she was in class four or five I think and I was lording it in my newly acquired teens I told her wisely, "Don't worry, by the time you're in the seventh, you'll have a boyfriend. I guarantee it." She looked at me a little sceptically--having a boyfriend wasn't something she was particularly worrying about and I suppose at nine or ten, you don't really care. We spent hours making crank calls and fudge and revelling in that only-Indian pecularity--the family friend. Someone whose parents you called 'Aunty' and 'Uncle'. Someone who wasn't "really" family, but who had been around for long enough to know yours. Someone who was always invited to birthday parties and otherwise boring gatherings. Even now, when we go to her house for dinner, Ragini and I quickly say we're going outside to take a walk and bond, sneak into the park and smoke a forbidden cigarette.We share clothes sometimes--actually more accurately, I borrow hers, because she has the best wardrobe ever! We talk about boys and our lives, and I enjoy the role I have with her, the older, wiser advice giver, with the whole 'woman of the world' aura that I like to exude.

Ragini used to be a plump little girl, pretty enough, but without any remarkable features. I will never forgive her for growing up so much hotter than I could ever be--seriously, she's tall, slender, with very long straight hair and since she's grown into her face--everything looks proportional and all. I give up being hit on when she's around, because even though she's pretty much blissfully unaware of it--she is the object of much male attention. And the other problem is that she's so nice!

Anyway, so Devyani and I went for her birthday party and after weeks and months and years of beign nearly the youngest or being treated as the youngest at gatherings--I felt really old. Here were a bunch of 19 and 20 year olds, all with very baggy low-waisted jeans, you know the kind that you yank down just enough to show your pelvic girdle and then fasten with a belt? I own a pair myself, but mine aren't quite so baggy, or quite so pelvic-showing. All these PYTs (note the subtle way I tossed in PYT and got away with it) also had very shiny, very straight hair and like you know those horror movies where the person's face goes from young and nubile to old and shrivelled up in an instant? That's exactly what happened to me. I could feel the wrinkles--pop, pop, pop--and crows feet and old bones and hurriedly I made myself a drink. And then Devyani and I lurked in a corner drinking and talking about how we too had thought we were so old and wise when we finished third year college.

You know, I do a strange thing when I'm at parties where I don't know anyone. I sort of look around to see if I can spot me, or anyone who used to be me in the groups. I find a strange sense of recognition when I see someone, obviously not one of the most popular girls, who is clowning around or looking for approval. "That used to be me!" I think and then I want to go over and put my arms around the girl and tell her that ina few years, she will be a wonderful unique person and weirdness will gave way to 'quirky' which is really a much prettier word. I whispered this to Devyani yesterday and looking around said, "I can't find me." She scanned the room too, "I can't find me either." "Ooh," I said, an a-ha moment dawning, "Perhaps you and I were like you know unique products! And that's why we can't find us." She looked at me pityingly for a minute and then smiled, "I just don't think we're at this party." "Oh," I said, now feeling a little sad, "We weren't invited." She patted my arm and we continued to watch one really hot 19 year old boy getting jiggy with it.

Isn't it rich, isn't it queer
Losing my timing this late in my career
But where are the clowns
There ought to be clowns
Well, maybe next year.
--- Send In The Clowns from A Little Night Music

Heavy Petting

Never again complain that my posts are few and far between. This is the third daily post I have put up, and as you can probably tell--I have a lot of free time on my hands! (Not really, it's just that these days I've been waking up earlier than I normally do, which gives me some time in the mornings).

Today, I want to talk about my dog. Her name is Cookie, short for Cookie Monster (I used to be a huge Sesame Street fan). But she's not blue. She's golden actually--cookie coloured with floppy ears and eyes that beseech you to love her and want her and give her some food. She always looks like she's starving. I'm serious, the cocker spaniel blood in her has given her the most melting eyes you could possibly imagine. (Spaniels and labradors, people. Never trust their eyes).

Cookie is a one-family dog. She hates strangers, especially strangers who look like they're scared of dogs. Them she has a little party with, barking her head off and making mock-nips at their ankles. And of course, she never listens to me. (But then no-one does. I bet if I have kids I'm going to be the kind of mom who will hover over them hopelessly, going, "Please do your homework? Please? Mommy needs her vodka, now!") She will listen to my mom though. (Again, everyone listens to my mom. Even the hopeless internet guys who think it's fun to fuck with me and cut off my internet connection for days on end. Everyone that is, except me!)

Cookie actually started out as my dog. We got her when I just returned from boarding school--in class 11, and a colleague of my mother's happened to mention that his spaniel had just had puppies. They also had a mean tempered mongrel, who had sired the kids, but said my mom's colleagues, the puppies had all thankfully taken after their mother. Cookie was the runt of the litter, the littlest one, so their family had kept her for a couple more weeks till after all the rest were taken. And, my mother's colleague was a little afraid that his family was getting attached to her and he sure as hell didn't want three dogs in his house.

The summer prior to that, Doogie, my lovely mongrel with a labrador face had died. She was constantly out and about, having much sex and getting pregnant--so fast, that each time we took her to be spayed the vet said it was too late, because she was already "with puppy". She died of toxemia, very suddenly one summer and I had made up my mind that I didn't ever want another dog. "Just go have a look at this one," my mother said gently, "We need another dog, it'll be fun." So I went, with my dad and Leela, just to have a look, mind you, nothing else, because no other dog could ever replace Doogie. And then while we sat in the living room, I hardened my heart when in trotted a powder-puff on legs. I cannot explain to you how adorable she was. Her fur was incredibly, heart-meltingly soft, it dissolved under your fingertips. And her little mouth opened in the most perfect yawn--her tiny salmon tongue curling for just a second. Hard heart be damned, I thought and picked her up and she licked my knee.

We took her home, amidst tearful goodbyes from her family and danced attendance around her. I wanted to call her Biscuit, I remember, but the name was shot down and so Cookie it was. I remember she refused to eat for the first week, even the Cerelac that I painstakingly prepared. And at night, she'd sleep in a box next to my bed and I often woke up around three am, to hear her whining and lift her into bed with me. (My mother wasn't too happy about that, because many mornings there's be a little puddle on the mattress). I even gave her middle-of-the-night feeds and not be able to function the next day, because I had stayed up for so long.


