An overdose of red and pink - Valentine's Day!

It all started with a soft beep last night.

My cell had just received a message.

Nothing extraordinary about it – I receive a fair share of messages everyday.

Except that this one came from a person who I had not been in touch with for ages.

A saccharine-sweet, threatening-to-give-diabetes-to-me message unfolded right in front of my eyes, much to my surprise.

And then it dawned upon me - the clock had just chimed twelve…

And it was Valentine’s Day. The day Cupid works for all year round, but gets credit for only today...

I was just wondering the other day why this day whips up so many otherwise sane people in a frenzy. Sample the following:

For some people, preparations start right in earnest as long back as a fortnight or even a month before the actual day.

- Premier tickets to the pulling-at-your-heart-strings, achingly sweet movies - TICK
- Couple sessions to the his and hers spa - TICK
- Romantic horoscope books (zodiac-wise) - TICK
- Aromatherapy candles in every possible fragrance - TICK
- Pay budding guitarist friend to serenede object of affection with his / her fave song - Uhmm, yeah TICK

A field month for card and gift makers, flower-sellers, jewelry manufacturers, spa and resort owners, even gadget giants – who go grinning like Cheshire cats, all the way to the bank. Oh did I mention the (cheesy) matching ‘couple’ watches?

Shades of red (and pink) which I had never known existed, seem to be shouting off the rooftops in the form of abundant soft, furry toys that make me

a) Grimace
b) Break out in a cold sweat
c) Both the above

An up market coffee place has even come out with “innovative” Valentine shakes, complete with one straw (how exceedingly orally-hygienic. Ahem.) for the oh-so-much-in-love couples…

Promises to be quite a mentally-progressive sight.

The D-Day has come. Complete with all the fanfare you can imagine.

Couples, dressed all in their finery (read more shades of crimson), walk all lovey-dovey, hand-in-hand, casting deep looks of adoration at each other.

Oblivious to those around them, they proceed to their chosen venue – a restaurant, a hotel, a tapri, a park, McDonald’s (depending on how deep their pockets are).

Some of the men cast furtive looks around - hoping, wishing, praying that they are not spotted by anyone who will snitch on them to the boss. After all, all that bulldozing by the lady love had made them call up at work with the lame, 'I-don't-feel-well-enough-to-come-to-office ruse...As if a day's earning not reaching their pockets was not enough, they have to also make peace with endless rounds of the swanky mall, and (sob) paying for obnoxiously expensive items...

Ohhh, and can I forget, they are armed with bouquets – blushing flowers (again of the red-hued variety), carrying them like war-trophies. Some hands are also laden with chocolates (in heart shapes, no less), cushions (again of the heart-shaped variety), CDS of the mushiest-possible numbers - and other such 'heart-y' paraphernalia.

(The flowers have been purchased at triple their actual costs, making many flower-sellers break out into merry jigs).

Quite a few cliched 'proposals' do the rounds on this day...The 'L'-word is spluttered out, causing immense merriment for friends the next day, who leave no stone unturned in tormenting the poor souls who uttered the dreadful word...

With looks that speak a thousand words, the couples then start the customary gift-giving (procured from beaming merchants). Ooooohs and aaahs follow in quick succession. Furtive pecks, kisses, caresses, you name it - do the rounds.
And that’s what Valentine’s Day has come to…For quite a few folks…


Though the next morning many of these selfsame couples may go back to their quibbling selves, for one 'glorious" day, love is definitely in the air.

And how!

Shove at First Sight

The other day, on my way to work, I saw a 20-something girl beating the daylights out of a similarly-aged boy. Though I was at a distance, I could easily fathom that what could have been a minor lovers’ tiff had done a volte-face, taking an ugly turn. The boy stood apologetically with hands folded, looking beseechingly at his lady love, who in turn, looked in no mood for any compassion. She stood erect, one hand holding what was perhaps the boy’s mobile (no doubt holding some telltale clue to the aggression on display). With the other hand, she pummelled his chest with all her might, hurling vitriolic abuses at him, her face contorted with blind fury.

There was of course an expected stream of curious bystanders. Some had even pulled up their vehicles to witness this tussle - commenting, giggling and cheering-on the two agitated parties.

This led me to wonder – while people and quarrelling are inseparable, what makes even busy people stop dead in their tracks to become onlookers at brawls?

We see it all the time – two neighbours are quarrelling loudly outside their homes – a bandwagon of people gather around them in the twinkling of an eye. The spectators get completely caught-up in the squawking, taking sides, shaking fists, doling out unsolicited advice that was bound to cause bodily harm to either or both of the two warring parties, and giving free wings to their repressed anger - in the form of unparliamentary language. All this while, they forget their own household chores that need attending to. More often than not, they are often unaware of what caused the commotion in the first place. Minutes later, when the two neighbours decide to call it a day, the crowd disperses, chattering excitedly, and taking steps back to their humdrum lives.

There is the oft-reported pub-scene where highly-'spirited' men exchange sneers over beers, moving on to risky whiskey, brandishing unsightly middle fingers in each other's faces, and finishing with kicks and blows after consuming a few more. They are egged on by the other patrons, till the fed-up owner of the lounge sends in a couple of beefy bouncers to extricate the two.

