I am not even done with this book and I'm blogging about it! I'm just so thrilled with this one that I am reading it as slowly as possible just to savor every word in every story.
My Nine Lives is a collection of stories -- neither fiction nor non- -- as each story depicts a character Jhabvala may have been, a life she may have led. "Even when something didn't actually happen to me, it might have done so," she explains in a foreword she titles "Apologia." "Every situation was one I could have been in myself, and sometimes, to some extent, was." The "I" may have been her; she may be trying out alternative destinies.
In other words, she really doesn't want to disclose what -- affairs with married men (usually old), back-alley abortions and a wide variety of embarassing or absent parents -- may be autobiographical. The stories are set in New York or New Delhi, both cities inhabited by Jhabvala for dozens of years.
I also discovered that Jhabvala isn't Parsi, like I'd assumed several years ago when reading "Heat and Dust." Her ancestry is German-Jewish; she and her parents emigrated to London during the Hitler years, where she met and married Cyrus Jhabvala.
The common theme in these stories is a quest, Jhabvala writes, for a person. "A person I have looked up to, or been in love with, maybe even for some sort of guru or guide. Someone better, stronger, wiser, altogether other...Does such a person exist, and if so, does one ever find him?"
So ultimately, these are nine delicious love stories, tender, passionate, heart-breaking ... worth savoring, then reading over.
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
Friday, January 26, 2007
Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go
Just finished this novel. I find Ishiguro unputdownable, usually, and this book was no different. Not in the whodunnit kind of way -- but he's master at creating suspense in the most ordinary everyday events, so you can't wait to turn the page and see what happens next.
In this novel, though, the world that Ishiguro creates is only deceptively ordinary and straightforward. It's the world of a private English school, Hailsham, described by the remniscences of Kathy H., now 31 years old. Her memories mostly focus on her friendships with Tommy and Ruth, starting from the time they were about 6.
As the story unfolds, the bizarreness and horror of Kathy's world is gradually exposed. Ishiguro's skill lies in presenting these horrific details so matter-of-factly, that when the true story of Hailsham comes out, the reader doesn't even experience a jolt. Through Kathy, we always know that something about Hailsham -- and about its students -- is not "normal." And like Kathy, the horror of her situation dawns on the reader only gradually.
But because of Ishiguro's deft handling, this story becomes about so much more than Hailsham. By questioning the very qualities that make us human, he underscores the frailties and strengths of relationships, of friends and lovers. The only thing that bothers me about Ishiguro's characters is how often I feel like shaking them out of sheer frustration. There are conversations that are left incomplete, significant words left unsaid, choices that the characters make, maybe out of timidity or uncertainty. Like the butler in "The Remains of the Day," Kathy chooses not to take risks, so that we, like her, experience a sense of sadness and loss as the book comes to an end.
Joyce Carol Oates has called Ishiguro "one of our most eloquent poets of loss." I would agree, adding that he's master of speculation on that favorite nostalgic pastime of most people: the road not taken.
In this novel, though, the world that Ishiguro creates is only deceptively ordinary and straightforward. It's the world of a private English school, Hailsham, described by the remniscences of Kathy H., now 31 years old. Her memories mostly focus on her friendships with Tommy and Ruth, starting from the time they were about 6.
As the story unfolds, the bizarreness and horror of Kathy's world is gradually exposed. Ishiguro's skill lies in presenting these horrific details so matter-of-factly, that when the true story of Hailsham comes out, the reader doesn't even experience a jolt. Through Kathy, we always know that something about Hailsham -- and about its students -- is not "normal." And like Kathy, the horror of her situation dawns on the reader only gradually.
But because of Ishiguro's deft handling, this story becomes about so much more than Hailsham. By questioning the very qualities that make us human, he underscores the frailties and strengths of relationships, of friends and lovers. The only thing that bothers me about Ishiguro's characters is how often I feel like shaking them out of sheer frustration. There are conversations that are left incomplete, significant words left unsaid, choices that the characters make, maybe out of timidity or uncertainty. Like the butler in "The Remains of the Day," Kathy chooses not to take risks, so that we, like her, experience a sense of sadness and loss as the book comes to an end.
Joyce Carol Oates has called Ishiguro "one of our most eloquent poets of loss." I would agree, adding that he's master of speculation on that favorite nostalgic pastime of most people: the road not taken.
Mutiny
War has officially been declared by my pint-sized 2-year-old. A war on naps, i.e. Until a couple of weeks ago, Raina was a napper. She didn't just docilely go for her afternoon nap, she'd look forward to it. And if she didn't go down as scheduled, she'd be one cranky, scowly little girl.
Then one fine day, completely out of the blue, she took up arms. Just like her napping used to be so scheduled, her war follows a definite pattern. Here's the scenario enacted every afternoon: First, she'll try the Delay Tactic -- "Mom, I need to go poop!" she'll holler, and proceeds to do the deed. After washing her hands, drinking a glass of water and jumping down from her stool, she'll be led to bed. Twenty minutes later, I'll hear her bedroom door opening. "I slept so well!" the fibber'll exclaim. I hold her hand firmly and lead her back to bed. Fifteen minutes pass. The door opens, Raina toddles out to the top of the stairs, sheepishly holding her nap buddy Prisha The Tiger before her face. Then, while I drag her to bed yet again, the bawling starts.