Before long, we realised she had quite a feisty spirit. Attempts to cuddle her for too long would lead to violent pupy-snarls and nips, which really hurt much more than you'd expect because they have these little-little needle like teeth which nip into the tenderest areas of your body. Your toes for instance. We'd be sitting, watching television, and then without warning the Attack Puppy with Super Teeth would latch herself onto your big toe. Not a pretty sight. She was also teething, so all shoes had to be kept well out of reach or relinquished to her domain.

I guess it was when we moved that she really became my mother's dog. I loved her and all, but the hand that feeds and not the hand that plays is the one that most dogs are loyal to. She looks upon me as a rather annoying sibling, if my mother and I are fighting, she gets most upset and starts jumping at me, snapping and going, "Shut yo mouth before I bitch-slap you!" Nowadays, the one person above all that she loves is our driver/cook and she will say hello to him before she deigns to talk to us.

I've always had a dog, I can't remember one point in my life where I had no pets. There was Bobo, my alsation in Trivandrum, a cat called Catso we had in Nizamuddin along with a beautiful pure-bred spaniel who died as a puppy of silent rabies. (We all had to get shots, even my friends who couldn't resist Puppy's charms).I even had a couple of rabbits, a parakeet who would whistle back if you whistled at him, a kitten called Charlie in my dad's government house in Gaya (who died of pnuemonia, but he was the sweetest. I remember waking up before everyone else and sitting in the living room and then suddenly hearing, "Rrrr-rrr-rrr" as he delicately stalked me from the sofa to crawl into my lap). I even had a baby squirrel once. And then Doogie. And now Cookie.

When I am able to have a big house with a garden and plenty of space, I will have many dogs. And many cats. And a donkey, called Gerda.

In the good old days when I had a journal...

... made out of real paper and you had to use a pen to write in it! And I had all sorts of notebooks from the time I was about 7 till about 21 and a half, I think. I like re-reading these journals. I like seeing the way my handwriting changed--from print, to messy practicing cursive, from elaborate loopy l's and j's and s's to plain and simple up and down writing and finally to the writing I have today--slanting slightly to the left, i's high dotted, m's in Walt Disney style and first letters of each word disconnected with the rest of it. I'm sure that a handwriting expert would probably be able to tell me something about myself based on the way I write, some of the online tests I've taken tell me I'm an optimist with unrealistic goals. Please.

Anyhoo, the reason I'm talking about my journals and all, is because I have this massive case of writer's block. I'm actually working on a manuscript right now and not very much has been accomplished--only about 8,000 words so I'm feeling all snarly and oh-I'll-never-amount-to-being-a-writer-so-I-should-just-stop-trying or even, If-I-do-become-a-writer-I'm-never-going-to-be-a-successful-one-so-I-should-just-stop-trying. Very negative thoughts, but somedays you just have to let that sort of thought process happen. Grah.

The truth is, I'm pissed off. I'm pissed off that I'm not holding the remote control for my life, I'm pissed off that the power of pressing 'Pause' and 'Fastforward' isn't mine. I don't know who's holding the damn remote control but it sure as hell isn't me. I'm pissed off that I don't work for myself. I'm pissed off because I'm not right now in a one bedroom apartment in Paris buying baguettes and having nudist artist friends. I'm pissed off at the superficialities that go with being reasonably well-off in this country. I'm pissed off that I just said "in this country" like any damn NRI who returns after making potloads of money and proceeds to diss all the things he/she grew up with. I'm pissed off that I haven't done as much as I was supposed to by the time I was 23, that I'm turning 24 at the end of this year and will probably still not have come halfway close to achieving my goals. I'm pissed off that Indian media doesn't pay as much as media abroad. I'm pissed off that people don't take me seriously just because I look very young, or because I'm female and they think flirting with me is the only way to get a reaction and I hate the male PR types who direct all information towards the photographer because oh, he must be more compotent because he can pee standing up!

Like I said before: grah.

Y'know, I love this blog. It's become my daily addiction, what I have to do before I go to bed. But I think way back, when I had just maybe two or three readers, I was more of the "Compulsive Confessor" than I can allow myself to be now. Now it's not so much confessions as observations, my life sounds frivolous, even to me. And that's not good. But I don't know whether I can give up on it, especially when I'm having so much fun. I know I should, but I don't want to just yet. So now what to do?

Relax, I'm not going to go all AWOL on you, and I will keep you posted, okay?

Things That I Thunk

a) That my best friends never demand any more out of me than I can give. That even though they all don't always get along with each other, they are each brilliant special women and I am lucky to know them.

b) That not all friends are best friends. That you can be mistaken about a few. That it's not okay to trust everyone indiscriminatingly.

c) That any song can be dirty-meaning-ified. Like Like A Prayer (I'm down on my knees/I'm gonna take you there/In the midnight hour/ I can feel your power) and even A Whole New World (Indescribable feelings/Soaring, tumbling, freewheeling) and ooh, obviously, Your Body's A Wonderland (You know it's a big enough umbrella/But it's always her that ends up getting wet)

d) That my favourite sleeping t-shirt has such huge holes on it, that I only noticed when I put it on, that it will have to be thrown away.

e) That the internet is possibly the world's best invention. After the telephone.

f) That I haven't laughed out loud in the longest time. Or ran. Or surrendered to any feeling.

g) That ooh, my first national byline came today and I'm ecstatic about it : )

h) That boys are strange and eerie creatures--who only look innocent and humanoid, but really, they're not and they're just trying to take over your mind.

i) That Holi is next weekend and that means an entire Saturday off will be wasted sitting at home hiding from the colours and the water.

j) That I really should go to GFO and do some shopping coz they have excellent stuff. That I really should go shopping, period, because my summer wardrobe is empty.

k) That this book will be this year's The Curious Incident Of A Dog At Nighttime. And I read the uncorrected proof copy. Yay for journo mom! :)

l) That I stand corrected and previously mentioned Scandinavian country wasn't really Scandinavian but East European and now it's time to STOP the teasing, coz, c'mon I've made a public admission and what more do you want from me, Flirty Pole?

