Navarathri Diary 2018

We are halfway through yet another vibrant Navarathri season in our town. Armed with spreadsheets that catalogue our golu invites, which is further cross-referenced by whatsapp and text reminders, we Desi women have been marching out early each day this past week with a single-minded determination to conquer the invitation list at least this year.  Everyone knows that it is a losing game because 18 golu visits a day is just outside of insane city, but we do have fun trying. 

Amidst the many joys of the season, one ailment continues to plague the golu-hoppers of our town this year too – severe gas trouble. Obviously, our intestines are not meant to process peanut, garbanzo, vatana, moong and green pea lentils, all in the same evening but when offered with so much love at each golu, what can one do except eat and burp?  Sometimes you just have to take one for a friend.

It is not a big problem for me though. Just to avoid this kind of rude shock to my system, I try to stay bloated through the entire year but for the general population who are on a strict ‘air and water only’ diet, suddenly turning into a birthday balloon must be very scary.  Well, here is how I handled it recently. After the 4th plate of sundal one evening early this week, I found myself at a risk of exploding.  Hyperventilation induced by the stress of an impending wardrobe malfunction actually saved the day.  Who knew that taking shallow breaths would help to keep your blouse from popping its buttons!  

  

Thanks to my recent India trip, I am going around town this Navarathri season in bright-colored sarees and completely mismatched blouses. Apparently, contrast is all the rage these days. This new fashion is a god-send because none of the matching blouses fit me anymore.

Trying to go with the latest fashion hurt me in the accessories department though.  Heeding to the advice of many well-meaning friends, I took a beautiful, embroidered bag with me on the golu rounds 2 days ago instead of my regular plain black handbag. It looked great. Everyone said so but big mistake! That miniscule, cute bag could fit only 3 almonds, half of a phone and 1 clementine. Where am I supposed to keep my key bunch, sunglasses, wallet, tissues, emergency biscuit packet, trail mix snack packet, water bottle and travel size advil?  My black handbag might not be great to look at, I admit, but it can house the entire universe, if necessary.  Fashion, my foot!

I saw planning at its best when I saw a friend bringing 2 big sack-like cloth bags with her to cart back all the tambulam bags of the evening. Wow! If she ever wanted to rob the US Treasury of all its gold, these 2 bags should do the trick. Very smart indeed. Inspired by her, I put a couple of cardboard boxes in my van to hoard my collections. A bit unsophisticated yes but it served its purpose.

One thing that was new this season was that golu hostesses decided to liven up their golus  by offering interesting quizzes to the visitors.What is the new doll in our golu this year?Can you tell what this sweet is made of?As someone with a very diminished sense of smell and a non-existent memory, I am set up for failure in these kinds of exams.Only a few threatened to hold back their sundal for not giving correct answers.Most of the hostesses were kind enough to give me my consolation goody bag just for participation.

This Navarathri season has seen some of the most imaginative carpool arrangements ever arranged by anyone. 2 days ago, I overheard a conversation while waiting for my cup of payasam at a golu.Anu and Geetha were planning to pick up Latha, hit Kamala’s golu, then go pick up Sudha.Then all were to go hit 5 houses together after which Geetha had plans to swap to another van to continue her round of golus with another set of friends and then wanted Anu to pick her up at Bhavani’s house to go to the next 7 houses on their common list.NASA should take pointers from this group for the next space mission. Brilliant minds such as these are being overlooked everyday.

How is your Navarathri going so far? 

Mystery of the misplaced calcium!

‘Meena, don’t do anything rash today. I hope you remember that it is January now.’ That was my husband on his way out to work a couple of weeks ago.  He might have looked down his nose sternly at me delivering that warning, but I don’t doubt for a minute that he meant well.  The same message was subsequently repeated to me by my children at regular intervals.

Their warning is not without merit, I must admit.  January has proved to be a colorful month for me in recent years.  It is when I usually trip over non-existent hurdles, slip on perfectly dry land and walk into very wide, visible walls.  I may have become used to the January routine by now, but it seems like my family has not  I don’t mind the resulting broken bones or torn ligaments as much as I mind the disbelief and skepticism that I invariably face while trying to explain my incidents to others.

I still remember the conversation I had with the front desk person last January at an after-hours medical facility.

Lady at desk – For insurance purposes, could you tell me about how you injured your left leg today?

Self – Oh sure.  You see, my dogs were in the backyard fighting over a toy this evening.  Do you have children or dogs? Then, I bet you know how hard it is to get them to share anything. Short of reading them moral stories from the Indian folklore, I have tried my best to imbibe the virtue of sharing in my dogs but, as you can obviously see here, I have totally failed. 

Lady at desk – No, I don’t see at all.  What happened to your leg?

Self – Wait, I am getting there.  As I was watching through the window, the friendly banter suddenly picked up heat and guess what?  I had never seen such sharp teeth before.  That’s when I decided to step in and play the referee before things got out of hand. That was good timing even if I say so myself.

Lady at desk – Mrs. S, I feel like I should say ‘congratulations’ but WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR LEG?

Self – Well, I ran down the backyard deck stairs to pull my dogs apart. That’s what happened.

Lady at desk – Huh??  Did you hit your leg against something? Did you fall twisting your heel?

Self – Don’t be silly, of course not.  Do I look clumsy?  I just ran 10 steps.

I still remember her dazed look when I was taken in to see the doctor who later pronounced my ligament torn. 

While the MRI showed the soggy state of my ligament, the x-rays spoke of a whole new  story.  Apparently, instead of boosting the strength of my poor bones, all the calcium that I intake end up rushing to my heel forming little bone-like spikes there causing pain while I walk.  So that’s what has been happening to my calcium!

Many days, I had wondered about this so it was a relief to know the truth finally. I like a good puzzle as well as the next person but where is the satisfaction in an unsolved mystery?  I was, therefore, glad to put the mystery of the misplaced calcium to rest.  At least, I know now why my bones threaten to break on me at a moment’s notice.  

The year before last, it was my arm’s turn.  I had shoveled a small, 5 x 5 area of snow off my driveway only to find that I had torn the ligament along the elbow.  Those days, I was still a bit afraid of being stuck in an MRI machine.  I distinctly remember that room being eerie white, the inside of the machine being too small, and me being disproportionately big.  Not an ideal situation really but thanks to the January phenomenon, I have practiced enough to outgrow my distaste and fear of the machine now. 

