Category: Life

What the Well Dressed Man is Wearing

After my recent appearance at the first birthday of my son, I am now qualified to submit a piece on ‘What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing’ or rather what the woman is wearing. I posed for photographs, like my lead fashion designer said, “Red carpet style”. I can see some of you tutting and asking me where my humility is.

Allow me to explain. But before I start, tell me whether you have ever worn a curtain before.

In my chronicles so far, I have mentioned some talents about the mother. She is an amazing cook, excellent teacher at Maths and impressive with solving calculus problems while stirring the sambhar. (There have been times when I would ask her about a particular problem that I was having difficulty with, and she would nod and say she will help me out later. All the while making chappatis with speed and efficiency machines would kill for. Then a few minutes later, she pipes out the answer. She’d have tackled the problem in her mind. That in Algebra or even Trigonometry is okay, but in Integration & Differentiation is another ball-game) I digress.

Point is she has another hobby – sewing. We were often at the receiving end of her experiments with cloth. It goes with the free calculus package.

I still remember the time I went visiting the sister in college. There she was, out in the big, bad world by herself. (The big, bag world had barbed wires on the fences and on the tongues of the nuns overseeing the place, but still) I traipsed into her room wearing a skirt stitched by my mother, and hugged her friends who had come up to our home in the Nilgiri Hills a few weeks back. They pampered me (the little sister) like they always did, but they kept looking at me with quizzical expressions on their faces. It was a few minutes before one of them made the connection. Never one to hold back, she piped, ‘So that’s where I’ve seen it before. Isn’t this the curtain in your living room?’ I was aghast. I was shocked. I told her in a loud, firm voice that the curtains were still in the living room, and she was welcome to come and see them. And in a smaller voice acknowledged that the remaining cloth had been put to use by the mother. You see I tried my best to not wear that skirt at home when the pattern matching algorithm is blatantly simple, but I never thought someone would remember the cursed things a 100 miles away.

I am still a little scarred with complimenting people on their choice of curtains. I do it of course, if the curtains really lift the mood of the room, but with a little twinge of fear that gnaws at the corner of my heart.

So that is my claim to fame in the fashion department. I’ve worn a curtain. Have you? From there to wearing a dress that has the world turning their heads is bound to get to anyone’s head what? Anyway, here is the algorithm to ‘What the Well-dressed Woman is Wearing’

Step1: Get a brother-in-law who is not as fashion demented as yourself and your husband.
Step2: Get the brother-in-law to marry a girl who is not as fashion d as yourself and your h.
Step3: Leave the rest to them.

That is what I did and I must tell you the awesome twosome have done a wonderful job thus far on making us look as little like curtains and bedsheets as possible. The clothes are always stunning, and this time came with a best present of all (the gift of their time and presence.) They are here a-visiting and that is one among the many reasons I have been dawdling on the post frequency.

T is for Temperature or Thermometer

I have about as many thermometers as a respectable hospital should have. Yet, everytime somebody in my family runs a temperature, there is a mad scramble for thermometers. We will scoop up a dozen and thrust the infernal things under children’s arms, into their mouths and now even the ear. The scene always starts out as either the husband or I feeling the forehead. Then, just to show off, I will guess the temperature.
“Must be 100.5”
The husband thinks it is 99.6. Precision. That is what we are going for in thermometers.

We look at the pile of thermometer sticks lying and select the newest looking one.
Beep
Beep
Beep
“Why does this thing show an ‘L’? Can’t it just show a – or something, so I am ready to start? What is this L?”
“L is for Love Amma” The daughter pipes in.
“Just put it fast- fast.”
One can hustle me, but one cannot hustle a baby. He needs time to smile at you, grab at the thermometer that you are trying to thrust through his clothes and play tug-of-war with it by which time the ‘L’ has gone on the display and your temperature has risen a wee bit too.

The next time, Iappease the baby first; give him a thermometer to play with, and then press:
Beep
Beep
Beep
Wait for the ‘L’ and fumble through baby clothes again. You place the thermometer there and see an amused looking baby chewing one thermometer and looking patronizingly at the glowing one under his arm.

