well, 'one' of the reasons.

image source

and it begins...

It's quite surreal how one just slips into domesticity and all-round wifey-ness. It feels like I've been here all my life.

I'm still in that eager-to-please mode, bombarding The Other with msn missives; "Was your breakfast still warm? Were the eggs fine? Was lunch ok or did I overdo the tomato sauce? Are the leftovers from your mum fine for supper? etc etc etc".

No worries, that kak will soon end;)

I thought getting married meant suddenly acquiring an adult-mindset. I'm still playing house, and it is great fun.

just hours from forever

At 6pm today, my world changes its orbit.
And I'm ready for it.


A grand prize of a bottle of fennel sweets wrapped in not-so-ghagha goldish organza will be dispatched to the first person to spot 5g33k's initial in the henna pattern.

The Battle of Confetti - opening salvo

Off we go to ChinaMart, where mum can indulge her best-price antics.

aside- I cringe when she does this, and still get night-frights from the Bhamjee's Shoes shop name-drop debacle (no, we're not related to the family that owns the store, however this did not deter my mum from mentioning that I am late Abdul's grand-daughter, who used to be a friend of the family. Yes, we did get a discount. Yes, I was a walking vat of essence of mortification. Mummy, I know you're reading this.)

So there we were at ChinaMart having just stumbled upon a store that sold gift bags and papercraft-goodie-things for cheep-cheep.
Our mission that Saturday morning was to shop for wedding favour stuff.
I hate when people give ornamenty-garbage clutter at weddings. I know it's the thought that counts, but how about one that actively engaged some sentient process? The cabinet in our lounge is filled with such crap of this ilk; kitschy plastic fruit floating in a bottle, a little white porcelain ribboned giftbox that looked much like a Lilliput coffin, a cloudy chocolate mould my gran wouldn't eat because there was some prayer written on it in gold dust and about a million shot glasses which your typical teetotal-ling muslim family will never find a use for, all sandblasted with something along the line of "Thank you for sharing with us the day we finally get to shag without incurring hell-fire."

With all of that in mind, we decided on something a bit more utilitarian. But even utilitarian needs to look a bit pretty and flouncy for a wedding. Which is why mum and I were squashed in the corner of the overstocked shop digging through a box falling over with organza circles that niftily pull together to form a pretty and flouncy wrapping.

I managed to find something that wasn't too garish. However, mum wanted the organza with the big gold hearts. Big gold hearts are just ghagha to me. And big gold hearts on wedding favours are the ghagha-est of anything ghagha ever. If you don't know what ghagha means, think about big gold hearts emblazoned on gold organza, that's ghagha.

At this point I ducked her and went to look at the cardcraft stuff instead. I shouted over a box of wire-butterflies that I did not want the ghagha gold organza heart wrapping. The chinese lady at the door smiled to herself. Perhaps this was not the first time she had witnessed such mother and daughter exchanges.

My mum insisted. I was incensed.
She had that tone in her voice.
I'm a dutiful daughter.
We compromised.
We walked out with 100 ghagha organza circles printed with big gold hearts.

Jane and the magic kiddie-stop beans.

"There are indications from clinical studies that the mild antimineralocorticoid properties of the Magic Kiddie-Stop Beans result in a mild antimineralocorticoid effect," Jane carefully read aloud from the tome.
"Anti-mineral-o-corti-coid," she mouthed with all the slow-nooooo effect of a Zee TV daytime soapie rani lunging at her son who was about to drink the poisoned lassi meant for her mother-in-law.
Were they saying the properties of a substance that suppressed the secretion or opposed the action of mineralocoritcoids, would result in the suppression of the secretion or the opposition of the action of the mineralocorticoids?
Jane's left eyeball was suddenly spiked by a spear of blinding pain.
All she wanted to know was if the little beans would make her bloated, grumpy or suicidal.
Reading the little booklet that was packaged with the magic kiddie-stop beans made her feel bloated, grumpy and suicidal.
Dros Pirenone and Ethin Ylestradiol sounded like her eastern-european neighbours who led an alternative lifestyle and had just adopted a two-year old nepalese child.
Too many syllables. Too many acutes. Too many thromboembolic disorders. Too many scary sounding things she didn't understand that related to parts of her body that sounded rather important to have without the complications of itis, emia, oma, opia or esis.
Jane reached that point of confusion where the only thing that made pure and perfect sense was to go shopping for a new pair of shoes and a breastpump.