This year, after catching my family watching my movements worriedly ever since New Year, I decided to be smart and take precautions.  After all, I don’t enjoy the inside of the MRI that much.  When Mr. Jenks called announcing school snow closings, I was already ready.  I had made extensive plans for hibernation based on the weather forecast and had injury-proofed myself.  I had stocked the fridge and the pantry enough to survive a five-year famine and had ensured that I wouldn’t have to step outside once snow started.  When at last, the pitiful 2 inches of snow hit Richmond, I stood by the window watching the world swirl pretty in white.  Every time I opened the fridge and was met with a parade of milk cartons, I patted my own back.  Bring it on, fate! Let’s see how you get me to slip this year. Hah! 

2 inches of snow and our county, naturally, closed schools for 5 days.  I never could get that math to add up but then I have never been much in mathematics.  While the snow turned to ice and the ice refused to melt on the surfaces outside, I sat inside warm and safe in my private haven congratulating myself on at last foiling fate.  

After 6 days of staying indoors, I was starting to turn moldy. I threw open the doors and stepped outside on the 7^th day. There was no snow, ice or dampness anywhere in sight.  It was as good a day as any.  Enjoying the warm sun on my face, I walked towards the car with a long list of errands to run.  Next thing I knew, my ankle had twisted from under me and voila, there was that familiar feeling of pain and the even more familiar sight of swelling. 

Was it ego or simple pigheadedness that let me drag my feet for 10 days without seeing a doctor?  I am not sure but I did will it to be a mild sprain.  Yes, there was swelling but I could walk on it so why would I concede victory to fate yet?  When you have plump feet like mine, it is very hard to distinguish general plumpness from injury swelling but at last, even I could clearly see that the swelling was not going down.  With a huge sigh, I finally called my wonderful doctor who promptly ordered x-rays and sent me on my way to the Orthopedic office.  

When I walked in to the room, the doctor said, ‘You look familiar’ and that prompted me to remind him that he had treated me last January too.  He even asked about my dogs.  That was sweet of him, I thought.  He took one look at the fractured bone in the x-rays and said ‘Okay Meena, time to get you in a boot. Let me get someone to bring you a boot.  You must wear it at all times except while going to bed.’  I hesitantly told him that I had the boot from last January but asked him if one could use the left boot for the right foot too.  I was so amazed when he said the boot was universal.  Go figure!  Who would have guessed they made universal boots like universal remotes!

When he next made an attempt to get me a pair of crutches, I shook  my head smiling and said, ‘I have them too doc.’  He was pleased, I could tell.  How many patients come in to see an Orthopedic doctor already owning a universal boot and a pair of crutches?  January is not completely without blessings, I thought as I came home to my wonderful, universal boot.   

Unprovoked confessions!

For a January 1^st blog, this is not about my New Year resolution.  I am loyal to my one and only resolution ever - the elusive weight loss.  It is the one constant thing in my life that is overrun with changes.  So once again, I dusted my old resolution last week, went and enrolled in a nearby fitness center.  The front desk person recognized me from last Christmas and gave a warm smile making me feel at home. 

Okay, now moving on to something completely random.

I don’t know what is it about a kind face and a white piece of thread hovering over my eyebrows that makes my mouth flap non-stop in a verbal diarrhea.  The minute I lie on my beautician’s table, it is confession time at a catholic church.  At her simple ‘How are you Meena?’, the floodgates of my heart and soul open wide and dump on her truckloads of very personal and awkward information.  Poor woman!

Just last week, amid cans of wax and cotton strips, I found myself sharing my mother’s first cousin’s health problems with her.  When I told her in detail about the cousin’s recurring fungal toenail, there was such empathy and anguish in my beautician’s eyes.  If I didn’t know better, I would think that she knew my mom’s cousin personally. 

Next time I go to my physician’s office, I should remember to add her to the approved people on file to share my health information.  If you are wondering why, it is because short of letting her take my vitals, I update her thoroughly on my health status every visit.  I remember drawing an anatomy of a leg on a piece of paper one time to explain to her exactly where my leg pain was.  She didn’t mind that the drawing bore little resemblance to my real leg and looked more like a skinny sugarcane.  What was important was that she knew exactly where my pain was.

It is not just my health that I talk to her about.  We both have aging parents and that has strengthened our bond like gorilla glue.  From buying adult diapers to Bengay, we cover many colorful topics in that short window. 

I am not a secretive person by nature.  Holding on to secrets is practically impossible for me because my brain is not equipped to hold large amounts of data for long periods of time.  Having said that, I have surprised myself many times on my beautician’s table by talking about things that I didn’t know were stored in my brain.  For her every cheerful ‘so what’s new Meena?’, something very old will surface from my subconscious and fall right into her very patient ears.   

She must meet about 40 to 50 women in a day’s work.  Imagine the amount of useless information that gets dumped on her every day.  Wow!  If I were her, I will probably hand out ‘self-adhesive plasters’ for the mouth before admitting any clients in.  She is bigger than me, I must admit, though only in a figure of speech.

If you have never shaped your eyebrows, I want to assure you that it can be a very cathartic experience.  After a short session on her table, I walk out feeling cleansed in more ways than one.  Not sold yet?  Here is a better reason.  It is the most economical way to get a psych consultation and/or a counselling session.  J

If you have read through the above post, obviously, you are either a friend or family.  Who else will put up with my foolishness? I look forward to riding the next fun roller coaster year with all of you.  May you all have many opportunities to LOL and ROFTL in 2017.  Happy New Year everyone!

Here is wishing for another year filled with many things fun, ridiculous and foolish.  

Ready to vote?

Presidential election is next Tuesday in the US.  The date is tattooed in my heart and drilled in to my brain.  I may forget to buy milk at the grocery store this week but I won’t forget what is at stake come next Tuesday.  Thanks to my friends on social media educating me every day, I have never been more politically aware than I am today.   

Guess where I am going with this?  Probably not. 

I have been looking for a different career lately.  I change careers every decade in case you are wondering.  Not that I didn’t enjoy poring over numbers all day long or teaching music to lovely children but I do like to shock my brain awake every now and then with a challenge.  I looked at sports for a while but that was a dead end for me what with my body coming apart at the seams like a worn-out shirt.  With its high potential for drama and low need for a strong physique, national politics seems to be the winner this time.

After careful study of the two major presidential candidates of this election, I find that I have all the qualifications required to run for President.  What I lack, I am sure I will learn.  While both candidates fascinate me to no end, Republican candidate Mr. Trump is the delicious icing on my new career cake. 

A study of this man is such an education.  His rise from business to politics seems to be based primarily on controversies.  How delightful!  It gives me such hope.  Apparently, I don’t need leadership or intelligence or morality or even knowledge of global affairs.  That is such a relief because I suck sideways on history. 