We also see the occasional scene when a speeding motorist rams into the car ahead of his. Bam! The owner of the first car steps out - fist clenched, a snarl all too evident on his frowning face, smoke billowing out of his ears. He dives into the driver’s open window of the second car, switching off the ignition and pocketing the car keys triumphantly. A push and an unkind shove are next, followed by rude vocabulary that involves doing unspeakable acts to the other’s mother or sister. A loud smack is often heard, leaving an audience of 20 stunned, waiting with bated breath for the next slap. ‘Witnesses’ who weren’t there in the first place, zoom up, stepping forward, adding to the drama as it unfolds, ensuring a trail of blows, ear-pulling, swearing, eye-poking and collar-grabbing. Name-dropping is at its most generous and phone calls to relatives or friends who are in the higher rungs of the police ladder, are lawyers, or goons, are made in quick succession.

It's just too bad if your car happens to be behind – as obviously the two parties have no qualms of stopping right in the middle of a busy flyover or crossing. You smack your forehead in annoyance, praying that the two sort out their differences before they come to blows and neutral police have to be called for assistance.

What is with people, we included, that makes us stop all that we are doing, to see one guy pounding the cr*p out of another?

Are we all proving something to ourselves?

Or is watching a fight equivalent to making up for something lacking in us?

Does seeing someone nailing a punch on someone and making him kiss mother earth equate to a primal instinct in us to fight?

Does it take us back to our youth, when a resounding slap and a stern mouth said it all?

Does our latent sporting talent get a resuscitation when we see a chap do some good footwork on another?

Is it the sheer adrenaline pump of watching an action flick unfold right in front of us?

Does it stem from one of our oldest urges of curiosity?

Does it unleash our dormant sociopathic streak?

Is it our gut feeling of betting and waiting to see who emerges winner?

Or do we think that violence is the solution to everything?

Any other lame reason for doing so?

You tell me...

A Qui(c)rk Study

My trusty online dictionary describes a quirk as a ‘peculiarity of action, behavior, or personality.’ While the origins of the word are hidden somewhere in the realms of foggy land, quite a few amongst us, ACTUALLY strike that out – many of us, do have the odd behavior pattern, which might mystify, baffle, hell even, amuse us. And the weirdest part is – most of the times we can’t even fathom why we do it...

So we have people who sleep with their TVs on – if they wake up in the middle of the night and find it switched-off, they switch it on again, and promptly dropping off to la-la land; some people do not eat sliced cake – preferring to eat right out of the box it came in by breaking off pieces by hand; some drive their cars barefeet; some sleep with pillows on their faces rather than beneath their heads; some people cannot play / work / whatevah without their favorite handkerchiefs (I’m only hoping the rule doesn’t apply to inner-clothing items)…

Celebrities too are not untouched by quirks – the late MJ would never take off his makeup even when in bed, Jennifer Lowe Hewitt and her Mum count stairs, the list goes on…

I’ll start with some of my own, and then if you so wish, you could perhaps add some of your own idiosyncrasies:

• I can’t hear anyone brushing their teeth. Not in real life, not on the idiot box. It’s a dead No-No. I go a step further, applying it to people highlighting or underlining portions in a book, notes, newspaper. And to think I survived in the on-campus college accommodation with hundred of chicks who changed overnight from worshippers of lip glosses to devotees of glossy neon and hot pink highlighters. Five years - and innumerable term papers, exams, tutorials, assignments – you do the Math why March thru May was never the happiest (or calmest) period of my otherwise blissful all-year round time. I didn’t leave the quirk behind in college. It’s a loyal companion even today, much to hubby dearest’s annoyance. I'd rather hear screeching or squelching of tyrs in mud than the screeching of pen / pencil on paper

• I count, and worse – color coordinate, M&Ms while eating them. I extend this favored rule to Skittles, Dragees, Smarties, Reese’s pieces, as well as closer home, Gems (You can’t call me a racist candy-lover, as you can see). Red invariably gets popped first into my mouth, followed by purples, orange and pinks. Yellow and green are usually the last ones. No reason for this one either

• If I happen to spot a strip of medicine, and have easy access to a small pair of scissors, I just have to round off the corners. Go figure that one out…

• If I spot lotion balls that have formed near the mosituriser / lotion / cream lid, I scream an extended ‘Eeyuck’ in my mind, and run off to clean it with a wet cotton ball. Touching them with bare hands is a beyond all imagination

• All currency notes in my wallet have to be arranged in denomination. I even go a step ahead – smoothe out wrinkled notes and place them heads-up

• Not all shoes are born equal for me, I have to wear my right shoe first. If while going for my workout I slip on my left shoe by mistake, and realize it the next minute, off the shoe comes. Probably my Cinderella-fixation from my childhood days is still dormant in my subconscious, who knows…

• I have my good luck perfumes, and my jinxed ones. And even though I never do use the latter, I cannot dream of passing them on to people who will. Of course, the infrequent dropping of these jinxed perfumes – all ‘by mistake,’ let me assure you, does happen...