The one in his mouth gets wetter and finally the underarm thermometer glows and shows 99.5.
“This must be wrong. He definitely feels hotter than that!” I declare. I wonder if people remember the episode of Everybody Loves Raymond where Debra falls ill with the kids and Marie checks the right temperature by kissing the forehead (like that, only not half as impressive)

We repeat the exercise with Thermometer#2 and under the other arm (You want a reason for switching the arm. Fine! Here it is: What if the cold tip made the spot colder than it is.) This one shows 96. Now that definitely can’t be right.

“He isn’t colder than he is supposed to be you dimwit, he is hotter.” I say directing a cold stare at the thing.
“Just put that one away – everytime this happens we say we will get rid of the useless ones and we just manage to accumulate more and more thermometers.”

So, I gingerly place it separately. My crawler leaps at it and takes it to his mouth. He just manages to draw two large slurps out of it when I realise that that was the thermometer right under his feverish arm a minute ago. Not cool.

Attempt #3:
I get the ‘L’ and the L for Love girl takes it to her arm. “I don’t have a fever – I’ll check if this one works and then you can use it.” she says helpfully.
Which seems like a sensible idea, only that this particular thermometer is precision itself, and it reserves its act for once a day. After that no matter how often you press, you only hear the beep, and no display.

By attempt #5, we get a reading that can only be partially right since we have a very impatient baby on our hands. HE does not like having sticks stuck under his arm and is intent on removing it every 3 seconds. Still we get a reading of 100.1.
“Close enough.” I say and start towards the fever reducer, when the exasperated husband says he is going to buy another one to check properly.

Sigh!

PS: Tucky is fine now and we added a fine model thermometer to our priceless collection

 

The Samosa Love Triangle

If you read my entry on the footwear in the cruise carefully, you will see that a Samosa figured. Namely that we were looking forward to having the hot samosa while aboard the cruise. There are a few memories that rankle you – titillate you days afterward. The hot samosa is one such.

Launching then, into the story of the samosa.

There was a point in the proceedings when the daughter and I were left to ourselves and the remaining party went for a walk. Of the party that went a-travelling to see the sights of London & Scotland were two babies under the age of 1. The 10 month old was my son (the compulsive crawler), the other was my dear nephew who was 5 months old at the time. That sweet little baby had not yet learned to crawl. He lay there quietly on his back uttering a gurgle or two now or then, cooing and smiling like a 1000000 watt bulb. I swear to God, his is the first smile I’ve seen that is so all-consuming. When he smiles, his whole being lights up and happiness pours out of every pore. Bless the dear – may he be happy always.

While on the walk, the parent committee decided it was best to change the diapers. Tick one job off the list. Efficient use of time. Two stones in one throw. I had no idea that changing diapers could be classified as bragging material, but apparently it is.
After a longish walk; we met the diaper braggers and walked around for another hour or so. It was at this point in the story that we decided to rest and take in the sights of London by taking the cruise.

Always brilliant when it comes to pairing experiences with taste, my brother and his wife said the samosa is a must on the cruise and deftly swerved into a place and bought the hot samosas. The cruise had barely started when the babies got hungry too. The million watt smiler was easy – he just migrated towards his mother and gave her one of his heart-breaking smiles. That is all it took for his private milk bar to open up for business. The crawler was now ‘on solids’ and needed fruit. So, I looked for the diaper bag and it wasn’t there. Gone!

The husband and I exchanged looks. The husband & brother exchanged looks. The sister-in-law and I exchanged looks. Then we all exchanged looks. The result of all that looking was that we nominated the first prize winner of the Diaper Bragger Contest to go and get the diaper bag from wherever they so efficiently changed diapers – a good 2.5 miles away from the next cruise stop.

That was how the husband missed the thrill of watching footwear on the cruise. As for me, I gave a noble reason for not diving into the samosas (I said I did not want to devour hot samosas while the husband was off diaper bag hunting). I decided to eat with him later. We got off at Greenwich and the vigilant sister-in-law having done justice to her samosa decided it was time to clean up house. Consequently, the first trash can in Greenwich (that beautiful spot that calibrates the World clock) bagged the lottery of our trash.