the i-do to-do list

1. de-gelatine mindset.
2. un-selfish the markers of only-child syndrome.
3. manage time to time manage.
4. balance gaga with pragmatics.
5. re-discover my strengths.
6. acknowledge my short-comings.
7. re-look organised chaos (it's not going to be just my world any longer)

Almost there

boy reads blog.
girl meets boy.
a billion stars and the conversations between.
where do you see us in a few years?
right there, he said, pointing.

ever after

A harbinger.

The ties that bind part 4

Crazy x about to embark on the trek to holiest of matrimony: who'da thunk? Amid all the homo sapiens searching to co-habit, he pulls it off with shockwaves and aplomb. News of this led to a friend asking how I felt about losing my back-up. Whoah... I backed up. I had never seen crazy x in that capacity. Back-up? Even if i was close to knocking 85, and it was very clear to me that I would in fact die a virgin, I would not consider such a thing. Now don't misunderstand me, there is nothing wrong with the subject x, albeit the obvious and neither am I declaring that I am too good for him and his delightful psychoses.
It was just this concept of a 'back-up' that caused massive internal tectonic upheaval.
If it happens that in your lifes travail, the Search for Mate proves unfruitful, would you settle on an understudy?
And would you settle, period?
Lets do a little visualisation exercise; imagine yourself standing in front of a tranquil lake. Now take all the thoughts running through your mind and imagine them turning into little pebbles. Throw all of these pebbles into the lake until you're left with nothing. Your mind is empty, a tabula rasa.
Now visualise a significant other whispering to you in the dulcet tones that go along with these misty settings, along with the mandatory sunset and the theme from Mohabbatein as soundtrack. Significant other tells you that they want to share a life with you. Said significant also elaborates on how you weren't their first choice, that you don't really fit into what they had envisioned their life partner profile to be, but that you'll do anyway. Said significant takes your hand with a smile and you both walk along the gently lapping wavelets of the lakeshore that's suddenly developed the stench of mutant fish and algae. Not so lekker neh?*
So if I can't even stomach the thought of being served this, why would I even consider dishing it out to another?
"Backups' ...tsk tsk.



*Souf Efrican for 'not very nice'

the ties that bind part 3

It’s the season.

Not just the one of the questionably jolly fat gentleman in a red jumpsuit and his entourage of randy reindeer, or the limited edition gift hampers of materialism.

‘Tis the season to be wed.

Down south, the weather’s perfect for it.

My wanton weekend (wishful thinking) plans for the last month have been displaced by wedding and post-nuptial receptions.

Lots of organza, sookmuk, cheese-smiling and trying to avoid chewing while the video-camera guy decides to go art-house cinema.

And in between these weekends where my ceramic hair iron (gift from the Gods’) was put to industrial use and mascaras wands were dusted off, I was faced with the off-shoot phenomenon of the Silly Season – The Set Up.

Good intentions, I’ve been told. A friend once said that it’s indicative of how highly people value you, if they’re willing to take the risk of hooking you up with a good friend or family member.

In my view, it makes for a very good social barometer, an almost accurate way of finding out just how well people actually know you. If they’ve sussed out your personality, figured out your ideals and ambitions and managed to come up with someone compatible, that is, in itself, the real crunch.

But it’s been known to go horribly awry.

