“What’s a wife supposed to do, huh?”

An honest-to-God rendition of an embattled wife who almost went bonkers with her husband's out-of-the-blue hypochondria!

Marriage Life 101 dictates that when the Man goes down, most often it is DEFCON 1 in the household. Normal life ceases and wife’s top priority is to channel her motherly instincts and nurse him back to health. Though we all know in most cases it’s because of something he did. Like the terrible hangover from binge drinking the night before or the violent reaction next morning to a burrito had at 2am when specifically told not to. Man milks the situation for all its worth while claiming only his mom has the Midas touch when it came to healing sickness. Wife grins and bears and continues to give neck massages and backrubs when it’s not got to do with anything. Her Sunday’s screwed but she can’t do a thing about that, can she?

I get it. These are our “priceless moments” and this is what we’ve been trained to do the moment we fell in love. Every girl worth her salt (including yours truly) have done it to critical acclaim.

But pray, what the hell is a woman supposed to do when her husband announces to have come down with a different ailment every single day, huh?

Now before you go all Judge Judy on me, let me reaffirm that I love my husband like no other. He’s smart, funny, cuddly and the next closest thing to Hercules (even if he can’t lift no more than 25lbs). Seriously, I cannot stand the sight of him twisting and turning in agony. I want him to remain fit as a fiddle, walk upright and goof around like the oversized kid I’ve known him always. In other words, I’ll offer my sympathies and services only for the known medical diseases. Not for something that’s been strung together on blogs and forums by insomniac hypochondriacs and probably isn’t even in the medical dictionary anyway.

I'm not sure of the genesis of his problem, but if I were to guess I’d say it was about two weekends ago. We’d been with friends in town that Saturday night pub hopping and clubbing, as usual trying to keep pace with 20somethings still in college. I woke up past noon on Sunday thanking heavens for the extra day. Ananth was walking around aimlessly something bothering him.

“I think I just peed for the 8th time since this morning” he informed me like it was a statistic I should be aware of.

“So…?”

“Don’t you think it’s unusual?” he sounded surprised.

“Baby, if you drank 2 liters of something it’s bound to come out sometime, don’t you think?”

“But…”

“Well… what do you think? That you’ve got a tap inside? You can turn it on and it’ll come out all gushing?” I dismissed him and switched on the TV. I’d recorded that week’s CSI and had two more episodes to catch up. You never want to begin a Monday knowing you were behind on your CSIs and “Law & Order” I didn’t hear anything about any more discomfort from Ananth though I heard the toilet flush a few more times and he still seemed preoccupied.

I came back from work on Monday around 6.30pm and was surprised to see him home already. “How’re you feeling?” I asked. Ananth was hunched over his laptop in the living room, once again weighed down by something.

“Not good… I think I have bladder cancer” he said timidly.

“What? Who said that?” I shrieked. I was more irritated than concerned.

“Everyone”. I moved closer and found at least 10 windows open on his computer, everything from WebMD to an Ayurveda website.

“Unless you go to a doctor and they say so, you don’t have anything” I said with finality. You don’t get cancer because a website says so. You need to fork at least one quarter of your fortune on scans and X-rays before the white coats deign so. I made him promise he wouldn’t do any research on this and that he’d go see the doctor the next day. “If you think it’d help go see some porn” I said half-jokingly.

Ananth didn’t go the doctor the next day (or the next three) though he looked slightly better. He still went to work and all but the burst wasn’t just there. It was as if he’d been replaced by a lifeless mannequin that did nothing except walk around the house and check its pulse every fifteen minutes. I hated that. I went up to him and hugged, “What is really bothering you?”

“I don’t know… I seem to have the shingles. There’s some tremors in my hands and there’s pain” He offered me his palms and I pressed them a few times to find nothing. But then what do I know? “Let’s go to this website…” he started to pull his laptop closer.

“Noooo” I shouted and pushed him away. “You’re going to your primary physician and that’s it” I said. Ananth offered to drive by himself for the appointment next day.

Doctors, here and everywhere are sworn to commit to nothing before putting you through a battery of tests – blood, urine and whatnot. Word was, everything looks fine but let’s wait for the results before you can go party the lights out. Those two to three days were enough for Ananth to stock up on more medical paraphernalia. He’d now moved on from bladder cancer and latched onto multiple sclerosis, totally convinced that doomsday was right around the corner.

“This is bullshit” I waved it off.

“No… they’re true. I might have them” he insisted. I bit my lip and remained mum. Every disease or illness has around ten symptoms all of which include some kind of pain, nausea and the like. Put two and two and two together and you can go all the way up to AIDS.

The results arrived four days later and I’ve never seen anyone so dejected to learn that they were healthy. “It’s almost as if you were expecting something big” I tried not being sarcastic.

“But I’m still not feeling well” he moaned. Whatever!

The next morning I woke up to what I thought was a severe earthquake. The bed was shaking on all fours and Ananth was on top trying to break my sleep.

“What?” I said groggily, noticing it was still before 7am.

“My whole face is numb. So are my hands. Help me!” Ananth’s face was ashen and for a moment I was scared he’d a stroke or something. We quickly got ready and headed off to the hospital in Beaverton. I heard my phone ring but didn’t pick it up. On the way he started to feel better. His color was returning fast and he was improving though he was still squeezing his head like an orange. Insurance labels it Immediate Care, but there’s nothing immediate about it unless you’ve arrived there with your entails out or are gasping for your last breath. While Ananth was being attended to while I took out my phone and realized it was my mother who’d called. Thank God I didn’t answer that.

Hey ma! Yeah I’m doing fine. Everything’s normal. Also, your favorite son-in-law is frozen like a statue since morning and I’m taking him to the museum. I mean, hospital. Ok I’ll talk to you later. Love you.

I chuckled involuntarily at that imaginary conversation. Ananth came out fifteen minutes later and informed that he’d scheduled another checkup with his physician three days hence.

“Good. That’ll give you more time to read up on more journals. Do you want to stop by the library on your way home?” Ananth smiled crooked and I was proud of my dry wit and humor.

Convinced he wasn’t out of the woods yet, Ananth took the next three days off, presumably to recuperate from the non-existent ailments. A terrible decision, since I was now being bombarded by calls at work, getting status updates on the hour and simultaneously accused of indifference.

“What do you want me to say? You’re fine” I was exasperated.

“What if I’d had a heart attack?” he shot back.

“You did not and you’re not going to. If you don’t shut up I’m going to have one because these books are driving me crazy” I snapped back and hung up. Anyone who thinks being an accountant is just updating a spreadsheet, talk to me first. On a normal day I work eight hours without checking my mail even once.

Lo behold! The diagnosis was just pure plain old stress, or as in today’s medical world, a panic attack. “You’re obsessed about a problem and before you know it takes over and plays havoc with your body from head to toe” Ananth explained. “We also went over my blood tests. My CBC, BMP and LFTs were negative. LDL was slightly higher and we talked about increasing the antibiotics later if needed” he summarized.

