Life without a cell phone

From a novelty to a necessity, the cell phone has now become an appendage, an extension of your arm. I'm not going to spend any time on how important it is- I'm sure you have figured that out all by ourselves.

My cell phones so far, have been hand me downs. My first was my dad's Nokia, which weighed a ton (well, it felt like a ton) and was bulky like a brick. My latest was a flip phone that had seen better days in my husband's hands.

I had the same phone for over four years, which is a feat by itself. And in my clumsy hands, it has suffered such grievous injuries, that if only it could file a complaint, I assure you I would be tried and convicted of manslaughter many times over.

It whined, it screeched, it cracked and it fell sick. I tried, you know, to get it some help. I got the best charges, the best batteries. But I think it had given up on making my life easier.Then, there were the temper tantrums which I couldn't alleviate. It wouldn't speak to me for days, after which, possibly overcome by a sudden fit of un-ignorable guilty conscience, it would let me know all the missed calls and messages at the same time. One fine day, about  6 weeks ago, it finally died. Now, my instinct was to rush and get another. After all, how would I go on without a phone?

Apparently, I can go on without a phone just fine. In fact, it was more than fine- it was fabulous. It enriched my life: Pressing send and dialing the number is the norm now. What happens when there is no send button? Have we not seen the FB messages from friends who have lost a phone and lost all the contact numbers too? I actually know my friends' phone numbers now.  The numbers are un-erasable, retrieved quickly upon need, locked away safely in my head.

I know the date and have acquired an uncanny knack for judging time. I can actually add two digits numbers without the aid of a calculator or a pen!

Being deprived of the benefits of making phone calls, I had to write down the directions meticulously, so as not to get lost. And of course, there was no question of making last minute changes to plans for someone else's conveniences. Since I had no phone, everyone had to stick to the original plans.

Things are sounding more appealing by minute, aren't they? The finest leverage here is that I do not have to answer impulsively or make impetuous decisions. People can't reach me- so they email me or leave a message at my home phone or call my husband. So, I get to hear the matter first, assimilate it, think it through before taking any steps.

See, here is the heart of the matter: have you ever thought about the long list of contacts at your fingertips, people whom you can reach without a moment's notice? Ah Ha! It's actually you who are at their finger tips- they can reach you whenever they want. Not me, can't reach me. I speak to people when I deem it fit.  

Now, don't get all uppity with me- you know I would always take your call! :D

But, I think my days of freedom are now numbered. I can see my new phone looming in the horizon, getting obtrusive by the minute!

Lacking hindsight, what say you?

I have heard the condescending arguments about how women can’t drive or park, mostly from men who cast aspersions on women. Not that I condone them (arguments or men), but I do have a confession to make.

In the six years that I have been driving in the US, I have never (ever) gotten a ticket. Never been pulled over for speeding, running red lights or any other offence. Now, why am I mentioning this? I do have a point. Make that two points, actually.

First, I do have violation tickets: from the esteemed and diligent security guards of my employers, who had thought (twice!) that I have parked crookedly. Thus, they left a ticket on my windshield stating “Incorrect-Parking Violation”. Now, that paper is not much- I don’t have any fines or fees. I simply read, huff and toss.

Apparently, I cannot park correctly.

I, who have never been reprimanded by the cops, got ticket from guards! (Now, there is slight thread of egoistical insanity in that sentence, along with some form of grammatical error. Both of which I’m going to assiduously ignore since I do not want to digress).

Which brings me to the second item. I have been in two accidents (why, thank you for asking! No, I was not hurt). I think I may be misleading you with the word ‘accident’, which indicates that at least two cars were involved. Both of mine occurred when there were no other cars in the vicinity. Yes, I did it all by myself, no outside assistance needed. They were accidents in the sense that I had no intention of damaging my car, but I did.

Both the times, curiously enough, I was driving barely 2-3 miles an hour. I was crawling in reverse gear, pulling out of the parking spot. The first time I misjudged the distance and bumped into a monster truck, wrenching the bender; second time I grazed against a pillar and broke the side mirror. Since all this was happening, as I said earlier, at 2-3 miles/hr, I could clearly hear every bump, grind, crunch and screech. Curiously still, it was my husband’s car that was victimized twice by my… err, driving expertise.

And apparently, I do not drive well in reverse gear, in spite of diligently checking my mirrors.

