That (bad) fling thing

I think I now understand why some women stay in abusive relationships. Not because I am in one, or have ever been in one, fortunately. And not that I would stay longer than to throw things at his head. But I now sort of get women who do.

See the thing is, I love my job. I truly enjoy the work I do. (having a brand new iMac helps :) ) but for the past well, three years, I've had an on-off relationship with it because of the other things that come with working in a high stress, no-social-life field. Crazy working hours, bitchy colleagues (well, one) (but she more than makes up for an entire bloody team) and a could-have-been-better-paycheck (it can always be better right?). There have been times when I've worked through entire weekends only to find out Monday morning that the client doesn't want to go in that direction/ is out of his budgeted range/ isn't doing it anymore. Bastard.

So every few months I'll think about updating my resume and going on a hunt for that perfect job. And that's how far I always get. Thinking about it. Not only because I can barely find five minutes to revamp my CV, (and when I do, I'm reading blogs or writing this one) but because two days after the showdown with the bitchy colleague, or the presentation that went terribly wrong, work will once again be all rainbows and butterflies. Easy. Fun. Peaceful. Colleagues will say "thanks! you're a star!", clients will say "great work!" and I'll go back to loving my job and missing deadlines. Until the next time shit hits the high powered air conditioner.

It's a vicious cycle, good times and bad in an ever-changing, never-ending spiral. So much like a dizzying, volatile romance.

Is there a home for battered workers?

Everything and a peanut

I was once found, but now I'm lost. Had to change some things about this blog so I could go back to blissful anonymous-ity. So if anyone is wondering why the change in name, now you know.

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I have a new mac. A 20 inch flat screen iMac. It has a sleek little remote for my iTunes that attaches to the side of the screen with a magnet. Oooh the screen. It's big. It's beautiful. I want to bow down and pray to it.

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Diwali was fantastic. I absolutely adore fireworks. When they're several thousand meters away. As long as I can't hear them, I'll have a huge idiotic grin plastered on my face any time I see a particularly spectacular one. (hah I like the sound of that. Very tongue twister-y. Particular Spectacular.) Hearing them though, scares the living beejezus out of me.

Last year I dared leave the security of my home (where a magnificent vista of fireworks is available to me from the safety of my balcony) and walked right smack bang into the middle of a war-zone. Flashing lights, thunderous racket (and rockets), I felt like I'd walked right into the heart of terror-torn Iraq. When some kids decided to light some fireworks under a parked car, I almost had a seizure. Never again. Now fireworks are viewed from the comfort of my balcony, lights switched off, wrapped in a cosy sheet (because this is still Africa, and we're almost on the equator. No wooly blankets for us) and popcorn and an iced drink. And God they were stunning.

When (and if) I ever get married, and if I can afford them, I'm so totally having fireworks. Only I'd have to pay for licenses, fire trucks, ear plugs etc. Waitaminute, I can just get married on Diwali. That would be awesome. So that's that then. Now I just need to find an unsuspecting victim to marry.

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Eid was boring. Which is funny, because I'm muslim and I enjoy diwali more than I do eid. It could be because I have a very, very, very small family here and it's just not as much fun when there's only three of us to feast on potfuls of chicken biryani. Usually every year, my sister, a good friend who also doesn't have a big family for big-family-celebrations, and I would take off to of all places, subway, for long bouts of nonsense, silly jokes and yummy sandwiches. This year my sister is married and celebrating with her new big family who have big-family-celebrations, and my good friend is away living it up abroad. So that leaves lonely old me. And that's how eid was spent watching dvds and gorging on sweets all on my lonesome ownsome.

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The party at Ahmet's house was fabulous. Not because it was a brilliant party with the right mix of people, fun, food and a very dip-able pool. Which it was. And not because it ended at sunrise. Which it did. But mostly because of Ahmet's presence and his ever-charming rake-ish ways.