A couple of times, I just gave way, simply because by then it was 2:30 p.m. and close to the end of naptime anyway. Then I'd threaten her, "You're going to bed an hour early because you didn't take a nap." This was not a good idea. Turns out, Madam was only too thrilled to continue forgoing her naps and going to bed at 6:15 p.m. So I had to dig in my heels.
Yesterday, I tucked her in bed at 1 p.m. After dragging her back for the umpteenth time, at 3:20 p.m she finally slept. This afternoon, she went down like a lamb. But I've a dirty feeling this war is far from won.
Then one fine day, completely out of the blue, she took up arms. Just like her napping used to be so scheduled, her war follows a definite pattern. Here's the scenario enacted every afternoon: First, she'll try the Delay Tactic -- "Mom, I need to go poop!" she'll holler, and proceeds to do the deed. After washing her hands, drinking a glass of water and jumping down from her stool, she'll be led to bed. Twenty minutes later, I'll hear her bedroom door opening. "I slept so well!" the fibber'll exclaim. I hold her hand firmly and lead her back to bed. Fifteen minutes pass. The door opens, Raina toddles out to the top of the stairs, sheepishly holding her nap buddy Prisha The Tiger before her face. Then, while I drag her to bed yet again, the bawling starts.
A couple of times, I just gave way, simply because by then it was 2:30 p.m. and close to the end of naptime anyway. Then I'd threaten her, "You're going to bed an hour early because you didn't take a nap." This was not a good idea. Turns out, Madam was only too thrilled to continue forgoing her naps and going to bed at 6:15 p.m. So I had to dig in my heels.
Yesterday, I tucked her in bed at 1 p.m. After dragging her back for the umpteenth time, at 3:20 p.m she finally slept. This afternoon, she went down like a lamb. But I've a dirty feeling this war is far from won.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Isn't she lovely?
Just wanted to share a picture of my black cat Pilcrow aka Pikey, The Black Monster and Meow Cat (because of the length and variations in her meows). Pikey'll be 6 years old this May. She's a SoCal cat, found roaming in a friend's colleague's apartment complex more than 5 years ago. Our first impression of her was a black blurry bullet that whistled around our legs chasing something, someone, whatever. That set the pattern for the rest of her year as a kitten. I fondly remember how after one of those chases, she'd just collapse on us like a tired newborn babe, curl up in a ball or just splay out so her claws would be gently immersed in our clothes. Then she'd proceed to sleep. Woe betide the person who'd try to get up -- as at some point in our lives, we all must do. I have not so fond memories of numerous bloody scratches. We contemplated having her declawed to save our skin and our furniture. That's before we knew what declawing would involve. She used to be such a child. She'd meow a host of complaints when I'd leave the house to go grocery shopping. Then she'd meow a storm when I got back. She'd only be appeased if you spent the next 30 minutes petting her. Then she'd purr like a train.
After Raina was born, poor Pikey had to grow up and be the Big Sister. She'd watch over my shoulder during those midnight feedings, checking out the enemy. My parents were worried that she may harm the baby, but we were more worried about Pikey. She'd run terrified from the room when the baby would cry -- Raina has quite a set of lungs. Suddenly no one had that much free time to pet the cat or scratch underneath her chin or play flashlight with her.
Now things have evened out a bit. Now Pikey just enters a room after Raina exits it. She just wakes up after Raina goes down for a nap. And once Raina's down for the night, it's Pikey time, folks...
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Blue
Been feeling blue the past few days. A friend was telling me she'd read a study or something that the second or third week of January is the most depressing time of the year. So I know why.
Or maybe it has to do with the Chargers losing. Our home's football season officially ended last weekend when our pro team lost to the Patriots. It was a sad, sad day. After the Buckeyes lost the National Championship, our hopes had been pinned on the promising Chargers.
Or maybe it's because work's going so slow. I know this time next week I'll be running around like a chick with her head cut off, so I should appreciate the down time. I've been reading some improving books. Just finished Gertrude Stein's "Three Lives" -- three not-so-short stories about three women. But the last one I read "Melanctha" really got me down.
To combat all these combined blahs, I began reading "An Autobiography of a Yogi" by Yogananda Paramhansa. Y.P. founded The Self Realization Fellowship housed in a veddy nice building fronting the Pacific here in SoCal, so I'd wanted to read him for a while. Plus, I heard that his brother was my buddy Bikram's guru. Plus, the book is up for discussion at my next book club meet.
It's turning out to be pretty entertaining reading. So far not very philosophical, but it's clipping along at a fair pace. Which is more than I expected. Some surprises are really nice.
Or maybe it has to do with the Chargers losing. Our home's football season officially ended last weekend when our pro team lost to the Patriots. It was a sad, sad day. After the Buckeyes lost the National Championship, our hopes had been pinned on the promising Chargers.
Or maybe it's because work's going so slow. I know this time next week I'll be running around like a chick with her head cut off, so I should appreciate the down time. I've been reading some improving books. Just finished Gertrude Stein's "Three Lives" -- three not-so-short stories about three women. But the last one I read "Melanctha" really got me down.
To combat all these combined blahs, I began reading "An Autobiography of a Yogi" by Yogananda Paramhansa. Y.P. founded The Self Realization Fellowship housed in a veddy nice building fronting the Pacific here in SoCal, so I'd wanted to read him for a while. Plus, I heard that his brother was my buddy Bikram's guru. Plus, the book is up for discussion at my next book club meet.