Your daddy's rich and your mamma's good lookin'

The A/C men-- a huge Sardar and his little assistant--are in my room right now servicing the air conditioner. Which means I suppose, that I'm going to have to admit it--it is summertime. No wishy-washy Spring about it. It's only March though, and I still sleep with a comforter, although I do have my fan on. And my nightwear changes too--from tracks and a sweatshirt to shorts and a t-shirt. The smell of summer happens in the evenings (the daytime is just too bloody hot to think about summertime smells)--the warm, slightly salty smell that always leaves me feeling vaguely excited, as if good times are just around the corner.

I suppose that's a reflex thing though. This used to be exam prep time, the time when you watched every single soap (I was hooked on to the Bold And The Beautiful for the longest time during my pre-boards) and each day just merged into the other and you would give an arm and a leg just for it to stop, for something to happen. Anyway, so back then, the smell of summer meant almost the end of your bonded labourer period. It meant that the summer holidays were approaching--long days spent in your room with the A/C up and the music on and friends dropping by and going out at night. The summer vacation was what we worked towards, the parties, the excitment, the out-of-town trips. Most of us usually got waxed the last day of our exams, and had the full beauty treatment--the neglected eyebrows, the un-pedicured feet--all went through a transformation so that we could be all pretty for those long weeks of doing nothing. I miss the summer holidays. I want two months off now! With no tension about "applying for leave", or "what about work". I want all the newspapers to shut down for the summer--it's not like anything happens anyway--and I want to go away, perhaps to Goa and sit on the beach and be a hippy with flowers and seashells in my hair. That's what I want.

In college though--when Puja was alive--me, Iggy, Pieces and Puj used to have study groups. I'm proud to say *ahem* that I was the stellar student out of the four of us (which is not really saying much, because I had already read the books and they couldn't be arsed) and my notes were excellent. (Seriously. Nitya borrowed my third year notes for her exams and topped DU South Campus. I got a second div. There is no justice in this world). Anyway so we'd sit around in Puji's room, very determined to study and we did study for like the first half-an-hour. But then someone would start talking, and someone else would pull out some vodka (because Puja said drinking after 11 am was okay. It didn't mean you were an alcoholic) and then since everyone had stopped working, you thought 'Hey, good time for a cigarette break.' And we never bonded so much as we did during those study sessions. Of course everyone did abysymally, except me coz I secretly studied at home too. :)

I miss Puja. This is the time of the year when I'm most reminded of her. She died in the middle of our second year exams, and I had just met her, we had just gone for Harry Potter And The Philosopher's Stone. And big scary adult things like death just weren't supposed to happen to your friends, to this friend, the most alive one out of the lot of you.

I'm sorry. Now I've depressed everyone. It's just that I can't talk about her to anyone who knew her--not Pieces because she just tells me to shut up, not Iggy who has locked it away in some secret part of her and will never let a word cross her lips about it. And no one else will understand, y'know?

Summertime. So much happens in the summer, doesn't it? It seems that life just starts whirling you around for a laugh. Every single life changing moment of mine has happened in the summer. I just hope this one will be good.

Bubble, bubble

I sink zat Israeli wine is bloody brilliant. No, seriously. Was at Israeli wine tasting session today at the Taj Mansingh and ooh, the reds that flowed. So much for my not drinking on weeknights rule, I think I'm just going to take that and toss it out of the window. (Incidentally, imagine if people could throw physical rules out of the window. There'd be piles on the streets! Kids would play with "No smoking" signs, and dogs would piss on "Thou shalt not fornicate." Ooh and imagine if there were broken rules lying about every time you broke one and didn't admit it. "Did you smoke a cigarette?" "Uh... no." But then crash at your feet would be "DON'T SMOKE" in shatters. I think it'd be kinda cool, actually)

But the evenign actually panned out more interesting than I thought it would be. There was HEAVY security at the entry though, my bag was searched, scanned and turned upside-down. But once I entered the room of the wine, it was very nice. Men in black coats kept coming up to me and offering me tall glasses with wine in them and each tray had some kinda label on it, which I pretended to read very wisely. The first two glasses were just to keep myself occupied, the third was to keep some other people company and the fourth was because this old creepy journo was hitting on me and I was feeling nervous. He kept breathing all over me and I kept backing away all the time wondering, why WHY am I attracting old men? Where are the dapper young 'uns? Why does the universe hate me?

But I met an interesting young man--a sommelier, actually (seriously, his business card read sommelier. He drinks wine for a living!)--and we had quite an animated discussion about wine and things and then since that event was wrapping up, he invited me to his next wine tasting thing at Vasant Continental. I did take a long hard look at him to see whether he was hitting on me or not, and perhaps he was flirting, but it seemed innocent enough and so I said okay, being bored and all. Within me I was filled with a sense of adventure because ooh, this was the most exciting thing I had done for a while, just took off to some place with an interesting conversationalist, when I was technically off-duty. So exciting!

(Relax, he came with credentials, we knew several people, both professionally and personally, in common. I don't just disappear with strangers.) Anyway, so we toddled on by to Tapas at the Vasant Intercontinental, where I drank Italian wine this time and bubbled merrily at people. And though Wine Guy and I were having good times, I made it pretty evident that dating anyone just wasn't in my short-term goal plan. So he flirted and I pretended like I couldn't hear him. Eventually, he got tired of the flirting with the Ice Maiden and proceeded to talk about Spanish music. So that was fun!

I felt like such a different person tonight. Usually, I go, I interview, I feel bad because of all the PYT's miiling around and so evidentally having a life that I feel horrible and like I'm wasting my entire youth talking to people who won't really matter 100 years from now. It's not like I'm doing breaking stories or making a difference, y'know. I'm a reporter for the section people read last, if at all. It's not like my being a journalist is going to afefct anyone's future, or help the poor or you know, expose the underbelly of politics. It's just... stuff. That happens. That entertains. That people spend money on. No I'm not turning into Konkana Whatsherface, and no I don't want to become a crime reporter or something, because hell, I love my job. And I'd probably suck at being a news reporter. It's just very humbling to realise every now and then, that you don't really matter in the larger scheme of things.

Anyway, so it's 1.14 am and Wine Guy has called me a couple of times already :) Nice to be single in the city and be pursued, no?

Of Chicklit, LitCrit and DipShit

Something I've been getting a lot of recently is people assuming I write or am going to write chicklit thanks to this blog. (That's right, bow your heads with shame, you know who you all are!) In my defense, when I finally do finish my magnum opus, it will be a work of art and literary genius. Definitely NOT chicklit.

