Reading instructions: With pinch of salt to taste

Do you know how you're always better at giving people relationship advice and you feel all super wise and like this Zen Monk type person, but when it comes to actually taking the advice you're doling out with such a liberal hand, you sort of suck? Yes, of course you do. I've complained about this on numerous occasions to friends, we're all so perfect at fixing each other, but when it comes to ourselves, we're not very good. (Well, with a few notable exceptions, but those ladies are just Wonder Women anyway, and it's best not to mention them at all, since none of these rules apply to them.) Anyway, so I've gotten really good at the advice thing recently, and so I thought I'd share my top four Moments Of Wisdom with you guys. (Let's face it, the friends I give this advice to are going to nod very wisely, say, "No, no, dude, you're right" and then fuck off and do what they want anyway.) And, I find that sometimes when I see something written down, I'm more likely to take it seriously than when someone's just telling me something over a glass of wine and a full ashtray.

Right. On to my Super Special You Didn't Ask For My Opinion But I'm Giving It To You Anyway session:


* Oh my god. What does it matter what he wants? Do you want a relationship with this guy? This is my all new stance when my girlfriends grumble to me about how the guy they're with is being all hot and cold. I've been there, totally. But nine times out of ten, you're not sure if you want the guy because he's being hot and cold and it's getting really annoying and frustrating or whether you actually want the guy because he's that guy. You know? Obviously, we all want to be liked, and PROBABLY, this dude is someone you could potentially see yourself liking. But having gotten him there, say, if tomorrow, he's like, "Okay, I'm done treating you like a yo yo. Do you want to have a really serious relationship?" then you should have an answer. Do you want a really serious relationship? Are you wasting time and energy on a lost cause? And if the answer to the former question is 'yes' then my question number two to you is do you want a really serious relationship with this guy? Hmmm? HMMMMMMM? Thought not, he's already being a bit of a dick. Dump him, move on.

* How long has it been? What, only two days? Sure, totally, go ahead and send him a text message. Okay, opinions amongst you guys might be divided on this point, but I feel like it's cool to indicate some amount of interest. I mean, why lose someone just because you stood on your ego, right? That being said, you also should be aware that the person who's wondering why there hasn't been any contact (ie, you) probably already cares about this more than the person who hasn't made any contact (ie, him). But that's okay. All relationships have a certain level of power balances, sometimes you do more, sometimes they do more, but if it's driving you KUH-RAAAZY that he hasn't called you, then for God's sake, pick up your phone and send him a text.

(I include a sample text, because the next question is usually, "But what will I saaaa-haaay?"

"Hey, so nice to see you the other night. I was just BLAHBLAH (insert something specific but casual here that makes a reference to something you might have talked about) and thought of you. *smiley face*"

And, there's no question mark in this template, which means the ball is totally in his court, and if he likes you, he'll reply to your text. Ta-dah!)

(I love smiley faces. You can convey SO MUCH in a text message without saying a thing.)

* Yeaaah.. I don't think she's going to sleep with you. This is for the gentlemen. Never say I'm not equal opportunist here. I know the situation, it's a chick-flick favourite. You like a girl, you befriend a girl, girl becomes your BFF, you still harbour a secret passion for the girl, girl in the meanwhile has relegated you to the status where she might possibly fall asleep on your shoulder, or wrap her arm around you or something, but will justify this to her girlfriends as being in a "non sexual way." Your secret passion builds up, you get a bit grumpy, you want to declare your emotions to the girl and you think by declaring these emotions you're going to get the girl, but sadly, TRAGICALLY, you're probably not. I'm sorry, but that ship has sailed. Now, I'm not saying that there aren't these rare instances when a girl suddenly thinks, "Oh my god, yes, I like him too!" and you live happily ever after, but normally, in my experience, if you're not attracted to someone within the first hour of you guys hanging out, the chances of you being attracted to them in the future grow slimmer and slimmer. On the other hand, a lot of people I know thought this, and then the guy kissed them and then they thought, "Huh. I could be into this."

(But please, don't just randomly grab someone and kiss them. Feel the room first.)

(Fine, fine, here's a template for that as well. BUT THIS IS VERY SUBJECTIVE, so don't like, try it and then come complaining to me that it didn't work. People are different.