So, there we were a good two hours later. Nothing but bull-headed self control (and love for my husband) kept me from the samosa and nothing but love for the samosa kept him running with a diaper bag in tow towards us. You know how it is. In our heads now, the samosas had miraculously heated themselves to an ideal edible temperature and were sitting pretty on a plate. It did not help that the brother and his wife kept talking about what a wonderful taste it had and how it was just the right size. Among samosas, these apparently belonged to the royal family. The moment we met, we knew that our hearts may beat separately, but they ache for one thing : Samosas.

If ever there was a nasty jar, it was this: The blasted samosas were missing!

Remember the looking scene when we discovered the lost diaper bag? That was nothing. Magnify the proportion of disbelief a hundred fold. We looked at each other like we’ve never seen one another before. Then one after the other, we all looked into the bag to see if there was some crevice where things were hidden. Nothing. At one point I thought the bag had a sneaky samosa-eaten guilt look about it.

When I finally pulled a bag of trash, the mystery was solved. The sister-in-law, her nose still dripping with the smell of samosas, sniffed in the bag looking for the trash bag. Her nose naturally went for the samosa bag and she tossed that in the trash instead and saved all the trash for the little crawler to inspect.

SIGH!

PS:Interesting fact, did you know that the Chicken Tikka Masala was Britain’s national food? Right through our trip there, the one thing that stood out was the number of Indian restaurants. There we would be – a small town, you know the whole population fits on a backstreet around the length of a longish dinosaur. Then, you see the main street has 5 Indian restaurants. It is almost like every Indian family felt compelled to extend their kitchen out into a restaurant.

Ships, Trains & Feet

I have been trying to jot down my memories of the London Scotland trip before it fades away in memory. So here goes installment 3 of the series:

The cruise on the Thames River is beautiful. The pamplets don’t lie. They tell you to watch for London Eye on the left, the London bridge up ahead, Westminster Abbey on the right etc.


I just have to look down from my screen and I can visualize the cruise – how cool is that?

Cut. Now zoom your lens out to the next shot.

The train ride from London to Edinburgh is breathtakingly beautiful.

I just have to look down from my screen and I can picture the whole train ride again. Cooler than the cruise or what?

London may have been dripping with History and the buildings and statues spotting the city vying for your attention like they have been for centuries. But what attracted me was at ground level. The English countryside may have been as charming as a painting as the train charged past it at 120 miles an hour. What I remember is again the ground basics.

Here’s another one….

Let me elucidate. I spent an inordinate amount of time looking at people’s footwear. I don’t suppose anybody has studied the footwear of the English as much as I did. If you ask me whether clogs or boots or molasses were the latest in fashion, I will not be able to tell you. You know how it is – the mind is preoccupied. The eyes are seeing the roses, but not taking them in. That was me. The very epitome of motherly vigilance. My baby learnt to crawl a few weeks before the trip to the UK. Once mobile, there was(is) nothing to stop him from practicing EVERYWHERE. He would try to slip himself off the stroller, try to jump your shoulder, claw his sister (Who incidentally does an impressive job of carrying him) – anything to get crawling.

Imagine my chagrin, therefore, when we walked into the cruise with a hot samosa in my backpack just waiting to be devoured, and looking forward to a peaceful cruise; when the whole thing was upset by a baby wanting to crawl near the refreshment booth to boot. Obviously it was no fun being strapped into a stroller or being carried when one’s immunity needs building up by licking the carpets of cruise ships, flights and trains. So, I let him crawl. (See how I worked in an illusion of control into that sentence? ) Whether it was just my feverish eye I will never know, but not one of the potential tramplers seemed to be under 200 pounds in weight. I stood there looking sulky and watching the little thumper pick up dirt from the carpet while the beautiful sights of London passed me by. My daughter said ‘Don’t worry Amma. I will tell you the list of things you missed.’ and sat down to enjoy her icecream by the window. I saw the most muddy pair of shoes I have ever seen in urban areas aboard that ship, and obviously those were the shoes that most attracted the crawler. The man in the shoes was a very sweet man with a bristling moustache and said, ‘Don’t worry – the dirt is clean!”


I must have bent and picked him up 2^16 times in the whole cruise. Some exercise.

