Interview: Nothing is going to change my geek status.

I opened up my draft (read “nemesis”) and actually edited two chapters yesterday.

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It felt like a huge victory since I have been avoiding it for so long now. My inner Hiro is rejoicing. Anyway a couple of weeks ago someone left me  a message on my Facebook page. They wanted to interview me. I thought it was a joke because hello I am Geek. I went to their site and they seemed pretty sane so I thought what the hell, so they want to interview a geek. Who am I to judge? Read the interview here : Smart Indian Women 

My sudden and overwhelming fame is not going to turn me into a snob,don’t worry. Nothing is going to change my geek status.

I am good with being a geek.

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Yes Hiro Nakamura is my inspiration.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Depth, The Ugly Truth About Writing

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This is literally me right now. Looking into the depths of my heart, which I have pulled out of my chest. To face the truth.

I am sitting here stalling. My draft lies in a file, wasting storage space on my laptop. I have left it alone for many months because that is what writers are advised to do. Write, leave it. Edit, leave it. Read and edit, then leave it again. But I have left it way too long.

I have tricked myself into believing that I am just waiting for an appropriate amount of time to pass then I will get back to it. I distract myself with other projects, then leave them also. In the back of my mind something keeps eating away at me, I push it away. I write humorous mom posts to keep myself busy. And distract myself…from myself. From the anger that is building up inside me. The frustration of the truth that I don’t want to acknowledge.

I am scared to go back to the novel. Scared it is awful. Scared it won’t ever be any good even after I have put so much into it that I am exhausted. Scared of that horrible feeling when you get another rejection letter. If it never gets done, I won’t have to face all that hurt.

And anger builds up even more. I push it down deep, so that my kids don’t notice. I don’t want them to know I desperately want to write, but I am too scared of the disappointment I will have to face.  I want them to be able to face their problems bravely when they go out on their own in the world.Get back up and dust themselves off after falling. . I want them to be able to keep their spirits up even when things look hopeless and I am not setting a good example. Which means I am failing as a mother now too. More frustration.

I open the draft and stare at it. I get up and go into the kitchen. I have to make dinner first. I always have to do something first. I am so angry I end up putting too many red peppers in the stir fried shrimp. The kids are going to complain and I will try to deal with them patiently, because it is my fault. I will suppress the urge to smack them in the back of the head and yell at them to stop whining about everything. It isn’t their fault. It is mine.

I contemplate blaming everything on my parents and a bad childhood. Blaming someone else makes you feel better temporarily. It gives you excuses to continue being stupid. In the back of my mind I know it is all me though.

I control my anger. Squeeze it into a ball and force it down my throat. It is struggling to come back up in the form of a loud, frustrated scream. I don’t want to worry my husband and kids. But I really want to punch something hard. And break stuff.

I avoid the on-line writing hang out. I don’t want to admit how I am feeling to all those other writers who will understand and try to make me feel better. I don’t want to admit I am scared to keep writing. Putting all my energy, all my hear t and soul into that stupid book, only to find out it was never any good.

And I don’t want any feel good advice. I don’t want to feel good, I am too busy being angry, and all that good advice sounds like BS anyways. We just give it and listen to it to make ourselves feel better.  I am tired of good advice, don’t give me good advice, just agree that everything sucks and then we can go throw rocks at windows or something.

Broken windows remind me of broken down houses. And homeless people, and that I should stop wallowing in this ridiculous hole I have dug for myself because I am so much better off. I should be grateful, happy and stop wasting my time. And go finish the damn book.

Which I can’t do, because I have pulled my heart out of my chest and looked into its depths. All I can find is anger and isolation and the fear of failure. I contain it, but it is building up and I am afraid it is going to explode.

 

(Artwork is mine.)

Furniture Designers are Evil People Who Hate Kids.

(High End) Furniture designers are evil people who hate children (and mothers). They purposely design furniture that people with kids can’t buy ( not that we could afford it anyway). I suspect they had some sort of traumatic experience in their lives. Like maybe best friends with small children who visited once too often. Whatever, I still believe there is no excuse for their demonic furniture.  Let me introduce you to the furniture from hell…

Impractical Furniture

Treefury :“Have fun picking the Lego out of me b**ch!”

 

 

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Tibia Smasher the Wicked: “I love shins and knees. But I especially love the chins of your offspring.”

 

 

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Agrona the Poker: “Just waiting for the kids to push me over muhahahaha!”

 

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Slovenly the Spaghetti Lover: Name says it all. (It also loves play dough, mashed potatoes and Cheerios.)