Word of advice: If you thought you'd gotten over a guy simply because he got married, newsflash! you haven't. Therefore it is NOT a good idea to party at his house. You will be very aware of every little comment, every gesture, every move. Did that hug linger a few seconds longer than usual? Did he actually say "wow" when I walked towards him asking for a drink? Did his wife notice?

And it was really very bizarre when the next morning, my horoscope for the day read: A relationship has unnerved you once again because you genuinely thought you had got over loving this person. Acknowledge the fact that for the first time in your life you are experiencing true love.

See? Sooo not a good idea. I really need to re-read my copy of "He's just not that into you." More importantly, I really need to get a life.

Oops. Did I do that?

- Steve Urkle in Family Matters

Sometimes I do the stupidest things to myself. Sending the wrong text message to the wrong person is one of them. It's a standing joke amongst friends. I've lost count of the amount of times I've made a complete fool of myself having sent an embarrassing sms to someone who was definitely not meant to read it.

Coworkers have received messages from me asking them to "please buy some milk when you're on the way home". Friends I've asked to "call mom as she can't find that pan you'd used yesterday."

A while ago I had a bit of a thing for this guy. We chatted on instant messenger regularly and one fine day, in the midst of a pleasant conversation, I turned and made some comment to my sister. I don't remember what I said but she in turn bent down to the keyboard and on the chat window jokingly typed "I think you like me." She wasn't going to send it, but in my tizzy, halfway through our mini-scuffle, I hit enter.

Mortified? Who me? I should be used to it by now.

In the end, that incident didn't end up too badly. The track of our talk changed and he ended up confessing he liked me and asked me out.

Most of my dimwitted moments though, don't have such a happy ending.

This morning, I did the single most idiotic thing on the planet. Ahmet is having a house party this weekend which his wife had mentioned to me but for which I didn't really get a nice (formal) invite. I wouldn't usually be so anal about it, but since I don't really know her too well, and with my past history of awkwardness with Ahmet being what it is, I wasn't planning on going if one of them didn't call and request the pleasure of my company.

This morning when he did, I texted a mutual friend "You didn't tell Ahmet anything did you?" who do you suppose I sent it to? Take a wild guess? Ahmet. If I want to know what red-faced utter-chagrin looks like, I just have to look in the mirror.

My acts of shame have been recorded for posterity by a friend who made up a poem a few years ago. Read on, it's funny.

There was a cat who wore a hat
that was two sizes too big
it had green and purple polka dots
and it hid his little pink wig

The cat was merrily on it's way
to a beauty contest in town
Thinking smugly to himself
"With a hat like this, I'll snatch the crown"

Whilst on the way he met Polar bear
dressed like a ballerina
laughing out loud the cat he said
"Don't let the other guys see ya!"

The contest took off with a bang
The bear was a laughing stock
The cat was winning all the rounds
And smiled as if to mock

Then suddenly in awe the crowd went quiet
and looked in unison to the right
for walking gracefully on the stage
was (geek goddess) most stunning as turkish delight

She had on her a funky blouse
of stripes black and red
denim jeans that flared below
"It's friday you see" she said

She stopped and turned and to the judges smiled
that smile that only she could smile
the judges all fell off their chairs
that smile, that walk, that confectionary style!

The cat was mighty miffed at this
"Foul play" he cried, "don't you love my hat?"
the judges paid him no heed
as they watched (geek goddess) pirouette

She did a twirl and then a jig
her wiggly toes keeping beat
and as she her hair tossed back
the crowd sat stunned as if glued to seat

Then she cracked a joke she did
the audience in laughter burst out loud
her wit, her humour, her sarcy comebacks
would have made any jester proud

Then her phone did ring out beep
an SMS she had to put in motion
and as the crowd watched her fingers type
she sent a message... to the wrong person!

But for all her quirks and her bathroom singing
she's fun to be with and she has taste
the judges all agreed to this
and made her the winner pretty post haste

The prize was a huge moist chocolate cake
that disappeared in the blink of an eye
and they wondered not where it all went
when (geek goddess) let out a satisfied sigh

So the cat he walked off with a sulk
the bear couldn't care less
(geek goddess) decided to eat with a friend
just WHERE is anyones guess!

