Be what you what, who cares what they say?

Black sheep, by the time they’re my age, reach a certain level of IDGAF to the nay sayers and pooh poohers.  Eyeliner too thick?  I lay it on thicker.  Outfit a little too inappropriate?  I make sure the skirt is a little more leather, heel a little too teetering, plastic flower in my hair, dancing through the produce aisle.  Inevitable, the talk, later in the waiting room of the ballet studio.  “Did you hear about the woman?”  That’s me.

That should be all of us.

Wear what makes you happy. Put on that brazen lipstick.  Be who you have always wanted to be.  Don’t let anyone tell you what makes you happy is not right.

That should be all of us.

Because I know a little secret.  We are all black sheep, we are…


New rules to tell the children

Offend people, try and offend as many as you can. See when you lose count, make it a game. Be deemed unacceptable, scandalous. Walk the line just outside societal mores.) Curse at will, whistle, spit don’t sit properly or upright, don’t smile (especially if you’re told to), don’t be polite or ladylike (unless that is what you want). Abandon people and ideas if they no longer serve you, be ruthless. You’re doing no one any favors and doing yourself irreparable harm if you play the martyr and stay in a stupid situation to be “good” one. No one will like or appreciate you for it. There will be no validation for killing your madness to keep the peace. Be mad, give in to that spark. Even if it leads you to a twisty road, trust me, the twisty roads are the best.
You don’t owe anyone respect, love or admiration just because they are older than you. You are just as worthy of all of these as anyone. Always remember love is not real unless it’s for a pet or maybe your own human child. Your brain will produce oxytocin for any person given the right parameters. Romantic love always blooms like that St. Vincent poem, “strewing flowers and babbling like an idiot”. Don’t give up anything for it. A few well-placed love songs and strong influx of oxytocin and you’ll fall in love with a door stop.
You are responsible for no one’s happiness but your own.
Remember this.

The glory of a Bombay winter!

We moved to Bombay during the 2012 rainy season, as is fashion each year during this time, all looked to the looming clouds that dissipated as the morning wore on.  And then all complained at the woeful rain this year. Every year, worse than the last.  Obviously there are only two seasons in Bombay, hot and rainy .  I think though I was wrong, the two seasons are “HOT” & “HOT and RAINY”.  The rain is but an extension of the ONE TRUE SEASON! SUMMER!  So when Wikipedia tries to sell the horseshit that Bombay has four distinct seasons I find it difficult not to sputter in disbelief and faint dead away.

And then there was the oddity of this past monsoon.  The rain that never quite started and suddenly began…torrents flooding the JVLR.  I had a random guest over that evening,  flying out on the day of the hardest rain.  He took an auto finally, and lost a flip-flop on the way to the airport.  [Hi Amit! (if you’re reading)].

Seriously though, can farmers ever catch a break?  The rain,  ceaseless through Ganpati visarjan and again, October, the result of an absurd cyclone barreling through Bombay, trashed their planting season.  My sister-in-law, on a four day respite, and I were caught unaware on our way to Mahesh Lunch Home by the Leela. We sat  in the evening rush as the rain came down, petrichor and sweat mingling in the muck.  So the October heat that never was, gave away to the 2 weeks of the Bombay winter.

My 3 pairs of socks, one pair of yoga pants, 2 shawls and a hand me down (darned) sweater; all saved for these two weeks.   When I spoke to my daughter, already in the States,  she used to cackle.  “Oh Mom! You’ll never be able to handle it.”

This was super true, I wasn’t ready, it was evident when the near full suitcases of gossamer dresses and shorts were laid out before me as we landed into Newark, the Northeast in a deep freeze.  The ocean froze.  THE OCEAN.   I posted stupefied updates to Facebook and Instagram…frozen ocean! The end is near.

But as I sit here, schools open again after a much needed snow day for the children, shooing them out of the house, I think maybe the end was not near.  In my 17 million layers of sweats and boot socks, cozy and warm, clutching my gargantuan mug of Earl Grey, I can so totally handle this!

Poor Punxatawney Phil

The dimwit news anchor noted [what a dim bulb] that Phil looked cold. The upstate news team is seriously remedial.  Yeah. Of course that poor rodent is cold, he was all fat and cozy sleeping, ready (obviously) to sleep the rest of the winter.  Why would Phil EVER say I don’t see my shadow.  He was woken up.  I would say I see a shadow just to spite the idiot humans.  Full disclosure, this is on my bucket list.  The whole Punxatawney for Groundhog’s Day with my closest friend, Neeter, with whom, coincidentally, I spent the day trading (the movie) Groundhog’s Day quotes!  Because FUN!

