Let's blow out the candles: Happy Birthday!

To the A-lister, who made being of Irish descent fashionable, here’s wishing him many many more birthday candles to blow out. Cheers!

Happy Birthday, George Clooney!

Being him sure isn’t easy. Here’s why:

• He’s the first person to be nominated for Oscars for both Best Director (Good Night, and Good Luck), and Best Supporting Actor (Syriana) in the year 2006 (He won in the latter category). And we know that that gold-plated lady is pretty choosy, turning up her nose more times than Paris Hilton can change her beaus

• Named the Sexiest Man Alive by People Magazine, not once, but twice. Again a first.. Is the world sitting up and taking note? The only other guys to be named twice besides Clooney – Brad Pitt (drool) and Johnny Depp (pant pant). Now why aren’t we surprised?

• This yummy, baritoned-twinkling eyed Batman, is the United Nations messenger of peace. May there be more super heroes like him! Of course, the Bat Mobile must make it easier for him to Vroooom there

• Talk about confidence. He has struck arguably one of Hollywood’s most-talked about bet. Both Michelle Pfeiffer and Nicole Kidman bet him $ 10,000 each that by the time he turned 40, he would have fathered at least one child. They were both wrong. Beaten, they sent their respective cheques to him, which were duly returned. Reason – he bet double or nothing, adding that he would still not have fathered a child even by age 50. Well, he turns 50 today, and I bet Michelle and Nicole have had to eat humble-pie again.

• Being the eternal bachelor, he’s turned on the charm to thousands of swooning women. There are also those who make a beeline to Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum in Vegas, to be photographed with a beaming, ‘Marrying George Clooney’ in a tux, no less. Visitors can put on a wedding gown and stand right next to the beaming wax impression (and now you know the second reason for me to make a visit to LV)…Shhhhhh...


• He’s had my attention since the first time I saw him in Street Hawk. Talk about first impressions. Okie okie, am making this up – I looked this one up;-)

As this salt-and-pepper haired hottie turns 50 today, let’s just hope that he never goes “Out of Sight,” cos’ it would be “Intolerable Cruelty” if that totally unthinkable thing were to happen.

And, let’s see, perhaps “One Fine Day,” I do get to meet him…that’ll sure have me on cloud nine, “Up in the air.”

Ahhh! dreams...What would I do without them?

“Good Night and Good Luck” to me.

Knock on wood...

Getting into one's hair

For as long as I can remember, I have had a complex relationship with my hair.

I have my fair share of “dreadful” hair days even today, when nothing on earth can possibly drag me out of the house, programs of wine tasting / shopping notwithstanding.

Then I have the days when all I can think of is going the bald way, or getting them shorn like new army recruits. Between these days of insanity, I also have the my-hair-refuses-to-grow-no-matter-what-product-I-use-on-it days, the cribbing-about-my-lackluster-hair days, and the plain I-just-don’t-like-my-hair days, interspersed with the four times a year the-jerk-at-the-salon-cut-my-hair-too-short moan.

Way back in school, I was resigned to my curly, unmanageable mop of hair, held in place with what could only be a zillion hair clips, and which would, invariably fly pell-mell, when I would shake my ringlets. An incident in my secondary primary school is still etched in my otherwise muddled, amnesiac, absent-minded head, is of my classmates, who, for want of a pen stand, decided that the curls on my hair were the perfect place to keep their pens / pencils. Imagine my surprise (and the teacher’s displeasure) when a couple of pencils and / or pens (I fail to remember which), darted across my desk onto the cold, tiled floor, when I tossed my mane….distracting the entire class from a surprise test…let’s just say that I had more to worry about that day than just my poor score at the test…

College was the time which unleashed all my pent-up creativity with my hair. Styles came and went. Bangs, pony-tails, feather-cuts, pinned-back - you name it. Various hues also passed their fair share across my otherwise, natural chestnut-brown hair. (Long live hair mascaras – that was our favorite refrain). One evening, when my name was boomed on the PA System, announcing that I had a visitor, I came sprinting down the stairs, two at a time. As good luck would have it, I met a chum on the way, who intimated me about my father’s arrival – her one look at my brinjal-colored hair had me sprinting back upstairs to my room, dash to the shower, shampoo and towel in hand. 3.5 minutes later, I was transformed from hippie hell’s own aubergine-haired child to presentable teenager. Whew! That I had a serious case of the sneezes, oh well! That’s quite another story. Atishooooo!!!