“You talked to your doctor like this?” I was shocked.

“Yeah… I used many more terms” his chest swelled with pride like he’d cracked the pre-meds.

“No s**t! If I were the doctor I’d have given you laxatives and called it Vitamin C just to teach smartasses like you a lesson” I laughed. Clearly Ananth didn’t partake in the joke. “I’m sorry, what exactly did the doctor say” I hugged him.

“He’s given me Xanax, an anti-depressant. Just rest and relaxation and I should be fine” he hugged me back with authority.

Whew! I heaved a huge sigh of relief.

The “near death experience” of the century was now mercifully over. Ananth looked he’d found Jesus and adamant that he was going for a complete makeover. “I’m quitting smoking and drinking, eating healthy and exercising regularly. This is a wakeup call. I’m going to be more socially conscious” he declared. I smiled and hugged him again.

“Is this you or the Xanax speaking?”

“Screw you!” he pushed me away and I laughed loud.

**************** 

It’d been a while since we’d ordered in on a Sunday and today’s lunch was superb. Ananth’s appetite was back considering the extra large helpings of fried rice and paneer butter masala that went down in a flash. As always he had something to comment about the preparation noting that less ajinomoto, more cardamom and whatnot could’ve taken it to the next level. They don’t call you Wolfgang Puck for nothing! I nodded and cleared the dirty dishes. I was busy cleaning when I noticed him hovering behind me.

“What?” I finally said without turning around.

“Ummmm no… I think there’s some pain around my lower ribs and upper stomach…” he bent backwards.

“Oh! That? I don’t know…” I dragged.

“Don’t know what?”

“Well… You might be coming down with Zollinger-Ellison Syndrome with a strong case of tumor in the duodenum” I said as-a-matter-of-factly and turned on the dishwasher.

“What? Really?” he croaked. His voice has become a whisper and I could sense his pupils dilated. Any longer he might have come down with the real thing.

“Relax sweetie! I am just fucking with you. It’s just gas. You’ve been burping like a steam engine all morning” I turned around and kissed him hard.

We’re cool!

Shailaja Kandasamy.

“The one with the list”

Calcutta, Nov 16th


Three days after I got married my sister called me up and asked, “So, have you started on the list?” throwing me off guard. No probing questions like “So… how’s he?” or “Have you guys done anything naughty?” Simply some bulls**t question about some goddamn list that I was supposed to be working on!

“What’re you talking about? What list?” I asked, confused. Husband was standing three feet away intent on finishing his aloo chaat and bhel puri in record time and the last thing I needed was to distract him from his mission. Whatever this was I tried hard to keep my voice on an even keel.

“Oh! Nothing! You’ll figure it out when the time comes” she replied and hung up. What the #$%^. Sis had this annoying habit of cryptic speak and making me look like a fool afterwards because I couldn’t figure out what she’d just said. The only list that came to my mind at that instant was “Schindler’s List” and I involuntarily smiled.

“She’s fine. How was the food?” I quickly changed the subject, catching my husband staring at me. “Do you want the samosas…” I half joked only to have him beam like he’d cracked the Rubik’s Cube and order them in a jiffy before I could complete my sentence.

“You aren’t hungry, right?” he said, which sounded more like a statement than a romantic “Here, have a samosa dear” gesture. Obviously I couldn’t eat them now. I gently declined and pushed the bowls away from me. There is no reason to stuff yourself to the throat because food was cheap and tasty, which is exactly what he’d been doing since satisfying his hunger in the afternoon, seeking out every roadside food vendor in the metropolis. Clearly, when it came to maturity he still had a long ways to go, something which I was becoming aware of every passing day.

I didn’t think about the list except once on the flight back when the first thing I vowed to do was to give my sister a piece of her mind for posing such stupid questions that only she knew the answer to. Dear husband was attempting to solve a crossword puzzle and the time was ripe to impress him with my vocabulary…

Los Angeles, Dec 21st

More than a month had passed since we’d entered wedlock and I didn’t even realize it until I looked at my cell phone and realized “Oh my God! I’ve missed our one month anniversary!” But I remember vividly the day I bought my new car. Oh well!

I don’t have a PhD in relationships or have been married half a dozen times, but 40 days ago I was pretty confident that with the right mixture of carrot and stick I could make it work for life. Hubby’s a cheerful free-spirited individual who’s as low maintenance as they come and attached with a lightweight instruction manual. He wanted me to get back on track and as long as I partook in his favorite pursuits (read sports, movies, working out, touring places) I was fine. Moreover he’d introduced me to his two mistresses, Lakers Basketball and NFL. While I was drawn to the first one instantly (you know… tall black guys with sculpted bodies sweating… and of course, Kobe Bryant), the second one was repulsive. There was no way in hell I was going to be drawn to some fat men going at each other, even though my husband painstakingly attempted to explain the rules every time. “There’s something in this game for all shapes and sizes. Key is perfect timing” he stressed in vain, which only made me giggle infuriating him further.

It was just another day in a-La-Land until my mother-in-law called that night. As any self-respecting married girl can attest to, the first fifteen minutes are strictly reserved for pleasantries. “How’s the weather?”, “How was I coping?”, my exploits in the kitchen yada yada yada. It was all smooth sailing and we were ready to get down to the brass tacks, when she asked after a long pause,

“So dear… How’s the marriage coming along?”

At which point I was afflicted by selective amnesia. I mean, we’d been together for about a month, done a ton of exciting things, fought our share of cold wars too, but when asked the simplest of questions I’d suddenly became tongue-tied.

“Oh! Means… meaning… it’s fine Aunty… He’s nice” I hemmed and hawed, painfully aware that every second I was dithering I was planting seeds in her mind. Heck! If I were listening to myself an hour later I’d be thinking “Oh my God! There’s something really wrong” too. I let out a few hollow laughs, stressed for the third time that all was fine and started looking for him in that huge Wal-Mart we were in.

Thank you Lord! What’s it with men and flat screen TVs in a store I’ll never understand. It’s like the moment you get in there you’ve got to go and pay obeisance to those 50” and 60” ones even when you’ve been given a list to attend to.

“Your mom wants to talk to you” I flicked him from behind and shoved the phone at him retreating quickly. Nice woman, I really like her. I would’ve spoken to her at length if only I could’ve strung a few sentences properly. Right now I couldn’t even say my name without hesitation.

But why the hiccup about my own marriage? I love him, he’s been nothing but good to me. What the #$%^ was going on? Oh my God! And as if it were a sign from above, the list reappeared on my radar again…

The twenty four years I’ve known my sister she hasn’t done nothing on Sunday mornings save for wallowing in her bed and wafting in her dreams until she can sleep no more and has got to get up just to feel normal again. Seriously, if ever my mom had called me up and said “Sindhu got up at 6.00am and went to play handball with her friends” I would’ve gone into shock.