Lacking hindsight, what say you?

PS: My car did get towed, for no fault of mine, which is a separate issue altogether. Please read "A Full Circle, where cops become buddies" in Apr 2010. I have new version of blogger, and once I figureout how to insert hyperlinks, I will do so. Until then...

Olio! Reopened!

(Clearing throat, in a melodious hostess voice):

Greetings of the day! I welcome you to Olio. We are excited to announce that our dear Chef has returned after an unexpected hiatus. Also, I apologize for the wait- I know that four months is a long time, but rest assured that we will make this dining experience worthwhile for you.

We are so pleased that you have decided to dine with us! I’m your blogger for this evening; won’t you step this way and scroll down to read? How do you like this seating- I’m sorry that I cannot accommodate you anywhere else, as your seat right now is the only place where you can read this blog.

Tonight’s specials are self-indulgent craziness garnished with expected results, served with a side of ridiculous suggestions and morbid curiosity. The Chef recommends that you do not part-take of any wines or liquids with these specials, as we are not responsible for you choking to death with laughter.

Previous dinner menus are located to your right. If you have not dined here before, please do visit it for a flavor of Whooshing Ducks, Birthday Cakes, Splashing Water and other such delicious entrees.

::Bon laughter!::

I don’t want to go into the details of self-indulgent craziness with expected results. I think I have quite beaten that topic to death. My indulgence with talking is popular (err...notorious?). And the expected result is always, always my hero complaining about the amount of noise I make. Apparently, I talk in my sleep too! Come to think of it, I might just sympathize with him for being married to a chatterbox. (Mind, I said ‘might’!)

My decision to blog had multi-intents: typing my talking (to give his ears some rest), find other ‘listeners’ for all the nonsense I spout (and count on # of hits says I have a lot of listeners) and finally, trying my hand at humor.

Romance, tragedy, even describing battles and politics any writer can do, but making someone laugh through words is simply difficult. One does not have cues to see how someone reacting, which is very significant in deciding to continue, or alter, or altogether stop the joke. (Or something in that vein which actually makes sense!) So, you write what you think is funny and wait for the laughter- oh wait, written humor does not award this instant satisfaction, you can’t hear anyone laugh. Unless, it’s right behind your back for the idiocy written previously.

For some reason, my dear hero derisively seems to think that I can prattle on almost any topic (which I can, technically). But when he voices that opinion aloud (recap: that I can prattle on almost any topic), it does get my hackles up.

I should probably mention that he ‘voiced his opinion’ rather gingerly, awaiting my out-burst. Any mention of how much I talk indubitably leads to how much he does not talk, the argument which spirals into oblivion with no peaceful end in sight.

He suggested that I take up standup comedy.

Yes, that sentence deserves a paragraph by itself, with ample space, because for that’s how I long I was stunned into silence. (Silence! Me!) A few seconds later, my faculties caught up with my surprise and I was able to quickly determine some things:

1. I can talk. (Duh!)

2. I can talk standing up (wheeee! I can multi-task!)

3. I think I’m funny (whether others think the same, is a debatable point).

Ensconced in my family, in my community, I have been safe from failure. The polite society demands that one should smile or laugh along, to keep up appearances. To step out of this dream audience, and market my humor? His ridiculous suggestion has me morbidly contemplating… Should I? Dare I?

Oh! To be proud!

I have been putting this off for quite a while! Thanks to everyone of you who bugged me to write again. :)

This one is for you.

Kids are not much into subtleties or ambiguities. It makes their life simple, and choices straight forward. Wondering about reasons and discussing validity is pretty much reserved to the grownups. It’s the unhappy provenance of maturity to see the gray shades!

As a sign of such maturity (yes, I’m mature! Go figure!) I wondered about pride. I can understand why lust, envy, sloth, gluttony, wrath, and greed are on the deadly sins list. Why is pride on it? And not only is it on the list, it’s considered the worst of it!

To be red in wrath, and green in envy, to languish in sloth, and drown in gluttony, to want more materialistically or physically, can all lead to general problems and specific harms.

But pride? Does not the management announce how proud they are of various teams’ performance? Does not the principal declare that the football team ‘has done them proud’? And the newspaper reports how the local man made his hometown proud by doing something? Did not my mom say that she was proud of me for not eating all the chalk pieces in the home? (I know, I was a weird kid!). Doesn’t everyone go on & on about national pride, causes pride, civic pride, vegan pride? Is everyone collectively sinning then?