 

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Jaba the Couch: “I am gargantuan, hideous and incredibly expensive. I also make embarrassing fart noises your kids will love.”

 

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Vertigo: “I can’t wait till the young ones learn to walk.” Not furniture but (stair) well deserving of mention.

 

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Poe’s Dining Pendulum: “I make sure the kids never sit still to finish their food. Ever.”

 

 

Furniture 2

Oakenfang: “Give me little fingers. Plump little fingers…..”

 

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Gollum Chair: (old, ugly, creepy and at $35000 it’s preciousssss). “We loves toeses, soft juicy toeses!”

 

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Brian Hyland Chair:

what

 

 

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Pinebelle the Insane: “once you start cleaning me…you’ll never be able to stop.”

 

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Banshee Recliner: “Hello little children, come closer. Don’t be shy…”

Which one was your favorite ( and ridiculously expensive) nightmare?

(All furniture names are a combination of my brilliant imagination and the Evil Name Generator. )

 

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Weekly Photo Challenge: Express Yourself

Expressing Myself…

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Doodle by me.

My youngest child likes to lick her “sweaty, salty” hands

baby eating sand

As a mother of five kids I have learned that it’s part of a normal (ugh!?) childhood for young children to put everything in their mouths. You have to be very vigilant. No matter how much you clean up and remove things from within their reach, they will find the most disgusting things possible to put in their mouths.

I have jammed my fingers between Firstborn’s little rose bud lips and extracted half eaten large black ants covered in baby drool. I can’t be sure if the poor creatures drowned or died of dismemberment. All my kids ate sand. After the first two I decided there must be something healthy in it and just let them sit behind the curtains and swallow that organic earthy goodness. If nothing, it helped them develop a great immune system.

Middle child was even more adventurous and once managed to down some phenol liquid (used as a cleaner). How she managed to climb up to a high shelf and retrieve it I don’t know. She also managed to unscrew the tightly closed cap. Anyways I thought she may have learned her lesson as the little blisters that popped up in her eyes, mouth and nose lasted some days. It was so painful, but she was ready for her next gastronomical adventure soon afterwards.

The twins delighted in feasting upon soap and tubes of toothpaste. When caught they would scream bloody murder as the soap and toothpaste were snatched away from them and their mouths washed out. I would explain to them lovingly, “we don’t eat soap and toothpaste.”

They would screech back, “we do eeef foap n toofpase!”

Then Twin 2 did the stuff mom nightmares are made of. She managed to get her hands on a bottle of Mortein liquid mosquito repellent and drank it down. She was playing happily after that and when I gave her a kiss I told her she smelt funny, my mom senses started tingling. She told me it was the funny thing she drank and then it hit me. We rushed her to the hospital and I had to hold her down while she got her stomach pumped. They usually keep the parents away at that time, but the two nurses and the stomach pumping guy couldn’t manage to keep her still so they called me in. Good times, good times.

Unfortunately none of my kids got any super powers in return, you’d think they would have. I honestly feel I deserve that much. I was positive Firstborn would be bestowed with Ant girl powers or Twin 2 would have some sort of super cleaning, mosquito repelling gifts that would benefit the world in some way or another.

Ah well, at least I am over that stage. Or I thought I was until I discovered Twin 2 licking her hands randomly as she watched T.V.  She didn’t even realize she was doing it. I stared at her for a minute.

“Did you just eat something chocolaty?”  I asked.

“No. Why do you have any brownies?” she asked hopefully.

“No, I don’t have any brownies. Why were you licking your hands?”

“I wasn’t!” she laughed.

“EEEWW! You were licking your hands! We saw you!” piped up Middle child happily.

“Yeah mommy, she always licks her hands!” added Twin 1 triumphantly.

Everything is a damned competition. Always.

“No I don’t!” Twin 2 is the worst liar ever. She had a guilty smile on her face. Then she dove into my arms when I gave her the look.

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she was still laughing.

“She likes the sweaty, salty taste!” Middle child exclaimed and then went into peals of laughter along with Twin 1. This is somehow considered a victory for them.

“Listen, you are almost eight. I thought I was done with this stuff by now. Do I have to keep running after you to make sure you are not putting everything into your mouth like a baby?”

“No. I’ll try not to.”

“Good.” Hugs and kisses and cuddles. I love being a mom.

I had to remind her fifty different times after that to stop licking her hands. She’s trying to remember not to lick them.  Her sisters have agreed to help by reminding her when they catch her doing it.

“Does she do it a lot?” I asked Twin 1.

“Mmmhhhhmmmm!”