And then one day in college, I decided – enough was enough. Curly was ugly. Period.

Chop chop chop, the stylist snipped “em off with barely-concealed glee. I hoped they would grow – glossy and poker-straight, and look straight from the pages of the fashion glosses we pored over for hours. I couldn’t have been more wrong! The hair grew back – oh yes. BUT CURLIER THAN EVER! Much to my utter disgust.

Next in line was the last solution left in the book - permanent straightening. What followed were the mandatory visits to nearby salons of repute. The decision had been made – curly was no longer what I wanted. It was poker-straight hair, all the way.

And no – even the teeny-weeny wave wouldn’t do.

The day dawned – appointments had been made well in order. The night before, I stared and stared at the mirror, asking myself if I would miss my curls, and all that tossing around of ringlets…but my mind was set. Punctual me arrived bang on time…

5 hours in the salon, and when I emerged, gone were the curls and waves. I had given the no-no to the stylist, who insisted that feathered bangs would look grrrrrreat on me. The glossy hair all over my head felt nothing less than great. However, I was still uncertain about how I looked.

With unsure steps, I descended the stairs. It being evening time, the small box-shaped market was teeming with people. While crossing a display window at a jeweller’s, I glimpsed a young woman, walking with unsure steps. Her hair looked great though.

She smiled back. A dimple sparkled. Her cheeks flushed, she tossed her tresses slightly.

And walked on, a spring in her step, renewed confidence written boldly over her face.

The Sale Story

Sale.

A four letter word, guaranteed to send most people of my gender into a tizzy, and their male counterparts into a paroxysm of utter gloom, their grimaces barely concealed by the watery smiles they manage to write on their faces.

But you can hardly blame them.

The women, I mean.

After all, why wouldn’t they? That alluring lime-colored dress that had been making them go weak in the knees for months, and which was almost as addictive as looking at dishy Clooney in the Omega full-page advert, with genuine avarice in the eyes, is up for grabs.

At an unbeatable price slash.

One would be a fool to let go of such an alluring offer.

So why wouldn’t that make them put on their trainers, and make a beeline to the morning queue outside the store, where a number of other like-minded women had decided to make a mad sprint to, too?

Inside, the scene is nothing short of a war, where women of all shapes and sizes sweat it out to get that last wine-colored bolero jacket, the tan waistcoat, those charcoal-grey flannel trousers…

There is no time to waste over phone calls – so any calls received are done so in under thirty seconds – a record of sorts. Unless of course the caller in question has called with news of another discount in the vicinity, in which case the phone call is attended to with the utmost reverence…

Amid jostling, cussing, eyebrow-raising, and the odd stepping on one another’s toes, when one emerges with the garment / object of contention, it is nothing short of a victory.

And the look upon your colleague / acquaintance when you smugly show her the winning article – priceless, to say the least….

Movie Review: Made of Honor

Notwithstanding the uncanny resemblance to my Best Friend’s Wedding, Made of Honor does have its own spurts of radiance, where you smile in spite of yourself, similarities be damned.

So you have Patrick Dempsey (swoon yum dreamy delicacy) essaying the role of Tom, the eternal Casanova, who when he is not leading willing blondes, brunettes, you name it, into bed, is tagging along with his only platonic friend, best friend Hannah (Michelle Monaghan), a director of acquisitions at the metropolitan Museum of Art.

Their friendship goes back ten years, when Tom, masked as Bill Clinton, is looking for his Monica at a Halloween bash, and mistakenly jumps into bed with her roommate, Hannah, only to have perfume sprayed into his eyes. The two strike up an unusual friendship, discussing flavors of cakes, petting random canines on the way, and walking along the breathtaking New York streets.