It's not that I have anything against chicklit, per se. I mean, hell, it's lots of fun to read, and pretty easy to write as well, if you get the tone right. It's just... forgettable. Like Cosmopolitan. Of course, Cosmo's probably a pretty bad example considering it's pretty much all soft porn these days (no, no, don't sue me! I'll be good!) and good chicklit, like of course, the infamous Bridget Jones, makes for very good reading and a couple of laughs.

But, while all of this is well and good, again: I DO NOT WRITE CHICKLIT!!!!! Can I seriously help it if my life just sometimes reads that way? Because it does, you know. My life is chicklit and my life is also, unfortunately, a sitcom. The really bad kind with the cheap laugh track. It's sad, but hey, that's the way the cookie crumbles, no?

And, I went for the Tarun Tejpal launch yesterday, very excited because it was my first booklaunch in what seemed like ages and I'm sick of fashion dos and if I'm going to make superficial inane conversation, let it at least be about things I'm interested in, rather than , "Darling, I love your new line!" The British Council was packed, so packed that despite murmuring "I'm from the press" in many sundry ears, I was still sent to the Video Conferencing Room upstairs, which actually wasn't so bad, because I got a bird's eye view of everything. Tarun Tejpal is definitely one of the better looking media guys. Definitely. Except he has a funny dehat accent, which clashed horribly with another posher one he was trying to put on.

Anyway, enough about that--I'm sure fellow bloggers who were there at the launch will probably give step-by-step breakdown and I don't feel like it. Ooh, also little brush with diplomatic circles yesterday for an art exhibition hosted by a certain Scandinavian country. Anyway, so I was wandering around, looking at the sketches when I bump into Santa Claus type man who smiles and asks me if I'm an artist. Obviously, I'm immensely chuffed (I've decided Brit slang is very cool and I'm going to liberally sprinkle my posts with it) because no one's ever asked me if I was an artist before! So I smile, simper really, and say, "No, I'm a journalist." Then I ask him where I can get a catalogue, because he's holding one and he hands me his. "Oh thank you," I said, "But are you sure you'll be able to get another?" Now, this is the bizarre part, he looks me up and down and goes, "I always get what I want." So, now it seems my life is not only chicklit and bad sitcom but also a Sidney Sheldon novel. Humph. I should've probably made an escape right there, but he gave me his card and it turned out he was an Ambassador of the previously mentioned Scandinavian country and since I'm supposed to keep an eye on Embassy activities, I thought this was as good time as any to network. So casually I moved the catalogue in front on my chest, and we made polite conversation until he asked if he could take my picture. Um... yeah. So I let him and then thought to make an exit, because even he wasn't hitting on me, it was getting kind of wierd. Then he says, "You are very beautiful." I think I opened and closed my mouth a few times before I squeaked "Thanks." "No, no," he said gallantly, "Don't thank me, thank your parents for creating you."
I fled.

Devyani is finally in town, but what with my crazy schedule and her cousin's wedding, I don't when we'll see each other. Still, since she lives next door and all, I'll probably just drop by on my way to work or something.

I really don't have much to say today. So I'm going to go now. Goodbye.

Conversations

Tanya, sitting around in my room with Priya and Kabir. Much Old Monk and Smirnoff was being consumed, the smoke in the air practically touched the floor.
Tanya (taking a contemplative drag of her cigarette): So the other day, the guidance counsellor at college asked me to give up smoking.
Me: Balls.
Tanya: Ya, he said, you shouldn't smoke, because then later when you get married you will have (dropped voice) pregnancy problems.
Priya: You're not serious.
Tanya: Ya, so then I said, 'Sir, I'm not planning on having kids.'
Me: That's telling them! There are enough kids in this country anyway. I plan to adopt. Anyway can you imagine a belly ring on a huge pregnant stomach?
Tanya: Listen, na, I'm not done with my story. So then he goes, 'How can you not have children? You're a girl! It is a gift!'
Me: (by this time cracking up) A rare talent!
Priya: We should put it on our resumes. Skills: Can write. Extras: Can produce babies.
Me: Ya, but the boys have to help too.
Tanya: A little.
Priya: Very little.
Me: Ya, but the human race can't get propogated without the men.
Priya: I'm waiting for the day that men will carry the babies. I will have children just so I can see that.
Kabir: Like seahorses.
Me: Yes, very good Kabir! Exactly like the seahorses.
Priya; So.. um... do the female seahorses have penises?

Dee in my car. We just finished watching Million Dollar Baby. Oh, the boxing. Oh, the sound of gristle against fist. Oh, the blood. Oh, Hilary Swank's perfect body. And oh, the depression.
Dee: Now why would that win four Oscars?
Me: Coz it's sad. You know, like Titanic.
Dee: I'm going to make a very depressing movie. It'll have a dog that dies.
Dee: Ooh, and kids! Lots of kids.
Me: That's already been made. It's called Old Yeller.
Dee: Well, one of the kids in my movie will have cancer.
Me: Ooh, and the other one should be handicapped. And all they have to live for is their dog.
Dee: Who dies.
Me: Run over by a mean man.
Dee: Run over by their father who is mean and beats his wife.
Me: But he learns the error of his ways, too late, because by then the kids are dead.
Dee: And the wife kills herself.
Me: But there should be some kind of sport. Like baseball. Or, ooh, sailing!
Dee: The last shot will be of the boat. Adrift. Because the man jumped off it. And he set it on course before he did, so now it's heading straight for the Statue Of Liberty.
Me: And he used to work at the WTC, and just as he kills himself, the tragedy happens. Which will symbolise how pointless his suicide was, because he would've died anyway.
Dee: Okay, I want to make a depressing movie, not a bad one.

Gotta be, gotta be.. a superstar, all eyes on you are

Today I woke up really, really late: around 1.15 in the afternoon. I lay in bed for a while, staring up at the yellow spirals on my purple ceiling and marvelled at the fact that I had an entire day to do this--just lie there and dream. I haven't dreamt in a long time, there used to be one point when my dreams were so vivid, so real that I would wake up the next day still half ensconsed in my dream, thinking about it for the rest of the day. But now, when I get home so late, I'm usually exhausted by the time I get into bed and my sleep is dreamless.