For (geek goddess)'s nice for all her whackiness
(and you can bet your chocolate on that!)
cause even when she has a bad hair day
she's far prettier than a cat in a hat!

Also known as Dory*

I am the most forgetful person on the planet. Seriously, I can open a door and forget whether I'm coming in or going out. I have dialled numbers then forgotten who I was calling. I've forgotten the names of classmates I'd studied with for 4 years, a month after graduation (truly embarassing story that), and I've spent hours searching for keys that were in my hand. Okay wait, that's not lousy memory, just plain stupidity. But anyway, if there was a Queen of the Forgetful, I'd be her. Or she'd be me. Whatever.

Now where was I?

Less than a week ago, I'd told my mother and sister some hot new gossip. "Are you serious?" my sister had exclaimed, "Shocking!" Last night, she repeated that same little tidbit to me. (It's obviously genetic.) "Seriously?" I asked incredulously, "That's shocking!"

Our mother looked on in bemusement.

*Dory the fish from err... whatchamacallit... Finding whatshisname? Right. Finding Nemo.

Close Call

Phew. Someone I know found this blog.

Sometimes the itty-bitty-est acts of carelessness can lead to your undoing. And me being the extremely private person that I am, would never have been able to write another post knowing someone I know would be able to read my deepest desires and unspoken secrets. Not that I've written anything of that sort on this blog - yet.

Not even my sister who is like a piece of my heart, or my bestest friends know about this blog. I may tell one or the other some time in the future. Maybe. But for now, this blog is absolutely, utterly, unnamed and faceless.

Thank you Gods of Blogger for making it so easy to go back into hiding.

Dear you-know-who-you-are, I'll know if you find this blog again. Can you be really, really nice and go away? Thanks.

Now back to our regular programming.

Men vs Boys

Two conversations in an otherwise empty elevator zipping non-stop down a high-rise.

SCENE 1:
Man - wow, we haven't stopped once on any of the floors.
Me - yeah, maybe we're in a free fall, plummeting to the ground, and we don't even know it.
Man - *nervous look* I watched this program on AXN all about how you could save yourself if you were stuck in a falling elevator. blah blah blah...

SCENE 2:
Guy in his 20's - cool shit yo, this lift ain't stoppin on any of the floors.
Me - uh huh
Guy in his 20's - *adjusts imaginary super-hero cape, beats his arms in the air and pretends that he's batman*

Maxim for Life (and death)

I don't know who wrote this, but I love it.

Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways - Chardonnay in one hand - chocolate in the other - body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming, "WOO HOO! What a ride!"

Not that I wouldn't mind getting there looking totally hot, (who knows who I'd run into in the hereafter) but I could live with that. (die like that. whatever.) Although at the rate I'm going, I'll probably get there worn out and weary from lack of sleep, weak from hunger, drained from a bad head cold; just plain dead beat, and then have just enough strength to mutter "Oh I can sleep now?" before I collapse.

Life is...

Last night I was in a bit of a blue funk. What with my heart all topsy turvy at sighting an old somewhat-ex and then, almost simultaneously, meeting an old crush at Saturday night's party.

This old flame, I'll call him Ahmet, was the love of my life. We met a few years ago and hit it off like chocolate ice cream and a mixed nut topping (what? You can't have chocolate ice cream without nuts okay?) He wasn't conventionally good looking, but he had this easy confidence and a quick wit that would have me rolling with laughter in seconds. He oozed charm. Oozed it, it leaked from his every pore. We flirted back and forth and our sms's were filled with light banter and sparkling repartee. I fell for him like a stack of glass plates crashing to the floor. Hard.

There was one tiny problem. He'd had a steady girlfriend for almost six years. He wasn't cheating on her or anything, the further-est we'd ever gotten was harmless flirting - on his side. I on the other hand, was head over heels.