It's turning out to be pretty entertaining reading. So far not very philosophical, but it's clipping along at a fair pace. Which is more than I expected. Some surprises are really nice.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Sackcloth & Ashes (The Buckeyes Lose)
Our house is in mourning. Last night, the Florida Gators not only trounced the Ohio State Buckeyes to become the national champions in college football -- they decimated us. They squashed our players like so many miniscule bugs in a football field. The score? 41-14.
The game began spectacularly, with Ted Ginn Jr. returning the starting kickoff for a touchdown. But he was injured in the second play of the game, and after that, it was like QB Troy Smith just lost it. The first quarter was ghastly, and by half-time, the score was already 34-14, and we were all covering our eyes and hanging our heads in despair.
The rest of the game was such a farce, it was comical. We could count the number of first-downs we made in one hand. The idea of scoring one touchdown -- let alone 3 to catch up -- was a joke.
All in all, it was a blowout. Because it was so bad, we actually weren't as gloomy as we would have been had it been a close game. I guess we had more time to resign ourselves to our fate.
Ah well. The best team won and all that. There's next season. Even though there won't be Smith or Ginn. Go Buckeyes.
The game began spectacularly, with Ted Ginn Jr. returning the starting kickoff for a touchdown. But he was injured in the second play of the game, and after that, it was like QB Troy Smith just lost it. The first quarter was ghastly, and by half-time, the score was already 34-14, and we were all covering our eyes and hanging our heads in despair.
The rest of the game was such a farce, it was comical. We could count the number of first-downs we made in one hand. The idea of scoring one touchdown -- let alone 3 to catch up -- was a joke.
All in all, it was a blowout. Because it was so bad, we actually weren't as gloomy as we would have been had it been a close game. I guess we had more time to resign ourselves to our fate.
Ah well. The best team won and all that. There's next season. Even though there won't be Smith or Ginn. Go Buckeyes.
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Happy 2007 (And More NY Resolutions)
Woohoo! I feel super-relaxed and blissed out and ready to take on anything and everything a new year will shove on me. I loved this vacation -- lots of warm, sunny days in neighboring parks and beaches, day trips to Palm Desert and Coronado, visiting and having visitors, and parties with good food and singing and dancing, wine-tasting and wine-chugging, reading and napping... lovely!
More new year resolutions (surely one can make them all January?):
1. Have Baby No. 2. The procreation plan's been on since last year, but I had a miscarriage, so it was temporarily shelved. We're all hoping 2007 will be more fruitful.
2. Brush Pikey The Cat's teeth. I know, I know, it's not even close in importance to Res. 1, but it really, really needs to be done. It's crazy how much we pay in health insurance for that monster, just because it includes dental cleaning under general anesthesia twice a year. I kid you not. We actually began bathing her once a month in 2006 -- once a seemingly impossible task -- so it's important to have a can-do attitude towards cleaning her teeth. I will it, so it shall be done.
3. Encourage the husband in growing a goatee. I've been urging him to have some facial hair for years and years, and now it's actually happening! Very exciting to see this new man emerge. OK, I am easily pleased.
A more immediate resolution: Coddle Pikey, so we win the national championship! Go Buckeyes, blow off the Gators! A happy new year to all!
More new year resolutions (surely one can make them all January?):
1. Have Baby No. 2. The procreation plan's been on since last year, but I had a miscarriage, so it was temporarily shelved. We're all hoping 2007 will be more fruitful.
2. Brush Pikey The Cat's teeth. I know, I know, it's not even close in importance to Res. 1, but it really, really needs to be done. It's crazy how much we pay in health insurance for that monster, just because it includes dental cleaning under general anesthesia twice a year. I kid you not. We actually began bathing her once a month in 2006 -- once a seemingly impossible task -- so it's important to have a can-do attitude towards cleaning her teeth. I will it, so it shall be done.
3. Encourage the husband in growing a goatee. I've been urging him to have some facial hair for years and years, and now it's actually happening! Very exciting to see this new man emerge. OK, I am easily pleased.
A more immediate resolution: Coddle Pikey, so we win the national championship! Go Buckeyes, blow off the Gators! A happy new year to all!
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
2006 in Books
Yeah it's 2007! A whole new year of halcyon days where I am curled up with a goodish pile of great reads and a few (very few) dark chocolate bars -- that's the sum of my new year resolution and ambition. :) Hmm, maybe I am the bookworm the husband calls me. Maybe.
But before one moves on to a new and exciting literary year, I'd really like to note down my Top 3 favorite reads of 2006. All fiction, of course, though I have begun making some rather gradual forays into non -- which was my 2006 new year resolution. (I really liked "Under the Banner of Heaven" by Jon Krakauer on Mormon fundamentalism.)
OK. Without further ado, here they are:
1. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
Yikes, I just checked the copyright page and realized that this book was first published in hardcover in 2003! So this is hardly a new book. The story is Amir's divided in three parts: his childhood in pre-Taliban Afghanistan; his coming-of-age in America, where he fled with his father after the Russians occupied Kabul; and finally, Amir's middle age in 2001 in California and Taliban-ruled Kabul. Hosseini imparts a freshness to the age-old themes of love and betrayal and redemption by setting them in the backdrop of a Kabul that's unfamiliar to most of us. A timeless tale poetically wrought that rends your heart. This one squeezed out quite a few tears.