Please do bear in mind while you read the following that I am an amateur in Politics still learning my ways.  Here is what I think a Republican party candidate needs to bring to the table to be nominated as President.

To qualify, one must:

1.   Say outrageously insulting things about women and minorities, preferably on alternative days.  This will help bring more supporters out from under the rock every day where they are hiding and help keep the Press focused on your one-of-a-kind mouth. 

I admit that insulting people is not my strong point but with time, I believe I can learn to do this.  With an awesome tutor like Mr. Trump out there, I don’t see how I can fail.  If I promise to practice every day, will you endorse me next time around Mr. Trump?

2.   Be an expert at slinging mud at their opponent because, come on, who will respect a President that doesn’t spew sewage at his or her opponent?  By far, this seems to be the one quality that is most cherished by the GOP candidate and his supporters. 

By the way, I am truly in awe of Mr. Trump’s usage of his twitter account to accomplish this.  Every day, without fail, he flings mud or worse at Mrs. Clinton using pithy sentences on twitter.   I don’t know if I’ll ever be as good at it as him but it will not be because I didn’t try.   In high school, I once literally threw a ball of mud on a nasty girl after monsoon rains.  I do have experience in this.

3.   Know how to talk the big talk.  Nothing that must make sense logically or financially only that it should sound big and important.  Like our Mr. Trump’s idea of building a big wall in our borders to keep the bad neighbors from walking in illegally.  Oh, wow!  That does sound very grand and big.  No wonder so many people love him and want him in the White House for 4 years leading us.  What a leader indeed! 

If I want to have any chance of running a successful campaign like our Mr. Trump, I must be smart and find something big like his wall idea to make ‘America great again’.  Otherwise, it will all be hopeless and come to nothing. 

The best strategy that I feel will help convince people to vote for me is to use the 'race' card generously.  When talk of racism comes and I hear heated debates of white versus black, I do feel left out.  Brown matters too, you know. 

If I promise to brainstorm and come with an equally endearing campaign like our Mr. Trump, hope I can get on the ticket next time around.   Is it so wrong to want to be on national TV and participate in the most-televised debates ever where I can call people names publicly and know that no one will sue me? 

Ready to vote?

Tsk, tsk! Poor grandpa!

Dreams are such interesting entities.  Many people that I have talked to believe that one’s dreams are basically repressed desires buried within our subconscious minds.  I am not sure I agree with that because if you go by that logic, I am in serious trouble. 

In a recent dream, I was crawling alongside a giant slug in the land of Mordor. Hmmm!  It annoys me to no end that I was so slow even in my dreams.  When you are trying to stay clear of the scorching Eye of Sauron and the morbid orcs that roam the land, crawling around with a buddy in leisure is not the brightest idea.  If I could shake my head disapprovingly at that slow-crawling Meena, trust me, I would.

All my dreams are not messed up.  There are some that are relatively normal.

In one dream, I was the prosecuting attorney arguing a murder case against a Colombian drug dealer. I can’t seem to remember any of the arguments but the sweat that broke out on the accused’s upper lip is etched in my mind.  I must have been a terror in that court.  

My mom was proud of me when I told her about this dream.  She said that she always knew that one of us in the family would become a lawyer as my grandfather was a lawyer and his brother was the justice of the Supreme Court.  I can’t help but feel bad for my grandfathers though.  They had to go to law school and pass the bar and everything unlike me. Poor grandpas!

I really must have lawyer in my blood.  Last week, I woke up from an intense courtroom drama that had my heart racing wildly.  I was the defense attorney this time grilling an eye witness on the stand.  I am glad that I took the time to watch Law and Order episodes in the 90s.  It sure came in handy in that dream.  I took the witness apart and tore through his lies just like Sam Waterston does in L&O.  I do hope that as I age, my dreams will mellow down to mere misdemeanor, traffic violation and family court cases because my heart may not survive the adrenaline kick of the criminal ones. 

I must have been Irish in a previous birth for how else can I explain the dreams where I cast a circle, spin charms and whip up thunderstorms atop a cliff?  I have a magic wand, pixie dust and the whole magic package in these dreams.  I confess I cheated in a couple of them.  I once used magic to get groceries home without going to the store and another time, I made the weighing scale lose 20 pounds when I was on it.  I know it is wrong, okay?  I know that using magic for personal gain is against the code of honor for all sorcerers.  Power and vanity are not mutually exclusive, I found out.  Magic can be very pretty too. One time I cast a spell that had a dying plant come alive with young blooms.  In a dream of course. Sadly, in real life, plants and I are at war.  They die when I walk within half a mile radius.  

The night when we watched the re-run of the Jaws movie, I found myself in shark-infested waters watching creepy shark fins closing in on me.  You would think that after watching Jaws, Jaws 2 and Jaws 3 movies, I would know better than to kick furiously in the water.  Everyone knows sharks are attracted to sound waves. Duh!  Dreams have sound effects too, by the way, because I heard the same music that instilled fear in the hearts of millions when Jaws was released. I woke up just before a freaky great white snapped off my feet.  That was good timing all around.

This is my favorite one so far.  I was walking into Kohl’s and get this - I went directly to the regular-priced merchandise.  Oh wow!  That was so cool but even when I was in the dream, I realized that something was not right because come on, everyone knows that all Desis go only to the clearance section first.  But wait.  That is not the best part.  Guess where I was?   I was browsing through clothes in the petite department.  Hah!  Talk about wild dreams! 

How colorful are your dreams?

Meditation for dummies!

Next to those who eat a bunch of leaves with an abundant topping of 8 nuts for a meal, I have a healthy respect for those that can meditate.  Meditation seems to be the new hot social topic these days.  Yoga, muscle-tearing exercises and zero-carb diets have stepped aside for this new champion.  When my friends were ready to swear on a stack of invisible Gitas to convince me of the power of meditation, I was convinced enough to give it a shot.

I confess that I was a bit smug going into this business.  After all, how hard could it be?  If dumping all thoughts from the mind and being in a zombie-like state is meditation, I felt pretty confident about it.   If you are acquainted with me, you would know that I walk around in exactly that state most days anyway.   So one day, I warned my family to not disturb me for a while, rolled my shoulders and closed my eyes.  Just so you know that I was not fooling around, I even switched off the TV.

Thus began my personal epic journey.  Well, more of a mini trip to the kitchen pantry, if you must know.  Who knew I had so many active gray cells in my brain?  My mind, apparently, was a giant monkey on steroids.  It jumped up and down, side to side, upside down and any other direction I have neglected to mention. 

Okay, so it was not going to be as easy as I thought which only meant that I had to try harder next time.