There's a very high chance that you're in when she doesn't really seem to be concentrating much on what you're saying and is using excuses to touch: legs, arms, whatever. That hair touching thing is usually bullshit though. Look for cues, how she was in the beginning of the evening versus now. A vivacious person might get quieter, an already quiet person might begin to suddenly open up, defences will generally be down, offer an out, "oh, are you tired?" for example, and then, see what happens. Never, under any circumstances ask someone if you "can" kiss them. It kills the mood like nothing else.)




* Better now than later. Oh boy, this has become one of my all time favourite things to say to people. (Usually, when I'm giving them shit advice, but hey, beggars can't be choosers.) It's my catch-all about revealing yourself, your expectations, even your little kinky quirks to the person you're considering dating right from the get go. Okay, maybe not on the first date, but you've been out a couple of times, you've maybe spent the night once or twice, he's familiar-ish with your friends and you with his, as in, you could say hi, if you saw them in the market, and are now shyly replying to comments left on his Facebook wall. Now you want to say, "Um, Sweetiebeans. Where is this going? Coz, I kinda want to be married in two years and so it'd be nice if you ALSO wanted to get married in two years, because then we're essentially not wasting each other's time." Sweetiebeans will either a) run for the hills or b) say, "Yes, Schmugglypoopoo. I'm all for getting married! Marriages rock!" Obviously, you don't want a), but it's better to KNOW a) now than later. See? Yay, I'm so wise!


(I haven't actually said the boy advice bit out loud to any boy I actually know, because my male friends are either handling their love lives really well, or just don't want me to butt in, but I HAVE yelled it at a couple of movie characters once, and I've also ranted about it to other people, and so it totally counts.)

(Go ahead and add your own Advice-You-Give-Other-People-But-Probably-Wouldn't-Listen-To-Yourself in the comments. It'll be fun.)

We found love in a hopeless place

 We snuck in through a side entrance, me, who has never really done anything lawless in her life, my heart thumping, and a flutter of uncontrollable, inappropriate giggles about to rise up through my chest. "Shhh!" said the first person in line, warningly, we dodged a guard, walked under a bridge and ran across the lawn, being careful to stay in the shadows, and then (I thought he was joking) we lurked behind a tree. No joke. One by one, we peeled ourselves out from behind the tree and scampered, no forgiving shadows there, but it was a short scamper, till we reached the wall of the monument we were aiming for. (The old horse stables, I was told later.) Two others and I thought we spied a guard, so we stayed behind the tree longer than we should have, and our Fearless Leader came back, hugging the wall, to find us and send us ahead of him.

Up narrow, bat smelling stairs, I walked, balancing handbag and cellphone torch. A friendly black dog decided to keep us company and bounded along next to me and I almost thought he was a mouse and screamed. Also, he was a big dog and between us, we barely fit on those ancient stairs, but we made it to the top without dying.

We spread out sheets (I brought a sheet!) and doled out the food and alcohol. This was officially illegal. The wine had a cork, no one brought a corkscrew. We shrugged and resorted to vodka. The dog lay silently by the staircase, ready to get up and warn us about any incoming visitors.

From time to time, our voices got really loud. And then someone would say, "SHUSH!" and we shushed. Sometimes we spied people on trysts like ours, mostly lovers, some ardent night runners, we ducked from them all. One of us crawled on her stomach to peer out through a hole in the low wall. We were carried away by the adventure of it all.

"This would be a great date place," was repeated many times, and we all sighed and agreed. It would be a great date place. "This is not something we could have done in Bombay," said my friend to me, and we agreed on that as well.

We played a drinking game: Sex, Drugs And Rock and Roll. Mostly, people could only think of sex things. 'X' was a sticking point.

I had to pee. I went down the stairs to the darkest spot I could find. I saw someone with a torch and stood against the wall, hurriedly zipping up my jeans, feeling like a spy and a sex offender at the same time.


As the vodka levels got lower and our spirits got higher, we decided we weren't going to get caught after all. We stood up, stretching our legs. We took photographs. A friend and I decided to open the wine bottle with a knife, she was careful, I took the knife, wedged into the cork and banged it against the wall. The bottle broke, but we extracted the wine. There were giggles. There were more photographs. We sat, insouciant, on the parapet, and watched people running, talking into their cellphones.