The same scene was enacted on the train ride from London to Scotland. The book I had planned to read on the train(I know!) lay forgotten on the abandoned seats while the daughter, son and I manned the dirtiest zones of the train. The cleanliness factor was upped a bit by the fact that the chosen area was near the restroom and nothing but a motion sensor controlled sliding door to hamper progress. The motion sensors were obviously at a height taller than my baby and the whole time people would walk through the door assuming a free passage only to find a baby lurking at stamping distance. I only picked him up at the rate of 255 times an hour for 4 hours.

If I hadn’t practiced on the cruise, I might have had a sore back, but since I aced the pick up act, I sailed through looking triumphant and bronzed ready to take in the sights of stockinged legs of men in kilts at Edinburgh.

 

 

Dragon Rider, Horse Whisperer & Stroller Mesmerizer

Couple Struggle and look for Stroller Counselling

Life for Londoners took an amusing turn on this cold day in April as they watched a couple struggle with collapsing a stroller on the London subway. The usually good team hit unexpected snags and delayed pedestrian traffic as they moved over to the corner to enable rampaging Londoners to proceed during peak commute times. When interviewed later, the harried looking couple apologized for the trauma it caused fellow commuters. Fellow commuters, when interviewed, said the act was among the best shows of comedy they’d witnessed on an earnest and stern working day and many said they planned to laugh over the whole thing at home that evening.

In case people missed the fabricated news item – there it is. The unfortunate couple mentioned is us and the stroller was not ours. Being parents twice over and aunt/uncle multiple times over gives us a certain over-confidence when it comes to handling strollers. I mean how hard can it be? There is a lever there – push it down along with the button here and down it goes. Collapse – small and easy. Then you tuck the beautiful thing under your arm like an umbrella, competently hold your baby in the other and stride forth with your shoulders straight and your chin set to face the challenges of the World. Right? Wrong!

Just as we were leaving for a spot of sight-seeing about town, the brother and his wife(bless them) handed us their stroller and nudged us on. ‘Go on – it is small, quick and easy’ Ours being in the garage still, we gushed our thanks out and carried the stroller down 2 flights of stairs. I then pushed the thing about and it went. It took me a few minutes to realise that strollers have personalities. You read of horses and dragons training their riders – The Dragon Rider, The Horse Whisperer. No one talks of The Stroller Mesmerizer – but they should.

Just goes to prove that looking innocent and standing by the door isn’t always what it seems. It did not seem to like taking directions from a new stroller pusher. So, it would exert its personality and show you whose boss. I’d try to make it turn left to cross the road or something and the stroller would want to do nothing more than observe the pebble on the right. We coaxed and cajoled the beautiful green stroller and strolled along the beautiful streets of London (I find complimenting a stroller works.) I must also come clean and say the stroller was not the preferred mode of transport for the one person capable of sitting in one and half the time, the stroller gulped and set aside its pride and ferried assorted bags instead of a baby.

Marengo(Napolean’s illustrious war mount) would have been upset if Napolean got excited by a pig, when he was doing the important work of ferrying his rider into battles wouldn’t he?

It was the same with the stroller. I mean if I were a stroller and my rider showed visible signs of excitement at a painting of a horse while sitting on me, I’d be pretty upset which is what my little one did. Which is why I don’t entirely blame the stroller for acting up the way it did. But boy! Did it give us a shock? There we are: charging along the subway looking to catch the blue train home. Just before we took an escalator down, we stopped to fold the stroller. I hung the baby under my arm and pulled 3 bags from the stroller and hung them on various spots of my body.

The husband then tried to collapse the stroller. I watched him for a few minutes and then started doing the best thing in the world. Giving directions.
Just collapse it.
There must be a lever on the right.
No? Then, there must be one on the left.

The key thing to do while giving dumb instructions is to ignore the exasperated looks of the receiver. When beads of sweat appear on a cold London evening, you know you got to help. So, I upped the stupidity quotient of the instructions.

Check under the seat.
Maybe, the rain shield is blocking the folding mechanism.
Here, let me hold the stroller while you look under the wheels.
Does this one have a gear? It did say Sports Model.

Pretty soon, the daughter decided to get in the action. So, the three of us pushed, grunted and shoved. I took on more movable parts of the stroller apart for convenience and the daughter saw something bend. So, we all heaved and pushed. We got the thing to collapse after 12 long minutes and were still left with the rain cover, the cup holder and something else in our hands separately. We turned our heads to find a commuter smiling at us and saying, ‘Oh you know – you needn’t have gone through all that, you could have just taken the elevator there and rolled yourself right on to the train.’