Posture could be the key to this, I figured, and tried to sit crisscross on the floor like I had seen sages do in the old movies.  Let’s just say that I had to ad lib the plan at the last minute and forego both the floor and the crisscross sitting.  One challenge at a time seemed wise.  Next, I dug into my treasure box, unearthed a couple of sandal incense sticks and lit them.  Ambience is half the battle, after all. There, I really felt ready this time.  Finally, sitting comfortably in my very red, very designer settee, I closed my eyes and tried again. 

I brought to my mind a white jasmine flower that I had seen in a pot in the back yard the previous day.  Did I tell you that I had decided to use a prop to focus my mind on?  A secret weapon to tame my monkey mind, so to speak.  I had a good feeling about this already.

I remembered the day a dear friend brought a cutting from her jasmine plant for me saying that it thrived in her garden and gave her many blooms.  I wanted it to live and thrive in my garden too so I gave it to my husband to plant and water.  If you would stop being judgmental for a second, I will tell you why.   He is the protector of plants in my house.  The one that who shields them from my very black thumb. 

When I peeked in yesterday, it had so many buds ready to bloom.  I wish I had learnt how to string a garland out of flowers.  It would be nice to wear a string on the hair one evening.  The last time I wore a string of jasmine on my hair was last year when I had gone to India.  Both my mother and mother-in-law would insist that I keep flowers in my hair whenever I visit home.  I am eternally grateful for having those two in my life.  They are such kind people.  I remember going to a wedding when I was there last year wearing more flowers than what my fragile head had called for.  It was funny how people kept asking if age had mellowed me into a shy person since I had my head down most of the time from the weight of the flowers.  Hah!  

Wow, wait a minute!  That’s not meditating!  I just took the fastest trip to India and back and still managed to make a few gigantic detours to LaLa land.  Okay, may be that prop was a bit too stimulating for the mind.  Time to zoom in on something dull that is bound to not kick start my mind into overdrive.  What could be duller than a bowl of oats, I thought and went in search of a new room, a new chair to begin my next mini epic journey.

If you are thinking that focusing on a bowl of bland oats would put any mind to sleep, you would be entirely wrong.  My monkey mind jumped up and down with excitement and decided to devise many recipes that would spice up the dull oats into a culinary pleasure.  Oats mixed in a coconut, vegetables and green chilies gravy; oats slow-cooked in almond milk and sweetened with a dollop of honey; oats mixed in a hot cup of pepper rasam and more.  I realize that I don’t have a full handle on meditation yet but I do know that one is not supposed to drool in the process. 

Do you possess the ability to rein in your mind so it is not bouncing all over the place, even if it is only for a few minutes a day?  If so, you are my new hero replacing an elderly uncle with no teeth that I once met who could still eat a plate of murukkus with gusto. 

I always whine to my husband (because he lets me) that I haven’t gotten ‘THE CALL’ yet.  May be, if I tame my mind enough to listen, I might hear Him call.

How do you  meditate?  

got tissues?

It is seriously starting to embarrass me.   Just this week alone, it has happened about half a dozen times.  I weep for the weirdest reasons these days. 

I am afraid to go to concerts anymore.  Poor musicians!  After enduring hours of practice, there they are on the stage pouring their hearts out expecting to enthrall their audience and what do I do?  Clap in appreciation like everyone else around me?  Oh no, I don’t.  I sob hard into my ‘dry-clean only’ saree!  At the last concert, the lady next to me took one look at my bawling face and gingerly scooted her chair as far away from me as possible.  Really, who can blame her?  

3 days ago, I had an urge to read ‘Thiruvasagam’ at 5 am in the morning and with an iPad next to my bed table and Lord Googleswara at my fingertips, what is to stop me?  There I was leaning back comfortably on a couple of pillows fluffed up for my morning reading and into the first 10 verses of Sivapuranam, sure enough my eyes started to leak.  My husband woke up in confused concern when I greeted him not with a ‘Good morning Sankar’ like any normal wife but with a weepy ‘Thiruchitrambalam Sankar’.  Poor guy!  His life with me seems to be one endless soap opera.

All this crying is exhausting.  I had to recently switch handbags just to accommodate a bigger Kleenex box.  I run through tissues like there is no tomorrow.  It is bad enough that I bawl in public but to do so without the assistance of a tissue box?  The idea does not bear thinking.  If it weren’t for Costco and its value-priced tissue boxes, I might have been forced to take a second job to dry clean my clothes each week.  I guess it is true what they say about God opening one door when another closes.  Yes, it is true that He gave me a faulty eye faucet but He also gave me tissues to deal with it.  His compassion chokes me right up. 

The saga continued yesterday in my music class.  Two teenage boys were in my classroom doing an exceptional job singing a composition in Hamsanandi ragam.  I closed my eyes in appreciation and seconds later, the tell-tale signs of a brewing Tsunami made themselves known – my lips were trembling, nostrils were flaring and from behind the closed eyelids, tears started to peep out.  All in front of two boys with budding mustaches!  Talk about embarrassment!  It took all my willpower to suck it in and blink it away.  Poor, poor kids!   It is such a tender age to be traumatized this way.  A boy should have the right to sing in front of his teacher and not have her wail and whimper all over him.  And which parent will want to pay for trauma therapy in addition to music lessons?

Either I am getting old or it is payback time for all these years of teasing my Dad for crying alongside the poor women of Tamil TV drama, not to mention, crying in patriotism at the achievements of Indians in the world of Science, Philosophy, Sports and Technology.  My gut feeling says it is the latter.  The only difference is my Dad sobs in to his somewhat-white-looking cotton towel and I sob into my 20^th century pristine white disposable tissues.  Life does come full circle. 

And so, it begins again! 

Till next time, Thiruchitrambalam, my friends! :)

Science for Dummies - Part II

“Just think about it Meena.  14 billion years ago, we were all inside a hydrogen atom.  You, me and this entire Universe” my husband told me yesterday in one of his I am-getting-goose bumps-over-science moments.  Try as I might, I simply can’t get goose bumps over hydrogen atoms.  Or even over carbon atoms or hydrocarbons or intermolecular bonds.  I am so ashamed.

We had just come back from watching a movie and were engaged in some light post-movie conversation.  ‘Don’t you think that the popcorn was too salty?’, ‘Theater drinks are harsh on my bladder, you know?’, ‘Did you see that woman with a week old baby sitting in the front row? -  that kind of light post-movie conversation.  One topic led to another and somehow I found myself yet again in the middle of an atomic subject.  