I am beginning to wonder just how good that salty, sweaty taste is. Maybe I will lick her hands when she’s asleep to find out. Oh I wonder what kind of super powers could possibly come out of this?! Keeping my fingers crossed.

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(Top pic from Google Images)

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Weekly Photo Challenge : Serenity

Serenity

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“My soul can find no staircase to Heaven unless it be through Earth’s loveliness.” Michelangelo.

Some more serene photos:

MyBlog

Ese’s Voice

J.Picks (this was my favorite)

From Hiding to Blogging

Uncle Spike

https://hersko1.wordpress.com/2015/01/16/weekly-photo-challenge-serenity/

Ungemaltes

You know you are Desi when…

I don’t want to make other races feel left out or anything and I am sure a lot of you could relate to the following traits, but there are just some things that really let you know you are desi.

You know you are desi when…

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“We are out of groceries” looks like this.  Desi people have this insane fear in the back of their cranium somewhere that when the apocalypse comes we won’t have enough groceries. So we should always be prepared with a surplus, no amount of groceries are ever enough.

You know you are desi when…

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Your freezer is full of containers that are highly misleading as to their contents.  For example you will not find yogurt, ice cream or cream cheese (who keeps cream cheese in the freezer?) in any of these containers. Surprise! If you are desi you will know that they all contain some type of curry. You can never have too much curry, never know when the zombies might come.

You know you are desi when…

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This is something you use for an earache.

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You have used these for toothaches.

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This solves every gastric trouble in medical history.

And this…

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…is the solution for every other ailment under the sun.

You know you are desi when…

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…every cupboard contains a bag …that contains countless bags. Every. Cupboard.

When the zombies come we will have plenty of bags to tie them up in. Of course up here in Canada we won’t have a zombie apocalypse,  that kind of stuff only happens in America.  We will of course send the bags to our American neighbors. Polite Canadians.

You know you are desi when…

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This bin is overflowing every two days.  I fear the day when garbage pickup will be scheduled for every other week.

You know you are desi when…

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…you still think the kids are feeling cold.

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Dear white lady, please excuse my curry aura.

Rural Indian Woman cooking food in the Kitchen

Desi cooking. It is the epitome of a love hate relationship. Love to eat it. Hate to smell it. The smell of spicy curry on rice is slightly different when it lingers on your clothes. Your walls. Your couch. Damn it even the cat.

It takes a small fortune on fabric fresheners, candles, and what not to keep our houses free from the infuriating curry smell. Curry which we cook many times throughout the week.  Dry wall loves curry. The entire house just soaks all that spicy smell up and that contraption known as the kitchen exhaust is a useless noisemaker.

There needs to be some kind of innovation in house making seriously, special materials for people who do a lot of eastern cooking. Yes I have to include the entire east because our lives depend on garlic, onions, and spices. And bak choy. Have you ever smelt the after effects of cooking bak choy?  Ugh!

We eastern cooking people are the reason the scent industry will continue to flourish, prosper and cause the remaining ozone layer to vanish completely.  We have cans of air freshener in every corner of the house, which we use fervently especially in winter when windows can’t be opened. Winter is the worst when it comes to curry…aromas.

The day of the winter concert my daughters were super excited to be performing (for the one millionth time). We were invited in the evening to watch them. My husband had forgotten about it and suddenly came down with every ailment in the book when reminded of the evening’s agenda.

I let him off the hook and offered to just go by myself. Even I had been trying to talk the girls out of it. (Don’t judge me, I usually get excited about watching them perform every year even after hearing the songs every day for two months from all three of them.)But it had been a very tiring week.

I was running late, I wanted to get dinner cooked before I left so the kids could come home, eat and we could just wind the evening up. By 7pm I am so sleepy I can fall asleep while eating dinner. Curry facials are not good for your skin.

Spaghetti and meatballs for the kids. Desi guy doesn’t like pasta. At all. So I had decided to cook bihari kababs that day for him. Biggest mistake ever. In my haste to get to school I just grabbed my coat after I turned off the stove and ran outside. Ignoring the yells of the spray cans containing various scented toxic liquids that decorated our house.

I herded the girls in the direction of their classes and then went to the gym to await the performance. There were no seats left so I had to stand at the entrance. Where it was nice and airy. Till my friend spotted me and dragged me back with her because she had an extra seat (she pulled her youngest out of said seat and sat him on her lap for the whole evening-I love my friends). It was crowded. Packed. You could smell snow and salt. And bihari kabab.

I felt like kicking myself. I whispered my horror to my friend who smiled and said, “yeah I wondered what you had been cooking. Great korma smell!”

“Bihari kabab,” I said.