Tom, fondly called “Fornicator,” by Hannah’s grandmother, has made millions by inventing the coffee paper-cup sleeve. His rule while carrying out his favorite pastime is singular – never do back-to-backs with the same girl (a la Joey from F*R*I*E*N*D*S*), and never call a date until a full day has passed.

Of course, he’s got competition – from his father (Sydney Pollack’s last role), who is a church and a divorce attorney’s dream customer – rolled into one. So while he is on his way to the altar to get “knotty” for the seventh time, the gorgeous bride and her lawyer are already negotiating the pre-nup settlement. So much for the sanctity of marriage.

Then Hannah announces that her work requires her to go to Scotland for six weeks, much to Tom’s petulance. The next six weeks are a trial for Tom, who realizes how much he misses Hannah, and makes up his mind to confess his love to her, but without offering matrimony.

His dreams are dashed short, ‘cos Hannah returns from Scotland, in love with Colin (the quintessential Scotsman, who in an almost Bronte style of romance, whisks her off her feet, on a white horse no less.

Tom, not to be outdone by some Scottish thief, decides to strategize. Things are made easier for him because Hannah, the typical, postfeminist, asks him to be her maid of honor (a situation that makes him the butt of some gay jokes).

Now Tom has to think, and think fast. So you have his basketballer guy friends pitching in, each stage-managing the mega plan of stealing the bride. There are magazines to be read on how to become the perfect maid of honor, videos to be watched, gifts to be wrapped, lingerie to be bought, trousseau to be decided upon, besides of course trying one’s level best to bring up the dirt on Colin, who reminds me a lot of Daniel Craig, sans the famous boxers scene. Here’s the kicker – Colin is squeaky clean, and has it all – a perfect family (he’s a Duke for God’s sake), perfect vineyards, perfect way to dunk the basketball, and during a locker room shower session, a view at his more than perfect “package,” which leaves Tom's friends goin "Whoa" and Tom more than a little snappish understandably.

Humor is freely interspersed – so you have appalling hairdos that would do bees proud, a grandma who takes a string of dayglo beads (Ahem Ahem) from a “lady” at a bachelorette party and puts them around her neck (Holy Moly), a more-than-plump maid of honor who survives on some indescribable liquid diet – all to fit into a size 8 dress, but which rips at the seams on the actual day, an obsessed woman who updates her blog on her favorite subject – Tom, amusing wedding customs and some more.

It takes a lip lock between Hannah and Tom, when she is exchanging kisses for change – a Scottish wedding tradition, which sets her thinking.

The rest is fairly predictable fare. But nevertheless makes for a sweet watch with your popcorn and cola.

Watch it for some smiles with your girlfriends.

Not bad at all.

Weather Woes

“It’s sooooo hot. I’m so gonna melt any minute now. My prickly heat will put a porcupine to shame!"(Long drawn out “Phew” with the obligatory forehead mopping).

"Gosh! Damn this freezing cold. I can barely feel my rear." Or something equally laugh-inducing.

"If it rains one more day, I swear I’ll take a one-way ticket to Florida. And buy some shoes before I go. The dratted showers have ruined “em all!"

"Whooooooooo! If it gets any drier, I could offer myself my abrasive self as sandpaper. And at least make some money out of it."

"Why can’t it rain? I don’t even remember what color rainfall is. At least my Labrador can loll his tongue out. Lucky him. If I do the same, I would be called a drooling pervert!"

It’s always the same ol’ story.

We can never be happy with the weather. I guess that like the government, weather too is like an easy target.

Or maybe we all take a leaf out of Goldilocks' book, in love with the idea of wanting everything our way, just the way we fancy.

I’m sure that even the people of Florida crib about its gorgeous climate, probably citing that it doesn’t change enough there, or ruing the risk of skin cancer.
Sigh! We are a hard lot to please, ain’t we?