He got married to his girlfriend not long ago, which I know in my heart of hearts was the right thing to do. But that doesn't make it any easier for me. The selfish, insensitive she-devil that I am. Seeing him again at Saturday night's party with his beautiful wife brought back bittersweet memories. We talked a little, albeit awkwardly. The butterflies and friction were still strong, and the eye contact was as long and soul deep as it had always been.

I'm not usually the remorseful type. I try not to let things get to me, I honestly believe if something's meant to be, it will. So if it doesn't work out the way I want it to, I let it go as best as I can - I know there's something better out there. But last night, for possibly the first time in my life, I felt the pangs of deep regret. If only I'd given quasi-ex a chance. If only I'd not let stupid, superficial things get in the way of knowing him better. If only Ahmet had not had a girlfriend. If only we'd met earlier, before he'd had her in his life. If only.

Sometimes you just have to grab whatever life throws your way with both hands. Close your eyes, take a leap and jump for the stars with full faith that you'll land between them. Unless of course, that particular star is already conquered and occupied. Then you just return to base, ready to take a high flying leap at the next beautiful star that comes your way.

Shit, now I sound just a little bit stalker-ish.

I read this somewhere and found it particularly fitting; "All that matters in the end is how fully you've lived, how deeply you've loved, and how well you let go of the things not meant for you."

Three things in my head.

1) The hot preacher leaves today. I'm heartbroken.

2) Got a dinner-party-thing planned at home tonight for a whole bunch of people. And I'm working till at least 7 p.m. Worried? Me? Naahh. Everything is in order. Food? Check. Drinks? Check. Dessert? Check. Messy, cluttered, almost-pig-sty home un-cluttered? Oh shit.

3) Saw a quasi-ex last night. Quasi-ex because we were only quasi-dating. We were doing the whole hanging out/ flirting/ late night phone calls thing for a while without an official "dating" tag but it didn't work out. He was still into his ex and I felt he was too over-conservative for my own free spirited, independent self. But damn, last night he looked good. My little heart actually skipped a beat. Too late though, he's already been hooked by one other. I'm surprised by the heart flutter, it's only happened once before. And I certainly didn't expect to feel it for him. Or wait, it could be that I'm weak from all the fasting. Yup, I think that's it.

Crush on a preacher

Every year, every Ramadhan, I end up having a major crush on atleast one of the religious speakers at the local mosque. It's not like any of them have been exceptionally goodlooking (except for that Robert De Niro lookalike 2 years ago.) (Yummy.) (Robert De Niro is THE hottest older man alive) (as is Sanjay Dutt, who I have seen TWICE, and who is just as smokin hot in real life as he is on screen.) (Okay, enough of the parentheses, I could've had a whole seperate post with just them.) (But then they wouldn't make any sense on their own.) (Okay this is really it.)

So I realised something. Along with being attractive and intelligent and witty and successful, (I realise I'm asking for the earth and the stars here) I also want my man to be religious. (and now the moon.) Not extremist bin-laden religious, (who really isn't religious, just insane with a touch of derange (can you say that? Derange?)) but a more moderate (normal) level of faith.

I like a man that believes in a supreme being. I like that he prays and fasts and does the things he does, because he believes God deserves to be worshipped. I like that a man can go out of his way to research and read up on an ideology he has faith in, that is not a hobby, but a way of life. In the wise words of Paris Hilton (whose song 'Stars are blind' I'm embarrassed to admit I quite like, and who really does have a pretty decent voice), "That's hot."

"Religion is essentially the art and theory of the remaking of man. Man is not a finished creation." - Edmund Burke

The bun in the oven

My sister is pregnant. At 23.

I'm in shock, my hands shake as I write this.

I don't know why I'm so upset/ shocked/ nervous/ anxious (insert any other applicable adjective. Insert the whole bloody thesaurus in here). I mean she IS married, it's not like she'll be a single mom or anything. She got married less than a year ago and although it's way (way) (WAY) too soon, I know they're both happy about it.

Calm down. Breathe deep. WHY am I so upset?!

They're happy. Ecstatic. She's excited.