Some things this week sort of haphazard,

Guilderland Public Schools have a kickass Music department and fundraising gang.  The annual fundraiser at the school was fabulously organized and the talent, well, stupefying.   Not that there’s anything wrong with this, and we are in the states, but the full weight being a minority again weighed down on me.  This is a very WHITE area,  I forgot what it felt like to be the ones assimilated.  In Bombay, I was part of the Borg.

I’m so glad the Eagles won.  My poor, long suffering brother, his picks never win, and the only reason I cared about this superbowl was because of this.

Justin Timberlake is a trash human being. He could have lit sparklers flatulence and I would remain unimpressed.  In this day and age of #metoo, it’s tragic to see such a shithole get center stage.


There are two spaces after each full stop. I, for the life of me, find this single space nonsense has not set me free.  It has shackled me to the paragraph.  See?  Double spacing is instinctual now…*sigh*

I hate being an old sometimes.





Head Cold

It’s just a cold, sure.  But man it feels awful.  My nose is raw, the raspy cough irritating though I’ve been drinking hot tea 24/7 to combat that.  No one nods at you in sympathy, it is just a cold despite feeling like the incuubus for the plague.

But Mom?  Mom knows.  Mom will nod.  Mom will rest her dimuintive hand on your forhead and afford you an,

“yeah, feels like a slight fever”, giving you the validation you need for laying about and waiting for death to take you.  Mom will invite you over and try to push her odious favorite curative, a TURMERIC LATTE.  And you will make the same old wretching noises while she laughs and offers you the lunch you came for,  kitchdi (a rice and dal porridge).   Invariably you will feel better, probably more because someone saw and pitied than anything else.   And it will feel so good.

I live in the condo next door to my mother and I love it. The kids get to be spoiled behind closed doors.  She babies all of us just enough and is able to beat a hasty retreat when we become too much for her to take.  Her steadfast insistence on having family dinners together have turned evenings of grabbing something quickly into a true sit down family time.  Sure we argue most of the time. Last night as my son tried to explain the life cycle of stars, as the rest of us cackled and interrupted him.  The zingers of the evening,

from my daughter “We are the most annoying family”

and right before any artifice of conversation completely collapsed into fits of giggles,

from my mother,

“I thought all the stars go to California”.




Winter hike in the Pine bush.

The sky is particularly blue on the days you ought to listen to the forecast or check the outside temperature/wind chill factor; or put your nose against the door to the deck (that’s my go to). For you see, as most of those who have lived here for any extended period know, and those of us just “foreign returned” must relearn is, the days that look like you can go galivant with the grass twixt your toes are going to be the most mercilessly cold. Not today though, today it’s going to be a balmy 50°F, And though I would have loved to break out of the sweats and layers rut, I have to remember, this is still colder than the coldest early morning walk, on the coldest Bombay winter ever. So, like it was prior to the rain begins in India, I wait. Look up into the deep blue. And talk to random strangers about when the warming will begin.

This is laughable of course. It’s just the end of January. The cold weather lasts an entire lifetime between now and when it will really start feeling warm, probably until May. Winter doesn’t pay attention to human equinox BS….so what if the vernal equinox has come and gone? I gots more snow for you. But not this weekend. This weekend is near Spring.

I took a quick hike behind our condo yesterday, having happened upon the trails there while looking for a lost drone (the husbands). The drone has been swallowed up by the wood, but the trail was freaking glorious. The red trail is beautiful and flat. The invasive trees towards the interior of the Dunes have been felled to make room for the indigenous flora and fauna, and the local Pines rise high and strong in the sky. I bopped along to the pep of Maroon 5 as I made my way and arrived home, after a well posed selfie just twenty minutes later. I can’t wait to see this trail during the spring.


forgotten void

This blue winter morning, that familiar void,  tinny and sharp drowned out the clattering utensils, the little bodies still warm from sleep leaning against me.  Until the bye moms, punctuated by the front door slam  The  house then, tidy beds, folded towels, din of furnace, the scent of bacon still lingering.

Steaming tea on hand, staring at the absurd local newscaster in garish morning make up, I’m happy and yet today felt like I have forgotten something. Something important, something I was meant to do, some essential detail. Surely if I try hard enough, I’ll remember, if only I could remember. Ever notice, it’s quite impossible to forget that you’ve forgotten. If I am unable to place the void what am I to fill it with?  How could I have willed myself to forget so completely that I wind up back here, inevitably looking back, trying to remember what I so easily must have forgotten.