Tag Archives: funny

Truesday Tales 2.3

18 Feb

Thursday is the new Tuesday: old jungle saying blogger coming up with new rules.

Let’s just say Mummy is losing a million neurons for every tooth baby sprouts. Onto this week’s Truesday Tales, served up from last year.

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In which Senor Baby tries to stuff a binky in Mummy’s mouth, since she realized it’s only Tuesday and needs pacifying.

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In which Mummy informs Baby that Itsy Bitsy Spider probably had a touch of OCD, given his penchant for climbing the darn water spout on repeat mode.

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In which we deconstruct Itsy Bitsy Spider and conclude that:

a. He is training for a Himalayan expedition

b. He has a touch of OCD

c. He runs a thieving arts academy

d. He is likely to develop identity confusion because Mummy calls him Itsy and Daddy thinks he’s Incy

e. He is not a California resident (hello, down came the rain??)

f. All of the above

g. This family needs help

 

#ThisBabyLife #TheMummyDiaries #WhatDoesYourTuesdayLookLike

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Truesday Tales 2.1

2 Feb

[First shared in February 2015]

I stand over him, watching him sleep, gushing about the perfect curve of his cheek, loath to go to bed. Daddy is under the covers with his tablet already, rolling his eyes at Mummy for being this besotted. I ignore him and continue to gaze at Mr. Bean, soaking up every centimeter of his babyness.

Until, something occurs to me and I realize that the pater hasn’t been reading at all. He’s been admiring the 3000 pictures he clicks of our son each morning. While the fruit of his loins is 4 feet away.

But I’m the besotted one. Right.

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Truesday Tales 1.2

12 Jan

So it’s the second Tuesday of the new year (yes, already!) and I’m being a good girl and sharing a Truesday Tales snippet as promised in this post last week. If you’ve had similar experiences–or even very different ones, please share! And for those of you who haven’t been through the baby maelstrom, I promise it won’t all be about poo and pee. Only 98.479% of the time. :mrgreen:

[Hashtag #ScatalogicalHeaven]

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“Projectile peeing should be a bonafide sport at the Baby Olympics. Our son would be reigning raining champion every time.”

~Me to the Boy

Seriously, the kid waters his own face with the accuracy of an archer.

~

Any other bebes with emission quirks out there? Adults NEED NOT apply. Thanks in advance.

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A Month of Milestones

15 Jul

I’ve been terribly remiss about blogging (as is apparent, how clever of me to point it out!) and am going to blame it squarely on eustress: good stress caused by positive life changes, in this case a new job, a visit from family, travel, several celebrations, and the contradictory urge to romance my couch and see no one but my Boy.
With that long-winded excuse out of the way, let’s collectively acknowledge some fun milestones in this, the best of months:

  • July 1: A bloggy birthday! Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas turned 6 and I did nothing but blow my blog a kiss. Finally, I understand all those couples who have to halt a moment and calculate how many years they’ve been married. The ones whose limbs are extensions of each other and those who think in twos. Not-so-Little Blogette and I, we’re at that comfortable juncture. I love her like an old shoe. She knows I’ll be back. I’ve been coming back for 8 and a half years. But in the meanwhile, there are sparkly heels to be tried. Oh, and speaking of heels…..
You likey?

You likey?

  • July 7: On this day in 1994, a girl tapped my shoulder as I sat on a class bench in front of her. “Excuse me, are you OJ?” she asked. “No, I’m Janice!” I replied huffily, knowing full well that she knew my name. What didn’t penetrate my thick skull was that she was trying to start a conversation. A lesser mortal would’ve run for the hills. She, she came back, and for the last 20 years has been my dearest friend, soul sister, and rock of Gibraltar (no connection to the one I couldn’t visit!) Her name means “Jewel of the World” and my lord, how she has shone me through my darkest hours. We now know why we weren’t given sisters: having each other, a birth sister would be a mere appendage.
  • July 9: Daddy blew out a ring of candles on a cake brought by SOMEBODY ELSE. HMPH. That’s right, snatch cake-sending rights away from your first-born now. That dethroned monarch business just never ends. But my Daddy, he had a birthday, and oh how the world is wealthier because his goodness dwells in it! (Still throwing that corner tantrum, though. )
  • July 25: SO excited about this upcoming birthday, not only because hell-0, it’s a BIRTHDAY, what’s not to be excited about, but also because it is another important milestone. Champagne and cake all around! Would it be terribly inappropriate to wear a huge party hat, get one of those tooter horns and be my very own one-woman parade? No?! See, this is why I love you guys. :mrgreen:
Here, make do with the cake our SIL baked on July 4