I know I'm worried that she's not healthy enough to carry a baby; she's too thin, too young, too not-sure-what-she-wants-from-life. But I think my dismay stems from my own deep, dark, selfish reasons. The fact that I'm 25, no wedding bells on the horizon - not even close, and definitely no baby. I have a long way to go before I can catch up.

Life is changing way too friggin fast.

Stop the world God, I need a commercial break.

Divinely Zonked

The holy month of Ramadhan started this past Sunday. It's one of my favourite months of the year - not so much for the fasting and with it, the strengthened spirituality; but (and I'm almost ashamed to say it) the social side of it.

Fasting for me is transcendent. Although you certainly feel it in earthly ways - I mean you starve yourself and walk around with your tongue hanging out from thirst. But it's an experience and I fast the month without fail every year. It takes you to another level completely - spiritually, mentally and physically (what with losing all that weight).

I read somewhere that just as a blind man has other heightened senses because his sense of sight is lacking; when a person fasts, the body weakens but the soul becomes stronger. So you become closer to God and become patient and good and generous and all the rest of all that.

But after the fasting is done and a helluva hearty feast devoured, we head to the mosque for prayers and then after-mosque get-togethers full of more good food, fun and games with friends and family. Every single day for an entire month.

It's like a summer vacation. When you're on a diet. And have to work the next day.

Okay so it's nothing like a summer vacation.

Last night though, after 3 days of continuous fasting and the bloody flu, I dragged myself home from work and crawled up the stairs with only one thought in mind. Not hot, yummy food, or a nice tall glass of an icy drink. Not meeting friends for a late night gobble-fest. All I could think about was throwing myself onto my soft, comfy, welcoming bed for a long undisturbed night of deep sleep.

I think I'm getting old.

The Value of a Woman

I read this somewhere and my heart melted into a puddle;

"The woman came out of man's rib. Not from his feet to be walked on. Not from his head to be superior. But from the side to be equal. Under the arm to be protected, and next to the heart to be loved."

Beautiful.

King of the Ants

Midas* was one of the most vain, conceited, arrogant guys I've ever known. Also one of the most annoying. We met through mutual friends and became sort-of pals. Sort-of because he sort-of liked me and I sort-of didn't. Not that he was bad looking or stupid or anything. Infact, when a friend told me he liked me, I remember thinking hmmm...

Then I got to know him.

Every time we'd run into each other, he'd smile, toss his head back and smoothen his hair with his fingers. Toss. Smooth. That was his peacock preen. Toss. Smooth. Just seeing him in action I'd want to swallow my teeth in irritation.

He'd send pages and pages of romantic (or so he thought) poems that he'd written, offer me a ride home every single day, and when I'd refuse, follow me all the way home. Like a bodyguard. Or an obsessive stalker. Every few weeks he'd send me seven cards, one for each letter of my name. And when I asked him to quit pestering me, he wrote me a long letter declaring his unending love. In blood.

EWWWWW.

After four and a half years of incredible crazy-ness, his father found out just how much he was troubling me and put an end to it. He gave me his number and asked me to call him if his son ever bothered me again. He promised he'd break his bones.

Midas did not harass me again. I did not call up his father. His father did not beat him up.

Sometimes I'm just too nice.

Midas now lives on a different continent. He is married but continues to email me regularly from different addresses (with IDs like onlyyours and made4u). ((ugghh)). All signed, your secret admirer.

More like, well-known-stalker-whose-dad-I'm-so-gonna-call-up.


*Obviously not his real name. And unlike the original Midas, everything he touched, wilted.

R.I.P

Our old security guard was a lovely man. Always ready with a quick hello and a sincere, generous smile.

Less than 2 weeks ago, he’d asked for his goodwill; money paid to employees who have been in faithful service over many years. He’d told our maid he wanted to enjoy the fruits of his labour while he was still alive; if left to his son, his years of struggle would be washed away through his son’s drinking habit.

It was not to be. Destiny is a fickle lady.

This morning, we heard the news he had passed away. A heart attack in the prime of his life, just before he could retire and return home to enjoy the dusk of his days with loved ones.