Tring! Tring! Tring! Tring! Tring! Tring! Tring! Tring! Tring! Tring! Tring! Tring!

I wasn’t keeping count but I was pretty sure it’d reached a dozen. And we were only getting started. I’d have to keep at this much longer before I could even start cultivating hope. Of all days Mom had to pick today to seek Balaji’s blessings! It was only 11.30am over in Chennai. The first stirrings wouldn’t be for at least an hour.

Fifteen minutes later I was seething. At the end of my tether and ready to fling my phone against the wall. Correction, my husband’s. This was getting ridiculous. What if I was gasping for my last breath and was trying to reach my sister for one more time? Slumber is good, I love it too, but not when elder sister’s reaching out for advice.

To digress, before cell phones there was this big black box with holes in it called the “telephone”. And this landline held the roost in Chennai until a few years back. You possessed one and people looked at you like you were the Chosen One, since you could plead you were willing to sacrifice your left n*t but still couldn’t get one in less than a year. Never mind that such an uglier contraption never existed. Earpiece weighed more than a dumbbell, dialing a ten digit number assured you a blister (and an object thrown across the room). To make matters worse you needed that damn thing to connect to the Internet and you could use only one at a time. But that’s all in the past now. The cell phone damsel arrived in style and swung the pendulum so far this way that your average milkman is going around with two cell phones. The point of my story? Mobiles are in, landlines are out. And BSNL sucks too!

As for the one in my home, Mom uses it perfunctorily once a week (presumably to dust it), while I swear my sister doesn’t even know its number.

All right! I took a deep breath and dialed my landline. Unbeknownst to mom and sister I’d turned up its volume to the maximum, which meant whenever anyone called the entire apartment block knew we were getting a call. Damn thing was so loud it’d wake up a dead man. Unless I took pity on my neighbors and helped mom disable that switch (primarily for senior citizens with hearing disability, in case anyone needs to know) it’d be screaming for years to come. The things you can glean by perusing the instructional manual in detail.

“You asked for it Sindhu” I chuckled as I heard the first ring. This time she picked it up in the second ring as if an earthquake had jostled her out of bed.

“What’s that list you were talking about?” I barked driving straight to the point.

“What??? Who’s this??? Oh! What do you want?” she barked back almost ready to hang up on me again.

“Please! Please! Don’t go to sleep. Help me here. I need help” I pleaded. 90% drama 10% sincerity.

“Ok! Hold on! Let me get up” I heard a heavy rustling sound in the background. Half a dozen pillows would’ve been tossed aside while she managed to sit straight and rub the sleep off her eyes. As much as snoring away on weekends is paramount, gossiping (especially learning new stuff) is even bigger and girls never let any opportunity go by. In that regard I knew she’d stay awake even for a day if needed.

“So what exactly happened? I need ‘details’” she asked. I quickly summarized my last conversation with my mother-in-law and how her question had left me speechless.

“But… I love him. He’s like a kid. He’s really cute” I insisted.

“Hey hey! I know! I know!” she laughed. Embarrassed I hid my face under a pillow.

“You know what your problem is?”

“What is it?” Once again I was clueless.

“You have no idea how to express it. As much as we love to talk when we’re asked about our man or our relationship we can’t say proper words” I had to admit she was starting to make sense now.

“So… is this normal?” I ventured hesitatingly. Of course it was. Why wouldn’t it be? Unless you were Priya Tendulkar, Barkha Dutt or any other firebrand females who can bite your head off, this problem seemed to affect almost every other woman. And how were we supposed to combat it?

“Prepare a list. Take a notepad and start writing the things you love about him and the things you hate about him. Once you’re done that’s in a nutshell your marriage.” she decreed.

Wow! Who would’ve thought this? For a moment it seemed like I was at the therapist laying on the couch and sobbing about my marital woes.

“Is this for real? It’s not like we’re going through problems, you know” I asked.

“Trust me, guys dig these. Especially the one you’re married to. If anything, he’ll read it and love you even more. Goodbye!” she concluded and hung up.

Case closed. My normally garrulous sister herself felt there was no need to discuss this topic further. I was beginning to get convinced the “list” might not be a bad idea at all. For the first time in my life I had loads of free time at my disposal. Plus anything to turn him on, right? So…

Wedding Videos!

I’m not a quarterback getting ready to play in the Super Bowl tomorrow. I’m also not a star batsman an entire race is looking up to, gearing to open the innings in the World Cup Finals the next day. For the honest-to-God boy-next-door that I am, my version of “being in the spotlight” is something closer to home, the wedding ceremony. In my humble opinion, nowhere else are folks’ focus trained at you like a marksman while you’re gamely going through the motions of marrying your childhood sweetheart (or in some cases, mom’s handpicked choice of “your perfect woman”) The quarterback and Sachin Tendulkar had it easy. At least they had those noisy ads and two piece cheerleaders to distract viewers momentarily!

For what it’s worth, the Hindu Brahmin wedding is a microcosm of several thousand events, functions and formalities, each vying over one another for importance, all of which are written in stone and need to be done in a certain sequence, lest the heavens descend upon the couple and curse them in all their fury. Apparently, no one considered recession or the spiraling housing market… but whatever. And as much as “Nalangu”, “Kasi Yaathirai” etc. are screaming for attention, I’d like to vent my ire just towards the Pièce de résistance, the Wedding Reception, arguably the bitterest ritual in this whole exercise.

Now, if I were James Bond or possessed the physique of a Greek God, I would’ve draped myself in a suit for eternity. I’d have gone to bed in them, rode a cycle rickshaw in them, shopped for groceries in them, played cricket in them, stirred a martini and talked to young ladies in them and whatever else comes to your fancy. In short, I wouldn’t have minded standing in an elevated platform wearing one and smiling cutely to the crowd while cameras clicked all around me. For lesser mortals like me who aren’t Bond and who like to think a Lakers T-shirt and Old Navy cargo shorts are the answer to every fashion conundrum, a suit is pretty hard to convince. Especially when you know,

a. You’re probably never going to give it a passing glance anymore,

b. As much as you’re flexing your shoulders or buttoning and unbuttoning your coat a million times something isn’t right. Either the coat’s too big or the pants are making you look fat.

c. That at least one person in the room is thinking “Geez! He should’ve stuck to a sherwani or much better, a white shirt and black pants like a waiter!”

That means you’re enjoying standing in this elevated platform as much as you enjoy Chinese water torture and have enough fake smiles already that your jaws are read to dial 911 any second. But that’s just the start. The real trip begins when the videographer (who's probably thinking this is his "P.C. Sreeram” moment) starts shining a few thousand watts of brightness in your face. Pray why? To capture these blissful moments for eternity into DVDs, photo albums et al. And we all thought such firepower was required only when digging a bore well or something!