“Oh Sankar, you know that I think of nothing else on most days.  Explosion of that hydrogen atom on that fateful day billion years ago is the only thought that keeps me breathing” I replied with a solemn face.  I don’t know why I waste my sarcasm on him because he flicked it off as usual with a smile and continued “Just imagine Meena…if that atom hadn’t exploded, we wouldn’t be sitting here today.”  

Grave thought indeed!  If I believed for an instant that I could redeem myself for all these years of pleading ignorance in science, I would petition the UN this minute to build a Shrine in honor of that hydrogen atom.  Do you think it is too much?  A little over the top, may be?  With respect, I disagree.  

If Kollywood  actress Kushbu merits a temple in South India, why can’t this tiny hydrogen atom get a Shrine someplace where people like my husband can go on a personal Mecca each year and prostrate in gratitude?  But as I didn’t see redemption on the cards for me, I didn’t bother with the petition and only said “Not a single day goes by when I don’t offer my thanks to Great God Ganapathy for getting that atom to explode Sankar.”   Of course I meant it.  

As soon as our kids grew up enough to start walking (more like dawdling) on their own chubby little feet, my husband decided that it was time to introduce them to the fascinating world of Science.  He got us renewable annual family membership to a Science Museum and Planetarium in the city.  This place later became a second home to us.  

Every Saturday we would get in the car and go to this Science Museum.  The minute we entered the Museum, I would, by an unwritten rule of the land, assume charge of strollers, diaper bags, picnic lunch bags etc. while my husband would take charge of holding the chubby hands of the kids and walking them from exhibit to exhibit all the while explaining some scientific mumbo jumbo to them with great enthusiasm.  I have crystal clear memories of pushing a stroller full of bulging bags around the many pathways of that Museum making quick, mental notes of emergency exits and restroom locations.  If you think stroller pushing is easy, you should try navigating it inside their atom sized restrooms.  Then, you’ll know.  

Like clockwork, every half hour I would whine about him making me walk too much and we would all wander into an auditorium to sit and watch educational movies on scientific topics.  I clearly remember a show about a bunch of funny-looking carbon atoms that hang out with their buddies, nitrogen and hydrogen atoms, and do some gymnastic stuff together to form long chains.  It was totally weird but looking at the ecstasy on my husband’s face, you wouldn’t think so.

I can’t be 100% sure about it as my memory is not as good as it used to be (???!!!), but my firstborn’s first words in this world could very well have included ‘atom’ and ‘matter’.  But I am positive that she said ‘amma’ first.   At least I think she did.

Science for Dummies - Part I

Slap your cheeks at Dr.V - Part 2

(continued from 'Slap your cheeks at Dr.V - Part 1')

At last Mr.G closes the door behind the day’s first group of patients and those in the waiting room with the next 3 token numbers finally allow themselves to feel a flicker of hope. It looks like their trip isn’t going to be a waste after all. Their turn to stand on the hallowed ground is coming in a few hours. God is great indeed! Clutching their tokens inside a tight fist, they lean back on the hard stone bench with a sigh and will themselves to drift into a dream of Dettol, thermometer and Dr.V until Mr.G opens the door again to summon them.

Leaving them to their happy dreams, let’s join those on the other side of that door in Dr.V’s room. If I were you, I will hold on to something solid soon after you enter his room. Confused? Look below and you will notice that the floor has caved in (this building is a tribute to Chennai’s architecture) to form a nice little pit in the center of the room where Dr.V is sitting. What this means to you is unless you hold on to something for support, you will find yourself rolling on the floor to Dr.V’s feet whether you mean to kiss them or not. Fighting gravity on top of a cold and a fever is beyond the skill of most people so they usually dive for the bars on the window soon after they enter the room. When I was in that room during my recent trip, I remember holding onto a hook on the wall for dear life and looking down my nose adoringly at Dr.V.

Situated happily in the middle of the pit, Dr.V’s desk dominates the room and is populated by 2 palm-sized prescription pads, a manual blood pressure monitor and a torch that has surely seen better days. The rumor mill has it that curators from museums around the world have shown more than a passing interest in bidding for Dr.V’s torch and blood pressure monitor. This leads me to believe that they have not yet seen his hand washing bowl.

This is as good a work of art as I have ever seen. It is a big round white (I am 90% sure that it is white) porcelain bowl that Mr. B takes great pain in filling with fresh water every morning so that the Doc can wash his hands between his trips to the Injection room. You can see several black markings on the inside of the bowl giving it a nice eerie look. I hope Dr.V has the inner strength to turn down the fortune that I am positive he will get for this bowl should he ever decide to auction it. It will be a dark day indeed when the clinic will be left bereft without its icon of cleanliness. My father has a smaller version of this bowl that he uses even to this day in his daily shaving ritual. So far we have managed to keep the curators away from his door but I wonder if my Dad knows that he is sitting on a golden goose?

Coming back to Dr.V’s room, watch the first patient swing her way to the chair next to Dr.V. This chair is said to have medicinal qualities of its own because many patients, like my mom, start feeling better the minute they sit here. For ease of narration, let us assume that my Mom is the patient on that chair now and to preserve her identity, I shall refer to her as ‘Ambujam’ from here on out.

Dr.V – Come Ambujam. Is your leg bothering you again?

Mom – Oh, I wish it were that simple Doc. You know how the children have all come for vacation and how much work there is at home. I am not as strong as I used to be. The servant maid has not come for 2 days. Apparently there was a death in her family and she had to go to the village. Poor girl, what can she do? Sometimes, if you have to go, you just have to go.

Dr.V – Alright Ambujam, what is the problem today?

Mom – When I wake up in the morning, I have such palpitations and feel so weak. My leg feels like wood and my hip hurts all the time. Sometimes, I feel dizzy and not feel like getting out of bed. Can you give me some pills to quickly fix these problems? As you know, I have so much work to do at home. Oh, I almost forgot. 3 days ago, I ate some mangoes…I know, I know that I should not eat mangoes with my diabetes but you know how people bring mangoes when they come to visit you. Children these days don’t eat as well as we used to, Doc. I can’t really let all those mangoes go to waste now, can I? But don’t worry. I immediately made some bitterguard curry and compensated for all that sugar. I pray to God everyday for good health but I guess He is busy with other things.

Dr.V – There is nothing wrong with you Ambujam. You are aging, that’s all. I will give you an injection to stop the palpitations and give you some pills to help with your body aches and pain. Just tell your guests not to buy so many mangoes next time. Here is your prescription. Give it to G, he will get your pills ready and you go wait in the injection room for me. I will be there soon. (soon???? Yeah, right Doc.)

