I messaged my boss yesterday in the afternoon saying I’m not coming in to work because of my “debilitating period cramps”.
He never replied and that bothered me the whole time. When I see him today, he may pass a tart remark and I could possibly feel like shit. Then again, he may not because, well, he’s a man, and they are sometimes quiet and ball-less.
In my half a day of vegetation in front of the TV, I ate multiple slices of homemade cake with ice cream and chocolate sauce, telling myself this is lunch and everyone needs a weekly indulgence. Tuesday’s lounging cum debauchery included reruns of Dawson’s Creek and Gilmore Girls. Destressing half-day, I thought, except for those damn cramps. And the fact that Katie Holmes should, must, please and definitely be crucified. Irritating, that prissy know-all look of hers.
Or maybe I’ve just gotten too used to enjoying Grey’s Anatomy. But watching Gilmore Girls reminded me of the problem I had with that show: The mother-daughter dialogues flow too fast. Their banter is automatic to an unconvincing extent. Too ready, too scripted, too teen-patti, if you know what I mean. There isn’t a single second in the series where any of the actors stay silent. Pay attention next time. Or just stick to watching Grey’s.
Which in a meandering sort of way, reminds me, the Gmail inbox now has a lowercase ‘I’: inbox now, not Inbox. Is nobody else slightly alarmed and curious about why they would do this to us? The Times of India’s edit page can hardly be such a trend setter!
In other all-about-me news, I bought pretty white heels from The Shoe Garage on a tip from this one here who collected some 5 pairs. En route to Shah Pur Jat (where TSG is) I was told by the no-blog-link boyfriend that “I can’t believe you thought you were going to come here on your own.” Something about be stupid get raped. I didn’t think I was making him drive me there for no reason, but anyway, it’s good footwear, lovely for summer and cheaper than Hyde Out. Beat that.
I also had waffles second day in a row. They didn’t charge us for the ice cream, nicely enough. See, the day was interesting enough.
And then, seated in one Stein Auditorium, while the love of my life was trying to break my wrist getting at the nitrogen in my knuckles, we saw Amitabh Bachchan. Most surreal sentence. But there he was, Anthony Gonsalves, the man, up close, in a shimmery velvet blue suit, wearing red glasses and delivering one boring, perfunctory speech. If I were just a tad more overwhelmed, could’ve cried. Like I suspect I will when he dies. And as much as I used to in loser movies like Khuda Gawah in which I thought he might never return. (You know, like the song Sri Devi lip syncs?) And, oh! Silsila is on my eternal to-watch list.
And that, was the very much the highpoint of my day. I was accused of being star-struck by knuckle man. But my mother was only more excited and asked if I had conveyed to the great man that she loves him and always will.
And yet there were other parts of the day that I felt were, as they say in Wonderland, curiouser. I saw a woman sitting cross-legged on a loo-floor at the habitat facing the wall and breast feeding her baby. Nothing of it, except well, there it was, the hungry suckler, already hooked on to his six small meals a day thing.
Then, on my drive back home, my friend’s boyfriend calls me asking what up and if I’m going to Arunachal Pradesh tomorrow for four days with the president. Erm, no, I haven’t packed. But hey, if I change my mind, see you at Palam 8.45? Fact of the matter is some lazy-ass scribes are happier buying footwear and seeing film stars from a distance. Even if it means missing out on joyrides with Presidents and losing the right to drop that in conversation next week.