My younger self simply scoffed at such inconsistencies. It would be beyond the scope of a young kid to realize that there are such subtleties in life, let alone grasp the intricacies of understanding it. Nothing in life is straight forward- sounds can have different meanings based on the language, and so can pride differ based on the situation.

Pride can be about writing an article well, or whipping up a meal for 15 flawlessly or getting recognized for you performance at work. Pride can be the result of appreciation from others, and any degree of appreciation is encouragement for betterment. But when that achievement becomes a bench mark for everyone else, and when that same level of dedication or belief or performance is demanded of everyone, no matter their uniqueness, is when pride becomes Pride.

Pride can lead to holding grudges simply because there is no room for leniency. To think that you would not have behaved in the similar way and therefore they should not have either- it’s a flawed argument, as they did behave that way and offend your sense of self-worth. Thus pride should be tempered with mercy.

Pride can be about the inherent goodness of a group generating loyalty- such as belonging to the Nagarathar community or college fraternity or even the cricket team. But it can also blind us, thus over-riding any objections raised against the group, disregarding the view-points of others simply because you are too proud of the group to hear about it. Thus pride should be conscious of tolerance.

Instead of being a drive for achievement and betterment, it becomes a character stumbling block, a self-importance taken to the level where isolation is rampant. Setting up high standards for one self is not enough, as intentions need to be followed with actions. When we fail to achieve self-imposed standards, Pride should be woven with acceptance- of failure, of disappointment, of differences.

The Bulbs. Enough said.

 Yes, this post is about Bulbs. What's so interesting about bulbs, you might ask. It's not bulbs I'm having to deal with, but The Bulbs. 

Being proud owners of a new home, we are guilty of Experiments of Dubious Nature, which never work out well, in my humble opinion (a post about the other E. of D.N. will follow soon).

We decided to experiment. With that decision, I solemnly swear that my involvement in the following disaster was limited to uncontrollable giggling with unfortunate timing at the unbearable number of unlimited bulbs.

I did grow up in a 'tube-light'-ed home. It took me quite-a-while to get used to the yellow bulbs here in US,  which are banished to the bathrooms in India. I'm used to the yellow ones by now, but being bitten (and infected too, I think) with a nostalgia bug, I agreed to tube-light type bulbs.

It took two trips to the store, as we had painfully underestimated the number of bulbs required to light a house this size; A regular sized room requires 4, a smaller room requires 2. So, that's 22 right there. And each package of bulb comes in multiples of 4 or 6, so that meant 6 or 4 packages of bulbs. Then came the choreographed climbing, reaching, screwing, repeated through-out the million (well, it seemed like a million!) rooms that we have. Our daughter delightedly followed us around and took charge of handing the new bulbs over. Apart from making the whole house faded and nondescript, the day-light bulbs gave all of us head-aches.

My immediate and compelling thought was to revert to the yellow ones and cast the lot of day-lights to twilight zone. Dear readers, here is the twist in the story you were expecting, the reason why I called them Blubs, with a capital B.  

Someone disagreed.

Annoyingly (albeit ridiculously), as 'we' were still in experimenting mode, 'we' decided to experiment some more. So, 'we' came back with boxes and boxes of soft-white bulbs, which are actually a light pinky-white. Thus we launched into another round of climbing on chairs, beds, tables and stools to change the bulbs, all the while fighting over who would screw them and who should decide the bulb types. This time around, my sensible daughter rolled her eyes and went back to her dolls.

So, now I have 22 yellow bulbs and 24 day-lights bulbs. But wait, that sounds very less! These are just the 'regular' bulbs. Did I forget to tell you about the hand-sized bulbs which go into the living room recess lighting? Oh, I also forgot the assorted bulbs adorning the hallways, staircases and night-lights? Do you want to hear about the various types of bulbs?

No? I thought so. Couple of days later, we were at the local store, 'experimenting' with chandeliers. As I was discussing the merits of a particular one I liked, I turned to stress a point and realized I was.. err, apparently talking to myself. My hero had disappeared.

