Splitsville

Preity and Ness headed for Splitsville, scream the headlines. That’s the same place that Jen-Ben once went. And Jen-Brad once went. And Brad-Anjelina are now thinking of going. Where is this place?
Splitsville is somewhere only the rich and famous go. Like Maliboob. I’ve split in my time.
But you think the papers would send me there? Nah. It’s chocabloc full ! Of film stars and soccer stars and journalists who are so busy following everyone in there, that their significant others have split. Being in Advertising, I have naturally turned my extensive intensive research into an ad.

Head to Splitsville this summer.
Beat the Heat with the hottest splitting bods in Bollywood (or get even hotter)
Then cool down by the Split-level pool, while you get photos clicked of you, so you can sue every paper in town.
Enjoy the split level air, and split the bill (or anything else) with Brad Splitt.
Only $1 million for further information – split into further information chapters of more million $ each.

Learning : Why do we lap up this Splitsville news with such glee in the first place? Is it because we like to see those who are so beautiful, rich and famous, become a little sadder, a little more human? After all, when someone normal and non-famous who we know splits (I mean a couple splits of course – would be quite painful if any one person were to split – unless he has a split personality, which means he is already split and in pain… digression over.) So if a couple splits, we offer tea and sympathy (unless of course she “deserves” it, which means she said you’d put on weight the last time she met you, the b*%#@ ! Digression over again) And then we go on to tell humiliating stories about the ex-partner, who it turns out “we never really liked”. Till some day, we meet them together again, and realize they’re back together again, and had never really split.
P.S. Mel Gibson has left his wife of 28 years for Splitsville, with a woman who plays the piano really well. She also has a hot bod, but apparently he noticed her piano playing. Being a little thick in the head must be another criterion to get into those golden Splitsville gates.

Keep track !

Back when I was in an office, which back then, had a coffee machine, I overheard this conversation :
She : “ I can’t stand her ! She’s always leading him on…”
Another She : “Yes. And having an affair on the side, I’d like to slap her.”
I sidled in to “lend a ear” a bit more – only to find out they were in a sympathetic cluck-a-cluck over the latest soap opera.

My mom once watched a soap for many moons and sunny afternoons. Everyone basically married every one else in turn, so that there were more connections than the Indian Railways. So Brick, for example, marries Stone (yes, they really have names like that), who is his Dad Sand’s ex-wife. Their kid (Cement?) therefore is his son and his brother – or is it uncle?
“Aaah,” says my anguished Mom, who follows these connections like a bloodhound. “That is SandStorm – the adopted ex-kid who pretended to die in the last episode. You never keep track.”

I walk into S watching his football. Fairly simple. He cheers for Arsenal, who play in red, whose main striker is this brilliant guy called Thierry (Yes, he could apply for my mom’s serial with a name like that). So I walk in and see Thierry in red kick a fabulous goal. Yay Yay, I cheer, Way to go, Arsenal.
S is not amused. Apparently Thierry has joined Barca ages back, and Arsenal, for my kind information, lost their last match. “You never keep track.”

So, I hardly ever watch TV. So what?
But how tough is it to catch on to a kiddie program, I think, as I watch Neel watching the antics of a cartoon dog on screen. How many cartoon dogs are there? Scoobie Doo, Pluto, Spike? I carefully ask : “Hey, Neel, what’s this dog’s name then?”
“Mama, that is NOT a dog. It’s a Velico-Vanquerer-Rapto-Prex. Mamaaa, you never keep track.”

Learning : You can tell who is Boss at home by whose hands have the remote control of the TV. So I should get my hands on it, and fling it out of the window. And to the vociferous objections I will get, what can I say? “Don’t you know what day it is today, you guys? Today is My Bad Hair-Badder Mood Day. Don’t you ever keep track?”

Every neighbourhood has 1

We all know this one person who is totally eccentrically infuriating – sometimes avoidable, but sometimes not – like I walked in home to see Aunty G sitting there. Aunty G or Aunty Gravity, for the unique ability to make the world revolve around her.

“Did you hear – in that storm - a coconut tree fell on my neighbour’s house and smashed their roof.”
“At least, it wasn’t your house, Auntyji.”
“It was MY neighbour. I asked God of all the houses in this place, you could only find one next to me? It will be my house next? What have I done to deserve this?”

I search desperately for some topic where she won’t be the unwilling focus.
Elections ! – aha ! Surely she can’t be the centre of a nationwide phenomenon.
“They are having elections NOW ! Just when I am going to be in my daughter’s house in America that time… What timing ! They always have elections when I can’t vote!”
Subtle hints like telling her that there are greater forces, besides her, fall flat.
“Look, elections are a 5-year-thingie, Aunty, – and you should plan your trip accordingly.”
“What rubbish! My daughter is having a baby,” she lashes out. “And they too are so selfish. They couldn’t have planned that baby better ?– at some time when I was free to go.”
OK, so family planning, national planning and weather planning are definitely not to be undertaken without Aunty G’s prior permission.

She finally heaved herself up to leave, after complaining that the sweets I served were too sweet, with no concern for diabetics like her, and that we live on the 3rd floor, with blinding blindness towards knee pains of arthritic people like her.
“You really shouldn’t take the trouble to come over,” I say. “The steps, the distance… for someone like you.”
“What rubbish!” Aunty G retorts. “I never think of myself.”

The Mask - Part J

Urged on to get glowing hair and creamy teeth, or is it silky teeth and dazzling skin– or anyway, just urged on to look like Barbie by a zimultizillion magazine ads, I finally succumbed.
Today, after a day of fumes and sun and paint dust, I pulled out the Neem face pack that I’d got as a freebie with washing soap. Lathered it on, and imagined myself emerging like Bo Derek from the water. Emerged from the bathroom to a shriek, and my 2-year-old began to howl, and wouldn’t come to me for half an hour after. I hurriedly washed off the Neem mask and my Bo Derek hopes.
I’ve had a hate-hate relationship with cosmetics all my life. I ate a bit of my strawberry crush face lotion in a late-night pregnancy hunger pang. My dog growled non-stop at my Mud under-eye cream, and when he got to it, he chewed it to little mud pieces. His under eyes have been glowing ever since. My sons play ping-pong with my 3 sunscreen lotions, none of which have ever been used, and have hardened into alien life forms. The burgundy hair colour which has Penelope Cuz tossing her glossing curls because she’s ‘worth it’, turned my hair into blood red spikes.
I never find the time to go the beauty parlour, and the one time I went for a spa massage, I giggled so much, they refunded my money and shut the door on my face. While growing up, I was more a tom boy than the blushing rose, and the only beauty aid I ever used was band-aid on my knees, from falling off a dozen trees.
So today, I cleared my bathroom shelf of the little bottles of 5-star hotel lotions and potions, and the guaranteed silky skin so-and-sos. And I picked up my still sniffling 2 year-old, who looks a lot happier now that his mama’s face is no longer green.

Learning :
1. Nothing’s gonna change the way I look, except for a meteor falling on my face. Which I can live with, or in this case, live without.
2. My 2 little boys think I’m the most beautiful woman in the world, and Hey – that’s good enough for me… (that’s till they discover Barbie of course).