There’s no respite. For the next 3 hours or until the last guest has caught him/herself on camera, whichever comes first. I’ve attended close to a dozen weddings in my lifetime and trust me, it’s always the latter, which stretches the cardio workout to at least 4 hours tops. And it's not like after the first fifteen minutes you can call for the glare to be shut off.

Sir? Could you turn that thing off? I’d really like some darkness now.

No #$%^in’ way! That ain’t happening. Lights on and lights off when the elders decree. And while you’re up there shifting your weight from one foot to another you better be careful. Every yawn, every sneeze, every facial twitch is religiously recorded for posterity. Good luck if you suddenly want to scratch your balls or desperately want to dig your nose. The family’s going to be watching the DVD a few months later for the nth time and all I’m saying is you were warned.

James Bond, I don’t think had to go through any of this. The world would’ve been fixated with his face and the fair maiden in his arms…

But really, what is it about them wedding videos that makes guys duck for cover? Prompts them to unabashedly pretend “Oh! We lost it when we were moving houses” or sometimes drives them nuts that they’d end up recording Super Bowl XLIV or a Seinfeld marathon over it. I’m not putting any ideas here but you know… Why can’t it ever be a short-and-sweet cutesy home video projecting the protagonists in favorable light rather than turning into an endless parade of guests coming and leaving while they wear the same stock expressions? Given this isn’t a Dreamworks or Madras Talkies production, cannot the bride and groom intervene and say “Ok! This is our show and this is how we want it to be laid out…”? I mean, just because we’re paying the crew a busload of money, doesn’t mean they’re accorded carte blanche authority, right?

(Pauses 60 seconds)

(clears throat)

(switches from wailing to normal voice)

I know I know… A salesman would’ve had more success hawking his tupperware to a housewife. From what I’ve gathered the families encourage “creativity” and the crew are more than happy to oblige.

Case in point: Varun and Sunanda.

Varun’s a good friend of mine who got married to his lady love Sunanda two years ago. Brahmin meets Brahmin, Sunanda’s dad is an entrepreneur and his youngest daughter, so the wedding took place with its usual hype and hoopla, though Varun insisted later on that he’d always preferred a simple one and had in fact sleepwalked through portions of it. I was inclined to believe him. A few months back they moved to my city and the first order of business was to pay the couple a visit.

“You’ve got to come for dinner. We can watch our wedding DVD. You haven’t seen it yet” she informed.

Normally if this were some random Jack and Jill something would’ve cropped up. Like my friend was stranded somewhere in Orange County and I had to go jumpstart his car because he didn’t know what AAA was OR our Production system at work had suddenly caved in and I was the only one who could resuscitate it. But Sunanda cooks food that’s out of this world, so I readily agreed. After all how difficult could it be to concentrate on the food while sneaking a few peeks at the TV, I assured myself on the way over.

Both seemed eager to see me and likewise. Initial pleasantries aside I was getting ready to dig into a bowl of piping hot vegetable soup when Sunanda dropped a big book by my side on the table.

“What’s this?” I asked, surprised. The damn thing was thicker than an encyclopedia and could’ve substituted for the 25lb free weight at my gym.

“It’s our wedding album” she smiled. This wasn’t on the agenda! Curious nevertheless, I decided to give it a try.

Oh my God! One look at it and it sent me into a tizzy. It was plain freakin’ obvious the photographer had run amok. The album had every imaginable shot of the couple clutching whatever object came to his fancy. There were doves (a paper mache model, of course), plastic flowers and potted plants, a few round balls (?), them standing in front of all the wonders of the world (a more realistic painting would've helped) and also (God forbid!) some close-ups of the two that would've made any child bawl in fear. And mind you, they’re more-than-average photogenic and presentable in person. There are only so many times you can say "Soopera a irukku" without meaning any of it and I gave up after the first dozen or so pages.

I’m such a fool and I was sitting there expecting to see just a few simple photos of the couple smiling, where each frame would’ve made them look regal and majestic like a king and queen. Like something that they could look at admiringly after a couple of decades and say “God! Weren’t we really made for each other?” I doubt one could say that for a photo of them in an awkward pose in front of a 6 feet paper cutout of the Eiffel Tower.

Certainly that wasn’t a moment to embark on a truth session overdrive. Not unless I wanted to skip the rest of Sunanda’s delicious creations. The soup had made me ravenous and I was determined to polish off as much of the fried rice, sambar and potato curry.

“It’s good. I love it” I said and closed it and pushed it away. “I’m sure you must’ve loved posing for these” I continued. Sometimes I do a terrific job of concealing my sarcasm and this was one of it.

“We did” she replied. “Come, let’s eat now” Thank God!

Dinner was unarguably delicious and I made no bones of the fact that I hadn’t eaten good South Indian food in a long time every time I lunged for more sambar or potato curry. Mercifully the topic was changed to something more current, like football, each other’s work, movies, hiking in the Angeles mountains etc. Varun was a huge Colts fan and I had to interject and remind him that my favorite quarterback the past three years, Drew Brees was equally up there when he went on and on about why Peyton Manning was the best of them all.

“After all Brees won the Super Bowl last year and threw for 5000 yards the year before” I clarified. Sunanda responded with some statistics about the Colts defense that surprised me. You cannot not admire a woman who speaks fluent football and I commended her right away. “The sambar’s awesome too” I added.

Forty minutes of calorie overload later myself and Varun settled on the sofa with a beer when suddenly Sunanda broke through screaming “I forgot the DVD!” and rushed to play it. I looked at Varun in shock. Did he know about this? Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. But his expression suggested he’d rather go through with it than watch ESPN. I shrugged and switched over to a couch farthest from the TV.

From the frying pan into the fire…

The videographer either had to be the photographer’s brother or was both the same person. Never have I seen a DVD crammed with some many FX not even worthy of a C grade movie. The first part was focused on the couple and that’s the one I found most hilarious. Faces of the bride and groom kept tumbling towards each other at the speed of light from all corners of the screen only to be merged slowly until their enlarged faces filled up the screen. One moment you’d be wondering what a small speck was doing at the bottom of the TV and the next moment you’d be thrown back saying “Wow!” because that just became a flower and Sunanda would be climbing out of it smiling! Two flowers might be swaying in the breeze, then the music changes and lo behold! An entire garden is populated with our hero and heroine! Really, you needed to have at least a PhD in computer graphics to even think of this s**t.

Fifteen years back when I first discovered PowerPoint, me and my friend made a presentation of this sort for a class event, creating havoc on the monitor by going crazy with all sorts of animations on JPEG files. We added a soundtrack of a peppy Bollywood number and thought we’d be the toast of the class the next day. Truth is, I’ve never been booed like that before.

Memo to Cheenu Maama: These kinds of artwork went out of fashion with the psychedelic 70s. And a wedding album slideshow to hit songs certainly doesn’t make a DVD!