2. Ravan and Eddie by Kiran Nagarkar
This one came out in 1995. Sigh, I know, late discovery. But I absolutely LOVED this book and am sold on Nagarkar. Can't wait to see what else he's written before and since. Found this one during my last Mumbai trip, but I am sure I can find more on Amazon. Cutting to the chase: this is a satirical take on the bawdy crazy chawl life of Mumbai and mostly focuses on the adventures of prepubescent Ravan, a Maratha Hindu, and Eddie, a Catholic. The tale commences when 1-year-old Ram falls from a chawl balcony. Eddie's dad, Victor, who was busy checking out Ram's mom's bosom, catches the little boy, but dies instantly, thereby causing Ram's name change to Ravan. Watching the scenario enfold, Victor's heavily pregnant wife goes into labor and Eddie's born. Fun start, hah? Unputdownable.
3. five point someone by Chetan Bhagat.
I swear I read a lot of nondesi authors last year. Guess I just liked the desi ones better. This is another fun book that I picked up in India reciting the trials and tribulations of three students trying to survive the experience that's IIT. Hostel life, friendship, love, cafeteria food, all comes under hilarious scrutiny. But the book also spotlights an academic culture that prizes cramming and unquestioning obedience above originality and curiosity.
But before one moves on to a new and exciting literary year, I'd really like to note down my Top 3 favorite reads of 2006. All fiction, of course, though I have begun making some rather gradual forays into non -- which was my 2006 new year resolution. (I really liked "Under the Banner of Heaven" by Jon Krakauer on Mormon fundamentalism.)
OK. Without further ado, here they are:
1. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
Yikes, I just checked the copyright page and realized that this book was first published in hardcover in 2003! So this is hardly a new book. The story is Amir's divided in three parts: his childhood in pre-Taliban Afghanistan; his coming-of-age in America, where he fled with his father after the Russians occupied Kabul; and finally, Amir's middle age in 2001 in California and Taliban-ruled Kabul. Hosseini imparts a freshness to the age-old themes of love and betrayal and redemption by setting them in the backdrop of a Kabul that's unfamiliar to most of us. A timeless tale poetically wrought that rends your heart. This one squeezed out quite a few tears.
2. Ravan and Eddie by Kiran Nagarkar
This one came out in 1995. Sigh, I know, late discovery. But I absolutely LOVED this book and am sold on Nagarkar. Can't wait to see what else he's written before and since. Found this one during my last Mumbai trip, but I am sure I can find more on Amazon. Cutting to the chase: this is a satirical take on the bawdy crazy chawl life of Mumbai and mostly focuses on the adventures of prepubescent Ravan, a Maratha Hindu, and Eddie, a Catholic. The tale commences when 1-year-old Ram falls from a chawl balcony. Eddie's dad, Victor, who was busy checking out Ram's mom's bosom, catches the little boy, but dies instantly, thereby causing Ram's name change to Ravan. Watching the scenario enfold, Victor's heavily pregnant wife goes into labor and Eddie's born. Fun start, hah? Unputdownable.
3. five point someone by Chetan Bhagat.
I swear I read a lot of nondesi authors last year. Guess I just liked the desi ones better. This is another fun book that I picked up in India reciting the trials and tribulations of three students trying to survive the experience that's IIT. Hostel life, friendship, love, cafeteria food, all comes under hilarious scrutiny. But the book also spotlights an academic culture that prizes cramming and unquestioning obedience above originality and curiosity.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Cool quote
Someone quoted someone called David Oxley at the party tonight, "Being listened to is so close to being loved that most people can't tell the difference." Nice.
Heart Versus Head
Went to a fun girly party tonight, complete with girly talk of boyfriends and upcoming marriages. That most of that talk was coming from two gals in their late 30s-early 40s was kind of interesting. Both were divorced, had kids.
One was getting married New Year's Eve after a whirlwind courtship of just 3 months. She was starry-eyed, which seems to be typical of everyone during the first months of romance, regardless of age or previous marital status. Trying to explain the fast pace of the relationship, she said it just felt right. Her boys had taken to him; he'd become part of the family. And when she cuddled against him at night, their breathing was in rhythm. They just were in sync.
The other lady had been dating this guy on and off for about 2 1/2 years. In September, they became "exclusive." But something was off. This lady talked and analyzed and brooded out loud to us, and it seemed like she'd been thinking about this relationship for a long time. She really liked him, she said, and they were trying to make it work. "We'll wait and see," she ended.
Her story seemed to me a stark contrast from the starry-eyed one. Who's taking a smarter approach to their relationship? Both have been burned more than once. What makes one relationship feel right, and another relationship so much work? How important is instinct versus reason? And most importantly, in the end, who's going to live happily ever after?
Will either? I just read some research that said in the next couple of decades, the U.S. will have more stepfamilies than "normal" ones. And that 60 percent of remarriages end in divorce.
I'm a romantic at heart, so I'm hoping both of my friends have happy endings to their stories. But I'm putting my money on the starry-eyed one.
One was getting married New Year's Eve after a whirlwind courtship of just 3 months. She was starry-eyed, which seems to be typical of everyone during the first months of romance, regardless of age or previous marital status. Trying to explain the fast pace of the relationship, she said it just felt right. Her boys had taken to him; he'd become part of the family. And when she cuddled against him at night, their breathing was in rhythm. They just were in sync.
