I love technology. It has no boundaries. The scope of it ranges from the little to the humongous. And that’s really saying something.
I have a sick kid at home who’s been using his “I’m sick” status as a Get Out Of Jail card. I’ve been annoyed, short tempered and most desperately in need of a diversion. Enter Play Store.
I was thinking to myself how I’d like to throw clay around to get rid of my ire and also try out some pottery in the process. Lo and Behold! there was a pottery app (Free&Paid) that I tried out. And it was just what I needed. Well…I actually needed a wheel, kiln and tons of clay but the virtual one wasn’t too bad either.
With any kind of artistic endeavor, the creativity needs to just flow and take shape. Whether it’s drawing, painting, sculpting or pottery…it’s an expression of what you think and feel and what vibes with you.
After vibing with these babies for a while, I am determined to find a teacher and just get down and dirty making pots.
Boredom often leads to an A-Ha experience.
Normally we find depictions of girls and women gorging themselves on ice cream as a way to take away the blues or mend a broken heart. Well we find that in depictions of life in the Americas or the non-Asian part of the world.
Indian women, with their funkier palate eat deep fried grub, things served with liquids of dubious origins et al but on the whole, ice cream works. It really works. Especially the ones with the semi-liquidy, fudgy centers…ummmmmm. But getting back to the matter at hand, even males are resorting to drowning their sorrows in ice cream when they feel the twinges of heartache and gloom.
Case in point- MLM and his usual playmate (a 4.5 yr old girl) who we are going to call A were playing happily when another girl arrived on the scene. Let’s call her S. Now A almost exclusively plays with MLM and might have wanted a change. Who doesn’t? And S was without her usual posse and came upon MLM&A and wanted some girl time so she and A hooked up. Where was MLM you ask? Sidelined. Without a glance.
Now before you get onto your ‘awwws’ for him I want you to know that when he came to know A he kind of severed all ties with the rest of the buddies he had and only occasionally stooped to say a hi and hello. So he kind of had it coming but given that they’re all kids and kinda dumb about life we’ll overlook all social transgressions.
So he trudged home, told me he was sad and had a big, pouty underlip to prove it. He moped here and there and finally zeroed in on the freezer and picked up a small tub of ice cream, picked up the biggest shovel-like serving spoon we had at home carved out a chunk of the ice cream that left only a teaspoon of it in the bottom of the tub.
When I came rushing into the kitchen to stop him, he made his most determined “fake-sad” face and said “I need ALLLLL to this to feel better”.
Whaddya gonna do? So I grabbed a spoon and joined in…I wasn’t about to let double chocolate chip get away from me!
This post was inspired over a dining table in a living room a few years ago after a particular good and smooth Kentucky whiskey tasting with some good, good company. Cheers!
“As I was goin’ over the Cork and Kerry mountains.
I saw Captain Farrell and his money he was counting.
I first produced my pistol and then produced my ,rapier.
I said: “Stand and deliver or the devil he may take ya”.
Musha ring dum-a do dum-a da, Whack for my daddy-o,
Whack for my daddy-o, There’s whiskey in the jar-o.”
With most people, alcohol is an acquired taste and hard liquor even more so. So when we hear McSteamy or McDreamy say, “Double scotch, single malt” we think it’s an easy thing to have. But it’s not. Whiskey can be a regular run-of-the-mill social drinker’s pleasure or there is the other kind; the kind I’m going to wax on eloquently about for a few paras.
The sight of a whiskey should bring to mind the words “molten“. Its’ honeyed, fluid, amber color needs to inspire appreciation visually. This helps if it’s in a cut glass crystal decanter. The old-fashioned one with the heavyish top. The bottle should be then positioned to have a ray of light hit it in a such a way that the amber changes to golden and then almost molassesy again.
Aforementioned decanter should have matching or nearly-matching fat-bottomed glasses where the whiskey isn’t poured but splashed, in a studied casual manner. It’s studied because you have your eagle-eyes on the flow of the whiskey and seeing it fill up past the cuts and crevices in the glass till it creates a kaleidoscope of amber and gold in your glass while you swirl it around.
When you finally get to the tasting part, because unless it’s moonshine sniffing it won’t always reveal the mysteries behind it; it should roll off your tongue and down your throat in a pirouette that makes you sigh in pleasure and want to savor the next sip. Never GULP but a sip. Dainty if need be or a more healthy one but one where your lips are definitely pursed.