I was resigning myself to this video when suddenly the TV went blank and the words started to appear from the bottom of the screen

And now what you have all been waiting for

Dance item by

Sunanda & Varun

I sat bolt upright. What the #$%^ was that? Varun came on first wearing a brown suit and looking dutifully uncomfortable. Sunanda arrived a few seconds later with layers of makeup on her face to go along with her red sari. The latest Tamil hit song started playing and the two people with both left feet began to sway awkwardly to the music. I should’ve howled in laughter right there on the carpet but instead spent the next few minutes biting the hell out of my right knuckles. Dessert (gulab jamun w/ ice cream) wasn’t served yet you see! The entire number was captured by someone holding a camcorder and given the way the picture shook it was obvious he/she was having as much fun as the couple on stage.

Probably as a reward for my good behavior or so, we skimmed through the second part. In one minute I must’ve seen at least fifty aunties with loads of makeup and jewelry on, each making a botched attempt to not appear self conscious when it looked as if they’d paid someone to be on this home video.

I dragged Varun out to the patio as the DVD ended and Sunanda left to busy herself in the kitchen. We hadn’t smoked together in a while and now was the perfect time to let loose my barrage of questions.

“Dude! What the #$%^ was that?” I almost shouted. Varun took a long wistful drag as if he were counting to 10000.

“It was ok. Slightly cheesy but it was ok…” he stammered. He barely made eye contact and knowing him and his old school ways he was anything but thrilled.

“Are you serious? Some of it was ridiculous” I couldn’t believe he was so nonchalant.

Varun stubbed his cigarette and took a deep breath and began to explain. None of the animation bloopers in the DVD were his idea. The disc was mailed one month after his wedding when they were back here. And no! He wasn’t hooting and clapping when he saw it the first time. What about the dance? Well… He kind of realized it was stupid but blame it on his parents and her relatives for egging them on. As the album, that was shot after the DVD. And to quote him “It’s hard to say no when you’re b***s are cut off!”

“Oh man! I’m sorry” I hugged him. I felt really bad.

“If this is the case I’m better off getting married in a beach with just my friends. Anand can be my best man, Shankar can be the priest and afterwards the only pictures we’ll have are those where we are half naked and drunk. That’d be cool” I laughed out loud. Varun glared at me and lit another one.

“Trust me! You’ll go through the same s**t” he warned. I shuddered. That seemed more like a curse…

If you ask me, they can lay ten lanes on each side but nothing shall ever take away the title of “the world’s longest parking lot” from I-405. People will still be stranded ready to tear their hearts out, like today. 11.30pm on a Sunday night and rows and rows of automobiles stuck with no light at the end of the tunnel. Sandwiched between a truck and a bus with nothing to do my mind went back to the events of the evening.

As cool and yuppie a couple Varun and Sunanda might turn out to be, I felt bad for them on some level. Honestly. You get married once and yet you can’t have your memories your way because a few distinguished gentlemen deemed so. How cruel is that? Think about this, fifteen or so years later their son or daughter starts dating, discovers this DVD before prom night and imagine the horrors they’ll be subjected to. Talk about scarring your kids for life!

The fascinating part about the human brain is its ability to switch from one thought to another in a flash. Of all the options in the world available, it had to settle for “Namma Veettu Kalyanam”! I’d like to lay the blame squarely on the heavy dose of marriage material I’d been subjected to for the best part of the day. Yeah yeah yeah… that’s the same 30 minute drivel on Vijay TV where a hostess in badly accented Tamil attempts to excite interest on a wedding of movie star/TV personality by showing clips of their wedding video and quizzing them on what they went through.

Every bit of their wedding was arranged, so as much as the couple are trying to throw in a few wrenches and make it seem as if they’d moved a mountain, is anyone going to be duped? For certain, no one’s going to be exclaiming after the show “Oh my God! I can’t believe they still got married!” And let’s face it. None of these were red letter days in the nation’s history and the BSE or NASDAQ didn’t skyrocket by any means. So why is this even a program? I can’t think of a single 20something DVRing this and later telling her friend “I’m so getting an interior decoration like what Manickavasagam did. 50s is the new 10s! Woohoo!” So what’s the #$%^in’ point?

(Pauses 60 seconds)

(clears throat)

I know I know… When I finally understand why Karan Johar is still asking inane questions to some Bollywood rejects I'll figure this one out too...

The Banned SOP

So, today I was at work digging through my Inbox searching for some old emails when I chanced upon this. A spoof of my friend’s wife Sasi’s SOP when she was applying for a Masters program at Oregon State University, circa 2007. We’d collaborated to come up with the unadulterated holier-than-thou version, which we presume helped her get in. Two days later drunk and bored out my mind, I read it again and was shocked “Oh my God! She can’t be that smart”. And so I “snazzed” it up a bit peppering it with more honest tongue-in-cheek admissions that surprisingly got a good amount of laughs from her, her husband and friends. That was three years back.

Its 2010 now. With her course and hard work in the rear view mirror she gave me the green light to go public with this, though she left me with a parting shot. “Move away from SOPs, resumes and cover letters. Spoof something better”

Point taken Sasi. Next time I’ll go after the “Declaration of Independence” or “Bill of Rights”

“I can”

Two weird words pasted on my father’s cupboard that have always made me scratch my head and wonder what the hell they meant. I dream of a vacation in the Greek Islands. I believe in Expedia (for great deals) and my dreams.

I was first introduced to the world of accounting and finance during my hotel management course at the Institute of Hotel Management, an institution that prides on admitting none on merit. But Dad likes to think my journey started at a young age when I was penny-pinching and helping my friends and family balance their checkbooks. Their three year intensive course “taught” me the various aspects of hotel management, providing ample opportunities to delve into financial planning. Fed up of all this number crunching, I enrolled for my Bachelors in Business Administration (BBA) at Annamalai University. Followed by a six month internship (read jamboree) at Taj Group of Hotels that provided me with invaluable experience on how to get the perfect tan and how to be a hit on the dance floor, among other things. Of course, Daddy still thinks it meant day-to-day business operations and complementing my course knowledge.

 

I barely managed a passing grade, yet I was one among the seventy students in the country recruited as a Management Trainee by the Oberoi Group of Hotels, a top-tier hotel chain in India. Pinch me! Their two year program with several hands-on projects at their different locations helped me lose my sanity even further. After graduation, I was posted as an Assistant Manager at Oberoi Hotels, New Delhi with a diverse set of job duties. Making me wonder every waking day if I was better off helping mom in the kitchen!

 

I was required to effectively managing several crisis situations at work, such as fire emergencies, flood evacuations and even a workers strike. Of course, I did nothing of that sort, except step aside and take potshots at my co-workers who were doing the job. My “problem solving” and “leadership skills” were noticed and I was quickly promoted to Manager at the Oberoi Group of Hotels, Mumbai. Pinch me! Again!

 

As a manager my primary responsibilities included recruiting and training new personnel, logistics, preparing departmental budgets, to name a few. I was however more focussed on checking out the delicious six-footer hired a week before. As I enriched my “management” experience over dinner dates and movies, I was spurred to expand my educational horizons further.