The other lady had been dating this guy on and off for about 2 1/2 years. In September, they became "exclusive." But something was off. This lady talked and analyzed and brooded out loud to us, and it seemed like she'd been thinking about this relationship for a long time. She really liked him, she said, and they were trying to make it work. "We'll wait and see," she ended.
Her story seemed to me a stark contrast from the starry-eyed one. Who's taking a smarter approach to their relationship? Both have been burned more than once. What makes one relationship feel right, and another relationship so much work? How important is instinct versus reason? And most importantly, in the end, who's going to live happily ever after?
Will either? I just read some research that said in the next couple of decades, the U.S. will have more stepfamilies than "normal" ones. And that 60 percent of remarriages end in divorce.
I'm a romantic at heart, so I'm hoping both of my friends have happy endings to their stories. But I'm putting my money on the starry-eyed one.
Thursday, December 07, 2006
"Bikram Bloodbath"
Came across this really fun article on Bikram Yoga: http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/Content?oid=115462
We were watching "The Biggest Loser" last night and chuckling that instead of running triathlons, the competitors should go to Bikram's three times a week. Weight loss guaranteed, with added bonuses of firm muscle tone and good health. Lots of people think that yoga's only for youthful fitness freaks, but you see all ages and body types there. And if heat and sweat doesn't put you off, it's soooooooo fun!
We were watching "The Biggest Loser" last night and chuckling that instead of running triathlons, the competitors should go to Bikram's three times a week. Weight loss guaranteed, with added bonuses of firm muscle tone and good health. Lots of people think that yoga's only for youthful fitness freaks, but you see all ages and body types there. And if heat and sweat doesn't put you off, it's soooooooo fun!
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Blow Blue! OSU-Michigan Show(down) Time!
Our house is under siege this weekend. The word on the street is that on D-Day, a battalion of Go Blue troopers are planning to storm the Buckeye Bastion to psyche out a certain green-eyed Hidden Weapon wielded to ensure a scarlet-and-gray Fiesta.
If you're not a college football aficionado, the above probably makes no sense to you. If I were you, I'd skip this post. But if you're looking forward to this Saturday's Ohio State-Michigan pre-national championship game like everyone else in our home breathlessly is, then read on.
The husband has informed me that certain Wolverine fans at his workplace, including his boss, are planning to drop in uninvited. The goal: to cower our cat Pikey, so the Buckeyes will lose, paving the way for Michigan participation in the Fiesta Bowl. Yep, you read that right. You're about to discover the world's best kept secret. The reason why the Buckeyes win, often against seemingly unsurmountable odds, is not because of Luck or Talent (though the Buckeye Team is brimming with both) but because of a certain purring black cat.
Remember how the road to the 2002 National Championship was littered with unexplainable last-second victories? Remember Cincinnati? And the Fiesta Bowl double OT victory against Miami which became an instant ESPN classic?
During that entire season, Pikey was being appeased and coddled and fed treats. If Pikey wasn't in the TV room, the Buckeyes would show every sign of losing. When Pikey was purring in a warm lap, the Buckeyes would make a miraculous turnaround and get a truly amazing win. It's worked almost every single game every fall every year.
It's reached the point where Pikey has attained legendary status at my husband's workplace. And this year with the National Championship at stake, it's no wonder she makes the Wolverines bluer than blue.
Ergo Operation Go Blue is in the works. But word has leaked, and we shall be prepared to engage the enemy toting our scarlet-and-gray sweats. Go Buckeyes! Blow Blue!
If you're not a college football aficionado, the above probably makes no sense to you. If I were you, I'd skip this post. But if you're looking forward to this Saturday's Ohio State-Michigan pre-national championship game like everyone else in our home breathlessly is, then read on.
The husband has informed me that certain Wolverine fans at his workplace, including his boss, are planning to drop in uninvited. The goal: to cower our cat Pikey, so the Buckeyes will lose, paving the way for Michigan participation in the Fiesta Bowl. Yep, you read that right. You're about to discover the world's best kept secret. The reason why the Buckeyes win, often against seemingly unsurmountable odds, is not because of Luck or Talent (though the Buckeye Team is brimming with both) but because of a certain purring black cat.
Remember how the road to the 2002 National Championship was littered with unexplainable last-second victories? Remember Cincinnati? And the Fiesta Bowl double OT victory against Miami which became an instant ESPN classic?
During that entire season, Pikey was being appeased and coddled and fed treats. If Pikey wasn't in the TV room, the Buckeyes would show every sign of losing. When Pikey was purring in a warm lap, the Buckeyes would make a miraculous turnaround and get a truly amazing win. It's worked almost every single game every fall every year.
It's reached the point where Pikey has attained legendary status at my husband's workplace. And this year with the National Championship at stake, it's no wonder she makes the Wolverines bluer than blue.
Ergo Operation Go Blue is in the works. But word has leaked, and we shall be prepared to engage the enemy toting our scarlet-and-gray sweats. Go Buckeyes! Blow Blue!
Monday, November 13, 2006
Newzed Out
As the situation in Iraq deteriorates, I find myself heading straight for the "Entertainment" section of any news site or news mag. It's terrible, I know, but I've had it. I am done with bungling Bush and his blundering buddies. I have no interest in al-Sadr and al-Maliki, and I have absolutely no opinion on the theoretical partitioning of Iraq and the ensuing fallout.