With a sneaking suspicion forming in my thoughts, my heart racing, I ran down a couple of isles.YES! He was among bulbs. He looked surprised, embarrassed. I sat down cross-legged, right there next to the rows and rows of bulbs, and laughed. I laughed as passersby gawked, I laughed as my stomach hurt, I laughed as my husband joined in.

PS: In case you need a consult on bulbs, my in-house expert is available (and the bulbs. For free!)

Ticked Off by the Time Pieces

I’m much beleaguered by the time-pieces that an ode or an elegy would not be out of question. ‘Why? It’s just a clock which tells time’, you may ask. And, I would reply, “Nothing, my dear friend, is just a anything".

Now, the clock in my bedroom is an hour ahead. This I lay entirely upon the individuals who decided that the clock must be set ahead in Spring and set back in Autumn by an hour. This Autumn, we couldn’t reach the clock (or weren’t inclined to reach), thus it runs an hour ahead.

The clock in living room (is thankfully within reach and thus was adjusted), runs exactly two minutes fast. This is to account for the time required to hunt the remote, find a spot on the sofa and shush the child before the program on the T.V starts.

The cars are a different story all together. My husband has set his five minutes fast and I have set mine ten. He is calculating for catching a bus while I’m planning for rush-hour traffic.

So, my Dear Readers, here is what a typical morning for me is like: I wake up and go into a panic mode: “It’s 7:30, I can’t believe I over slept!” Then a moment later, reality checks in- “it’s only 6:30, and I’m right on time”. So, get ready and rush out, I immediately subtract 2 minutes from the living room clock. As I’m make breakfast, (the kitchen digital is correct time by the way) and shuttle between kitchen and living room, I add and subtract 2.

Then the car. It takes a few seconds to recollect which car I’m driving (mine) and subtract some more accordingly (10). At the daycare, sane, boring people that they are, have set the clock to the right time. I roll my else at them and reach the car. As I elbow my way through the jam-packed streets, I throw a harried glace at the clock and it's 9. I get to think, "9? It's actually 8:50 then. I still have ten minutes. If only that truck would get out of my way!"


Both our phones, however, show the right time. Probably because we haven’t yet figured out how to fiddle with it yet.

On a different vein, is all well?

I did not dress up this Halloween. When my friends asked me about it, I told them I was a witch under cover, dressed as a human. Apart from concerns about spending money on a costume which I would but wear once, there is another reason which I kept under wraps. No one wants to sound philosophical or pragmatic you see, it's the fashion to be light-hearted and oblivious. But then, sometimes, you can't escape from reality, can you?

I remember writing some of my best funny posts when I was upset, worrying and up late in the night. Contrary to my mood, my writing was buoyant, because I embraced the character I play as a whimsical, silly and humorous blogger to write. For this post, I'm stepping out and shrugging off the silly blogger.

I am constantly challenged by my environment to be someone I am not. I'm sure everyone else is too. Most times, I just give in and let it get the better of me, and pretend to be whatever or whoever that is, is required of me for that moment- An affectionate and considerate friend, a agreeable and pleasant acquaintance, a supportive and loving wife, a caring and amusing mother, a passionate dreamer, a self-deprecating human being, a semi-funny blogger.

All of that, when I'm at my best. At my worst, I could be yelling, stomping, complaining maniac. Then the time comes to don the various roles again and the 'self' in me is clothed and embellished to execute the role. And I'm sure you have also been through this- you could be in the middle of an upsetting situation, but when you get to work, you will be a calm, composed, diligent employee. Thus, we may be faulty, cranky, screwed up versions of our perfect-selves, who guise into a passable working versions to go through life.

One has to strive for perfection and settle for excellence. But what if perfection requires a person to be a dashing and romantic husband, to be an elegant and graceful wife, to be a selfless and patient parent, to be a rock-like supportive friend, to be a practical and down-to-earth human being? And what if that perfection is unattainable? If you are discomposed, annoyed or angry, has the person failed as a spouse, as a parent and as a human being?

I understand the importance of such roles that we play. To pretend may sound like deception, but it is quite necessary. I'm sure this serious post from me would results in many calls and comments about the state of my mind. If I had been the semi-funny blogger while writing this, all would have been well. Since I discarded the role, it upsets the readers- not to be narcissistic about my importance in your lives, but you did pause to think why I'm being serious, didn't you?

So, as long as we don the role, as the great Ranchoddas Shamaldas Chanchad said, “All is well”.