Here, make do with the cake our SIL baked on July 4th

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In Other News…
When the Boy’s brother got married last year, I heard a strange word for the first time: “co-sister”. Apparently, in the south of India, this term denotes women married to brothers. Being a similar combination of un-Southern and irreverent, my sister-in-law (the one of cake fame above) and I cracked up over the term, came up with instagram hashtags for it, invented a co-sister ghetto sign, and even harmonized “Hey sister, co-sister” (Lady Marmalade). Can you tell I love her? Will I be forever banned from kanjeevarams and mallige for this? *beats chest at the thought of no more bisibele bhaath in her life and eyes some Angus divinity in its place*

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My 18-month-old niece called me this morning. She is currently visiting family in Texas, saw her mother’s phone lying around, found my contact on it, dialed, and chirped “Hi OJ Mami!” When my uterus finally un-puddles itself from the floor, I can’t wait to watch her in mid-toddlerhood-almost-preteen action.

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We’ve been taking visiting friends and family to this Gujarati thali place that serves the most amazing shrikhand and khichdi, among other delicacies, but I won’t be going back for a bit, because the last time I had 5 helpings of khichdi and they started looking at me funny and avoiding my gaze and I’m mortified that I might have eaten them out of business. This redness of face isn’t rosacea, my friends, it’s ignominy.

How do you solve a problem like more khichdi?

How do you turn a seventh helping down?

How do you walk away from yummy khichdeeeeeeee?

Ignore the glutton, she’s just being a clown.

 

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Swimming: I’ve been the resident hippo lately, breast-stroking gently through cool, turquoise waters on these warm summer days while our American neighbors wear toddler-sized swimwear, chug beers, burn themselves to a crisp, toss their hair and pose, and do everything but swim. Most puzzling, this behavior.

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Books: Sindh: Stories From a Vanished Homeland, by Saaz Aggarwal, and To Marry An English Lord, by Gail MacColl and Carol McD Wallace. Both recommended for history buffs, albeit very different eras and geographies.

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Heard in the OJ-Boy home:
Me: I think I’m getting food-averse. I don’t think I’m so interested in it anymore.
The Boy: Good. Now we can buy a house next year.

How large can I make the font for HMPH??? 😡

Adios, my friends, pardon my future busybeeness, although I will put up a recently-published article before the month is out and would love to hear your thoughts!

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Spiritual Sundays

7 Apr

The Boy and I, by virtue of living in crunchy granola California, have turned increasingly spiritual and high-minded. Afloat on an ocean of good intentions and noblesse, we invite you to share this beautiful, light-radiant journey with us as we experience it each Sunday:

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Our first act of worship feeds the soul (and other assorted body parts). Gently-poached eggs rest calmly upon a pair of perfect crabcakes, drizzled with hollandaise and a smidgen of paprika. Completing the holy trinity is a side of herbed potatoes that can be best described as divine. The benediction virtually spills out of us and far in the distance, angels tune their harps.

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Consider it your fabulous fortune that you are about to be enlightened: Did you know Zoroastrians in India worship 3 grades of fire at 2 different kinds of fire temples? Agyaris, temples of the lesser fire, are places of worship where the fire consists of only 11 different varieties (from the homes of artisans, farmers, soldiers and civil servants, priests, etc.) Atash Behrams, temples of the greater fire, house a perenially-burning entity (as does an Agyari) that is the combination of 16 unique fires. Why am I sharing this today? Because the picture above is our version of an Agyari. Prostrating before Tiffany-blue platters and paying homage to lemon-print cushions, the Boy and I worship Our Lady of Immaculate Homesteads.

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Our next pilgrimage takes us to this vibrant green wood, a good indication of afterlife beauty. The hum of humanity falls away, and all at once, we are enveloped in A Great Calm. Here, we rest on this bench and ponder Questions of Significance. Like whether we should have ordered one pancake less that morning. Or whether almonds should be coated in dark chocolate or caramel. If our stomachs weren’t that loaded, we would feel our souls levitate.