Ask me about Tom and Katie's pending nuptials, and I might show a glimmer of interest. Talk to me about Angelina Jolie frolicking on a jam-packed Mumbai train, and I might read that story (and go back in time to days of sweat-stained armpits under my nose, commuting to college by the grasp of a couple of fingers, pushed by elbows and prodded by soaky umbrellas, ah, the good old days).
Occasionally, I might take a peek at a serious story ("What, salmonella in Hershey bars?" or "Will the loser of next week's showdown between No. 1 Ohio State and No. 2 Michigan fall below No. 2 in the final BCS standings?").
But for now, TomKat and Brangelina supply all the mind fodder I need.
Ask me about Tom and Katie's pending nuptials, and I might show a glimmer of interest. Talk to me about Angelina Jolie frolicking on a jam-packed Mumbai train, and I might read that story (and go back in time to days of sweat-stained armpits under my nose, commuting to college by the grasp of a couple of fingers, pushed by elbows and prodded by soaky umbrellas, ah, the good old days).
Occasionally, I might take a peek at a serious story ("What, salmonella in Hershey bars?" or "Will the loser of next week's showdown between No. 1 Ohio State and No. 2 Michigan fall below No. 2 in the final BCS standings?").
But for now, TomKat and Brangelina supply all the mind fodder I need.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Dancing With Daffodils
Was reading an excerpt from Barack Obama's memoir "The Audacity of Hope" published in the latest Time. Obama makes the argument that the nation's divided not by gender or by party-affiliation, but "between those who attend church regularly and those who don't." I don't agree with him that Christianity's grown, but putting that aside for now, I found this part interesting:
"There are various explanations for this trend [growth of Christianity], from the skill of evangelicals in marketing religion to the charisma of their leaders. But their success also points to a hunger for the product they are selling, a hunger that goes beyond any particular issue or cause. Each day, it seems, thousands of Americans are going about their daily rounds--dropping off the kids at school, driving to the office...--and coming to the realization that something is missing. They are deciding that their work, their possessions, their diversions, their sheer busyness are not enough. They want a sense of purpose, a narrative arc to their lives, something that will relieve a chronic loneliness or lift them above the exhausting, relentless toll of daily life. They need an assurance that somebody out there cares about them, is listening to them--that they are not just destined to travel down a long highway toward nothingness."
The husband and I were discussing religion just yesterday, and this is exactly what I was trying to say, though hardly so well. Religion fills a void in people's lives, a need for spirituality. Like Obama's mother told him, it's "an expression of human culture... just one of the many ways--and not necessarily the best way--that man attempted to control the unknowable."
To me, in the best sense, religion helps us feel our immortality. We are all immortal because the only life we'll ever know is this one. Religion helps some of us reach beyond ourselves to touch, be for a few wondrously transcendent moments at one, at peace with humans, the earth, moon and stars, the skies above, the whole world.
Me, I find religion in nature, the touch of the wind, the rustling of leaves, the magic of a snowflake, the crash of the waves. Then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils...
"There are various explanations for this trend [growth of Christianity], from the skill of evangelicals in marketing religion to the charisma of their leaders. But their success also points to a hunger for the product they are selling, a hunger that goes beyond any particular issue or cause. Each day, it seems, thousands of Americans are going about their daily rounds--dropping off the kids at school, driving to the office...--and coming to the realization that something is missing. They are deciding that their work, their possessions, their diversions, their sheer busyness are not enough. They want a sense of purpose, a narrative arc to their lives, something that will relieve a chronic loneliness or lift them above the exhausting, relentless toll of daily life. They need an assurance that somebody out there cares about them, is listening to them--that they are not just destined to travel down a long highway toward nothingness."
The husband and I were discussing religion just yesterday, and this is exactly what I was trying to say, though hardly so well. Religion fills a void in people's lives, a need for spirituality. Like Obama's mother told him, it's "an expression of human culture... just one of the many ways--and not necessarily the best way--that man attempted to control the unknowable."
To me, in the best sense, religion helps us feel our immortality. We are all immortal because the only life we'll ever know is this one. Religion helps some of us reach beyond ourselves to touch, be for a few wondrously transcendent moments at one, at peace with humans, the earth, moon and stars, the skies above, the whole world.
Me, I find religion in nature, the touch of the wind, the rustling of leaves, the magic of a snowflake, the crash of the waves. Then my heart with pleasure fills, and dances with the daffodils...
A Cat for Halloween
It's been one of those mornings when I wish I hadn't a cat. We send that excuse for a feline out to the backyard on a leash whenever we can so she can chew on some grass. (Seguing here: who knew cats enjoyed grazing like cows? Until five years ago, when we got that fussy needy four-legged meow, I didn't. But it could be just my cat who actually likes the cowlike variety instead of the "legal grass" aka catnip. It would be. She's the contrariest cat in all catkind.)
Anyhoo, we send The Black Monster out so she can bask in the sun and chew cud in peace. We have to use a leash because we have coyotes in the area who'd really savor a nice chunk of her. Plus, she's such a 'fraidy cat, she's sure to get lost and sit shivering under a bush meowing piteously for Mommy and Daddy to come get her. Now usually, post the cud-chewing, the cat throws up. It's a ritual, and she's usually good about throwing up outside on the grass who the heck cares where.