May he rest in eternal peace.

In other news, an elderly, half-paralysed, widowed woman in my neighbourhood got beaten and robbed in her own home. And my recently married cousin's husband has been diagnosed with a degenerative bone disease that will cripple him in a few years.

Whoever said "troubles come in threes" knows life so well.

Hotel parking lot - the new art museum

It's been a while since I last had a girl's night out full of good food, aimless chatter and scandalous gossip. I’d become socially lazy and my life the past few weeks had been all about work, work and more work; with weekends spent with family at home, catching up with movies and books, and the occasional drives out for ice cream or coffee.

I'd forgotten how much fun gossiping was.

So Saturday night, our girl gang made it a point to leave behind kids (where applicable) and husbands (also where applicable), kick up our 4 inch heels and enjoy a night of fun and frolic.

After a huge (and I mean scarfing down so much that you need to undo your jeans button) dinner at a Moroccan restaurant, we headed for some much needed ice cream at a hotel in the city (we are such pigs).

We stumbled out of the car, barely able to pick ourselves up after the meal we'd had, and then stopped dead in our tracks. There, right before our very eyes, was a long line of antique cars. Porsches, Jaguars, a VW van that looked straight out of a classic cops and robbers movie, Fords, Buicks, Mustangs, cars I could not even identify.

Antique cars. In my city.

Oh my God.

I walked up and down the parking lot examining them, drooling over the cars for almost an hour, the security guards close behind following my every move (right, like I could fit a hubcap into my little sequined clutch bag); until one on each arm, my friends dragged me inside.

I have never seen so much beauty in one place. It was like walking onto the streets and finding out the roads were paved in chocolate. Except that we couldn’t eat the cars. Not that I wouldn’t have, but I was already stuffed with couscous.

Dear owner of the red 1960's Jaguar XKE convertible, will you marry me?

A Matter of Marriage

I just re-read yesterday's post and realised most people would probably be thinking "What the..?!" at the:

"and then proceeded to turn down marriage proposal after marriage proposal after marriage proposal."

No I'm not some miss world lookalike (although I do like to think I could be. heheh).

Let me explain.

In our East African-with-Indian-roots community, any girl hitting the ripe old age of 18 is likely to get atleast 10 proposals a year. This is done courtesy of eagle-eyed, match-making huntress aunties who are always, always, on the lookout for the perfect wife for their son/ nephew/ friends' neighbour's sister's son.

They catch you at weddings and in the shops and in deep, dark alleys; critically eye you up and down (trying to catch any physical flaws and disabilities) and, if you meet their requirements, find out who you are (who your parents are I mean, cause you don't matter), where you live and what you do. If you're pretty enough, educated enough (although that's not really all that important) and can cook, you're all set. Added to her list of eligibles, to be made un-eligible at the earliest opportunity.

There are two sorts of marriage set-ups. There is the "love marriage" where a boy and a girl (boy-boy and girl-girl fiercely frowned upon) meet each other somewhere, fall in love and end up getting married. The usual girl meets boy, live happily ever after story.

And there's the arranged marriage, which has evolved over time to become a sort of "arranged+like marriage." Thanks to the huntress aunty, the young girl stranger meets the young (or old) boy stranger (note: the girl always has to be young, attractive and preferably martha-stewart-esque in the home and kitchen. The boy on the other hand, can be young, old, divorced, widowed or pigeon-toed). (No offense to any pigeon-toed people out there). And if they like each other and enjoy the others company, they get married.

In the old days however, the "arranged+like marriage" did not exist. It was simply fixed between both sets of parents, dates set, trousseau bought, preparations made, and the bride and groom actually saw each other for the first time on their wedding night. How crazy is that. But my grandparents had a long happy loving marriage. As did their friends.

And that's that.

Now excuse me won't you, I need to go and fix my flaws.

And then there were none.

My last single guy-friend just got engaged today. That makes 3 engagements and 2 weddings in the last three months. Three months.