Me – let’s just say that the rains, despite their wreaking havoc on my hair, are still something that make me croon in delight. There's nothing like the pitter-patter of rain on the window panes. Snug pillow, a warm bed, a steaming cup of tea, and a novel to curl up - optional but very well appreciated.

Sucker for the rains.

Oh totally, I’d say!

A Spicy Treat

While on a shopping spree a couple of days back, I was suddenly aware of a lip-smacking smell that wafted dreamily towards my eager nostrils.

Turning my head to the right, I saw a bunch of people, drooling not over the red-lingeried mannequin in the display window over yonder, but over some square bits of potatoes frying merrily in a huge cauldron as also tikkis doing their round swimming dance in the “tava. It was the people who stood around the man dishing out gol-guppas however, who caught my eye.

And they couldn't be more dissimilar: the panting middle-aged lady clutching her sequinned bag, the preening pubescent staring at her perfectly manicured talons shining in all their scarlet splendor, the young woman dressed in office-attire who had stopped over for a tasty bite enroute home from a long day at work, the two giggling 20-year somethings pointing at a cute tourist’s shorts (don’t ask what they were pointing at – go figure), the doting boyfriend who looked upon with affection at his gurl who had stuffed her mouth with one huge gol-guppa, another guy who looked around awkwardly to see how many eyes were upon him as he shuffled his feet, while all the while fidgeting and looking at his gurl who seemed oblivious to his unease and instead concentrated on the task at hand – viz., popping one gol-guppa after another into her mouth. A couple of guy friends also seemed to be enjoying the sweet-sour savories, tissues ready in hand to wipe their streaming noses that were definitely on fire thanks to the spicy nature of “em gol-guppas.

And then two more prettily-smiling girls queued up to taste a few, right hands outstretched to hold the leaf-saucers the gol-guppa maker proffered them.

No points for guessing, one of them was me.

Five minutes later we made our way towards what we had essentially set out for – shopping.

The red-eyes gave us away.

As also our grinning faces and lip smacking with the flavor.

My verdict is out - Cancellation isn't all that bad a word

The word “cancelled” has acquired a new meaning altogether for me. A very pleasurable one at that, let me add. (Mandatory cheeky grin, and wink).

Imagine saying good bye to the one you love, with a heavy heart (although you are trying your best strong face). I should know. I bid adieu to TOOMA* like that every time he leaves the city. Leaves even generally stoic me with a heavy heart. And a face which is way longer than the river Nile. But a face which would leave no one in any doubt about the cheerfulness of the face-bearer. Talk about irony. Sigh...

But the very next moment, when your beau calls, albeit not to bid a fond farewell, but to inform you that his flight back has been cancelled, several emotions are bound to cross your mind.

As they did with me.

Happiness, an indescribable sense of relief, a grateful look at the sky above, a silent prayer of Thanks to He who looks after all of us and indulgently gives in to our whims on more occasions than we can count, delayed gratification (cos I get to see him not now, but within a couple of hours), an inordinate urge to clap in sheer delight, break out into a delirious jig, and a Cheshire cat grin – all of these, and a couple of others crept pleasantly into me. Leaving me warm all over, the feeling akin to sitting inside a toasted blanket, sipping a steaming caffeine-kicked cuppa, while it is freezing, and coldly unhospitable outside.

Christmas sure came early this year for me;-)

And then it all dawned upon me.

The realization that I could spend some more time with him, at the sight of whom my heart does its own sweet little Karaoke number, and with whom I would love to have all my dances with...

** Yay! Yay! Yay! ** (Mad, gleeful song and dance show on full display).

* TOOMA – The Object Of My Affection.

Movie Review: 27 Dresses

I would be lying if I said that I went to watch 27 Dresses without any expectations. After all, what would you expect from the screenwriter who gave us the immensely entertaining and vividly resplendent The Devil Wears Prada (TDWP).