But it was one of those mornings. The cat came in, made some alarming meows that had me rushing to her side to grab her and dunk her on the kitchen floor -- far far away from my new carpet. Then while I held her, she puked a lot of greenish liquid and a few shards of grass. Then she moved away and puked again. (Like I always sneeze twice, she always pukes twice.)
That's not the end of this so-not-amusing story. A few minutes later, I happened to be showing Raina a statue of Ganpati that we have on our mantelpiece. Raina's rather fond of Ganpatis and Lord Krishnas and insisted on seeing that one upclose before heading for a nap. So I stand on my tippy-toes balancing Raina and myself so we can check out the Ganpati, when I see a lot of dried yucky green pap next to the statue with a few damning pieces of grass stuck on the goo. Gross! It was clean up time again.
Anyone want a dratted black green-eyed monster in time for Halloween?
Anyhoo, we send The Black Monster out so she can bask in the sun and chew cud in peace. We have to use a leash because we have coyotes in the area who'd really savor a nice chunk of her. Plus, she's such a 'fraidy cat, she's sure to get lost and sit shivering under a bush meowing piteously for Mommy and Daddy to come get her. Now usually, post the cud-chewing, the cat throws up. It's a ritual, and she's usually good about throwing up outside on the grass who the heck cares where.
But it was one of those mornings. The cat came in, made some alarming meows that had me rushing to her side to grab her and dunk her on the kitchen floor -- far far away from my new carpet. Then while I held her, she puked a lot of greenish liquid and a few shards of grass. Then she moved away and puked again. (Like I always sneeze twice, she always pukes twice.)
That's not the end of this so-not-amusing story. A few minutes later, I happened to be showing Raina a statue of Ganpati that we have on our mantelpiece. Raina's rather fond of Ganpatis and Lord Krishnas and insisted on seeing that one upclose before heading for a nap. So I stand on my tippy-toes balancing Raina and myself so we can check out the Ganpati, when I see a lot of dried yucky green pap next to the statue with a few damning pieces of grass stuck on the goo. Gross! It was clean up time again.
Anyone want a dratted black green-eyed monster in time for Halloween?
Monday, September 18, 2006
Desis Debut on The Amazing Race!
And they're eliminated at the end of the first episode. Sigh, how predictable. Literally, as soon as I saw them, I predicted their quick elimination. I don't know how it's among other ethnic groups, but desis are the first to put down other desis. The husband and I critically watched as Vipul and Arti put on their game face, hustling to catch a flight to Beijing, all-aflutter.
Why is it that desis fluster so easily, I mutter to the h, watching Arti wringing her hands while Vipul tried to lay down some bricks. They get so darned self-conscious, they self-destruct, I scowl. But even critical moi had to hand out points when Vipul gamely downed some slimy fish eyes (while Arti made appropriate gagging noises), and when the couple made climbing the Great Wall of China look easy (though the cynical side says the producers just wanted to end their misery asap by not dwelling on their groans).
Then when they were eliminated, they made kissy faces on international TV (dunno about elsewhere, but TAR is simulcast in India at least), proving once and for all to skeptical folks the world over that INDIANS DO KISS!
At least they weren't the first duo to go. That dubious honor went to Bilal and Saeed, a couple of rather stereotypical-looking Muslims.
All in all, Vipul and Arti weren't bad debutants -- and it takes guts to be the first desis on the show. Maybe it'll inspire some more athletic ones to take on the challenge, instead of being La-Z-Boy potatoes and critiquing desis who do.
Why is it that desis fluster so easily, I mutter to the h, watching Arti wringing her hands while Vipul tried to lay down some bricks. They get so darned self-conscious, they self-destruct, I scowl. But even critical moi had to hand out points when Vipul gamely downed some slimy fish eyes (while Arti made appropriate gagging noises), and when the couple made climbing the Great Wall of China look easy (though the cynical side says the producers just wanted to end their misery asap by not dwelling on their groans).
Then when they were eliminated, they made kissy faces on international TV (dunno about elsewhere, but TAR is simulcast in India at least), proving once and for all to skeptical folks the world over that INDIANS DO KISS!
At least they weren't the first duo to go. That dubious honor went to Bilal and Saeed, a couple of rather stereotypical-looking Muslims.
All in all, Vipul and Arti weren't bad debutants -- and it takes guts to be the first desis on the show. Maybe it'll inspire some more athletic ones to take on the challenge, instead of being La-Z-Boy potatoes and critiquing desis who do.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
A Good Wife ('50s ishtyle)
Just got a forward from a friend that gave me a few moments of mirth and made my husband's day. The email contained a 1955 article from Good Housekeeping titled "A Good Wife's Guide." The story had 18 tips, and I am going to share some gems below:
* Greet your husband with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
*You may have a dozen important things to tell him but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first, remember: his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
*Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner or other places of entertainment without you. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day.
*Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
*Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
And the final gem:
*A good wife always knows her place.
Of course, the husband thought I should start implementing the above guide forthwith. I told him not to hold his breath.
* Greet your husband with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please him.
*You may have a dozen important things to tell him but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first, remember: his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
*Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner or other places of entertainment without you. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day.
*Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice.
*Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgment or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
And the final gem:
*A good wife always knows her place.
Of course, the husband thought I should start implementing the above guide forthwith. I told him not to hold his breath.