You can tell a lot about people by the way they sleep. I usually sleep curled up, in foetal position, my knees almost touching my chin. But these days, I sleep on my stomach, half sprawled, half tucked in. Sleeping alone has its advantages, I have only a single bed and I'm used to my "happy spot", the one part of my bed and my pillow where I'm instantly transported into dreamland. The couple of nights I have spent with other people have been uncomfortable, because I don't really want a pair of limbs next to mine when I'm sleeping, I don't really enjoy having a warm body next to mine. I like my space when I'm asleep and I don't want to cuddle or whatever.

Sometimes when the guy would try and put his arms around me, somewhere in my subconcious I was aware of this and in the morning I'd always wake up back in my foetal position, pushed against the side of the bed that faced the wall, my entire body language going, "Don't touch me." I suppose it's natural, if I can't give in completely to being held when I'm awake, it's even harder for me to deal politely with that when I'm sleeping.

The game of love involves so much diplomacy, doesn't it? There are all these little games to play, and you have to know the rules. You are in a position of power--at least one of you is, and you know that you have the ability to hurt the other person. That power is slightly intoxicating, you know the other person is probably thinking of you as much as you're thinking of him, you know that if you call someone everyday, not calling them would indicate therefore that you're pissed with them, you know that you have to make an effort, if you want this to work--to know his friends, and he must woo your friends in order to be completely with you. And then you know, when the two of you are alone that there are certain things that just must not be said. Because saying them would shatter everything. I don't know where we pick up these things, certainly there wasn't a "Rules Of Love" class taught at school (though I wish there was!) I don't know how I learnt about the "right things" and "wrong things", I don't know how I learned to flirt, I don't know how I learnt to kiss even.

When I was much younger--around fourteen or fifteen--I was chafing to have a Boyfriend. All my friends did, and their Boyfriends were marvellous creatures, who seemed to be at their beck and call! At the beck and call of my young gawky teen friends who really didn't seem to know what they were doing anymore than I did, whom I had seen weeping and in family dos and at sleepovers--they were my ilk. What then did these boys see in them? What set them apart, lent a star quality to their bodies that I was so evidentally missing? I hung out with them a lot, trying to see if I could put my finger on it. Perhaps if I pitched my voice low like Garima, perhaps if I smiled a lot like Leela, perhaps if I wore the tennis shorts I usually reserved for around the house like Priya--perhaps then the boys would pick up on the fact that I was a star too, someone to be worshipped. But that never happened---the boys I loved looked at me distantly and the only ones who came to my doorstep were the pre-pubescent variety, who only wanted to get a grope in, so that they too could sit around and disect that with their friends. Leela once very wisely told me, "A boyfriend isn't just there for entertainment value, y'know. It's a relationship, and it takes a lot of hard work." But obviously I didn't believe her--she who always had someone to go to the movies with.

And then when I turned 17, the boys did come--but by then the magic had worn off somewhere. I was used to being the "backseater", the one relagated to the backseat of the car while my friend and her boyfriend sat up front and conversed in low murmurs. I was used to being the clown of the group, the one whose statements had everyone laughing while someone said indulgently, "Oh, eM." I was used to being basically in the background, the audience for everyone else, someone who could make conversation on awkward first dates, someone who the Boyfriends respected, someone to be patted on the head and then prompty forgotten about. This new Girlfriend role didn't suit me at all, though I did try. I did everything I had watched my friends doing, I was sulky when I didn't really feel like being sulky, I simpered, I hung off appropriate arms and of course, I dissected my relationships with all my gal pals. But then, we weren't always with friends. And I didn't have a clue what to do when we were alone.

Not much has changed since then (oh my god, how many years since I was seventeen? SIX!!!!) then. Well, I suppose the rough edges have been smoothed out somewhere, but still I yearn. Still I want to be the star. And still I wonder why I'm not.

Seven Other Things You Probably Didn't Need To Know About Me (Subtitled: Procrastination Is The Thief Of Time)

(If you're curious about the first thirteen, go trawl through the August archives. The list is up there somewhere, i'm just feeling too lazy to link to it)

1) I have a passion for airhostess fiction. I have read Coffee, Tea Or Me, Round-The-World Diary and even Fly Girls. With a passion. Then I have gone back and re-read them. There was a time when I looked at their glamorous lives and secretly sighed and secretly wanted to be an airhostess. (Secretly because if I admitted it in real life, I wouldn't hear the end of it).

2) I have an obsession with strange knick-knacks. Or junk. Po-tay-to, Po-tah-to. Anyway, so I've got stuff in my room dating back from class seven or eight--like a little sleeping man a friend gave me, with "World's Laziest Person" on the base, or the plaster head of a cocker spaniel that used to sit on top of my mirror for ages until I developed finer feelings and put it away.

3) I don't dance. Unless I'm really, really buzzed. But if I was to dance (and by dance I mean standing in a corner and bopping my head around) it would be to the songs Butterfly (Crazy Town), Sexual Capacity (Color Me Badd) or Turn Me On (Kevin Lyttle). Evidentally, I have barbaric taste in music. : )

4) Most of my shopping is done from Sarojini Nagar's export surplus market. That may not be such a big deal for you, but I am also resident SN expert with my friends. I manage to find pretty good designer rip-offs and they'll look at me and go "Benetton, Rs 2,500?" and I say smugly, "Sarojini, Rs 250." It's good to have talents.

5) The first time I ever, ever got stoned was in Dharamsala on a college trip. (Now I'm all middle-sged and prudish about drugs, but I wanted to try it back during my "wild" phase) Anyway so we were told to put a piece of hash the size of the button that switches off a Nokia phone. So we did, rolling it in a cigarette (of course, now my friends are so sophisticated about it that they always carry around sheets. Rolling paper, i.e) and we smoked i and nothing really happened. "This is ridiculous," I said sternly and picked up the second joint and managed to inhale most of it before my friends got out of their stoned stupor and made me share. I got very violent giggles and lay sprawled on the hotel bed going, "It's hot! It's hot!" (Winter time, in the hills. You do the math). Yeah. Well. Those were the days?

