Honesty-shonesty

Oh well. I had some stuff I wanted to write about but then this turned out to be a much quicker post. Thanks to Chandni for giving me this award. Big truth: I am very self-conscious about accepting blog awards, especially tags. First self-conscious bit is the award and second would be the answering the tag thing that makes me either avoid acceptance or procrastinate the writing!

I think I'm honest most of the times, and more than honest at most other times. *evil grin* So according to "rules", here are 10 more honest things...though how relevant to anyone/anything, I take no responsibility for!!

1. I cannot understand when people (on Facebook) tag me on notes when they haven't said hello for ages. I always remove the tag.

2. Sometimes I think I'm too low maintenance. :/ Like my comfort food is khichuri (for crying out loud) and most animation movies make me really happy.

3. I am never happy with the bras I buy. Never. And now that I officially have udders, it's getting even tougher.

4. Though I have a baby bump, I have to confess that my doctor said, ''A lot of your bump is in fact belly,'' which kind of had me a bit glum. :/ But then rather a doc who's easy to talk to then overly bloody maternal.

5. I am scared of driving cars and can't believe I am being forced to er, learn. However, before you laugh, I have no fears about hopping on a motorcycle and riding around. Parents and Partner have forbidden it.
(And I thought I'd get to make my own decisions once I was 30)

6. I secretly (well not anymore) fear that someday I will stop being attractive for Partner. (However if any woman EVER thinks of using my sometimes low self-confidence as a weakness and tries any moves-shoves on my territory, oh boy, she better be bloody prepared for my real nastiness. Evil laugh)

7. Yet I find it very tough to use the above as enough motivation to really exercise. I mean what's the point if affection is only physical eh? Bring on the chocolates.

8. I am always a bit apprehensive discussing what's bothering me with people -- even really close ones -- because I can't stand the expectation that I am expected to follow their advice!
(I mean it's fair though, I make them listen for hours and then get pissed off when they give me all-knowing advice.)

9. I am very jealous of women who can sing (they always behave like divas) and women who say they "play a lot of sport". I can do neither...though I am darned good at some video games. I demand video games be declared sport.
(Er, if you sing or play sport, it totally does not mean you, thik-hai?)

10. I SUCK at shooting games/war games, especially on the Xbox. I always get my head blown up in 2 seconds (usually Partner) and completely hate it. I am VERY competitive in video games... I also insist that all double/multiplayer video games should ALWAYS have a default female character. WHY should I play Modern Warcraft 2 when I always have to be a man?

I pass this on to:
Silvara (who is very honest about (failure) with weight loss attempts)
Goofy Mumma (who writes so sweetly about shifting to a new country)
Pirate of the Arabian (who writes one bloody post a year, should bloody well be writing more)
DewDropDream (who I have not seen in aaaaaages)
Sree (who is so honest...it hurts. And I wish it would stop hurting)

Paranoia

I didn't know her in college. But I saw a picture where she had the kind of waist-line I could kill for. And had I known her then, perhaps would have hated her for it.

I got to know her -- not really -- through her blog. Even went to her house for dinner once with Partner. And I remember her Brat. He had that smile that makes you want to smile. No matter how pissed off you are.

Sometimes her posts piss me off. I will not go into reasons now. Sometimes they echo what I think. Sometimes they make me wonder about the starkness with which she writes.

I don't think she is perfect, but if there's someone flawed doing a damn good job of things -- fumbling, learning, screaming, loving -- perhaps it's her. Especially since we are the same age and she has two children.

My biggest problem as a blogger is that I am not reciprocal. In other words I really don't keep up with reading others. I do it sporadically. Read 20 blogs in one day and then not do it for months.

I loved this post. Not because of the happy ending but because it scared me to bits.

I am nearly 15 weeks pregnant. I was smoking till the day before I discovered I was pregnant. Smoking meant 20 cigarettes. I had drags the other day (judge me at your own peril, absolutely not up for moral declarations of any f*cking sort).

And I get scared. Will my placenta tear off? What if I have a spontaneous abortion before 20 weeks? What if the baby is still born? What if it has webbed hands and feet? What if he has ADD? Or is hyper-active?

Most of my doubts are related to smoking. I research everyday, incessantly on the effects of smoking on unborn babies. And everyday I find something new. What if, what if, what if... What is most scary is that every bloody research is inconclusive.

And then her this post. What if everything is right and then something goes wrong with my child? Four years, 10 years later...? HOW will I cope? What will I do? And most selfishly of all... will it be my fault? Will I be blamed?

"... it takes more than half a teaspoon of sperm to make a father." --- The Mad Momma

Sometimes, stuff hides

(Republished without permission, please go here for more such)

Tears and stuff

Things got a bit intense last evening.

I walked in on my daughter watching a re-run of Jungle Book 2 on television. You know it. Mowgli rediscovers his old friends in the jungle, after discovering hormones in the man-village. My daughter was crying because Mowgli knew he had to return to mankind, and Baloo the bear was giving him a hug to make it easier.

‘Why aren’t you crying?’ My daughter asked me. She was pouring tears. ‘It’s so sad and happy at the same time.’

So I cried a little. I was surprised at how easily the tears came.

We sat there, sniffling, pre-teen daughter and middle-aged father, as the credits rolled up. It felt good to know that in her eyes I wasn’t a wimp.

She went off to bed, as I channel-surfed: a four year-old girl raped in Delhi; real estate dealers in cahoots with politicians brokering a regime-shift in Goa; George W saying something silly; the mess in Andhra Pradesh after police killed protesters demanding government land for the landless; Aussies shipping back Doctor Haneef the terror un-suspect to India. The usual.

Then I chanced on the finals between Iraq and Saudi Arabia at Asia Cup soccer being played in Jakarta. As I watched disbelieving, the Iraqi team—a happy, committed collection of Shias, Sunnis and Kurds leaving angst and vendetta behind—went one goal up. And then won the match.

The entire Iraqi team was crying with joy. They were probably crying in Baghdad and Basra and Kirkuk and up and down the Tigris and Euphrates. I cried, too. If I had a Kalashnikov, I would probably have shot some brass into the air—to hell with my neighbours.

The last time I felt this way over a sporting event was in 1996 when Sri Lanka won the Cricket World Cup. For a brief spell, it brought that torn nation together. Tamil Tigers had declared a ceasefire of sorts for the duration. The government responded. And there was magic. Blood and gore and desperation were kept away for some weeks by the power of emotion woven by eleven people on a green playing field in a foreign land.

Some of that came back, watching the Iraqis win. Maybe they cried because they were happy. Maybe they cried for their nation—they finally could, in public, on live TV as the world watched, and nobody would call them wimps.

(Maybe it’s time someone takes Osama and Dubya, put them in the same cell at Guantanamo, and throws away the keys. That would surely lead to grand celebration in the East and West. I’d cry again, no problem.)