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Turning our attention to more earthly pursuits, we gaze upon the wonder of this valley. Deer watch us from a distance, and so pious are we that not once do we discuss the venison cutlets at the Rendezvous in Pondicherry. Somewhere beyond those purple-hazed mountains lies an abbey that I would run into after trilling about hills and music and my heart wanting to sing every song it hears.

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At the entrance of our favorite forest, we take a moment to breathe. Heady from the oxygen-and-pine-needles high, we resemble whirling dervishes, spinning our sins away. Our veneration, friends, is about to get intense.

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The forest floor greets us, an emerald ocean of universal compassion, swathing us in its cool, unjudging love. It is the natural equivalent of the Hugging Amma, and we demonstrate obeisance by furiously capturing it for posterity. This is one deity that must grace our humble home.

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Presently, we chance upon a stream, and proceed to wash away our sins by wiggling toes and splashing each other’s sinful faces. Did you know we need to wash before we enter the inner sanctum of an Agyari or Atash Behram? For every cleanliness-obsessed Parsi, there are three rules on how to scrub behind the ears. Heaven seems just around the bend, as we are tempted to float on our backs and sail away to a parallel plane, where our spirit guides dole out personalized M&Ms in silvery gauze gift bags.

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But then, gentle reader, we chance upon this. And our wretched spirits soar to the tops of these cloud-cossetted trees, awed by this magical Land of Wishing Trees, and never mind the mixed Blyton references, have you ever seen a 5’9″ woman this dwarfed??? Even as our bodies shrink and our souls expand, we whisper gratitude into the ether and thank the universe for landing us plonk in the middle of this paradise.  Newly awash in this unique redwood incense, we turn homeward, blessed for being able to choose our definition of spirituality, and for this, the best of Sundays.

 

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St. Valentine: Smartly Single and A Patron of the Plague

14 Feb

This Valentine’s Day, because we’re sodding balls of mush, because the OJ-Boy romance is far from typical (who gets a book on financial investing on the very first V-Day of their relationship? I do!), and because it is my moral duty to educate you about the reality of this cotton candy-filled, chocolate-centered, gooey-as-snot emotion, here is a compilation of my Twitter hashtag ‘Things Marrieds Say To Each Other’. I don’t guarantee sappy, puppy-eyed romance. But I do promise this: Someone, somewhere was made for your sense of humor. And blessed are those who land them.

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“I’m an equal opportunity farter.”

“I love how effective our communication is. The morning greeting beautifully boils down to one word: “COFFEE!”

“I have photographic rights. When we married, you signed off on them.”

“Isn’t Cheteshwar Pujara that Bihari festival?”

“I never find anything soulful. Except maybe a shoe.”

“I will share my life but not my plate /The depth of my heart isn’t quite that great.”

“My needs are simple. Coffee and a little Tiffany.”

“You had me at correct punctuation.”

“Oh good lord, don’t pass out! That’s not my toe lying on the carpet, it’s the Band-Aid!”

“You’re my ardhaangini. So I get half of every cupcake.”

“That’s your ‘We’re getting late’ sigh.” ~   “Yeah, and…?”   ~    “Aaaaargh!! I can identify your various sighs!”

“You’re too far away.” Apparently, six inches of separation is terribly much.

You know that awkward phase between sizes?”  ~   “Hmm.”    ~   “You don’t know! You’ve always been 1 size! Just PRETEND!”

“Ear-digging can be a dangerous business. I just found chocolate shavings in mine.”

“‘Bheeda’ and ‘eeda’ rhyme. That’s proof that they’re meant to be together.”

“My camera, my house, my wife,” he says, when I accuse him of being a stalker. Damn such sound logic!

“It’s MENstruation, not womenstruation, and yes, you can tweet that.”

“You’re so much more than a pretty face.” ~ “You’re so much more than a wild imagination.”

“Sometimes people are broken and imperfect, you can’t reject them because of it!” ~  “Baby, it’s a WAFFLE.”

“I think I’m getting bucktoothed.”

“What do you call someone whose farts knock people out?”  ~  “What?”  ~  “Gaseous Clay.”