Duh. Next time. There is always a next time.

Never awaken a sleeping tiger cub…

Every time I step aboard a flight, I admire the space utilization measures the flight designers have taken. I am not sure that aero-dynamic designs appeal to me as much as the food trolley cart design or the way those trolleys slide neatly into closets designed for fitting one. If it was possible for a machine to compress us all into capsules and place us in an economy seat; I am sure the airline industry will be the first to embrace and implement such a strategy. The food trays, the trash compactors, the restrooms – they all seem to be tailored just about your outer seams. I think they expand and contract too. I mean when I go alone into the restroom,there seems to be just enough elbow room for me. When I go with my baby to change his diaper the same closet somehow takes on more space to allow for an inquisitive infant springing forth from my arms to ‘explore the surroundings’ and still not eject us out the door.

The most recent trip with my family to London and Scotland were done with the following as hand carry:
Daughter : 1 count
Infant son: 1 count
Diaper bag: 1 count
Backup diaper bag items in suitcase: 1 count
Spare clothes for all involved: x+3 count (I may be partially OCD, but I have seen a baby with nothing but a diaper on my travels because he wet his dress and vomitted on the spare one within 3 minutes of the flight taking off)
Stroller : 1 count
Car seat: 1 count
Laptops: 2 count
Book + Kindle etc (I am optimistic that way)

I can’t begin to explain the hash we made of things before settling down. The husband would deftly shove the suitcase in bin 2 , then pile our coats before placing the laptop bag and hang on the bin handle to close the bin, only to find that 10 minutes later, I’d want the backup fruit from the suitcase lodged at the bottom of the whole pile. The poor man may have grunted a couple of times, but it was lost in the melee. We were clearly spilling over our surroundings with just one person’s food. To think they served a whole flight full of people without tying bibs on anyone; not to mention spilling food on themselves or anybody else is amazing.

Another point to consider is that usually in flights, I rely on a combination of books and in-flight entertainment systems to tide me through the tortuous international travels, but this time I could have travelled on a bullock cart stowed in an airplane and I might have had had an easier time managing my little one. At one point when he slept, I squished myself into the seat without waking him up and tuned in to the in-flight entertainment with disastrous consequences. This I tell you after standing at the back of the flight near the restrooms for 2.5 hours continuously. So, you can imagine how relieved I was that he fell asleep. The details are still foggy, but somehow while plugging the ear-phones on, my sleeping little one managed to tie his shoe lace into the whole thing. This is the exact moment when the stewardess thought would be a great time to serve food. So, now I had the exit row seat with the in-flight entertainment screen pulled out, a sleeping infant with his shoe laces inexplicably tied to my headphones, the bassinet carrier open for placing my food tray on and a glass of juice in my hand. A more peaceful domestic scene one cannot see on flights. The stewardess flashed a partly sympathetic- partly ‘Good – now stay that way’ smile at me and moved on with her bulky trolley.

Then, the baby kicked in his sleep. I wonder whether you’ve seen these you-tube videos with card packs flopping down. Some poor soul spends hours building a castle of cards and then pulls one card off the beginning and the whole thing flops down nicely. It was like that.

Peaceful scene -> baby kicked in his sleep -> Kick tugged at ear phones and flopped earphones on eyes -> Eyes temporarily hit with ear-phones involuntarily moved hands spilling o.juice on adjoining areas,but deftly avoiding sleeping infant -> Avoided sleeping infant, but hit husband just when spoon with dal and basmati rice to hit tongue -> Basmati rice flying in flight with varying degrees of speed for the accompanying dal.

A loud silent roar erupted from the husband, but he managed to contain it. One does not awaken sleeping tiger cubs even if one’s basmati rice flies into the overhead bins of nearby flights.

To cut a long story short, we emerged victorious, if slightly dirty and stained from the flight. Anyone wanting to see me or my family are most welcome to come and visit me at home. I am happy to entertain!

PS: I loved this picture of the sleeping cub – so here it is.