Katherine Heigl as the quirky but nevertheless perennial do-gooder Jane is a Manhattan singleton, in love with her boss (Ed Burns), who besides throwing in a good word and a pat on the back every now and then, is utterly oblivious of her adoration. With a best friend in the form of Judy Greer, she of the sourest of tongues, and the most vivid of expressions, Jane has some relief from her persistent Good Samaritan-ness.

Besides of course, a fascination for weddings...

Our leading lady, when she is not mooning over her boss, can be found shuttling between wedding receptions, sometimes two on the same night.

Dressed as a bridesmaid.

The perpetual bridesmaid, Jane has seen and done it all – she’s dressed in clothes, now stashed into her home closet, that can only be termed torture attire inflicted by the bride-to-be upon the bridesmaids so as to look better than them, lifted gowns of the bride-to-be so that the latter could fulfill answer nature’s call before taking the vows at the altar, danced with the families of both parties, you name it…
Ho-hum story, huh.

Enter Jane’s spoilt younger sister, the man-magnet, Tess (Malin Akerman), who waltzes straight into her life, and into the wide arms of Ed. Within a matter of days, Tess has Ed eating out of her hands, tied to her pinky, and even all set to walk down the aisle. And who else to arrange for the wedding, than dahlin elder sistah!

Respite comes to an unwilling Jane in the form of cynical wedding columnist Kevn (Va Va Voom, James Marsden – the dishy Cyclops from X-Men), who is keen to cover her for his breakthrough story for his reporting career.

A stinging slap from Judy, a deliberate presentation at Tess and Ed’s wedding rehearsal dinner, a very entertaining round of sloshed singing at a roadside bar, the predictable rain, the subsequent romp in the sack, and the morning-after misunderstanding – 27 Dresses has all the trappings of a movie to keep you suitably happy.

And smiling, in spite of its predictability.

A fun-filled Sunday afternoon watch with your gal pals, 27 Dresses is not as huge a stunner as TDWP, but somewhere along the line, the story strikes the right chord.
As for the men folk, for obvious reasons, they would cite severe health conditions and bolt for the door at the very mention of yet another chick flick.

I wouldn’t blame them...

What with all that taffeta, lace, and organza spread throughout the movie in ample measure, they are definite to go running helter-skelter into the open doors of the nearest watering hole, and grab a six-pack...

Hic Hic!

A Ride To Remember...

Duug Duug Duug Duug...

The roar of the mean machine is unmistakable, a distinctive chick magnet, guaranteed to garner that second glance.

And if you happen to be as lucky as me, to ride pillion behind the guy who makes your heart skip a beat, it would be one ride you’d not forget in a hurry.

So when TOOMA zipped to my doorstep on the shiny red mo’bike on his birthday, my heart went aflutter. After all, its not everyday that I get to act out one of my oft-repeated dreams...

I was akin to a delighted child, who had just been presented with a much-prayed-for present, and now that it was right in front, was unsure whether to:
a) Clap hands
b) Jump up and down
c) Give a whoooopeeee of pure, unadulterated glee
d) All the above

So I settled for a girlie hand over my mouth (lest my screams of ecstasy brought all the neighbors to see what all the fuss was all about), and hugged TOOMA more than my usual self.

After a complete five minutes - what with my staring at the beauty, and TOOMA's ciggie-marathon, it was time for the much-awaited ride.

I needed no second bidding.

Within a trice, I was sitting behind him. As soon as the engine started full throttle, I knew that the red beauty meant business.

Roaring like a roused tiger, it sprang into action, causing those on the road to make way for the royalty.

The wind in my hair, the warm sun shining on my face, a song in my heart, holding the guy I love, smelling his divine cologne - what more could a woman ask for.

Evening was even better. The cool evening wind did wonders for my cheeks – giving them a flushed, dewy-fresh, freshly-kissed, rouged look…

Would you blame me that I asked for a retry?

Vrooooooom! Till next month, my motto is:

I SHALT BE PATIENT...

Paula Abdul: Rush Rush (Music Video)

While I claim to be no fan of Paula Abdul, or Keanu Reeves, for that matter, I can’t help but like this song.