Some people left. We cleaned up. We played a very loud game where we sung all the songs we could think of. It was a balmy night. We finished whatever little wine we had left in our plastic cups. We sang louder. Bohemian Rhapsody echoed out over the lawns.

Say what you will about Delhi. Yes, sometimes it's rape-y and nasty and disgusting. But sometimes it's kinda magic. That's why I love this city, for the magic. That's what I have to remind myself why I continue to live here, despite the ugly stuff. This kind of evening.

A collection of stereotypes all wrapped up in one 5'2" package

Some days, I am Pollyanna. I am so virtuous about only looking at the bright side that I annoy even myself. I sigh, martyr-like at any problem that comes my way, but I take them willingly, head on, so that I can turn them into a situation where All Is Well.  I say things like, "Oh well, things can only get better, right?" or "Aww.. cheer up, sweetie, it could be worse!"  I want to punch myself in the nose. Sometimes, though, saying these things make other people feel better. Pollyanna is Pollyanna for a reason.

Some days I am Virginia Woolf and only the lack of a poetic river keeps me from jumping into one. The Yamuna doesn't count. I have a room of my own which I guard. I meditate on feminist issues. Virginia is Virginia for a reason.

Some days, I am Manic Pixie Dream Girl.  I wear sneakers with my frocks and am full of whimsy. These are the days I will sing out loud in the street, perhaps attempt to do a pirouette, I smile at random strangers and wear my hair in braids. I put toothpaste on my zits and cook in an adorably dysfunctional manner. I dismiss my several neuroses as "quirks" and these are perhaps good days to meet me for a drink, because I am full of riffs and will entertain you. These would also be a bad day to meet me for a drink if you want to actually discuss something,  because as MPDG, I am my own show. MPDG is MPDG for a reason.

Some days, I am Joan from Mad Men. I carry my bosom like a banner, like a sail, before me. I let my voice drop to a throaty chuckle. I smoke a cigarette in an elegant fashion. I give you wisdom for your life. I wear red lipstick, sometimes I wear heels and I am supremely confident. Joan Days are good days for me, because I move about feeling elegant and wise and yet, supremely cynical and jaded. Sometimes Joan will morph halfway into MPDG and THAT is just WEIRD. Joan is Joan for a reason.

Some days I am J.D Salinger. I do not wish to see anyone, I do not wish to be disturbed. Why are there so many people on this planet? Please go away and leave me alone to be a genius. Salinger is Salinger for a reason.

Some days I am an internet troll, some days I resonate with the world, some days nothing I do turns out right, some days I am so happy to be me and to be alive that I have to pinch myself to make sure this is real. Some days I am lazy. Some days I am super productive. Some days I care about everything. Some days I am filled with apathy. Some days I wonder what's going to happen to me. Some days I'm all about living in the present. Contradictions are contradictions for a reason.

In which we ramble on about Social Media Responsibility in a somewhat adult manner

(I tried to write this erudite, all encompassing first sentence, but I'm very mildly hungover and my thoughts are still slightly jumbled, so I'm just going to plunge right in.)

It came to a head when a Facebook fan page I subscribe to, that of an animal shelter that does excellent work and usually places or homes most strays that come their way, had as a status update, details about the brood (is that the right collective? Jumble? Bag? Clutch?) of puppies they had just been foisted with. Included in this update were details about the irresponsible owners, and that's what made me a bit uncomfortable. Rather than just saying, 'oh, you know, this is how the dogs were treated' which was pretty bad in itself, they chose to share that the former owner was blahblahblah (insert details yourself.) I commented on this update, saying pretty much what I'm saying here, don't see how it's relevant and so on and they replied saying the details had been posted to "shame them". 

That brought me to a halt. It's not Animal Shelter's job to shame anyone, surely? They could've said, "The dogs weren't vaccinated and allowed to roam about and get pregnant a lot", which is true and everyone would've been equally shocked and disgusted, but I don't think they had any right, any OBLIGATION even, to put up details like they did. It's like saying, "eM is a bad cat owner and SHE SMOKES." My smoking has nothing to do with my cat owning and for another, it's none of anyone's business whether or not I smoke, but if I was a bad cat owner, then I suppose it would be kind of a social responsibility to tell me off about that. Right?