Monday, September 11, 2006
An Invitation to a Post Mortem
Oooh, I got to play "grown up" today! After months of begging and coaxing and persuading my boss that the magazine really, really needed to include me in the post-mortem of our last issue so I could contribute my superior and unique criticisms, I got invited today! I am a stay-at-home mommy, so this is a Big Deal! It means I get to wear lipstick, short skirt, high heels and port my not-oft-used power briefcase to Office in my homey minivan. I get to be with other Grown-Ups (all much skinnier than me, alas!) and scarf down bagels and swill coffee like any other productive adult of society.
OK, I know I am already a Productive Adult by choosing to be a stay-at-home working mom and all that feminist jazz. I wouldn't bring up my kid any other way. But boy, sometimes working from home just doesn't cut it. I was telling the husband yesterday that my interaction with adults has never been as limited as it's been since I had Raina.
I know other stay-at-home moms who don't work have it even worse. You just got to see the park near our home -- it's filled with SAH moms who feel useless, unproductive or bored senseless. I haven't come across any (though I am sure they exist) who don't wish they were doing for a few hours a week something, anything, that doesn't involve diapering.
Speaking for moi, without those few Grown Up hours of coffee-drinking and conferencing, I'd go stark, raving nuts.
OK, I know I am already a Productive Adult by choosing to be a stay-at-home working mom and all that feminist jazz. I wouldn't bring up my kid any other way. But boy, sometimes working from home just doesn't cut it. I was telling the husband yesterday that my interaction with adults has never been as limited as it's been since I had Raina.
I know other stay-at-home moms who don't work have it even worse. You just got to see the park near our home -- it's filled with SAH moms who feel useless, unproductive or bored senseless. I haven't come across any (though I am sure they exist) who don't wish they were doing for a few hours a week something, anything, that doesn't involve diapering.
Speaking for moi, without those few Grown Up hours of coffee-drinking and conferencing, I'd go stark, raving nuts.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Preschool Hunt
This morning, I set myself the sorry task of informing the current daycare provider of my daughter that I was jumping ship. I'd been prepping her for a week or so, so it didn't come as a huge surprise to her. And she was a sweetie about it--even though I was leaving her for another home daycare.
Switching to another daycare wasn't the original plan. Zee original plan was to put Raina in a preschool, the babe being 2 years old. But as usual, the SoCal Sunshine Tax stood in the way. We in Southern California affectionately call the prohibitively high prices for gasoline, milk, produce, eating out, clothes, generally breathing in the rarefied SoCal air "the Sunshine Tax." You pay to live here--usually through your nose. Yeah, the same nose that breathes in the r. air has to breathe out mucho dollars.
Check out this San Diego suburban preschool I really liked, supposedly for above average kiddos. Cute hippie old lady showed me some very nice facilities, very artsy-craftsy, lots of emphasis on problem solving and enhancing self-esteem and making knowledge fun. Of course, the funniest knowledge for the parents at least was the price for all this: over $40/day for the hours of 8:30-11:30 three days a week. That's excluding a $225 annual registration fee, $300 a year for materials and, if your kid is unfortunately still in diapers, $5/day diapering fee. If I wanted her to learn Japanese, Spanish or music, what they call the enrichment classes, that would cost extra. And oh yeah, you have to give a non-refundable $45 screening fee--they really want to make sure your kid is above average before they let her inside their screamingly expensive environs. (One of their indicators for an above average kid was fascinating: a tendency to allergies.)
To top it all, it would've taken me about half-hour to drop her off.
So I checked out one closer to home, which was nice and everything. The price? Over $50 a full day for three days a week. Though, their annual registration fee was like $75 or something, they didn't have too many extraneous fees. But if you wanted those enrichment classes, you have to pay more.
So it' s hardly surprising I'm switching to another daycare, one with more "activities"--at least until Raina's 3. Then the hunt for a preschool shall recommence.
Switching to another daycare wasn't the original plan. Zee original plan was to put Raina in a preschool, the babe being 2 years old. But as usual, the SoCal Sunshine Tax stood in the way. We in Southern California affectionately call the prohibitively high prices for gasoline, milk, produce, eating out, clothes, generally breathing in the rarefied SoCal air "the Sunshine Tax." You pay to live here--usually through your nose. Yeah, the same nose that breathes in the r. air has to breathe out mucho dollars.
Check out this San Diego suburban preschool I really liked, supposedly for above average kiddos. Cute hippie old lady showed me some very nice facilities, very artsy-craftsy, lots of emphasis on problem solving and enhancing self-esteem and making knowledge fun. Of course, the funniest knowledge for the parents at least was the price for all this: over $40/day for the hours of 8:30-11:30 three days a week. That's excluding a $225 annual registration fee, $300 a year for materials and, if your kid is unfortunately still in diapers, $5/day diapering fee. If I wanted her to learn Japanese, Spanish or music, what they call the enrichment classes, that would cost extra. And oh yeah, you have to give a non-refundable $45 screening fee--they really want to make sure your kid is above average before they let her inside their screamingly expensive environs. (One of their indicators for an above average kid was fascinating: a tendency to allergies.)
To top it all, it would've taken me about half-hour to drop her off.
So I checked out one closer to home, which was nice and everything. The price? Over $50 a full day for three days a week. Though, their annual registration fee was like $75 or something, they didn't have too many extraneous fees. But if you wanted those enrichment classes, you have to pay more.
So it' s hardly surprising I'm switching to another daycare, one with more "activities"--at least until Raina's 3. Then the hunt for a preschool shall recommence.
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