6) I can also almost always remember handy household hints. I know that to stop odour in refrigerators you should put a cut lemon in, or that old and scratched CDs can be covered with wrapping paper to make attractive coasters. My favourite one though, and the one that works like a charm is putting toothpaste on zits. Seriously, sometimes at night when I have somewhere special to go the next day I put on some toothpaste before I go to bed and the next morning my skin is zit-free! But, I should warn you, my friend tried the same thing and woke up with big burns on her chin.

7) But while I'm good with those things--there are several things I just cannot do. Play any sport, for instance (unless you count Scrabble), or do any form of mental arithmetic, or tie an effective knot with my shoelaces.

EDIT: Ooh, look at me! Very nice, to be in hallowed company of all these other eminent bloggers and all. Only I wish the reporter had spent a little more time actually READING my blog, instead of quoting from the first post she saw. But it was a good story, even if they did whittle down my profile to make it fit in with everything else--and very nicely written. And I'm in the newspaper. But again, I reieterate, MY name is eM, the BLOG'S name is The Compulsive Confessor. So, ya, Compulsive Confessor isn't really what I call myself. But who cares? Did I mention I'm in the newspaper--as a blog entity rather than a byline? That brings me one step closer to taking over the world...muahahahaha.. oops, forget I said that!

Quick Blog Murugan (written straight from the hip)

Just finished Chitra Divakaruni's (she seems to have dropped the Bannerjee. Ah well. We can't all handle double-barrelled surnames) Queen Of Dreams. Nice enough. Same mother-daughter theme with American Girl Searching For Indian Roots Only Provided By Masala Chai. If that floats your boat, then perhaps you'll enjoy this one.

I also watched the first episode of Miss Match (10 pm, Tuesday, Star World). Alicia Silverstone is very good in it, except have you ever noticed that funny thing she does with her mouth? It sorta goes up at one end and down at another and I've been practising in the mirror, except I look like a rhesus monkey. Alicia Silverstone is not so hot anymore, at least, not as hot as she was in the Crazy video. (I loved that video. And the song. I play it in my car all the time, windows down, yelling, "Girl I know you ain't wearing nothin' underneath that overcoa-oat and it's allllllll a show.")

Nitya's boyfriend is back from sailing the seven seas. (Seriously, he's a sailor). He got her a bottle of Davidoff's Echo and the coolest/kitschiest part of the bottle is that when you take of the cap a little mechanical voice goes, "I love you so much, I love you." I giggled for ages after she showed me that. It smells delish though.

People have been raving about P. Chidambaran for so long, and I never knew what they saw in him. But yesterday, at Soli Sorabjee's budday party I saw him face-to-face and the man is hot. Seriously. Those spectacles, that unassuming air of great intellegence, the lanky body, very nice. I haven't felt this way about a political leader since I.K Gujral, to whom incidentally, when I was 14, I wrote a letter saying, "I think you're doing a fabulous job." He never wrote back though. Humph. When I am Prime Minister, I will reply to all my fan mail.

And my writing sample for college is almost done--and I'm quite pleased with it too. It's come out rather nicely, considering I haven't written fiction in the longest time and I'm a little out of practice. Real life seems to be so much more interesting than fiction these days, don't you think?

Leela and boyfriend have moved into lovely flat in London. At least, she says it's lovely. Lucky thing, to be sitting in London with all those exciting phoren things happening all around her. Though when I went to London I didn't like it very much--it was too cold and too wet and I only had one sweatshirt jacket, so I froze. Paree is much nicer, and warmer and even the truck drivers are hot. And I saw poodles with ribbons in their fur.

Right, now to wrap up writing sample and get dressed pronto for work.

Ex marks the spot

Who made the rule that you have to be friends with your exes? No seriously, how can two people who at one point shared everything in their lives--both emotionally and sexually, to the complete extent--ever break out of that mould and erase the past and pretend like it never happened? Some people manage, I know, with ease and elan, but I don't think I am ever going to be able to.

How can I be "friends" with K, when even now, when I'm not in love with him anymore, some part of me flinches to see him looking so good and taking this whole thing better than I ever could? How can I be friends with K, when he has succesfully ruined my last three flings, because all of those guys looked at me and said, "Um..are you still into your ex?" How do I explain to people, that it's not that I'm "into" him per se, it's just that for a year and a half, he was the most important person in my life. He was my best friend, with benefits. We shut out everyone else, just being with each other. And I hate that he's able to be all "Oh, I'm so over you" around me, and I turn into this completely different, put-on person, who's being snarky and bitchy and picking fights for no reason at all. I might as well just paint myself blue and dance around waving a sign, sayng"Remember me? I used to be your girlfriend. We used to date."

My friends, who are his friends, want us to be friends. No, they expect us to be friends. "You can't not be friends with K," one of them told me, "Don't be so childish." I can't be around him, I told them, I don't like who I am, around him, I don't want to get drunk and snog him and have him push me away, the way he did the one time that happened. Now he looks at me like I'm going to jump him every time I see him and this makes me say bitchier things, in a tone that sounds casual in my head, but which just comes out all wrong.

It's not like he's so perfect either. He gets all shady around me, taunting me, but not quite, expecting me almost, to pick a fight with him and then in front of our friends' disapproving eyes, he will stand back, innocent, with a halo around his head.

On the phone, I'm fine. On the phone, I'm perfect--professional, to-the-point, friendly, but not overly so. We have nothing in common anymore, and while that makes me a little sad, because at one point we even breathed together--our inhalations were synchronised--it's also good, because I don't feel all pang-y and all "Oh I wish we were still together." But the ghost of K looms over my relationships, makes me want people only when they reject me, no matter how sad and pathetic that sounds. And, oh, when I see him. When I see him with my friends, who have taken him to their hearts and who he keeps supplied with hash, then I feel a little surreal. It's as if everyone's pretending nothing ever happened, that we never had a history, that we're just nodding acquaintances who had a falling out, which should just get over already because it's so damn inconvenient for everyone else.

What shall I do? I could follow my impulse and reverse over his face, but then since he's six foot something and I'm not, that would take some doing. I could try to avoid him, for the largest extent, but then how long can I avoid him? I could do what he's doing and forget that we ever had a relationship. I could stop the mindfuck.