I think we're going too far with social media. This may seem like I'm being all old school and "oh, no one needs a watchman" but the truth is, words that are written are far more permanent than words that are said. Stuff on the internet lingers forever, coming up like a bad meal during a Google search. 

Then, there's this blogger I sometimes read (mostly because her life couldn't be more different than mine) and she had a post about Kony and how she refused to say anything to her many hundreds of thousand Twitter followers. You can read the post here, but in a nutshell, she just couldn't be bothered, for the most part. She has other things she supports, and she didn't think just because she had that many readers, that she should force something down their throats. Fair enough. This is where my thoughts about social media responsibility get kind of mixed up. Not specifically the whole Kony thing (which is turning out to be a fiasco, by the looks of it) but then I was wondering, if you have, say, over 10,000 Twitter followers or several hundred friends on Facebook or a blog that gets lots of hits, shouldn't you in some way, shape or form, be giving back, as it were? On the other hand, it's not your funeral. You should be able to do what you dos. But, back in the day, if you were a well known journalist or author or something, you picked your cause and you raised awareness about your cause and people still do that and just because we're all on the internet and it's free, doesn't mean that we don't have to help. On the other other hand, maybe your audience is just like, "Dude, we don't want to hear about all the things you're doing to make yourself feel better! We just want the content you normally provide!" and so by posting about these things, you're basically running the risk of losing your readers. 

And, coming back to Facebook, I saw a status on my cousin's wall the other day, where he said he received a bunch of anonymous photos, not too explicit, by someone obviously sending it to the wrong number. He wanted a second opinion on whether it would be okay, if he blurred the faces out, to post them on Facebook. Ultimately, he put himself in the sender's shoes, and decided against it. I don't think a lot of people would be that considerate. 

I love Tripadvisor and consult it regularly, but sometimes, I can't help but wonder if the really, REALLY shit reviews are just someone with an axe to grind. I've started moderating my Twitter somewhat, so that I'm a little less gratuitously bitchy. Do I really want to say that, I ask myself, if I'm having a bad meal or someone in the public sphere is pissing me off and so on. And mostly, I realise, it can be avoided, without losing my honesty to my Twitter followers. 

Naming and shaming is all very well, but I think at some point, we need to draw the line. It's not our job to be the parent to random people on the internet, or be their Supreme Power or whatever. Say what is absolutely necessary (and I know, I know, I haven't always lived by this rule, but I am now.) If typing out something about someone else makes you feel:

a) slightly sick about how they'll react to it.

b) filled with vengeful glee.

you probably should rethink that. 

A post about sex things and not gardening or homemaking.

Recently, I went to see a movie at a little French shop in Shahpur Jat called Les Parissiennes. (I might not have spelt that right, but now's when I'm going to digress and talk about how that's one of the things I love about this city--the randomness of cultural events. Even though this blog, which I came across yesterday is all about "oh, Delhi's culture isn't really culture", I respectfully disagree. Sure, the stuff that I go to is probably only available to people with a working internet connection and Facebook, this is still more than I was offered in Bombay. Or, maybe not. Bombay too is picking up over the last year, but the difference between Delhi and Bombay is, Delhi is far more accessible, in the sense that it doesn't take two hours of pre-planning what the best time to leave your house to beat the traffic is. I set out half an hour before, for most things, and I usually wind up making it on time. And there's something about being at an event so totally random, in the middle of a busy market, with Bloody Marys and bruschetta, that makes you feel very underground and hip. Similarly, with the Holi Cow festival, which is what we did for Holi this year, it was a massive, MASSIVE affair, with three stages set up with three different genres of music and a food area and bars and everything, and yes, some days I don't miss Bombay at all. (But I still love you, Bandra. Don't feel bad.))

(And just as I wrote that, the doorbell rang, and I was given an invitation to go watch Vikram Seth speak this Friday, an author, who you might recall, I wrote a love letter to a couple of years ago, and my feelings still go on and on. See?) (This is also particularly nice, because I'm particularly broke and had consigned myself to hermitude/free activities till I'm out of the red.)

