Flaaaawa cake :)

Sometimes the nicest things happen by accident. Like my seven cupcakes melting into each other to make my flaaawa cake.

Think of a perfect world .. where cupcakes remained cupcakes. No flaawa cakes. *shudder*

Perfect is boring.

You Are Not Alone ...

Fairy Godmother

Chipped :(

I misjudged.My rear was longer than I thought. The car's rear, I mean.

It bumped into a pole. My heart skipped a beat.

I got off and inspected the damage. Paint chipped off onto my fingers. My heart shrinked to the size of a pinhead.

*sigh*

I doubt even many urdu-speaking people know what a nazar battoo is. I do, though.

And my car got one that day.

Randomness ... Randomosities .. Randomilicious ...

Feline Felons
Malign Melon
Scully's 'not so malign' tumor
Tumor rhymes with humor
I love a sense of humor
I also love my car
My car is fast
Fast rhymes with last
That's what I don't want to be
But getting back to 'fast'
That's how my hair grows
I'm having goodh airdays with my straightening iron
SPekaing or irons, i nearly dropped ours this morning
I have indeed droppedi t once before
tahts hwo the top little bit fell off
now i cant put water in it
speakign of water, i did the laundry recently
which is still hanging in the living room
the lviing room is krian's room these days
its messy
not that i mind, cuz I'M messy
I need to cook today
I'll cook chicken
Yes, I'll go home now and cook some chicken.
Yum Yum.
New Chicken for my Bunny.
Yummy yummy.

Feline Felons

Life's Little Mysteries ...

Read from the bottom up ....

Luv on d Frij

LoveQuest

counter-matter of the matter at hand

There's a discussion going on in one of the Orkut communities I am a member of. It's about the pressure on single women of marriagable age to get married.

It inspired me to shed light on the counter-matter of the matter at hand:

Just like marriage is oft over-rated by the older generation, it is also sometimes under-rated by my own generation.

I for one - a few years back - wouldn't touch anything wedding-related with a ten-foot barge-pole. Loved my freedom and independance and most of all, the fact that I never had to think too far ahead and best of all, didnt have to think beyond my own self.

Marriage changed all that. I can't just decide to quit my job and go backpacking around Europe (which I did two times in the last four years). I can't let the dirty laundry be, knowing papa will get to it eventually.

But you know what? At the end of it all, when the last face I see before falling asleep at the night and the face I wake up to the next morning is that of the one I love with all my heart and know will be together with for the rest of my life ... no price is too much to pay.

Another Day on Orkut ...

Salvation

Those Window-Cleaning Guys.

I was sitting at my desk yesterday. Type type type-ing away.

And it started raining.

Out the panoramic windows, the 46 degree summer sun wilted a bit in that sudden shower. My lips curved into a smile at the sight of rivulets undulating down the panes. The cars on Sheikh Zayed Road seemed to be swimming through vertical rivers.

I love the rain. I love the way the droplets fall on my head and find their way to my scalp, leaving it tingling. I love the way it gets in my toes. I don't care if it's dirty rianwater: I love the way it feels on my tongue. I love the way it makes the sand smell all musky. I lvoe the grass as it shines a newly green afterwards. I loved the rainbows.

Sitting at my desk yesterday ... on a swivel chair, in an airconditioned office, I felt all those things at once. The tingling of my scalp, the wetness of my toes, the unhygeinic tanginess on my tongue, the musky sand, the newly grass and the rainbow. All at once. All on my desk.

The 40-second shower turned an abyssmal office day into a magical world of sensory pleasures.

It nevr rains in Dubai in June though, does it? Of course I know it wasn't rain. It was just Those Window-Cleaning Guys.

But when they're out of my line of sight, why can't I pretend that they're not a pair of nimble Pinoys? Why can't they be mighty gods of rain? Why can't the soapy, sud-ly spurts be those of refreshing rain?

I say they can. They can all be what I wish them to be.

So I leaned back and watched the cars swim through vertical rivers and envied myself my little luxury on their behalf.

And today, the window panes were very, very clean.

I love Those Window-Cleaning Guys.

Rush Hour

Rearing to go ...

Isn't it funny that the only decent picture I have of my car right now is that of it's rear end? My license plate number is A 12363. It's the one in the back. The one in front is Max's car.

They're the Twins.

Max's is the Evil Twin, with the body work and grills and all.

Mine is the innocent, Naive twin. All stock. With Chris's rims. (Chris is the previous owner of the car).

I scratched the rims. Well, actaully it was Arfi at the wheel when they got scratched. But technically it was my fault: parking too close to the sidewalk.

The things you have to worry about with a Shiny Red car.

Just the other day I went over a bump and actually stroked the dashboard in apology and said 'sorry' to my car.

Wow. That was a first!

Epitaph

.

Evolution

car (P) Pronunciation Key (kär) n.

An automobile.
A vehicle, such as a streetcar, that runs on rails: a railroad car.
A boxlike enclosure for passengers and freight on a conveyance: an elevator car.
The part of a balloon or airship that carries people and cargo.
Archaic. A chariot, carriage, or cart.

That's according to dictionary.com.

That's bland.