“See you in my dreams,” he says, blowing a kiss from his pillow.”Oh, and make dhansak while you’re there.”

“I’m not cooking dal. Then you’ll have a bad air day.”

Me (digging into his IHOP pancakes): “Babe, these are two of the three pillars of our marriage.”

“I’ve had better luck finding a spouse than a coffee table.”

“In this new year, may you realize the critical importance of coasters.”

“I’d say your eyes are my windows to the world, but now you have Twitter.”

“Ooh, baby, you’re so fly!” ~ Me to the Boy every time he takes a plane.

“Even the inside of your nose is cool and nice.”

“I share my LIFE with you. Now you want my mawa cake as well?!”

“It’s so hard to walk around hearing the Canon all day!”  ~ “Wow, that must be loud.”  ~ “I mean Pachelbel’s.”  ~ “Oh!”

“Bless you…now that you’ve sprayed your germs on the wall.”

“That’s it. We’re moving to a nudist colony. I’m not doing the laundry anymore.”

“Repeating verbatim what your spouse wants you to say.”

~

Happy Sweet-Saint-Whose-Head-Was-Chopped-Off Day! Don’t forget to share the things you tell your beloved in the comments section! 😉

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Stuff, Nonsense, and a Giveaway

15 Jan

One of my enduring childhood memories–and, in retrospect, a favorite one–is of my mum haggling with our regular fish vendor. (A piece about that interaction and my relationship with all things piscine will be part of an anthology in the mid-future, but never mind that right now.) We knew that after all the dramatic declarations of unfed mouths and daylight thugee had faded away, our prize would be fresh, delicious fish–fried, curried, or put in a good old patio.

Among the previously mentioned declarations was this unique phrase my mother would exclaim: Dhoor ne dhumasso!

“Dhoor ne dhumasso”, stuff and nonsense

Pronounced: dhoo-r neh dhum-aaso

Direct translation: dust and sawdust (?) I’m not certain what dhummaso means–will update if I find out!

Time to practice:

You’re telling me the prices have gone up since last week?? Dhoor ne dhumasso!

More:

Dhoor ne dhumasso they’re moneyed! Their type shows Colaba, buys Dadar.

Still more:

The maid came back today, claiming she’d had malaria for the 4th time in 3 months. Dhoor ne dhumasso, she’d be dead at that rate!

For an authentic exclamation, add a snort and a miffed shake of the head. Foot-stomping optional. My very efficient mother did all three seamlessly.

*****

Because it’s a spanking new year, because I have recently returned from a trip to the mother ship, and because I’m delighted with the stash I’ve carried for you, here’s 2014’s first giveaway on WWNP!!

Presenting:

parsi bol

I am thrilled that I don’t have to be your sole source of Parsipanu anymore! From the scriptwriter/director of the award-winning Salaam Bombay, Mississippi Masala, and Little Zizou, and the author of Laughter in the House: 20th Century Parsi theatre comes this delightful collection of Parsi-isms that had me guffawing late into the night.

Between its covers are gems like “Budhvar na vandha” (so dim, can’t recite days beyond Wednesday), “Tamboo ma saheb” (pregnant), and “Kamakli”, (of lesser intelligence), which you may recall from this post.

And you, lucky people, get to raise your hand for one of three author-signed copies I’m giving away! All you need to do is tell me your favorite Parsi thing. It could be a dish, a person, a book or movie, a phrase, or a quirk you can’t quite wrap your head around.

Exhibit A:

You: Do Parsis really sip an albino bull’s urine at their Navjote?

Me: Yes! And because once isn’t enough, at their wedding too–so anything that comes after seems infinitely better! Here’s your free copy of Parsi Bol!

~

Exhibit B:

You: Do Parsi dead people really get fed to vultures?

Me: For breakfast, lunch and dinner! In fact, I’d last them a whole week. Here’s your free copy of Parsi Bol!

~

Exhibit C:

You: My favorite Parsi is Freddie Mercury.

Me: Oops, wrong answer! It should’ve been me. Next!

~

So go on, jump in and wrangle! Winners will be randomly chosen. Giveaway open until January 31st and to U.S. residents only. Everyone’s welcome to chime in, though! Please leave a valid email address in the required field (and not in the comment box) so you can be contacted.