Released in 1991, the song features Paula Abdul, flagging off a drag race between a twenty-something, chocolate-faced Keanu Reeves and a local toughie. Dunno why, but each time I hear this song (and I have been known to listen to it more times than I can remember), an inordinate feeling of sadness and emptiness engulfs me, especially when Abdul and Reeves ask each other if they have been in love, and whether it is “terrible.”

Ironically, this song still features in my top five favorite songs of all times.

Strange, you’d say. But I guess that’s what I am. A bundle of contradictions.....

See the video here.

Movie Review - National Treasure: Book of Secrets

With Nicholas Cage garnering critical boo-booing in 2007 (read Ghost Rider, The Wicker Man, Next), the sequel to National Treasure must be quite close to his heart.

After the well-received National Treasure(2004), National Treasure: Book of Secrets has Cage, playing the role of Benjamin Gates, cryptologist / treasure hunter of fame again. With his great-great grandfather announced as a joint-conspirator in the assassination of Abrahamm Lincoln, Gates embarks on a bracing adventure to prove his ancestor’s innocence.

He is joined in his efforts by his father, Patrick (Jon Voight – not many know that he is Angelina Jolie’s father), mother, Emily ( played by a wasted Helen Mirren), trusted aide and friend, Riley Poole (played by the goofy but nevertheless utterly delectable Justin Bartha), and estranged girlfriend Abigail (Diane Kruger).

An amazing car chase is just one of the many action-packed scenes in the movie. Gates had to unravel clues that see him travel from Paris, to London, and eventually to America – in his quest of Cibola (the American city of gold). The special effects are remarkable, and that is saying the least.

The movie keeps you on your toes, literally.

Watch it n one of those lazy Sunday afternoons, like I did.

But yeah, if you are expecting a believable, logical, unpredictable flick, you are better off giving it a miss.

I mean, come on, the guy actually kidnaps the American President for God’s sake. On the President’s birthday, no less.

Gives a whole new meaning to the song, Happy Birthday, Mr President, you’d say!

Chug-chugging to a new land...

With a native place that is six hours away from my current place of residence, I rely primarily on the Indian railways every time I go home. Besides being a comfortable, leisurely journey, as compared to its bumpier by-road counterpart.

The times that I am not nodding off in slumberland, I spend in looking out of the window. And wondering how it would be to one day, alight from the train at some sleepy-looking hamlet, where the train probably stops for just about a minute, before chug-chugging off in speed to its intended destination.

Eager bright-eyed children, tired women who walk with tinkling anklets around their ankles, sarees tucked in at their waists, men with turbans, dipping biscuits and “mathris” into sweet-boiling-hot tea, the elderly slowly walking the length of the platform, to fill their flasks with water from the trickling taps, all the while wearily waiting for their train. All of them, and yet some more – beckon.

Sometimes, I feel like dismounting, and setting off on an adventure, one that has no map, no key, no chart.

No one to pull me back, no work outstretching towards me - only an enthusiasm to go forth, and discover a new place.

Perhaps one day I will do just that

But till then I will just press my face closer to the window-pane…

Birthday Bumps - Lars Ulrich

Co-founder of Metallica, and drummer unparalleled, Lars Ulrich, celebrates his birthday today.

Who would have thought that a budding tennis player, would trade-in his tennis racquet for Tama Drums…

Not that we are complaining;-)

Tennis’ loss is heavy metal’s gain.

So I’ll lissen to his amazing pounding in Enter Sandman yet again, and wish that he bangs many more birthdays.

Happy Birthday…

Woodstock recreated....?

If word is to be believed, Jackie Shroff, he of the sexy baritone (second only to someone’s super-hot voice early mornings), and moustached “splendor,” plans to hold a rock / other genres of music festival in Goa. Reminiscent of the original Woodstock festival of 1969, the festival, if it happens, will be huge.