 

I applied to the Executive Program in Business Management (EPBM) and after several layers of recommendations (dad - neighbor - neighbor’s friend - neighbor’s friend’s cousin) got selected in the top draft at the Indian Institute of Management (IIM), a world renowned business school. Their one year program geared towards working professionals (and also free-loaders like me) afforded a comprehensive outlook on the various facets of business management, supplementing those with intriguing assignments relevant to real world scenarios. My modus operandi was simple. Hobnob investment analysts with discount coupons and free room service and get their case studies in return, which would help channel my efforts on accounting, financial planning and market operations. Not surprisingly, these provided a fillip to “mould my career” in finance.

 

Along the way I also met my future husband, Ananth, who owned a house, a bike, $10000 in the bank and was also reasonably funny. So I thought, “Why not!” and decided to latch onto him.

 

At this juncture, I strongly aspire to further my “knowledge” and “industry experience” into a Masters Degree. I also envision my career as one that will play a definite role in tackling challenges in financial institutions. Shrewdness, conniving, bribery, I’ve got the whole package. When I had to choose the right place for my graduate study, Oregon State University attracted my attention because of the excellent reputation of its MSFA program. I’m just kidding! It’s just 10 miles from home and I can get a free ride every day.

 

It’s a curriculum that caters to today’s fast paced global economy and one which is uniquely tailored to suit my needs. By the time classes start, I’ll have skimmed through it once, I promise. My diverse background and know-how as enunciated above would enliven classroom discussions. I know how to cook the perfect paneer butter masala and can point out the best nails spa in Portland. The eminent list of faculty members with their noteworthy qualifications is another reason I would like to become a part of your distinguished team.

 

"Hitch your wagon to a star", screamed a bumper sticker. I am, but, doing just that by applying for a Masters Degree in Market Analysis at your university. The knowledge and experience I shall gain at your institution will greatly benefit me in my journey along the tortuous, yet memorable path towards success. More so, it will finally get my husband off my back.

 

This is not the end of my statement. Rather, just the beginning. I am determined to succeed. I ought to thank my father for driving me nuts to put up a poster of my own on my cupboard. It reads thus:

 

"I can, and I will."

Greek Islands, here I come!

Sasikala Ananth

(Bringing more to the table than a Starbucks coffee and a glazed donut)

“Up in the Air”

30000 feet above the sparkling blue waters of the Pacific wafting through the clouds in a Boeing 747 airliner can spur a man to perform one of two things,

a. Sip some Chardonnay, stretch his arms and legs with a smug smile on his face and hum Ace of Base’s “It’s a beautiful life”…

b. Clench his fists in fury and curse inward at anything and everything while simultaneously praying he’d drop down to earth at that instant, parachute or not.

If you ask me, (a)’s commonplace with those folks ensconced in “First Class”. You know, those lucky mother#$%^ers who strut around the world on company’s dime, firing subordinates as they’re lighting up their fat cigars and indulge in insider trading or splurge taxpayer bailout dollars in weekend retreats. Or… as I like to call them, CEOs. And that #$%^in’ Chardonnay? Most likely was forced down on him because the pretty stewardess thought he hadn’t had anything in the last five minutes.

(b) on the other hand is synonymous with the “Economy Class” (or “Cattle Class” if you’re in a bad mood), which I like to believe exists primarily for them honest-to-God blue collared souls (like me) who’re stuck for 16 cruel hours in the middle between a noisy Asian family, forced to ingest raw vegetables posing as vegetarian food and watch half-baked movies on a constantly flickering entertainment console no bigger than the palm of their hand.

Phew! Boys and girls, welcome to United Airlines flight 187 – nonstop service from San Francisco to Singapore.

Sidebar: (a) isn’t just for the high-rollers you know. Lesser mortals like me would’ve still stood a chance if only they’d re-prioritized a few things in their life. Was that vacation in the Bali Islands really necessary when we would’ve been better off dozing to VCDs? Or for that matter remodeling a kitchen that looked perfectly aesthetic to me? What do you think ‘bout that wifey?

For all my bluster, I knew I wasn’t going to be serenading on a magic blanket or something as I lazily picked up my boarding pass. Coach #37D. In bold too. There’d be no mistake. Any dreams I’d of Flight 187 being a Saudi Prince’s harem-on-wings I’d have to trash them now. Along with that stale coffee I’d been holding since morning.

Myth: My travel agent forked $2000 for this ticket. I’d be treated something close to business class.

Reality: Don’t matter a s**t. Even if you’ve donated a few body parts for this ticket. If yours says “Coach” you’d be lumped together with Joe Public in Economy Class in a heartbeat. That means if he’s miserable chances are you too are about to slit your throat.

As ridiculous as it may seem, every time I’m boarding a flight I fervently pray that the seat(s) next to me should be empty. Like the folks who were supposed to be travelling suddenly woke up that morning and decided “Hey! Let’s make Siva’s life easier. We won’t fly today!” Pfft! #37D wasn’t a window nor an aisle. Smack dab in the middle of a 4 seater, three of whom had already seated and chattering away unconsciously in some language I didn’t understand. I could summon all the Gods I knew and hope for a miracle but that family wasn’t going nowhere. I threw a weak grin and somehow managed to squeeze myself into the middle.

Continuing with the ridiculousness, I also pray for the flight to take wings the moment I’m settled. “Let’s go Frank. We’re running late” like it’s my personal limousine! Half the passengers hadn’t arrived yet and the safety videos were still to come. An excruciating 30 minutes passed before the attendants started waving their arms with a foolish smile on their faces. Maybe the Chinese (I think) guy next to me had thing for the videos or thought the movies were about to begin, I swear I’d never seen anyone so fascinated by these. But what irked me more was his console which was left on the flight navigator channel. You know… that irritating thing that shows the flight progress. Why they even have these is beyond me. It moves slower than a snail and whenever you switch it on it’s always like there’s at least 6 hours or more to your destination. Moreover this isn’t a train journey where you can predict your ETA on the stations you’ve crossed. We’ve just passed Cantonment. Be ready to wave to your uncle anytime now. So why #$%^in’ bother? Heck! If I spoke Chinese or were his brother I’d have argued such. Instead I had a sick feeling it was going to stay on for the entire flight. #$%^ I sighed heavily and rested my eyes. The plane started taxiing out of the gate. Hell, I figured was just beginning her opening credits…

Actually the first thirty minutes after we’re in the air isn’t bad at all. Like a kid who’s licking his lips at the array of candies in front of him I’m still awestruck and fiddling with my entertainment console eager to check out all the fun stuff I hope’s going to keep me from losing my sanity. Thirty movies! But… I’d seen most of them while some others simply didn’t seem to resonate “Wow! Now you can watch me”. Same for the TV shows. Other than the few “Friends” and “Two and Half Men” nothing else was worth a laugh. Heart skipping a beat or two, I nervously navigated to the international section.