Anyway, this documentary I saw. It was all about the G Spot (and called G Spotting), debating whether it existed (Conclusion According To The Film: It does.) and how it was the best orgasm ever, you guys! I mean, said many of the women in the film, you haven't really had an orgasm unless it's from, um, deep inside of you. (Apologies for the gratuitous Third Eye Blind quotation, I feel like song lyrics are the best metaphors for these things, and so you might find them peppered through this post.) Right. So, the "salacious nature of this blog" (I forget who I'm quoting, but I'm sure it's on the internet somewhere) being such, I can fully admit to you, that I personally am not all about the G spot. I loved the bit in The Vagina Monologues where they were all "oh, let's celebrate the clitoris!" because the clitoris is a pretty fab thing. I like mine. I like mine a whole lot. If you have one, you probably like yours. But in increasing conversations with friends about our sex lives (yes, women do this. Even women in their 30s who should've outgrown it ages ago when sex stopped being a brand new shiny thing and just became something you do with someone you like. Or not. But let's not get started on dislike sex, that's a whole different post.) Sex, when sex is good, is... I actually have no words. It's like, if you've been having say, an average meal your whole life, and then someone presents you with the most delectable steak/whatever vegetarians equate with steak and you eat it and your tastebuds explode and your stomach is full in this really satisfactory manner and you're like, "OH MY GOD, I GET FOOD NOW!" That's sort of what it's like.

Where was I? Yes, discussing with girlfriends. And they all seemed to think the important thing was an orgasm from within you. Rolling in the deep, as it were. On the outside, just didn't seem to matter so much. Oh yes, it's fun, they said, dismissively, but an orgasm doesn't truly count until it's going on during the whole insert-plug-here bit of the sexing. So, I decided (with a little help), after this documentary, that I'd see if this Real Orgasm thing was a thing. I believe it makes you feel like you have to pee? And that's meant to be a good thing? News flash: it isn't. I don't find anything remotely sexy about feeling like I have a full bladder, even though another friend explained that was  a Sign of Great Things. This woman on the documentary was going on and on about it, "It's like my brain does a back flip!" she said. Where was my brain back flip? Being an empowered woman of the 21st century, person who writes about sex frequently, I try and get over my hang ups when I can. It took a while, but here I am in my thirties, and I feel like things are going quite well in that area. That being said, if everyone, even people who don't feel all "my body is a wonderland" are getting this massive G spot orgasm, what is wrong with me? Am I not wired right? And being a drama queen, of course, I was all, "I feel like less of a woman!" Which is ridiculous, and if I were talking to myself as an outsider, I'd say, "Dude. If you're getting off, you're getting  off." But we are so much more cruel to ourselves than we would be with a friend.

What was I to do? Keep trying, even though the sensation wasn't something I particularly cared for? Or just go with the regular orgasm, the kind I'm familiar with? Why does no one write about this? In all my years of sex and using the internet (separately. Not for p0rn. Not that there's anything wrong with that, just not my thing.) I've come across precisely one article about someone's lack of an orgasm during sex and she fixed it by getting into BDSM. Which: not my thing. I found myself warning dudes, "You know, I don't come during sex." Sometimes they persevered. Sometimes they gave up and just got theirs. I liked sex, even without the ultimate goal, as it were. But then, in the movies, all these people, just like synchronised swimmers, in books, everyone seems to be gathering together and it seems like sex isn't sex until you're coming together (right now, over me. Beatles. Sorry. I warned you.)

This post doesn't really have a conclusion, as such. I'm comfortable as I am, but I'm still wondering about the other stuff. Took me ten years (hey, unvirginity anniversary!) to get here, and maybe it'll take me another ten years to reach that Holy Grail. HG Spot. Took me ten years to figure out some of the stuff I like, and a LOT of the stuff I definitely don't like, no no, why would you do that? Which is good. I was going to say something about my sexual journey unfolding and so on, but journey reminded me of the band Journey, and that reminded me of a song lyric that would be perfect here:

"Don't stop believing, hold on to the feeeeeeee-hee-ling!"