Golf and why it sucks

Gah. Sunday again and no, this time I'm not bored, just bloody exhausted.
People who know me also know it's a BAD idea to wake me up. Really. You know the phrase, let sleeping dogs lie? That could've been said about me. When Dee and I were living together, she would tiptoe around the house on Sunday, watching TV with the doors shut and volume low and if by some freak chance she had to come into my room, she did it bloody carefully. People also know not to call me in the morning, because god help you if you wake me up from beautiful dreams about designer stubble guy just because you're up and you want to say something.
The reason I get so grouchy when I'm woken up is because I'm essentially a very light sleeper. Even in deep REM, if someone says my name, I'm up like a shot. I can't sleep, unless I'm really tired, unless there's absolute darkness and absolute quiet. So if you wake me up, I probably won't be able to fall asleep again. Which is terrible, because I need my beauty sleep more than most people!
So, why then, at 6.30 am on Sunday morning, having just returned two hours prior to that from Elevate, was eM waking up to the beep-beep-beepbeep-beep-beep of her phone alarm? Why did she not simply yank the thing out of its charger and fling it across the room? Good questions. Because my dears, I had to wake up to go to fucking Manesar about 12 kilometres out of Gurgaon which is about thirty kilometers from my house to go for a golf tournament which started at eight. (Insert pity here). I don't know the first thing about golf. Okay, so I know a few things, having once *ahem* dated a pro-golfer. But he refused to teach me, saying it would "ruin our relationship". (God, that's got to be the lamest line the male sex uses!) and so all I knew was how to toss about "What's your handicap?" and "putting" and "teeing off". And the only reason I knew those was because when we used to party, we went out with all his golfer buddies. But go near his clubs (see, more technical jargon!) and he turned into a bear.
But tough luck, no one else was free on a Sunday, except me and so it fell to my lot. Anyway, so I tumbled out of bed, still with eyeshadow smeared raccoon-like all over my face and still, truth be told, a little drunk, and with the Elevate stamp on my wrist, pulled on some clothes and left. Then I started getting pumped up. Ooh, my first-ever sports assignment! What fun! And there would be open green fields and hot golfers and I would learn a lot about the game and dazzle everyone with my knowledge. Yeah... not so much.
Golf is essentially an old man's sport, despite the few young 'uns that play now and then. And so there were old men, big shot old men, but old men nevertheless. And ya, did you know they don't like to be talked to during the game? And do you know the game lasts about 6 hours? So, do the math, me there at 9 am, people golfing, no one to even get a quote out of, I was stuck doing nothing for about four hours. Oh, there were two other journalists and the PR guy and the photographer. But being in features and all, I kinda get used to the gatherings generally being all women, with the odd (and some are very) man tossed in here and there. Not this time. These chaps were doing ultimate guy bonding, talking about cars and sports and investments. I beat my top score on Snake 2.
Then they switched to not-so-subtly showing off about their jobs and achievements. In Hindi. I can show off with the best of them, but my Hindi isn't top-of-the-line. So while each humbly talked about pages and how they handled entire sections and the junkets they had been on, I beat my top score on Space Impact. It was a good day for cellphone games.
I kept myself occupied and awake after that by thinking about the two pairs of shoes I bought on sale yesterday. They're absolutely gorgeous. One is a silvery lavendery pair of heels with an ankle support and about a six-inch drop. The other pair is chappals, white, and they lace up toga-style around your calves. I was wearing them, so I kept stretching out my feet to admire them.
Elevate, by the way, was bril-li-ant, I can't even begin to describe it. If it wasn't for the pricey cover charge it would probably replace TC in my heart. I went with Iggy and Yash and (yay!) wore my first halter of the season, thank you very much. It's getting really warm these days, I didn't even need a shawl.
Anyway, so golf ended around three and we circulated among the various big shots and got some stories and then went home. Never again. This is why I'm not a sports reporter, I remind myself thankfully.

It's The Time To Disco!

The weekend promises to be madness already. Actually, I have been partying steadily since Thursday. Or, wait, make that Wednesday.
Right, quick recap.
Wednesday night, went to (where else?) TC with Pieces and Iggy and a few other friends from college. It was full on p3p night--celebrities spotted were Barkha Dutt and Suhel Seth holding court in the center of the proceedings. Suhel Seth deigned to stoop to my level, even flirted with me a little, the old bastard and by the end of it all was so effusive that I quickly-quickly did some cleavage protection with one arm, while smiling at him charmingly and trying to wriggle out of his rather all-over-the-place embrace. That's the second reference I've made to Suhel Seth on this blog, and frankly I'm quite surprised. I see so much of him on the party pages of newspapers that I really, truly wasn't going to mention him here at all. Even the party pages have gotten quite sick of him recently, so I haven't spotted him anywhere for a while. Unless it's a quote story and you know the reporter is kinda desperate and is calling up the entire world to figure out what their take on Sting is, then you see him popping up, next to a mug-shot and to be fair, a reasonably intellegent remark. Oh well, in the spirit of honesty, a girl's gotta do, what a girl's gotta do. Question: why are people flirting with me these days? No, not as compliment-fishy a statement as it sounds. I'm just surprised because over the last couple of days I've been receiving a LOT of male attention and this is suprising, coz I've never looked so terrible. My hair is overgrown, I badly need a haircut, I have the first signs of a zit and at all these parties and things, I'm usually coming straight from work so I'm not all haltered and cleavaged. Men are in essence, wierd, she said despairingly.

Anyway, back to Wednesday night. I proceeded to get very, very drunk, but that was okay, because the rest of my friends did too. And a blast from the past made an appearance--a really old school friend of mine called Yash, called me up right out of the blue and asked me what I was doing. Yash studies abroad, now he's working with some big-shot bank in the States and we had a falling out a couple of years ago. See, he was dating Iggy, and I had played matchmaker with this thing, because he used to have a crush on me and I felt kind of guilty about turning him down so I fixed him up. Iggy and he were doing brilliantly, only he decided to cheat on her and she had an inkling of this and so she asked me to ask a few subtle questions. So I did, but apparently the questions were not so subtle because we had a major, major fight ending up with him calling me a stalker and me going "Abbawibbawibba" because I didn't know what to say. Fast-forward to the present, we wound up having a REALLY good time, we bonded totally, only I think he bonded more with the Iggy because the two of them left to drop her home without so much as a by-your-leave. And they've been having dinner and drinks and coffee. Humph. Oh well, at least I am included in tonight's plans which involve Elevate, a place I have heard many things about but never really been. I'll blog about that on Sunday, okay?