The next sip is liquid sunshine, warm and comforting and eases open your senses and makes you want to step outside yourself while the whiskey courses through your systems and ignites you in a way tequila never can. You will not dance on tables after a sip of a good whiskey or bourbon but you will become, even if for a bit, a connoisseur of everything that is sensual, savory and satisfying.
This is a feeling that truffles, champagne and strawberries cannot give you for that is the magic of a good whiskey.
Piggies is purely a metaphor. It doesn’t mean anyone who looks porcine, grunts or even loves to shove their face into the slop they eat or wallow in the mud. And even if there’s an insidious thread of the meaning woven through the blog…tough!
Since childhood we all get introduced to the little piggies. Different cultures name the toes as different things or animals but we all play the same game in some form or the other with kids. And sometimes with adults too but that’s a different post for a different time and with an NC-17 rating in it 😉
Each piggy does a different thing but they remain part of the same foot. One could intellectually masturbate long enough to derive the notion that it’s symbolic of the different roles the same person plays in life OR the different roles different people play in the same person’s life.
Let’s go ahead with the second theory. And being a woman’s blog…we’ll take a woman as the rat in the maze.
Every woman (post the onset of puberty and definitely after having sampled the joys of sexual fulfillment) needs people to play these roles-
- the shopping buddy
- the bitching buddy
- the talking about non-personal and non-intimate stuff buddy
- the no-holds-barred buddy
- the sympathetic buddy
- the empathetic buddy
- the hand-slapper buddy (they exist to keep you on the straight and narrow)
So they play the game of ‘this little piggy went to market’ and from time to time each piggy has their day in the sun.
It seldom,and I mean that it’s a huge statistical improbability, that a single person can embody all these qualities for a woman. Or keep embodying them consistently without dropping the ball.
And the cardinal sin here would be to look for this person in a member of the opposite sex. The fact that we have different physical characteristics means something here. A man doesn’t usually get the rationale behind the exhausting range of emotions a woman feels and expresses. Things are fairly cut and dry for them except for those prima donnas you wanna bitch slap because they can’t decide when their “feminine” side takes over and when they start functioning with the brain lying south of the border.
But having these different people around can and does maintain homeostasis in a woman’s life. Each of these people holds up a mirror of her varied facets for her to see, understand and grow stronger from.
However, each one of them have one common factor binding them all…get enough alcohol into them and you’ll have them singing karaoke, laughing like loons and possibly dancing on the tables as well.
Amen to that!
I am not averse to sharing my living space with another person or other people. I’ve lived in a dorm, as a boarder and lived with my folks till I was an adult and those things really drill it into one’s head about the utter necessity of having your own space for your own shit. I mean, it’s critical!! Especially after a more permanent cohabitation starts with someone and they just leave their things all over the place like goat droppings. It can vex you like nothing else truly can.
Picture this- a smallish studio space or Praise Be To The Gods Of Personal Space, a loft…a few bean bags or bean bag chairs scattered around the room. A few non-skiddy throw rugs with vivid geometric designs on them. A large white wall designed a la Jackson Pollock viz this-
There needs to be an island in the area designated as a kitchen for the cutting and chopping and sleeping is either a sleeping bag or a water-bed in a corner.
Not a very pseudo boho-chic manner but a messiness that gets into every living space but also one which is just short of a tornado-hit area.
Because at the end of the day it all boils down to this- my shit is my shit but your shit is just bloody annoying!
It’s inevitable that when people live together, work together, do stuff…again together, there’ll be occasions when there is acrimony.
Acrimony can get bumped up into enmity or also a severe case of I-don’t-recognize-your-existence yada yada yada. But in the whole scenario, the one thing that no one quite figures out how to do is burying the hatchet.
The question now comes- where the heck is it to be buried? In the head of the person you’ve had the falling out with or just in some neutral ground where it doesn’t bother anyone anymore?
Well till the hatchet is good and ready to be buried, we are ill-fated to carry it around like those unimaginative serial killers, dripping with blood and guts aka our angst and ill-will.
The hatchet bumps into things, nicking stuff, causing bleeds which are some extremely out there metaphors for saying it causes us harm in turn and growing heavier by degree since the ill-will hasn’t been washed away.
Laughter is an exceptional antidote for the hatchet. Either at yourself or at the object(s) of your derision. Laughter caused by the prolonging of a situation where even the absence of the provocative stimulus causing bile to surge up in your gut without any occasion for letting it out. Essentially at the futility of things.
Once the laughter bubbles over, a spot magically appears bearing the words, “bury hatchet here”. And thus it ends.
Till something or someone causes you to go medieval on their ass and again swing the hatchet.