“Well I don’t mind,” she giggled.

But the white lady sitting next to me did. A lot. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her stiffen. I saw her slowly rise and leave. To sit on some chair she was lucky enough to find in that packed gym away from me. Dear white lady from the winter concert at the school gym, I am extremely sorry, please excuse my curry aura.

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House Sold

Click to read on Dawn: http://dawn.com/2012/05/06/humour-house-sold/

I sold my house before I moved back to Canada, it was quite an experience and I discovered things I couldn’t imagine about people I have known all my life.

Remember the house I got renovated? I sold it. And I moved. But that is another story. Unless you have gone mad and decided to move half way across the world — and having gone through this extremely painful process myself I would not advocate it for anyone — never sell your house. First of all you should only sell your house, if it has a leaky roof, cracked floors, and crumbling walls. Or if a close relative has passed away and left you a mansion on Tipu Sultan road.

Selling your house is an uncomfortable process; it will keep you up at nights and give you plenty of indigestion. You will have all kinds of people invading your privacy requesting tours of your house at odd hours of the day. And they will want to know why you chose to paint your daughter’s room two shades of pink and why the kitchen counters are black. They will shake their heads unbelievingly at the ‘extravagant’ price, then bug you after you sell the house to someone else, why you didn’t inform them first, because they had their hearts set on it.

A house that you have lived in for a long time becomes part of you; it hosts your celebrations and shelters your rainy days. It watches your children grow and becomes their first friend; its walls hold up everything from little pink and blue bunny rabbit cut-outs to posters of sleek cars or rock stars with bad hair-dos. It provides a personal little haven known as the bedroom, where your moody teenagers retreat to when the world doesn’t treat them right. It listens patiently, never judging, never offering unwanted advice to the angry adolescent but pacifies them with the knowledge, that here, they are accepted. It sadly hears your fights and joyfully watches reconciliations. It guards every secret obsessively.

I miss my house. And it took me months to wind everything up. Twenty years of possessions are hard to get rid of. And you won’t believe the junk I had. Actually, you probably would because every Pakistani woman has an incredible imagination when it comes to recycling. Closets that were full of spare dupattas of cast away suits, clothes piled up for repairs or distribution to various destinations, shoes that had been worn out and forgotten about, hair clips, scrunchies and makeup kits that were never used. Stashes of candy, hidden from the children. I could almost hear my house moan sadly as I continued to deprive it of all its belongings.

The kitchen cupboards were stripped of countless empty ice-cream containers, unused dishes, utensils and plastic bags. Oh how we women adore our plastic bags! Of course my maid had a field day, and I felt a bit guilty at her bliss on receiving such trivial little titbits. I know my house will miss her too. The way she helped me scrub and dust out each and every corner was admirable, getting our house ready for the new owners as we reminisced and even shed some tears together.

Sniff. Enough! Never regret a decision, it wastes too much time. Just learn from it. Which gets me to the real point. When we put our house up for sale, a wise old person told us it is ethical to ask your neighbours first if they are interested. We did, fortunately everyone already had their own house. Neighbours are one thing. Relatives are another.

Never sell your house to a relative. Especially if you are the type of person with a lot of ‘lihaaz’ (read: doormat). That is where they get you, at your lihaaz. Because of lihaaz you will sell your house at a rock bottom price and then listen quietly as your relatives whine incessantly about how broke they are. They will also want to get it renovated some more before they move in. Never mind the fact that you still live there. Lihaaz aap ko mar day ga.

After the house is sold, your relatives will come often with the pretext of helping you wind up the house. They are actually coming to make sure you don’t damage any of the walls while moving out large and heavy furniture. Speaking of large and heavy furniture, don’t bother trying to sell it or give it to any of your best friends. Your relatives will do you a big favour by insisting that you leave everything and they will take care of it for you. Later they will complain to all and sundry that you left your broken down junk for them. That ‘junk’ that will later adorn their drawing rooms.

And then of course there is the large collection of electronic gadgets that you will leave for them. And they will have the gall to phone you up to tell you the stuff you left for them (that they had asked for, by the way) doesn’t work, and it is costing them a lot to get it fixed. So you offer to give them their money back… oops, you gave it to them for free. So what to do now?

Don’t let it come to this, heed my advice and never sell your house. Especially not to relatives.

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Vote for me!

Weekly Photo Challenge: Yellow

Yellow, how could I resist? Stubborn dandelion popped up after the snow melted.

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Some more yellow:

From Hiding to Blogging

Ese’s Voice

Pho Trablogger

Matt Von P

Passion Through Poetry

Parallel Lines

The Seeker