It's weird how all my guy friends are either in serious relationships, or getting engaged or married (at such speed you'd think women were suddenly on the list of soon-to-be-extinct species), while us girls are still livin' the single life. A single non-dating life. And not by choice either.

Sadly enough, since all the guys in my city seem to be engaged by 23 (I'm totally serious, I know a guy who actually got married at 18), the only choice we do have are a) psychotic morons b) young, young, young boys c) psychotic morons. Our city is filled with men who sms "I would like to mak fraandship with you" or who yell, from their cars, "hi! can I get your number" (and who'd then probably sms, "I would like to mak fraandship with you"). Or else, if by some incredible stroke of luck, you do meet someone who's witty and interesting; he's either gay, married or 18.

Most people here do get married young... I'm not sure why, maybe there's just not much else to do. While most of my school girl friends got married at 18 (one divorced at 18 and a half), I announced to my family that I wanted to live my life on my own terms, that I'd marry who ever I pleased when-ever I pleased, and then proceeded to turn down marriage proposal after marriage proposal after marriage proposal.

Now at 25, knowing more about who I am and what I want, it's harder and harder to find a guy I really really like being with. My friends call me fussy mc fusser, but spending an hour with a guy who can go on and on and on about himself is really not my idea of a good time. Even if he's really hot. By the end of that "conversation," I knew the name of pets his grandfather had had as a child. He could not have told me where I worked if his life depended on it.

Anyway, I'm really not yet desperate enough to spend my life with a guy who can't spell friendship.

Lady of Un-Leisure

When it gets as busy as it's been at work this past week, and I've got people breathing down my neck for deadlines that had to be met yesterday, and I can't find enough time to run to the cooler for a glass of water, I can't help but envy, E-N-V-Y, women who don't work. They have the luxury of long lunches and catching up with friends over coffee, endless shoe shopping and chatting on msn without interruption.

I've been working ever since I finished school. Three jobs in hmmm let's see, almost six years. I loved, loved, loved the first one, then I got ambitious (a.k.a greedy) and moved on to a better paycheck and the boring-est job on the planet. No internet and hardly any work, I got so good at computer games I would beat myself at minesweeper atleast 12 times a day. Solitaire I could play with my eyes closed. Well, you know what I mean. B-O-R-I-N-G.

Somehow I survived the year and finally moved on to where I am now. Never ending stress, workmares and hair-pulling heart-attack-inducing panic attacks. But I enjoy it. It's interesting for the most part, and it certainly keeps me on my toes. The only trouble is, I never have time for myself. If I need personal supplies, a haircut, a new pair of shoes, I have to make a schedule and actually work out how much time I'll have for what. Seriously, have you ever tried buying new shoes in five minutes? Won't happen.

Oh what I wouldn't do to have three months of free time for nothing but sofa-slouching and tv. And well, other things, because three months of living on the sofa is just plain crazy.

Meanwhile I gotta figure out when I can go pick up my laundry before they sell off my clothes.

History of Me.

Well not really. But since beginnings tend to be a little awkward (and I really don't know how to start this off), I'll tell you a bit about who I am and where I come from. I live in a coastal East African city - yes that's right, miles and miles of white sandy beaches and coconut trees and long, hot, sunny days... spent confined in a tiny little airconditioned office.

I'm quarter-Indian, quarter-Pakistani and quarter-exotic-African-Island*. Okay i know that only makes three-fourths, but I never said I was a math genius. My dad, born in said exotic-African-island, of Indian immigrant parents who had set out to East Africa in a dhow from India in hopes of fame and fortunes. Well, fortunes really. They were never really the publicity crazy type.

My mother of Indian-Pakistani origin met my dad at a wedding, they smiled at each other across a crowded room and thus I was born. Not immediately ofcourse. After a wedding and a decent interval. And another baby.

And this blog is born to tell my story. Also because everyone is entitled to my opinions.

*Names and places have been kept confidential to protect the identity of this writer. 'Cause who knows what I might want to blab in future. [Just because you aren't paranoid doesn't mean they aren't out to get you.]