Mom – oh, thank you Doc. I knew I would feel better just talking to you. While I am here, can you talk some sense into our Meena here? She doesn’t eat anything healthy. No good vegetables or fruits. Can a person really live on potatoes alone? I am making myself sick worrying about her all the time.

Dr.V simply smiles and nods at the next patient to take the chair that my Mom just vacated but if you think that my Mom is done with Dr.V, you are naive indeed. Patients like my Mom believe in making full use of the consulting fee that they pay the Doctor. My Mom gives the chair to the next patient willingly enough and stands on the side continuing her conversation(??) with Dr.V. She wants to know if she should eat the pills before food or after food; she wants to know if drinking Oats with buttermilk first thing in the morning will cure her diabetes; she wants to know if it is alright to walk only 10 minutes a day instead of the 30 minutes that Dr.V suggested to her before; she wants to know how to reduce weight without having to give up on any of her eating pleasures.

Dr.V spends 8 hours a day treating patients like my Mom. Dr.V’s baldness may not be genetic after all.

Two doors lead away from Dr.V’s room – one to the Injection room and the other to what can be loosely termed as a 'Pharmacy'. The compounders Mr. G and B are the kings of this little kingdom where they cook up their magic to deliver the medicines to the patients. Potions are lovingly packed in little glass bottles and pills are wrapped up in newspapers of yesteryears. After collecting your bundle of miracle from Mr.G, move through the door on your right to the Injection room.

Dr.V’s Injection room is a small rectangular room with one long wooden bench and one straw chair - all for the comfort of his dedicated patients. A shelf mounted on the wall houses a gasoline stove over which an old pot sits. Mr. B periodically boils water in this pot to sterilize the syringes and other things. As you sit on the wooden bench there to begin the long wait for Dr.V, Mr. B will promptly come and collect your prescription and prepare the syringe with medicine that is to be administered by Dr.V. You can't help but admire the way Mr. B makes the whole business of preparing syringes look so easy. A dozen or so shoe boxes filled with different medicines decorate the cabinet at the corner of the room and guess who has the key to this cabinet? Mr.B, that's who. Talk about power!

The wait for the Doc. continues in the Injection room. You can safely take a nap and a half before Dr.V will walk through this door to administer the shots. By that time, you will find yourself literally rubbing elbows with other patients who are crammed up in the small Injection room with you waiting for their chance at a shot by Dr.V's hands. As the door swings open finally to let Dr.V in, patients stand up as much to show respect as to stretch their stiff joints. Folks start to roll up their shirts/blouses even before Dr.V begins to call out their names to step forward. Dr.V's injection is not for the frail-hearted, let me warn you. The big fat syringe looks intimidating enough to make Superman call out for his mommy so don't feel bad if you do the same.

When at long last, you stretch your arm in front of Dr.V and he pulls out the big needle out of you, the Sun is already making his way down West. The epic journey is finally over and rubbing your arm with the cotton swab that the Doc gives you, you can walk out of the clinic to greet the outside world that is eagerly waiting for you.

(the end)

Am I smarter than my 4th grader??

I know that I should be grateful about this. After all, bribing government officials in India is no joke. It is an expensive business for anyone and more so for the middle class. Looking at the historic, exorbitant rates of bribery, I am positive that nothing less than utter desperation or blinding love could have pushed my middle class parents to do it and I am leaning towards desperation in this case.

I have no proof but my gut feeling says that my parents coughed up big money all those years ago to pay off the Education board of India to let me graduate from College.

Why do I suspect foul-play in my education? Many reasons really but when the first time I held my daughter's homework folder and my stomach involuntarily heaved in protest, I knew something was fishy. Forgive me for asking, but shouldn’t I be able to do a fourth grader’s homework with my eyes/ears/mouth closed given that I am a college graduate? Well, I can't, hence the allegation against my parents.

Here is a small sample of the problems that I commonly face on the homework front.

Math – Nothing gets my tear glands working faster than fractions, especially the word problems. The other evening, I was faced with my daughter’s wide, adoring eyes and the following problem.

A first grade class took a poll to find out their favorite ice cream. 1/4 chose chocolate, 1/4 chose vanilla and 1/2 chose strawberry. 2 kids are lactose intolerant and can't eat ice cream. If there are 22 kids in the class, how many kids liked each flavor?

If you ask me, can they not have a glass of lemonade each and be happy? Huh? Is Ice cream really necessary for the happiness of first graders? Somehow my daughter was not convinced with this argument of mine.

My evening’s homework woes will, by no means, end so quickly. Usually, right about this time a missile of a different sort like the following will attack me:

The entire third grade class is going to the zoo. There are 3 buses for the field trip. Each bus has the same number of kids. If there are 90 kids in the third grade, how many are on each bus?

Helllllllloooooo…..? What is wrong with the society today? If every parent took the responsibility of driving his or her own children to field trips, I wouldn’t have to sit and bite my cuticles off over the bus situation now, would I?

An important point to observe here is that I am very easily persuaded to double or triple the monthly allowance in lieu of escaping to the powder room in the evenings to avoid any contact whatsoever with Mathematics and yes, my daughter is very much aware of this weakness of mine.

Science – In the name of all that is sane in this world, why would I want to know Earth’s distance from the Sun? I am not planning to go there now, am I? Duh!

Grammar – Now, I know I have heard of irregular bowels but what is this ‘Irregular Verb’? And wait; aren’t pronouns, proper nouns, prepositions, helping verbs and conjunctions banned from the language dictionary yet? Have mercy, lord! I thought I had learned all there was to learn about grammar from Professor Higgins’s (My Fair Lady by George Bernard Shaw) teachings “In Hartford, Hertford and Hampshire, hurricanes hardly happen.” Obviously, I have miles to go before I can even think about resting. (Sigh, sigh…..)

Social Studies – Okay, I know that the big, bad English people came a long time back to America to shoo away the natives and set up colonies. Hey, I watched Disney’s Pocahontas too, you know. But come on, how much information can you absorb from a cartoon movie? Is it my fault that Disney forgot to include important details of the Civil war and Declaration of Independence in its movie? Talk about irresponsibility!

Anyway, there it is finally. My homework woes for all the world to see. So knowing what you know about me now, would you call me smarter than my 4th grader? Before you answer, please do keep in mind that I hold a college degree from a very reputable educational institution. That has got to count for something, right?

Would you rather I ‘ewewewew….uhuhuhuh…..awawawawa’ ed?

Few things in life have left me this stumped. I am not usually so easily ruffled but the incident from last week has left me questioning my own ability to face the many curve balls that life tends to throw at us.

