5 sure-fire ways to win an argument with your Man

Francis Picabia – Amorphis collection

1. At any point during the argument, throw him down. On the bed, floor, couch, grass. Maintain I-want-you eyes throughout.

2. Play the “You’re not getting any” card.

1 and 2 are polar opposites and can be used depending on which stage of the monthly horny-ness cycle (waxing/waning) you’re on. Yes, that’s a thing.

3. Start howling in a manner that is utterly disproportionate to the issue at hand. But use this sparingly. It gets old quick.

4. Stare at his crotch between sentences. Lick your lips, play with your hair. Distract him. You know how to work it girl.

5. And finally, when the argument is beginning to heat up, get quiet and mysterious and whisper that you’ve been meaning to talk to him about something. Then go around in circles. Remember, if you can’t convince, confuse.


Let’s share an ice-cream ©

1st October was International Day of Older Persons.

I didn’t know it when I took my baby girl to chat with an old lady who was sitting alone on a bench in a crowded mall. I saw the lady, in her plain white blouse and simple saree, looking in the direction of where her family members had probably gone. I took my daughter’s stroller next to the lady and we parked ourselves on the bench. Just as expected, the lady’s face lit up and she and my daughter began their conversations in the form of tongue-wagging and baby language. They sat thus, entertaining each other, till the lady’s family arrived and handed her an ice-cream. She looked at it and said she wished she could share it with my little girl. Always ready to eat anything everyone else is eating, my daughter leaned forward, but I had to stop the glorious act right there with an apology. It would have been perfect and all that but kiddo some rules are rules. After much cheek fondling and adoration all around, we said goodbye.

And it got me thinking.

Old age homes (there aren’t many) and orphanages should collaborate for the general merriment of it all. I don’t know how logistically sound this thought is, but it looks good at the outset. I may be naïve in thinking that this would help anything, or anyone. But at a very basic level it seems doable. A hundred thousand pages have been written on how old people and kids are alike in a lot of ways. And those who have been abandoned by their blood relatives have a lot more in common than others. So putting them together in a room is likely to do a whole lot of good.

After a certain age, kids want to disappear whenever an adult calls out to them and they begin to apply the Garbage-in-Garbage-Out concept to everything that is said. But interacting with golden oldies who aren’t sermonizing might be fun.

Of course I am neither a child in an orphanage nor a person living by myself in an old age home. But this is a free country (for the most part) and the thought seemed worth sharing.

P.S.: This is a copyrighted concept so if you’ve got the resources to make this work, I want in on it. Not because I need your money darling, but because I don’t want you to muck it up.


No boxing about

Six months, ten extra kilos and (relatively few) sleepless nights after I gave birth two years ago, I had become accustomed to being told that I don’t look like a mother. I’m not sure if that translates to my being too young, too in-control or too fond of strumming air guitars.

In a nation whose collective consciousness defines a mother as a self-sacrificing creature with oodles of pity to dish out, there is no room for funky mamas. Lose the hair, gain the weight and perfect the hassled look. Do not fit into old jeans, sing zeppelin to the baby and have a post-delivery glow.

Also prepare for everyone and their neighbours giving you advice about this and that. Especially take the shield out for the “I’ve raised two kids” and “in our time…” attacks. They’re flung by possibly well meaning oldies, all of whom think it’s either their way or juvenile delinquency as far as child rearing is concerned. Smiling politely gets you off easy. Doing your thing in the end makes it better.

Some people will tell you motherhood is a test of tolerance. Yes. A test of how much of adults-gone-berserk-over-baby you can tolerate…looks like this one, talks like that one, sleeps like god knows who. From finger length to laughing style, everything is up for grabs and everyone has an opinion on it. Nobody’s listening to “but all babies do that”.

Meanwhile, the baby in question is not mama-glued. She is a global citizen who enjoys the company of disparate folks of the family variety, loves outings of any kind and does things her way (no like papa, like mama for her).

If looking the part is half the job done, I’m getting no medals (who made people in charge of these anyway?). I hope to never wear the sentimental-schmuck-meets-hassled-mother cloak and fit into a box marked ‘best mums’.

What I will happily do is tell stories, go places, write diaries, pass on sexy black dress, give ash-dispersing instructions (at exciting enough holiday-place) and train her ears to stay the hell away from the likes of Justin Bieber.