I mean, how wrong can you go with the following list of tentative names that have been drawn up:
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Starship
Jethro Tull
Fleetwood Mac
Queen (Paul Rodgers)
Ravi Shankar
Iron Butterfly
Aerosmith
Santana
Rolling Stones
Fat Boy Slim
Norah Jones
Prodigy
Black Eyed Peas
Paul McCartney

Whoop! That’s quite a mouthful, don’t you think?

Now if only Jaggu dada is able to pull it off, it'll be a virtual treat for music aficianados like me, and countless others.

Meanwhile, let me see if I can coax / cajole / persuade / convince / wheedle / sweet-talk a certain someone to go with me to the sun-kissed Goan beaches.

For I'd be most loath to miss this festival, if it happens.

Amen!

Get a (Second) Life

When I was in first year college (which seems like so far far away now), I read Sidney Sheldon’s “Tell Me Your Dream.” The story, revolving around a woman and her two alter-egos, stayed in my memory for quite a bit. And I often mused what it would be like to have an alter ego. Not violent, psychopathic ones that we get to see aplenty in movies like Sybil, Psycho, Primal Fear, X-Men etc. But just as an innocuous variation from humdrum lives.

Now before you shake your head, and give me up as a probable case of another person suffering from a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde syndrome / an MPD patient in the making, let me hastily assure you that being cited as suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder is hardly appealing to anyone, not even quirky me, but hmmmm, it definitely would be interesting, to say the least.

For those who have wondered how it would all be, a website, Second Life, promises to deliver all that. Registration is relatively hassle-free, and lo and behold! You are a “Resident,” who can create motional avatars, hob-nob with other Residents, own property (virtual, of course), create buildings (now is the best time for you to build your very own private skyscraper dazzling in the azure sky), buy / sell an island (using Second Life’s own currency, termed Linden Dollars - L$- with 270 L$ = 270 USD).

Sounds neat, right?

Though parodies of the site are aplenty, and criticism / singgering rife, the site has managed to get more than 8.9 million people, oops, Residents, excited enough to sign up.

Besides finding a loyal fan in my niece, who is thrilled to bits since the time she heard about it from me.

I’m guessing she’ll buy an entire island to safely stack her army of Mattel blonde dolls, far far away from her elder brother who has a penchant for smashing all things even vaguely “girlie” to smithereens.

Go on, become a Resident here.

Ode to a little princess

She rushes back from school
Her excited face no one can fool
She heads straight for her mom’s cozy lap
Chatters endlessly, doesn't want a nap.

The mother bestows upon her a doting smile
As she hurriedly updates that last file
Before she can set the table for two
With a spread that would make her daughter coo.

Mysorepak, Murruku, rasam, sambhar, chutney and rice
Make the pony-tailed girl grin and get up in a trice
Gleefully she flings her satchel, makes her way to the table
The idyllic setting is akin to many a happy family fable.

“Oh oh,” between mouthfuls, the lass pipes up in good cheer
Pointing at the laptop which is sitting near
The mother needs no second hint and smiles
Starting to go through her e-mails, of which there are piles.

She then comes to the parts that her daughter would like to study
Sent by her mother’s friend, who is now like a close buddy
With sparkling eyes and a beam, the girl toils through the words
Exclaiming, laughing, sounding like the chirping of a lot many birds.

After the twenty-minute-something happy lunch and reading session
It’s time for the girl to read up on her exam lesson
Thoughts of dance, e-mails, and blogs banished, she studies, her head low
Waiting for the next day’s lunch when she would have a repeat show.

(Dedicated to dear Mahithi. Good luck for your exams, sweetie. Do well. And make your Mummy proud)

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening - Robert Frost

The poem below by Robert Frost is a personal favorite. I guess most people identify strongly with its concluding four lines. It is said that even Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru was partial to this ode, so much so that he always kept a copy on his desk, and saw it first thing in the morning.

Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

- Robert Frost (1874 - 1963)

Get nagged

Don’t we all have some things that we should be doing, but thanks to our selective amnesia / indifference / plain sloth, we just don’t get down to doing them.
For instance, I know I should be keeping my place tidy, and not as if some tornado has recently ripped it. But when my OCD best friend is away, I just let the room be.
Needless to say, when she returns, she is anything but impressed.
In the same vein is another word: EXERCISE.
Aaaaargh…WhatdidyoujustsayOhmyGodyoudon’tmeanitdoyou?
Now, that’s my usual reaction when someone mentions the dreaded “E” word.
Then there is the usual refrain (from big bro, parents, friends, big bro particularly, he of the Converse-brand-fetish) if I mention that I need to buy those nth pair of to-die-for sandals or that sixth black bag.
So it was pretty nice when I came across this website, called HassleMe, a UK site, which promises to nag you for any reminder you may want, and as frequently as you want.
I have already set a couple of thingies that I want to get nagged for, on a daily basis. I love its tag line, “ Because sometimes in life, you just need to be nagged…”
There are a couple of other websites too that caught my attention.
One of them is called mySociety, a charitable volunteering project which aims to spread awareness about how the Internet can improve their lives. They also support and improve launch projects. Sign up as a volunteer here.
The third website is called PledgeBank, a psychological bet, which is geared to make people carry out their pledges, together with several others. For instance, suppose a user wants to kick smoking; he could start a pledge, encouraging others to sign up for the same. The site updates all subscribers if the pledge fails to attract enough subscribers(Sigh), or if (happy happy) attracts others to do the same, and if the target is met.
You could sign up for e-mails when people make pledges from your local area / country.
Or start your own pledge here.

Mystery Shopping - shop till you drop

Love shopping, but groan each time your credit card statement reaches you on a sunny day, causing you to storm out of the room in a huff?
Love the crackle of new shopping bags, full of your favorite goods—clothes, footwear, bags, trinkets, cosmetics, fumes, but are often at a loss explaining to your folks / yourself why you just needed to buy that fourth white bag?
Love eating out at the newest restobars in town, but fear you will be dipping into your pockets a lil’ too much?
Movies excite you—and given a chance, you would not miss any new good flick for words?
Well then, mystery shopping is ideal for you, as it actually pays you to shop.
It’s a pretty neat actually—you go to a selected shop(not selected by you silly—the Company that is paying you to mystery shop), purchase some item(s), assess the performance of the customer care executives / shop assistants in the shop, pick the goods, fill out a form(with your observations), scan a copy of he cash memo, and within a fortnight or so, the money that you’d spent on the purchase is refunded to you.
Now if that isn’t cool, pray, tell me, what is?
Apparently quite a few companies like Bare Associates, Omnitouch India, Shaw Consultancy Services, and RAMMS India pay you to shop, assess / rate / gauge the performance of shops, restaurants, theaters, etc. Their funda is service evaluations and finding out if these so-called customer-assured services publicized by these shops have an element of truth in them, or do they just ring hollow? Whatever is the case, this relatively new concept is fast catching on, and that comes as good news indeed for shopaholics like my friends and me.

The Remember Ring

Bad Scenario # 1: Tired of reminding family / friends / your worse half about important dates, appointments, and events?
Worse Scenario # 2: You are absent-minded yourself, and need to be whacked on the head to remember trifles (and have long run out of knotted handkerchiefs)?
Well, help is at hand with the Remember Ring, which uses a Hot Spot technology to ensure that you never ignore that reminder.
Available in 14carat white and yellow gold, these neat remember rings have a life-time warranty, and you can set reminders for those dates you wouldn’t want to forget.
The tiny microchips will start heating the inside of the rings, causing you some discomfort, on the day you set your reminder. They would increase in intensity every hour.
Before glaring and calling me names to the tune of a sadist-in-the-making, let me add that it's not that the ring would bake you; you wouldn’t get burnt or anything, but oh yes, the heat would definitely get your attention.
Quite a nifty thingie this – I’d love to get my hands on one of these.
Except that the problem is that this is a concept product, and no jeweler stocks it.
Hell – wish Tiffany’s / Cartier / Bvlgari think of making these soon.
Now if only I could also get someone to buy it for me...