My kids and I went for a routine dental cleaning appointment last week. It all started out uneventfully with me exchanging the usual string of meaningless pleasantries with the receptionist at the front desk. Before I could finish enquiring after her hairdresser’s new neighbor from Bimini, we were herded in to a private room to meet a person that I have come to greatly admire. Our oral hygienist! Usually I can get away with colorfully exaggerating the truth with anyone. Well, almost anyone because this guy is very hard to fool. He can take one quick peek at my teeth and know the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me God. All it takes is one little disapproving shake of his head to make me feel very small and that, my friends, is no ordinary feat considering the fact that I look like the poster child of ‘chubby cheeks’. Two minutes of facing him, his folded hands and narrowed eyes, I am usually ready to confess my sins, both real and imaginary.

As my kids were the first ones to be attended to, I was politely asked to step outside the room and wait. This meant that I had at least 30 minutes of free time sitting on a couch waiting for my turn. I decided not to be frivolous and spend the whole time admiring the many shiny models of fake white teeth artfully spread around the room. It is not that I wasn’t entertained by those perfectly sculpted white teeth but you have to admit that if you have seen one set of teeth, you have seen them all. Anyway, unwilling to waste those precious minutes, I got busy indulging a great passion of mine.

There sitting in the middle of my dentist’s office, to the utmost horror of my children, I cleared my voice and started practicing a carnatic composition in ‘Punnagavarali’ ragam that I had recently learned. I am positive that I heard whimpering noises from behind the closed doors of the room but I chose to ignore it as always.

I confess, I do have this nasty habit of breaking out into song in public places with a blatant disregard to the sensibilities of those around me and I guess waving fingers in public by way of putting ‘talam’ doesn’t help my image either. Ok, so I have very little talent but honestly, does it justify my kids’ behavior? Every time I step out of my home and open my mouth, my children publicly disown me these days. Is that any way to treat the one that lugged you around for 9 months in a very small pouch inside of her? Is fairness just a fairytale, I ask you.

Call me the Queen of digression today. I haven’t even come to the point yet. At last my turn came to go in and see the oral hygienist. I went through the routine motions of pleading guilty to not flossing every night and eating sweets regularly before going to bed. This confession left me feeling cleansed so much so that I ended the session profusely thanking him for absolving my sins. In walked the Dentist now for one last check up of my teeth before I would be let out. I obliged her and dutifully lay down on the dentist chair courageously looking up at a light that could very well be Sun’s evil twin. So there I was, with my mouth stretched wide open so my dentist could quickly look in and pronounce me healthy until next visit and what did she do? Deciding to take a break right at that time, she relaxed, put her feet up and started sharing the happy memories of her recent vacation with me.

Please don’t get me wrong. I love my dentist. She is as awesome as awesome can be. It is just that I wanted to get out of that office before the combined sound of three growling stomachs got public attention. In a few more minutes, I knew that we had to start shouting to be heard over all that growling. As the clock continued to tick away with the dentist showing no sign of stopping, I decided to help speed things up. Angling my head towards her face all the while nodding enthusiastically to her remarks, I stretched my mouth open even wider (if that is possible) and put on the most pitiful look I could manage. My idea helped but only for a second. She came out of her happy memories long enough to stuff two pieces of big, thick rubber pads in between my teeth to help keep my jaws open and frozen in position.

And that is when I faced the toughest challenge of my life. The curiosity bug apparently bit my dentist when I had turned away for a second because now suddenly she wanted to know all about my family’s last vacation – our destination, transportation preferences, favorite cuisines, tolerance to sunburn and even more. Hmmmm.....wait a second! Wasn’t she the one that just put a rubber gadget between my teeth so I couldn’t move my jaws? Wasn’t it obvious that I was in no position to answer even nature’s call at that very moment let alone her questions? Did she know a secret way to talk with one’s mouth wide open? Did I not look pathetic enough lying on the table with my mouth stretched open trying to howl the answers to her questions? For that matter, did my ‘Ewewewew......uhuhuhuh....awawawawa’ really answer her questions? It just goes to show that one can never be prepared for everything in life.

Got any interesting dentist stories to share?

Refund Rantings!

I have had it. The time has finally come to take a stand in this matter. Enough is enough. I don’t see why I should be stuck with a defective product. Am I not entitled to some customer satisfaction? Is it so unreasonable for me to demand a full refund for something that I am not happy with? Ok, so I don’t have a receipt to show as proof of purchase to the store. Big deal! Well, come to think of it, I don’t even have a store to take it back to but that is hardly the point.

Be honest and answer these for me. What would you do if you buy a product that falls apart at your first touch? Will you not be outraged? Will you not march straight back to the store and scream for a refund? Yes, I am mad as hell but once you know my reasons, you will understand why. I am not given to such angry outbursts often. Folks usually find me patient and mild-mannered. But in the past few months, my patience has been wearing thin and for a good reason.

I am in my thirties, look the picture of health on the outside and put together like a very cheap and tacky Burma Bazaar watch on the inside. If it is not my gallbladder, then you can be assured that it will be my foot. Fix the foot and watch my shoulder tendon snap. Heal the shoulder just in time to hear my voice croak. Treat the voice only to have the doctor pronounce my knee cap ‘inflamed’. Do you know how tiring it is to keep a mental list of all the failed parts of my body? And that is why a big whiteboard is hanging on my kitchen wall now so I can save my voice and report my daily health failings to my family. Mm/dd/yy – problem part –symptoms is the format that I am using these days.

I have a nagging suspicion that God outsourced the manufacturing of my body parts to China. Why? Because the way I am falling apart like a wet sand castle at the beach characterizes all the items sold in ‘Dollar’ stores across the United States with a stamp ‘Made in China’. Or maybe He entered into a secret partnership with the giant pharmaceutical industry with a promise to manufacture 'me' who will help drive their stock prices up by using every medicine that passes through their factory floor. Either way, I smell a stinking conspiracy here.

Call it paranoia but recently I have started noticing that every time my husband looks at my father, there is an unspoken admiration in his eyes that seems to say ‘How did you know when to unload her onto my head?' Mind you, there is no malice, only an acknowledgment laced with awe for my father’s timely great escape.

Yesterday, I heard my husband pleading on the phone with an insurance agent to allow him to buy additional insurance for me. Poor guy! I really do feel for him. He is so traumatized watching me disintegrate right in front of his eyes that he has 911 stored on his speed dial. And of course, all credit goes to his unique begging skills for securing fully approved credit accounts with all the local hospitals where the lovely staff insist on buying us all little trinkets during each of my visit. Their love and affection for us come as no surprise to me. After all, they do owe me big for the generous bonus they get every year.