“I don’t believe it” I let out an audible sigh. No Tamil movies! I love Tamil, all right? As much as a flag bearer I am for its cause I’m probably the first one to stand on rooftops and proclaim 90% of them movies are pure tripe. On land, that is. Up in the open skies, I deem every frame Oscar worthy and want to soak up every bit of that drivel. Bollywood, I accord similar treatment too, except I couldn’t locate any. There were a bunch of French movies that for some reason pissed me off even further. I have a theory about French wine, French food and French movies. And almost all of them involve the use of the word overrated multiple times in the same sentence. “Iron Man 2”, “Avatar” and “Prince of Persia” for the nth time, I sighed again…

But scrambling for movies is just the first part. The second and most important one is food. Undoubtedly. For reasons best known to the airlines, they’re determined to feed you the moment the plane’s reached cruising altitude. Never mind that you’d just polished a king’s feast before boarding or aren’t in the mood for empty calories. I was on a Lufthansa flight once that left Chennai at 3.00am and they were serving breakfast thirty minutes later! Today I hadn’t eaten a morsel since I woke up and my rumbling stomach was ready to scare the s**t of the next few rows any moment. Heart skipping a beat or two (for the second time in ten minutes), I nervously pressed the “Call Attendant” button.

Myth: My travel agent specifically requested a “Hindu Vegetarian Meal” for my comfort and convenience.

Reality: No she didn’t. Maybe she’s Syrian Orthodox and for all I know the only Hindu meal she’s ever come across is a ‘Chicken Tikka Masala’ at some Indian restaurant.

“What do you mean you don’t have a ‘Hindu Vegetarian Meal’?” I gasped.

“Sir, you didn’t order that and we don’t have any. We’re completely full. I can check to see if we have something vegetarian” As taught, she was equal parts firm and polite, neither of which was helping. I wonder if my poor stomach heard that. Stupid innocent me, I was patting the travel agent last night for doing a wonderful job!

Let the record state that I’m a pure vegetarian in all forms of the word. Never have I glanced at meat or seafood and the most I’ve transgressed is egg, that too not on holy days, Fridays and any other days the wife deems “Not today”. I enter a Subway and demand the ‘sandwich expert’ change his gloves before making my veggie sandwich overstuffed with lettuce and mayo. “For the $5 you’re paying I’m shocked you aren’t asking him to cleanse himself with Holy Water!” my friend K would snicker every time he saw me eating a Subway product.

That’s me, so obviously any beef/chicken/salmon entrée with some fancy sounding French name was a no-no. Ten minutes later an attendant handed me a tray and I almost jumped at the delectable chocolate brownie with frosting on top. The rest, two breads with cheese and margarine spread, baked beans and cut fruits, I barely glanced at those. Even a cow would’ve demanded something better!

“Would you like anything to drink?”

“Yes please. Two glasses of wine” Bring me the #$%^in’ bottle you bitch. I shaved off the breads and hung onto every last bit of the brownie, while more wine came my way. If I wasn’t going to be satiated might as well pass out drunk. Exactly what transpired after an assortment of cheap wine and a few glasses of Jim Bean went down. I started playing “Just Wright”, a B-grade movie about some basketball star who got injured and waited to be drawn into a rich dreamful sleep…

“Hi! I’m Siva. And you must be?”

“I’m Catherine. But please call me Cath”

I was literally counting the seconds until the fair maiden sitting next to me would be distracted from her laptop and headphones and here was my reward. Finally!

“Cath it is. Nice name. Where you from?”

“Oh! I’m a lawyer from Oakland. I’m visiting friends in Singapore for a week. How about you?”

“I’m an Application Process Engineer. But I’ll be the CEO the next day.”

Did I just say that? I mean, did I just say that? Oh my God! That didn’t even sound funny in my head!

“Actually I was just kidding. I’m just an engineer. I hope to become manager in a year. But CEO? I don’t think so” Silly joke that required a serpentine recovery. I hoped my hollow laugh helped her understand that I don’t do this often.

“Hahaha! Funny” Lawyer smarts or not, Cath did know to give out the most polite laugh for the most dumbest joke. Which instantly made me comfortable.

“So what’re you reading there?”

“This is a deposition of a case I’m handling. Pretty interesting stuff really” Why was I thinking that it’d be a Danielle Steele novel, I have no idea. I desperately wanted to say something back intelligent like some legal jargon but clammed up. Where the #$%^ was John Grisham when I needed him most?

“I’ve read John Grisham awhile back and found it amazing”

“He’s good. But most of what he writes is over simplified” I nodded vigorously. Of course Cath, whatever your Highness says.

“I agree. If someone wrote about Application Process Engineers I’d be thinking myself ‘That’s not all we do’” I hesitated. That set the cat out of the bag.

“Hahaha! Funny” 100 to 1, that laughter was all genuine. I sat bolt upright now. Daddy was on his way…

Cath spoke at length about some of her past cases and I listened attentively like some star struck teenager captivated by her dimples and the way she brushed her hair after every few sentences. If I’d been watching my Sex and the City’s and subscribing to Vogue, I would’ve said something like “Hmmm! Prada Spring 2009. Wow! Manolo Blahniks. Nice!” She looked like nothing, except a fashion model in my eyes. Did she dip her voice in honey too or was it really sweet? I’m a sucker for long hair in women and the angel in front of me knew how to wear it. Parted in the middle, braided (or was it plaited?) some of it falling in front over her shoulders. God! Didn’t she realize what she was doing to me?

“Would you like something to drink?” I gently interrupted.

“Sure” I beckoned my favorite stewardess for more mine.

“If this were a Château Margaux ’60 and we were having beef bourguignon followed by Crème Brûlée I swear I’d think we were in paradise” I volunteered. If I was going to project ‘classy’ I figured French would be the perfect way to go about it.

“I agree. But I’m more of a burger girl. I love burger and fries”

Stop teasing me! Was she for real?

“I love them too! You know what I love most? In-N-Out Burger. Officially the best flippin’ burger. Ever” I concluded my speech and slammed the headrest for added effect.

“Gosh! I soooooo love them” We were now almost squealing like schoolgirls and I grabbed the opportunity to high five a few times. Silky smooth skin! Petite fingers! Thank you God for such a wonderful creation. We both agreed that we’d do anything to lay our hands on one right now and took turns bashing the worthless airline food.

But Cath isn’t someone whom you just talk inane stuff with. Push the right buttons and the girl’s the most eloquent and charming Barbie doll you’ve ever seen.

“Do I like history?” The question threw me off guard. “Yes I do. I was a pretty good student in high school” wondering what she was getting into.

“Did you know that the Germans…” Cath has this unique way of looking into your eyes with a trace of smile across her lips when she’s all pumped up before starting a conversation. However long it was I don’t know, I sat back enthralled as she enriched me with facts about German warfare, allied deception etc. Not once did I feel like I was listening to Wikipedia and that’s saying something.