All in a Smile’s Day

Some good intentioned soul in our workspot decided that what we all needed was a couple of laughs and some more joy in our lives. So, they decided to bring in some clowns into the place.

The clowns walked in to our office spaces and started doing their act. You know clowning around. The problem being they’d been told not to make too much of a noise. So,they shook their heads and waved their hands around while trying not to hit their own nose. The poor blisters could not have walked into a more dead suite than ours. I haven’t told you this before. But everybody on our extended team looks very serious as they try to accomplish whatever it is they are accomplishing. If they browse, they have a keen, analytical look while browsing. If they are working, they look keener and analyticker.

Now I want readers to focus on the clowns clowing around trying to get us to laugh without making a noise that is. It was like watching an oyster trying to drown.

Not to mention that since these clowns were bustling around in the office areas, they were accompanied by security officials. Never have I seen a more bizarre scene. Building security training hones character traits such as looking glum and bored. Additional points for the downward trending on the lip.

Clown training, on the other hand, harps on the enjoying life and laughing bit.

I remember an adage – something to the effect of: Share your sorrow and make it half, share your joy and make it double. Nuh-uh. I beg to differ. When I saw the clowns lunching together in a conference room, they looked positively sullen. I don’t blame them. It must be rotten trying to get folks to laugh by smearing your nose and having a security guard accompany you at all times while doing so.

I don’t know what the employers of the clowns are going to do to get them to smile again.

Heralding the Vegetable Orchestra Era

Something tells me this is going to be the next ‘in-thing’ at South Indian Brahmin weddings:
Chinese vegetable orchestra
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/newsvideo/weirdnewsvideo/9138002/Chinese-brothers-create-orchestra-from-market-vegetables.html

Let us list the potential positives:
1) It has vegetables and no meat. “We are very chaste you know?” a Meenakshi Maami or Chachu Maami will proclaim as they swallow a burfi whole (with the silver lining).

2) The first set of weddings to have it will be talked about in glowing terms till the next wedding has the same thing. Then, that wedding will talked about in glowing terms and so it goes.

3) I am sure paying these artists will be expensive and therefore, tie in nicely with the unnecessary-exorbitant paradigm. Maybe James Band can diversify his talents in the direction. Who is James? And why his band? (Please go here for answers: https://nourishncherish.wordpress.com/?s=James+Band)

In short, James Band was the illustrious band that performed at my brother’s wedding, confused music with noise and received glowing tributes from one and all.

4) There is no active participation of the audience required. One can flit like butterflies or flies near the show, smile vaguely and flutter away towards the edible end of the hall.

5) In general, we like things that knock the wind out of ya. This one has wholesome yams & potatoes.

6) It has a wind instrument touch to it that appeals to South Indians – one can make it loud and also ignore the artistes and turn to look at the cut vegetable show on the side. A simple Google search throws all of these different things one can do with vegetable cutting. I must also point to the fact that weddings now have a vegetable show where one is allowed to go and see the creative pursuits of the wedding contractor’s vegetable carver. Of course, the v.carver is never there to see/hear the appreciation, but a true artist does not wait for them apparently. He has the next set of carvings to get to.

Given that our food decoration wonders stop at the star-shaped carrot like in the dish below(The mother made the dish for the Cancer Institute Foundation fundraiser, but we were tasked with decoration and we pulled off the only thing we are adept at ), we can but marvel at the ingenuity while listening to the vegetable band:


7) The whole lot of the ‘instruments’ can make its way from Srinivasa Maama’s wedding to Vaidyanatha Iyer’s wedding and then morph into kootu at Pataamani maama’s daughter-in-law’s seemandham.

It will be nice to be able to look back at this post a few years from now when the vegetable orchestra is the in-thing.

The Bill of Health

Have I told you about the husband’s visit to the doctor a few years ago?

When asked to take up a physical exam, the husband will run a marathon or at least a half marathon. I think he just likes to tone his muscles and present himself as the ‘Man with the glowing physique’ to the physician. As soon as enters the Doctor’s office, he also makes it a point to bring the topics of conv. around to running and subtly inserts hints about his long distance running and running shoes. The psychological advantage being that the doctor with his glasses as he scans the lab reports cannot be too harsh on numbers that don’t look good. You can’t bombast a guy for his triglycerides and make him kneel down for seeing him at Saravana Bhavan with an oily dosa at hand and an oilier vada in his mouth if he has just run a marathon what?