For one thing, so many assume that facial-giftedness is the clincher. And if the guy is a successful type (read: doctor, high profile bean counter), it’s a given that he’s intelligent and will somehow provide for stimulating conversation for many years to come.

Forget the fact that he is socially-dyslexic, that his world-views are limited to the 7pm news (when there’s nothing else good on), that reading is just ‘not my bag, baby’, and that his spirituality is confined to making it in time for Jummah every Friday.

All will be forgiven, for he certainly does no damage to the PH of the genepool, girl, and overseas holidays every year, doll!

While an attractive phenotype is like getting the bonus ball in a Lotto draw, it’s not the grand prize. I guess it’s a sign of maturity on my part (what? lol.), when looks don’t particularly factor in my mating game. I go with Willy S. when he wrote of a ‘meeting of the minds’.

So come this weekend, Safeeya (if you’re reading this) I will know exactly how much of Saaleha you have managed to garner over this last year. I’ll be nice, I promise.

------

Today's arb lyric:

Love is a brittle madness.
- Jason Mraz

The ties that bind part 2

This must surely be a test from the Almighty. A trial placed before me so that my faith may be tempered. Sacrifice my first born, abandon my family to the desert, Yes My Lord, I Submit, willingly! but not this. Hear my importunate pleas…

Not this… not this…

My littler cousin wants me to be her bridesmaid. Oh, the mortification! I wouldn’t mind so much if it meant just looking pretty and hanging around. But no, the indignation escalates. She’s having one of those Indian weddings with a ‘stage’ set-up. This means that I will be effectively displayed before her 300 guests in all my turquoise finery (yes turquoise, apparently it’s very In this season, she says).

If that wasn’t ghastly enough, I will also be the oldest woman ‘on set’.

My cousin-to-be-wed and the other bridesmaid are barely knocking 20 and the groom, well, he doesn’t really count, but he’s a few months younger than me anyway.

All eyes on me.

But not in that celebrity ‘no autographs please’ kind of way.

My mother will probably have to field the questions: “So that’s your daughter? How old is she? Is she still studying?” This roughly translates into: “She should be married by now. What’s wrong?”

I envision the scene, mouths full and busy with gajar halwa, the darting looks, the frenzied conversation, possible enquiries regarding my sexual orientation. (ok, maybe not the last one, but “why else isn’t she fixed/engaged/married?”)

Aargh…

The ties that bind part 1

Most of my friends are married. Some have even begun to breed. And it’s great. Really.
The fact that they’re beginning new chapters in their lives and playing mommy and daddy for real, it’s just brilliant. They have walked their paths and have found compatible travelling companions to continue the journey.
And I’m not jealous. Not one bit. Honest. I know that a time will come when I too shall find a suitable escort on my life’s traversal.

So, seeing as I’ve made peace with that and am just doing my own thing in the meantime, why won’t people stop asking me the same retarded questions about my pending nuptials?

I’ve got three family wedding’s coming up. Female cousins, all younger than me. (can you feel my situation, people?) The schlep of deciding what to wear to whose, has been overridden by the far more pressing dilemma of how to deal with relatives who want to know when’s my big day.

Just once I’d like a really snappy answer that’ll freeze the smudgy-lipsticked smile off their M.A.C-attacked faces.

“My girlfriend just got her psychological assessment back and the doctor has green-lighted the gender-reallocation procedure. We’ll set the date as soon as the bandages come off.”

“Get married? Are you crazy, I’m having too much fun just sleeping around.”

“But I’ve already married Inzamam. We can’t get divorced just yet or else immigration will get suspicious. If they deport him, I won’t get the money his uncle promised me.”

“No one’s liked me enough to ask me. Okay. Now leave me alone.”

“But all the good ones are taken. Mmm…Is that your husband? Yummy, *wink* *wink*”


But of course, my mamma never raised me to be rude and vile. And what if Aunty has a really nice son/nephew/neighbour/dentist she’d like to introduce me to?