• My daily ablutions all have to happen in a particular order – Handwash, shampoo, conditioner, body wash, foam facial cleanser. To the T! Luckily, if I go over the schedule a little out of order, I only obsess about it for the next half hour, and do not go over the ritual again...TGFSM

• Even if I don’t have to empty my bladder, I visit the loo before I hit the sack. Just so I don't need to get up in the middle of the night to atend to nature's call...

• When TOOMA* holds my hand while sleeping, my hand has to always be the bottom one. I make the ‘correction’ if the order is reversed

• Since my childhood, I have this quirk of starting with the items I dislike on my plate, moving to my more appreciated food items. The last piece I swallow is usually what I like best. Sometimes I leave a portion till all the others have been finished on my plate. I don’t even realize that I’m doing it, but oh yeah – I sure do relish what I eat last

• While eating chocolate or candies, I suck on them till they are melted, and subsequently eat them, unlike ‘normal’ people who chew them right away

• My feet or toes are always in motion. Even in the midst of a training or a lunch session, they are usually doing their own tap dance ritual or wiggling

Moving on to the others - the Crème de la crème

• Not that I spy on him, I know that TOOMA while he’s on the John, has to have a newspaper in hand. I have no idea if he reads it, or if while reading, he is assured of a ‘steady deposit, ‘I do know that he is not selective – he will just about take any paper / magazine in the English language– even one that is a couple of days old, and he’s already pored through it

• My Mom and BFF (Best Female Friend) have to set things in the house in a proper manner always. You push a table a few inches here and there – they will glower at you, and put it right where it was. But I think instead of calling it a quirk, people are calling these OCD patterns…Heeyuck Heeyuck (I sure am dead if either of them were to read this)

• Good friend twirls her hair at all times – at the breakfast table, in a meeting, while watching a movie, while reading her own article that’s come out in that day’s newspaper issue, while buying groceries, heck even sometimes while she’s driving the car (and me nuts)...

• Another friend has to pull back the shower curtain, and peep inside that no cold-blooded killer is out to kill her, and only after she is fully satisfied that the bath only consists of her, her tub, her bath salts, and an assortment of bath products that she sighs in relief and sets about performing her daily bathing ritual. Try telling her that she borders on the paranoid, and there! You shall be subjected to a scowl, in whose comparison, Victoria Beckham’s scowl will seem like a golden ray of sunshine

• Another friend from college, if you try to fold her clothes, will unfold them again – as she likes her clothes to be folded in a certain fashion – her fashion. Needless to say, I never proffered her my help again...

• A good friend enjoys a love-hate relationship with ketchup. So while he would dunk his French fries and cutlets in ketchup, he will often ask for a side dish to put the ketchup in, and only then, begin his dipping ritual. Apparently, he hates his food items get soggy with the ketchup. I wonder what his stomach thinks of his odd habit...

And of course, the list would be incomplete without a mention of my BFF again – who, no matter how sting-free an onion may be, just has t wear sunglasses while chopping it. And if she, so much as squeaks in indignation that she doesn’t, she should know that I have photographic evidence…

And now, let me prepare myself to be choked to death by her very own bare hands….

The only consolation - at least, I’ll die laffing...

(*TOOMA - The Object of my Affection. Sometimes also referred to as hubby dearest)

Dabble in some Babble

Barring the odd Kings and Queens of small talk, most of us fall into the latter category of people who are anything but adept at small talk.

There are the hugely-annoying sorts too though, who sniff you out, and then starts the barrage of queries, much to your chagrin. So Ms Nosy Parker sails into a lift, drowning you in a sea of cheap perfume – your ears are subsequently assailed by the volley of questions that she throws – thankfully not at you, but at the unfortunate colleague, who suddenly goes from atheist to a believer – never before has he probably sent up a prayer. But this time he does, crinkling his eyebrows, hoping that the lift would whoosh to the top floor.

Not really his lucky day – he has to answer several questions in the course of that interminable 3-minute elevator ride. By the end of it all, when the doors finally open, giving him some much-needed air, his co-passengers have all had their fill of gossip and dope about him, including a very very embarrassing personal problem that he would rather have remained an untouched-upon topic.

The others fall into that glorious classification of people who struggle to bring up ‘safe’ topics to discuss with people whom you’d term anything between acquaintances and friends of friends. Weather is probably the first dwelled-upon area, followed by what’s happening around the world or on the idiot box. The world of sports is the second runner-up, which politico put his foot into his mouth (yet again), followed closely by most people’s personal favorites (mine excluded) – ‘the country is going to the dogs’ dialogue. And mind you, a mighty animated debate follows.

I like to call myself a lousy conversationalist. Put me in a party, and chances are that I might smile fixedly at a few people, nod in acknowledgement at those who I recollect faintly, down a couple, and then head for the nearest exit. I understand that it is rude to not converse with others, but I’d rather disappear than make a polite effort to know about the other’s migraine, job, hobbies, family, or jilted love story.

Give me some good music, throw in a couple of ‘spirits,’ and I’m good.

No chattiness for me. Sometimes silence just is golden.

Amen!