Amen

I want Brad Pitt to...

This is the way we laze all day, laze all day…

“Excuse me! Is the white BMW parked outside yours?”

My mother and I, the only customers in the store, were thrilled at the assumption. “No such luck, but we love that you think so.”

The white beemer fellow was apparently blocking his car but mother and I didn’t let that distract us from shopping. She was comparing prices of candles and asking me if we should get the plain tall silver ones or the tall silver ones with the spiral. Plain, I said. “We have too many of the spiral”. So she instructed the shop keeper to kindly pack the plain. At the next aisle, I was thinking Rs 225 for Christmas-feel earrings was an unnecessary expense. The candles, at least, were for the dinner party tonight. The earrings served no such purpose. Except right when the cashier had put the candles in a brown bag and the bill-machine was making those khatch-khatch-khatch printing sounds, mother changed her mind. Now we’re back to the spiral candles. Apparently, they look more Christmas-y. And I still didn’t buy those earrings.

Having taken 2-weeks off, I have all the time in the world, to be my mother’s sounding board and dissect all such non-events. I have as much time to sit in my balcony and look for split ends all day – legitimate hobby as far as I’m concerned -- but we don’t get too much sun out there. Besides, I had my hair trimmed yesterday -- by a hairdresser called Barbara, to whom women in my family, for the last 20 years, have been loyal. Me, I’m just starting out being loyal to her, because I feel I’m done with my fancy yet impersonal salons where they charge more than I want to pay just because the people wear some sort if a uniform. Not Barbara. Barbara’s disorganised, but she’s good with scissors. She knows the gossip. She knows everyone’s names. She knows that you soak your dry fruits in two bottles of rum and then “just sort of r-u-n the cake through when it’s ready.” She knows these things. These things are nice, and they remind me of Steel Magnolias, which used to be my favourite movie much before I grew to love Julia Roberts.

So instead of the balcony, I’ve been vegetating indoors in my tracks and geeky glasses, leaving my hair uncombed, drinking hot water, and applying Bariederm lip balm all day. It’s the good life, I tell you. Nobody should have to see the insides of an office if they’d rather laze about at home, nobody.

But given my somewhat natural tendency to be social, I have, though, stepped out of this beauteous, slothful comfort a few times. To a friend’s cosy birthday party on a rooftop (with lots of good tandoori food), to a gathering of old fogies disguised as the (debut) book launch of an already-famous young author, to my boyfriend’s home (theatre) for a private screening of Away We Go, to the office of a friend who everyday devises new alibis to get out early (and comes with me shoe-shopping), and sometimes, to weekday lunches of appam and chicken stew, and to markets all over town with my mother, in our non-BMW, to pick up groceries and cold cuts, soda and knick knacks, for the 16-people dinner party that will start as soon as the doorbell rings, and those silver candles we bought, are lit.

Me, I think I’ll watch Paa today.

Is free spirit the new slut?

"Really? I didn't know he/ she was hitting on me."

I find such sentences puzzling. How can you not know? At 17, being obtuse may be your a birthright. At 25, not being able to tell who wants to get into your pants is plain stupid.

My boyfriend ( I think I've begun to refer to him as Junny) is a classic example. He just can't recognise a fawning woman. You can be wearing a low cut black number and murmuring, "Really, you play the piano? Can you teach me sometime?" and he will overlook your tone, cleavage, intent and just be so happy at interest shown that his "sure, anytime" will be genuinely short sighted.

Me: She's coming on to you.
He: No, she's not, poor thing, leave her alone.
Me: Trust me. I know these things.
He: Is this the only way your mind works?
Me: Ugh. Fine.
He : Ugh fine yourself.

Really, men can sometimes be more obtuse than 17-year old girls.


The thing is, I love flirting. It's fun, it's distracting, it makes me laugh and if well-done, makes me imagine a scenario or two and even run my fingers through my hair in slow motion (but not too slow). 'Carefully careless' is the term a friend used to use. But then he fell in love with me and became a killjoy. But that's another story.

The great part is that flirting gives ugly men a chance. You can be fat and have bad teeth, but if you have the confidence to be goofy, honest and flirt well, we're all ears.

• Make me laugh.
• Don't say LOL, (always Ha Ha).
• Don't pretend you know about the government when you're more like Chautala who.
• Don't quote song lyrics in texts (unless you've written them).
• Don't use too many smileys.
• Don't hesitate to compliment.
• Don't lie.
• Don't hold back.
• Don't fear getting spurned.

And if spurned, have the balls to laugh at yourself. It's all good -- just as long as you can tell the difference between a guy talking to you and same guy chatting you up. It's sometimes a subtle difference, but it's always there.

I'm not sure it works well the other way too. Do men care about women being good flirts? Do men care about men being good flirts? I could be wrong, but the straight ones all just want glossy mouths and big breasts. Really.