“You speak so well. Please tell me no jury has ever lost you a case”

“Awwww! Thank you. You’re so sweet. But I’m not handling trails until next year”

“Damn! Too bad! You’ve just gobbled your opposition” That part was certainly true. More so, if I were the opposing council. I’d be just standing up saying ‘No questions’ and preparing to get her number after the trial.

“Why don’t we take a walk?” I asked. Last time I checked we were still holed up inside an airliner and not in Central Park, but change of scenery didn’t hurt, right?

“Sure”

And so we trekked the economy class multiple times sidestepping a few daddies putting their kids to sleep, stewardess going about their business, folks waiting in line for the restroom and what not. I might not be no lawyer or historian but gosh darn I can be funny when taking potshots at random people. No seat was left unturned and pretty soon I was in a groove coming up with my theories, analyses most of which I was pulling out my you-know-what. Cath played the perfect Robin to my Batman giggling, laughing and stoking my ego. Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock and all those dudes could take a hike. There wasn’t no better joke teller at 30000 feet than me.

Perhaps we’d been walking a long time, because Cath suddenly grabbed my hand and said “I’m tired. Let’s go watch a movie” I’d been talking a lot so I definitely appreciated being taken over. I reached for my bag above and pulled out my kicka** laptop, the 19” Dell laptop. My prized possession at work, it had so many cool features, like an array of processors and RAM to run my simulations. But the only thing that mattered to me was the VLAN movie player and two dozen high quality DVD ripped movies that I’d surreptitiously loaded from my colleague.

“That’s a huge laptop” she gushed.

“I know! The damn thing’s heavier than a rock. It’s a better weapon than pepper spray”

Cath selected the chick flick “Legally Blonde” and I made no attempt to mask my excitement. Cath aside, one other blonde I went bonkers over was Reese Witherspoon.

“You too look alike in so many ways” I observed prompting more laughter. Not done with the gadgets yet, I pulled out my dual ear Bose headphones and handed her piece. One ear is enough, I assured her for soaking in all the sounds.

Memo to self: Cath isn’t just a history buff. Dame knows about movies, fashion trends as much the critics in the business and puts it forth with equal verve as the world wars and civil wars.

Halfway through the movie Cath leaned on my shoulder to “get a better a look”. At which moment my spaceship zoomed from the troposphere into somewhere near Pluto’s orbit…

“Sir! Would you like anything to drink?”

What? Ohhh… “No… I’ll have some more wine.” Where’s Cath?

“Sir, I have just tea and coffee. We don’t serve alcohol for some more time”

And then it hit me. That was just a dream. A #$%^in’ dream. “Please… I need some drinks. I’m having a terrible headache” I couldn’t plead any better. I gulped down the bottle as soon as it arrived desperately wanting to get back into dreamscape to continue talking to the angel. Catherine? Cathy? Cath? I’m coming! After an hour or so of twitching and twisting I gave up. Cath had vanished into the ether and wasn’t coming back, even if I’d consumed an entire liquor store.

In retrospect, that’s what great dreams are. Undeniable joy when they last and heartbreak when they end. But then it wasn’t just a dream, you know. I’d just translated my most thrilling and erotic fantasy into vivid high definition color with the prettiest heroine I could ever find. Did I feel any guilty about it? Definitely not. For Christ’s sake, any other red blooded guy’s fantasy would’ve been similar, except instead of Catherine it’d have been a long legged lingerie model whose every orifice he’d have diligently explored while rolling around in First Class. Mine was simply more vanilla and down-to-earth. Holding hands, rubbing shoulders (once) spiced with ample laughter and thought provoking banter. Again, are any of these amoral? Abso-#$%^in’-lutely not! If I ever I’m in God’s court or the wife’s chasing me around the house with a frying pan, I’m sure all of the above should suffice for my airtight defense.

Instinctively I took out my wallet and prised open my favorite picture, my wife standing in our kitchen smiling as-she-were into the camera. She just blew me away. I love you honey. Always. I changed position several times in my narrow seat until sleep took over for the second time. Goodbye Cath…

I don’t recollect how long I was passed out, but I suddenly became aware of strange smells and a murmur of chatter around. “Breakfast time” someone in the previous row announced. I wasn’t exactly hungry but I’d woken to a steady headache and thought maybe the flight attendants had something that could take care of it. I shouldn’t have bothered. Veggies always get the raw end of the stick.

If you must know, omelets in my hometown are made with at least three eggs and the cook going ballistic with onions, salt and pepper beating the s**t out of it with metal sticks, so much so that an entire street driven by its aroma lines to gobble it up. Omelets on my flight meant just eggs. Yes, they were hot, but that was about it. I couldn’t find any vegetables but I had three packets of salt and pepper. Yippee! The rest of the menu didn’t hold any promise. Apparently United Airlines was so concerned about your waistline and cholesterol that there was no chance in hell you could go off the deep end. Not unless you went crazy with a multi-grain bar and cut fruits.

I spied a look at my Chinese friend next seat and found his console still on the flight channel. Big $%^&in’ surprise! “Maybe you should give this guy half his money back. Dude’s been watching nothing but the flight channel” I so wanted to wisecrack at one of the attendants. But… getting my medicine was a better proposition so I buzzed her again. My favorite fairy appeared in a flash with a bottle of wine and Jim Bean. Sheesh! What if I’d wanted some coffee really? I sheepishly grabbed them and settled back to watch Johnny Depp and his pals kick some police butt in “Public Enemies” There’s nothing more endearing to a battered ego than watching Depp show some attitude and #$%^ with the law. I couldn’t take my eyes off his pretty heroine. Ah! Those luscious red lips. Move over Jolie…

“… We’ll be making our final descent into Singapore” This time it wasn’t some pesky stewardess that shook me up, rather the captain confirming that absolution was less than an hour away. He could’ve given an impassioned speech about the trials and tribulations of maneuvering an airplane earlier but it’s funny what the ears hear they want to hear. I had half a mind to spend a fortune and call my wife to tell her that I’d be home soon but held back at the last instant. I wasn’t landing after spending a year on the moon or something, just arriving in an airliner with a few hundred people, so why bother my alter ego reasoned. I concur.

One last ritual dance that everyone’s got to perform is completing those lame immigration and custom forms. I could fly around the world a thousand times yet can’t seem to remember the 8 character word that is my passport number. If I had my way they should be doing away with these, visa and a whole array of forms and just determine if we were a psychopath or a model citizen (like me) by capturing our eye and thumb prints. That’d be my first order of business when I become Master and Commander of the Free World. Take that to the bank. Right now I would’ve given my left arm for a pen, peacock feather or any other writing instrument. Fifteen foolish minutes later when all around me had gone through multiple revisions, I managed to get hold of one and scribbled mine complete. The flight banked left and I let out a satisfied smile as the top of some familiar skyscrapers came into view. Daddy was homeeeeeeee