Following his usual tactics, he ran a marathon, set up a physical exam and started bragging about his running minutes into entering the Doctor’s presence. But, he had recently changed doctors and this one was not to be fooled by marathoners. There is something about spectacle positioning that can make grown men feel like school children. It is neither too low down the nose, nor perched perfectly – the eye penetration factor to severe spectacle ratio is perfected by some causing folks so spill their guts with a mere ‘Hello’. This doctor held a doctorate on spectacle positioning and frowned upon learning that he was a runner.
“Hmm….Marathon running eh?”
“Yes..” *Gulp*
“I know you marathoners. You will run and then say,’I ran so much, so let me eat’ and you will eat.”
“No Sir…sorry, no Doctor.”
“Yes…Yes…I know you people. You will eat way more than necessary. Has your weight reduced because of the running?”
“Ehh..no, but that was not my goal.”
“Then muscle toning eh?”

There was a laugh in the muscle toning that told him that no matter what his answer, he was not going to be happy with the Doctor’s take on it, so he kept glum. (which is saying something)

Fast forward a few hours and imagine my shock when I saw a haggard looking husband droop into the house and recoil at the food I had put on the table? A little gentle probing revealed all. Apparently the doctor in his enthusiasm to drive a point told him that, “Last month….a young man – running, busy job etc came. This month dead.”
I mean…what the? What?

Obviously shaken to the core, he veered off food for a few days, and ran a half marathon after the check-up as well.

The same thing happened to me a few days ago. There I was, sitting and browsing about this and that when I read this article that said my job is killing me. A sedantary job does that apparently.

http://mashable.com/2012/03/02/work-death-infographic/

So, here is a call to all workers, please put in your quota of exercise and eat right. I myself sacrificed a bag of fries yesterday. Which reminds me – it has been a while since the husband ran a half marathon, I should ask the Doctor’s office to remind him about his annual physical exam.

The Baby Job

We have a good deal of things running by themselves at work. I don’t just mean the dogs and the people – they do too, but jobs on systems. Of course, every now and then we feel the need to put in another job to see if the first job is running. Let’s call them Job A and Job B. So, Job B has to see whether Job A is running.Of course, JobB has its set of problems: you know, it might go and check up on the wrong job and then that job puts its nose up in the air and stalks off; if not Job B decides to take an early retirement or wants its spot in the limelight and wonks off. Point is, once we are done running behind Job B to ensure Job A is running, someone suggests that we put in another job, Job C, to see whether Job B is running. Then it is Job B’s job to see whether Job A is running, and if all three are not running, we can always buckle down to developing Job D.

It keeps us fairly busy. You know dog chases cat and cat chases rat. It keeps the rat race on. (Like this Tom & Jerry poster)

So one might excuse me for getting this muddled up dream that had me rankled. I have a baby, who while being the apple of eye, also has his own view of the World. He sometimes decides that the world looks at its rosiest best at 2 a.m. and plays. I admit that when this happens, I avoid eye-contact with him completely, hoping the lack of response will bore him and he falls asleep though he sees no point in the dastardly act of sleep that his parents seem to enjoy so much. When that doesn’t work, I employ a number of techniques that include vague clucking, shushing, patting and singing (I have a blog about my singing that I shall get down to just as soon as I am able to).

He did it again last night. He looked bronzed, fit and alert, like an athlete going to start his customary training before the big match. And played. I do remember patting him and hushing him, but I also remember telling myself that what we desperately need in such moments is a job that tells us our little one is not sleeping.

Then, the left half of the brain pips in: Why do we need a job? We already know that the baby is not sleeping.
No….how do we know that?
Dull thud to the right of my head!
Left half of brain: Because he is banging my head right now, that is how.
But that means you have to be awake.
L.Half: Well, isn’t that what the job will do? It will monitor to see whether the baby is sleeping and if he isn’t, wouldn’t it alert you?
Yes….but that baby’s crying or gurgling or in this case banging his head against mine should alert me, right?

This intense debate went on for a while and finally it was decided that a job to monitor the situ. may be unwarranted, since the baby had me well under control.