Happy New Year, my friends! So glad to infuse some chuckles into 2014. :mrgreen:

*****

 

Updated to add:

 

*Trumpet blast*

 

*Lion roaring ala MGM*

The 3 lucky winners of the Parsi Bol giveaway are……. *drumroll*

*nail-biting anticipation*

*torturous silence*

*clears throat*

 

# 1: Subu

 

#2: A. Rashid

 

#3: allMom

 

Congratulations! I hope you have a truly enjoyable time reading the book. 🙂 Please email orangejammies@gmail.com with your last name and mailing address and I’ll pop your prize in the mail right away!

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This giveaway has now concluded. Thanks every one of you for participating and chiming in with your lovely responses! 🙂 You guys are the best.

 

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Mango Madness

15 Nov

Egad! It’s nearing the end of the year and I just noticed that our “Parsipanu” category isn’t exactly chubby, unlike a certain well-fed community member in the mirror. Time to remedy that attar-ghari (right this minute).

Hark back to 1980s Bombay. Your family just made plans to go to the Victoria Gardens, (also known as Jijamata Udyan or the zoo). In their excitement, they invited two neighboring families, and before you know it, there’s a phone marathon about how many akoori sandwiches, chicken patties, and mawa cakes will sustain the hungry horde. The day dawns just like any other, except nobody ever says that in writing. Bright and early, we like to chirp. So bright and early, three families and their hampers pile into their shiny, Parsi-owned Fiats and trundle off in anticipation of a fun picnic.

At the once immaculately-maintained gates of the zoo, a large board announces that today being a bank holiday, the gardens will be closed to the public.

“Chaalo, dhom dhuss ne keri chuss!” declares Uncle Kersi, in a suspiciously satisfied tone.

So we don’t have a picnic, but we do get a brand new Parsi-ism to play with:

“Dhom dhuss ne keri chuss”, it all came to nought.

Pronounced: Dhawm dhoo-s neh ke-ree choos

Direct translation: It all came tumbling down, now suck a mango.

Let’s give it a try:

“What was the point of training so rigorously for Sports Day if you were going to sprain your ankle the night before? Chaalo (come on), dhom dhuss ne keri chuss!”

And one more time:

“Kaiomarz thought his girlfriend was commitment-phobic, so he never discussed marriage. She eventually dumped him. Big fat dhom dhuss ne keri chuss!”

What situations have been a DDNKC for you? Time to share! Everyone wants to know. 🙂

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No Meat Feat

9 Sep

Hands up those who’re related to well-meaning but bumbling folks who amuse us with their follies. Yup, totally expected that forest of waving arms. I’m no exception, and my community even has a special phrase to celebrate mix-ups, boo-boos, or whatever you want to call ’em.

 

Ladies and gentlemen, presenting:

“Ghotala-ma-goas“, n. a big bungle

Pronounced: gho-taa-laa maa go-s

Direct translation: Meat in the mess-up

 

If you know anything about the Parsis, you will be aware that we’re a bunch of obligate carnivores. Mutton is our Mecca, our Holy Grail is the holy grill and many, many childhoods revolved around the thrill that was the arrival of the Chick Van.

Just like we break an egg on near everything, meat–good old goas–is dunked and simmered in dals, vegetables, rice, and ice cream. Okay fine, maybe not ice cream. So we have paapri-ma-goas, masoor-ma-goas, papeta-ma-goas, tamota-ma-goas, cauliflower-ma-goas, bheeda-ma-goas, and sakarkand-ma-goas, in addition to meat-specific dishes like kid goas (served at our wedding dinner), salli boti, chops, and cutlets.

Now that you have this introduction, you won’t be so surprised to learn that a bungle, in Parsi Gujarati, is called ghotala-ma-goas. Why leave the poor errors out in the cold while we feast on tender, juicy, fall-off-the-bone meat?

Let’s practice with an example:

They landed up at Eros instead of Sterling for the movie! Tsk, tsk. Such ghotala-ma-goas.

You try it:

These people OJ knows fed the same dog twice and starved the other one for 2 days straight. Now that’s a ghotala-ma-goas if there ever was one.

Your turn now: What legendary ghotala-ma-goases have you been a part of? C’mon people, get sharing! Let that be your Parsipanu pound of flesh. 😉

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