Coming back to the point, I refuse to take this injustice lying down anymore. I hereby file an official complaint against God for manufacturing me with so many defective parts and demand a full refund from Him. Did I hear you ask 'What refund?'. Well, all I want in way of a refund, is for Him to take out all the substandard parts and put back limbs, bones and muscles that actually function according to specification. All I want is to not fall apart like a Lego tower carelessly built by a 2 year old. Is that too much to ask?

Hell on Earth!

Yesterday a friend, after sharing his family‘s last vacation experience on bungee jumping and para-sailing with us, wanted to know if we would be interested in joining them on a trip to the local amusement park soon. The silence that followed his suggestion was deafening.

To tell you the truth, his suggestion was not without merit. Schools are out for the summer and to parents like me, this means loud music pumping out of some media all day long, loud feet pounding up and down the stairs at all hours and loud voices demanding food and entertainment at all times. Insanity is an inevitable by-product of long summer vacations so letting our kids loose in the outdoors for a few hours was not at all a bad idea. It might just help us to survive this summer. Except for the fact that I would rather be gagged, tied up in front of a TV and forced to watch soap-operas all day long than to ever set foot inside an amusement park again.

Why? Because amusement parks are anything but amusing. They are torture chambers ideally suited for convicts on death row. Acres of land filled with deadly, long, sinuous contraptions that are built to toss, spin, squeeze and knock the life out of any poor soul that has the misfortune of getting trapped in them. Roller coaster rides are my idea of Hell on Earth.

I still remember my first time riding a Ferris wheel. I screamed so loud that they stopped the ride after a couple of spins to let me off before resuming. Stopping a ride in the middle was unheard of. My folks, very proudly, credited it to my screaming skills.

Screaming, if you didn’t already know, is an excellent voice exercise. It clears the cobwebs in your throat, so to speak. Young singers everywhere, aspiring for a career in music, would beg to take lessons from me if they ever overheard the lullabies I sing for my children every night. If you don’t believe me, ask my husband. He proudly declares that I am the only one in our species that can bring King Kong to his knees simply by singing ‘Rock-A-Bye Baby’. Of course, it must only be a coincidence that the minute I clear my throat and get ready to start, my children squeeze their eyes shut and pass out cold. And what is up with all the neighborhood dogs always starting their nightly chorus exactly at the same time? Seriously!

Come to think of it, screaming was not the only thing that I did when I was busy holding on for dear life up in a ride. Every time I was sent rocketing through the air, spinning and tossing in a roller coaster ride, I had a profound spiritual experience. What solid earth refused to imbibe in me, those roller coaster rides managed to do. Screaming and puking my guts out while suspended in the air, I was enlightened by the realization that God is our savior and that He will come faster to save those that have no shame. Therefore abandoning my ego, I always sought his protection and sang His hymns (yes, while on the ride) loud enough to reach Kailas without Skype. Even today, I am unsure as to why folks tripped over each other to move back and make way for me every time after I got off those rides.

Coming back to yesterday, in the silence that followed our friend’s invitation, my family turned such hostile eyes on me that I was forced to explain the depth of my feelings for amusement parks to this friend. I never meant it as an insult when I told him that I would rather sleep on the floor of a dark, wet cave with a dozen snakes slithering next to me but, unfortunately, he seemed to take it so.

Anyway, my husband and I agree that if we were to ever find ourselves stranded, wet and hungry, in a colony of aliens where the only residing human was this friend, it would still be totally unwise to knock on his door.

Ouch…I just fell off my moral high horse! And it hurts.

I always knew he was clever but I never realized just how much. I had no clue that he was capable of such devious plotting. I concede that I wrote a few articles here at his expense. Okay, so I pulled his leg a few times publicly and enjoyed it too but for a spouse of 16 years, couldn’t he just take it in his stride? Was this action really necessary? Could you, in all honesty, justify it?

Let me be frank here. I didn’t see it coming at all. Not until it fell into my lap. I never once heard him say anything like ‘If I go down, I am taking you down with me.’ No such hints were dropped in my presence. He kept it under tight wraps till that day just so he could catch me off guard. According to him, it was a ‘surprise’ for me! Yeah, right…..like I am buying it. It wasn’t enough that he ended up an addict. He had to now go and make me one too.

Guess what my husband got me for my birthday last month? A Droid phone with 24/7 internet access, that’s what. How LOW can he get? Has he no shame?

Before this gift, I was having such a splendid time looking down my nose at the Droid phone addiction of the world at large, feeling superior about my self-control and strutting around with a smug smile plastered on my face. Riding high on a moral high horse was my specialty then. These days I can’t even crawl on the back of a moral pig.

Upon accepting his gift, I first gave him a look that was sure to wither a healthy young plant, then pulled up a chair and got busy. Obviously, there was no time to waste with a whole new world to explore at my fingertips. Several You Tube videos were beckoning me with the promise of entertainment, a built-in voice recorder was begging me to play with it and a digital camera was tempting me to click the ‘Kodak moments’ of life away. With these, also came a plethora of free applications that offered to keep track of my grocery lists, calorie intake, frequency of burping, pulse rate, dry cleaning schedule and cooking recipes. Oh, get this. I even found a free app to download a special pink calendar to keep track of my menstrual cycle with all its lovely details. Can’t believe it? Well, if I didn’t see it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it either. It is a miracle indeed.

If God had ever marked both this phone and the fruit from the tree of knowledge as forbidden in the Garden of Eden, guess what Adam and Eve would have chosen? Could you really blame them? Even Satan would bow low in submission to such devilry.

So now I have officially joined the ranks of the many whose lives are inexplicably tied to their phones. Do the phone companies realize that they are creating monsters around the world?

Yesterday evening, I looked up for a minute from my Droid phone only to find my husband and daughter sprawled over the couch across from me with their eyes locked onto their respective phones. Just weeks ago, stumbling upon a scene like this would have led me to launch one of my well-rehearsed lectures on the ill effects of technology addiction and ways to develop self-control. Now, all I can do is heave a sigh of resignation and get back to my game.

You have got to hand it to my husband. He really did kill 2 birds with one stone here. He got me (my friends insist) a great gift while at the same time, silencing my protests and lectures about his phone addiction effectively. Obviously the man is devious!

If you are sitting there mentally congratulating my husband on his clever mind, hear this too. Now that he has taken care of his problem (me)once and for all, guess what he got me for our anniversary last week? A pillow from Costco!

Makes me think that my Droid phone isn't so bad after all.

-Meena Sankaran