Wednesday night was also memorable because Pieces ingested many vodka-Red Bulls, and dude, the ads are right coz it really does "give you wings". She had six and as a result didn't get any sleep till 9.30 the next morning.
Right, on to Thursday.
Thursday night I went to Olive for a fashion show for work. Six designers were showing their stuff and I was throwing a tantrum because I'm really not a fashion-type journalist. I've always condescended to their kind, thinking of them as slightly empty-headed, but here I was, stuck covering my third or fourth fashion event with models waving at me and designers saying, "Hi, how're you?" ad nauseam. Also, if that wasn't enough, I was given a talk on fashion as a sociological phenomenon, by another journo, which was all very nice and interesting, only I kinda ran out of ways to respond and started saying, "Uh huh" till I noticed he wasn't really paying attention to my responses, just waiting for me to finish so he could carry on. Still, it must be said, I did learn quite a bit in that half-an-hour conversation.

Phew. Finally, Friday.
Friday I first stopped by at yet another fashion show at Athena, this time. I like Athena, so I wasn't really complaining, only my invite said 8 pm and so I showed up at 8.30. What time did it start, you ask? Um... try ten. Anyway, anorexic-women-sashaying-down-ramp-and-designers-talking-about-floral-imagery yada, yada, yada and then I finished and ran to Timir's house, Timir being the only one of my ex-boyfriends I'm still friends with and for whom I manage a strong affection. We were dating when I was about 19, had a brief bonus night a couple of months ago, already reached the stage where we can laugh about it and it was his birthday and he called and said "Come" so I did. The party was great fun, only Timir insisted on saying "Meet my ex-girlfriend" to everyone. Despite that, or perhaps because of it, I managed to meet quite a few interesting people, including a brother-sister duo. The sister spoke to me about books, the brother told me I had a lovely smile (giggle, giggle. Okay, enough using this post as an ego trip. Actually, WTF, it's MY blog, innit?) Anyway, I had a fantastic time there, despite knowing no-one, the ex and I chatted about our respective love lives and each found the others very funny.

Right so that was my almost-weekend round up, just a way of letting you know what's been going on and also perhaps a way to excuse myself for not posting for so long! Stay tuned for Saturday and Sunday, I'm pretty sure those are going to be hectic also.

Oh and ooh! Devyani returns soon! Our little East Delhi trio will be complete again. Happy thoughts : )

Yet another list of things that don't really count as a full fledged blog, but are fun to write about anyway

1) Just returned from premiere/party for White Noise. (Please, please, save your money, don't watch it. It's terrible. Trust me). Anyway, I noticed at the party, which was at Agni, that Rahul Bose has the cutest ass I have seen in a very long time. It just beckons--come touch me, eM, come touch me. Well, you'll be happy to know, I restrained myself, even when I was talking to him, even when he leaned way over to talk directly into my ear because the music was so loud, even when he told me he had to put on five kilos for his role in a Bengali movie and I took a good look at his perfectly chiselled abs, visible even through the black shirt he was wearing...mmmmm! You can keep your Shah Rukhs and Salmans, ask not for whom the groin flutters, Rahul, it flutters for thee.

2) Koel Purie on the other hand, despite being quite cute, is a terrible actress. I believe she and Rahul (look at me first-naming him!) were having a scene a while back. But not any more! Yay, yay. Not that I for one moment believe that Rahul and I could ever be together, but he needs to be with someone worthy of him, you know? Someone who will respect the ass, baby.

3) My cousins, of which I have six--all of them boys of assorted shapes, sizes and ages--have started a Yahoo group for the seven of us. It's really quite a sweet idea, and a great way to restore all those family ties that have been getting rather musty. And I feel all cool belonging to a Yahoo group. Actually, truth be told I belong to three, including this one. One for the boarding school alumnus, which I really must unsubscribe from because the only people posting are the ones from the batch of 78 or something and hello, if you graduated before I was even born, then I really don't think we're going to know the same people. The other one was *ahem* a Wiccan group, Wicca being something I was heavily into for a while. Ya, I can still read the tarot and I still, occassionaly cast a feel-good spell for myself. (Okay, since you asked, it's easy-peasy: Take a bath (a bucket bath will do) and dissolve some regular salt in it. Light some candles in the four corner of your bathroom (it helps if you have red or yellow candles). Then as you bathe, you chant 'Negativity is washed away, I am renewed as of today, Many heads will turn my way, Those I choose will wish to stay') Usually it works like a charm, but that could be just psychological as well. Give it a shot anyway, if you're curious. And no, I'm not crazy. Just dabbling in the occult, hee hee hee.

4) Pieces is in town! And tomorrow night we're going to TC and then I'm going to crash at her house and it'll be just like old times, only we're older. I love the gal pals. Have I mentioned that before? Seriously, I don't know what I'd do without my core group of friends. I've also been listening to a lot of Lean On Me (when you'e not strong, I'll be your friend, I'll help you cah-rree on etc) in case you can't tell.

5) Tan-tara-tara! Finally finished my SOP and though it still looks like shit, I'm hoping it's adequate enough to get me through college. Now, all that remains are writing samples--of which I have a few, only I have to turn 800 words into 3,000 per story magically. (Maybe now's a good time to brush up on the witchcraft, eh?)

6) I've been bumping into quite a few old colleagues lately, and every time I meet them I miss my old job. A former colleague of mine died recently. I didn't know her all that well, she was very new and I was quitting so I didn't really make the effort. But it was quite tragic--she was at work, then she went home and went to sleep and slipped into a coma. She died two days later--multiple organ failure, apparently. I'm sorry, this is not a funny story at all, but I'm still kinda shocked by the suddenness of it all. And she was so young, only 26. GSB, if you're reading this, email me sometime, just to let me know you're still alive and kicking.

7) But I still do enjoy my new job, when I have the energy to enjoy it. I know somewhere at the back of my tired mind is a strange serenity that comes out of job satisfaction. But oh, I'm so tired. (Time for another song I think: I'm so tired, I haven't slept a wink/ I'm so tired, my mind is on the blink/I wonder should I get up and fix myself a drink....)

postscript: Thank you Anurag for your sweet email and excellent suggestions about the SOP which I have followed, so I hope this works! Keep your fingers crossed for me.