'Car' - to me - is red. Sinhy. Mine at least. Which you probably know by now.

It's 4:49. A little over an hour before I get to go home for the day. I'm greedily eyeing the car keys. Have been since the morning. Can't wait to slide into the leather seats, put on track 9 (Guitara's Ya Ghaali) pump up the volume and enjoy the forty minute ride home.

Foot on accelerator and subconciously try to make it through Al wasl stretch in less time than it took the day before. Absent-mindedly negotiate the fastest lane down Sheikh Zayed and then automatically scan the road for potential drivers to show down.

When did I become one of those people that get all orgasmic at the thought of driving their car?

When did I become one of those people that enjoy Arabic music pumped all the way up while doing so?

It happened slowly. Or did it?

In Leonard Bett’s, episode 12 of X-Files season 4, Mulder reminds Scully that recent evolutionary theory believes that “evolutionary advances are cataclysmic, not gradual. That evolution occurs not along a straight, graphable line, but in huge fits and starts and that the unimaginable happens in the gaps ”.

Am I just trying to use any feeble ruse to link my life to anything said or done in X-Files (to which I am addicted these days BTW)?

When did I become one of those people that are addicted to TV shows any way?

Red & Shiny

It was turning out to be a not very good day. The magazine that should have gone to bed three days ago and here I am past 7 still working on it. By no fault of my own. The worst kind of bad situation: the one you played a part no bigger than that of being dumped unceremoniously into the midst of it all.

I was at the end of my tether and the only thing that kept me going was the thought that 'it can't get any worse'. I know I know ... it was one of those days.

Preceeding a long list of same-day mishaps was my car not bieng with me, as some wise-ass had revered his car into Baba's and Baba had borrowed my car. Arafaat having gone home early, I was stranded in Media City and didn't really feel like forking out 50 Dhs for a cab ride back home.

I'm one of those people who - when miserable- find some sick pleasure in miserablizing (I know that's not a word) everyone around them. And so my phone call to Arafaat asking him to come pick me up. (Ie, drive 30 minutes from Oud Metha to Media City and then 50 minutes back the same way through rush-hour traffic).

Instead of grumping on why I can't just take a cab instead of making HIM drive back and forth for one hour, he agreed. Hmm.

He said he was coming to Sheikh Zayed Road for something anyway and would pick me up after that. What's he got at Sheikh Zayed road? He can't tell me just yet, he says. It's nothing bad, he assures me. Something quite good, he smiles.

I'm ripe for a hissy fit just now, but I'm too tired and some little part of me feels guilty at the thought of picking on Arafaat for my bad day.

He calls me when he's down and I get up to leave. My boss wants to have a quick word with me. Fifteen minutes later, Arafaat calls again and I tell him I'll be five mroe minutes. My boss takes fifteen more. Third time he calls, I run.

I run down and it's almost eight and I know I won't be able to cook dinner when I get home. Not becasue I'll be too tired, but becasue by the time I'm done cooking, it'll be ten or even later. I know I'll have to order out and that always makes me feel inadequate as a wife. Add to that the fact that my magazine will be a couple of days late and the feeling of inadequacy extends from my wifely duties to my professional responsibilities.

I'm not a Rainbow Brite as I emerge from the over-airconditioned lobby of Building 9, DMc and into the humid, muggy Dubai dusk. I scan the roundabout and there's no sign of Arfi: no blue S2K taking a sharp turn round the roundabout and screeching to halt for me to run clippety-clopetty-clop to.

None. Nada. Zilch.

I can feel myself lose control. A whole day of minor mishaps amplified into disasters of epic proprtions. Something goes very hot where my head meets my neckand then ...

... a red car emerges fomr the parking lot. It shines despite the dusk (or maybe becasue of it). The setting sun lends it a golden aura. It shines. It sparkles. It pulls out of the parking lot ... sleek and sexy and red. It moves like a wish, casting a magic spell on the bystanders. Three men gesturign animatedly stop and turn around and look. Three girls huddled together crane their necks.

It stops infront of me. All shiny and red.

I run.

I drop my bags.

On the concrete pavement.

It's shining. It's red.

It's mine.

It's mine.

Something hot gives way to something cool and my eyes well up. There's a sinking feeling in my stomach while my heart flutters to my throat.

Just when you think a day can't get worse, something happens that turns it on it's end.

I run my fingers over the smooth bonnet and drop to my knees to fondle the bumper. My fingers graze some stone chips in the otherwise flawless paintjob. I frown. It's mine. It's JUSt become mine and it has no business having stone chips.

I think I am going to have a heart attack. I think I have dies and gone to heaven. It's THAT beautiful.

Just when I begin thinking there's nothing that could have made me happier this day, the driver's seat door opens and Arafaat comes out. As he hands me the keys, I know I'm wrong.

It’s Arafaat.

No matter how red, mo matter how shiny. No matter what.

What I got is but a reflection of the one who gave it. A mere shadow.

I’m welling up in the black leather power seats, clutching the steering wheel with audio control buttons. People look and then are left staring at nothingness as I whiz past at 160. Inside, the AC rids me of the muggy feeling.

I’m crying as I drive it back.