The Seattle-ite has been defined tons of times, but I couldn’t resist adding my two (or 15) cents to it. Here’s my black and white definition of the Northwestern gray species of humans, most commonly found in urban watering holes.
You know you’re a Seattle-ite when…
- You think it doesn’t rain that much, and that the gray is overstated.
- You always keep an umbrella in the car, but never use it.
- You have done or are training for something superhuman, like STP, marathon or triathlon. 10k is for lightweights.
- You have tried at least a couple of yoga classes. Whether you liked it or not, you still think yogis are cool and spiritually elevated.
- You think the big hullabaloo over legalizing weed is so yesterday. Yawn.
- You think more highly of brands like North Face, Columbia and ASICS than Coach, Gucci and Louis Vuitton.
- Your idea of dressy includes chic clothes paired with stylish sneakers.
- Your idea of a fun weekend is a hike in the mountains followed by a picnic lunch… in all seasons.
- Your idea of a nice anniversary date involves your favorite brewery.
- You can’t remember the last time you had non-microbrew beer. In fact, you have at least one growler in your home bar, promptly refilled before any party.
- You start liking grunge. Listening to sad and angry music makes you happy, and happy music annoys you.
- Your gardening work never involves watering the garden. In fact, you can’t even find your garden hose.
- You don’t honk at the guy who stalled traffic by changing 4 lanes at the intersection. After that, you patiently let another driver cut in front of you.
- You enjoy the rare sunny, 80-degree days to the fullest. But after two days of that, you crave for the ‘perfect’ 70-degree weather, with some cloud cover.
- You go to Vancouver and Portland many times a year, but it’s been years since you stepped into the Eastside, because “it’s so far”!
Note: To my best knowledge, this post comes from my own gray matter (pun intended), but then this is a popular topic and the Seattl-ite has only so many salient characteristics, so I wouldn’t be surprised if you had an eerie déjà vu about some of them… although I really hope you don’t!
If blogging was like walking into a bar, then bloggers would be that girl on top of the bar counter double fisting b-52s and tequila shots, that girl whispering to her BFFs, that girl at the corner pretending to like being alone but really hoping someone buys her a drink, and finally, that girl you just want to kiss and fall madly in love with. And what about male bloggers? For this post, you get to wear those fishnet stockings and 4-inch heels and live your fantasies, cos I’m serious… bloggers are like that girl at the bar.
- The slut: These bloggers have an opinion on everything, and they love to talk about it. They flirt with many fancies—cooking, memoirs, current events, you name it, they’ve already blogged about it. They update their blogs thrice a day on a slow day, and are always on top of all categories. A lot of them are part of blogging directories, and take up every blogging contest/challenge in the community with gusto. They read (or at least pretend to have read) every blog that’s updated and leave short, encouraging comments on all of them. Needless to say, they have great traffic to their blog owing to the sheer number of blogs and topics they cover. They’re ranked high on the blogging directories, but they’re not taken very seriously by their peers who wonder, do these bloggers have a life?
- The prude: These bloggers think their opinion is special, and that it should be shared with the chosen few who really deserve it. So they blog selectively, read other blogs selectively and leave intellectually superior comments on them to distinguish themselves from other casual readers. If their inspiration ever wanders from their favorite topic, they quickly rein it back in, or write about it on another blog… dedicated to that topic. These bloggers are quite passionate about their topic, and are often quite good. They have a relatively smaller but loyal following, because readers either love their blog or go “yawn”!
- The babe: These bloggers have it nailed. They may or may not be extraordinarily intellectual or creative, but they are certainly loved by all. They are consistent but not afraid to experiment. They read a lot of other blogs and leave insightful comments. They flirt too, they wing it too, but they pull it off so well that you feel they really read your blog and empathize with you. They have mastered the delicate and slightly flaky ways of the blogging world. These bloggers have everything—high traffic, high directory rankings, genuine readers and genuine admirers… including me. I wanna be you!
- The wallflower: These bloggers are a little shy, a little conscious of their writing skills and a little too proud to market themselves. After all, their blog rocks! They lurk at the corners of the blogging world, quietly typing away at blogs, upset that there is no respect for talent anymore. They detest the sluts for getting all the glory, pity the prudes for their superiority complex and love-hate the babes for being so perfect. The wallflowers often have well-designed, intricately thought of blogs, and if you ever chance upon one, you’ll probably stay a while. If you ever find them, that is. Blowing your own trumpet isn’t so bad all the time.
- And finally, the hot-cold: These bloggers—and I’m one of them—are confused. We passionately write four blogs in three days and then disappear for a month. We write about this and that. We pounce on one or two blogging contests but feel like we’re intellectually whoring by participating in too many of those. We sometimes leave inspiring comments on blogs we really enjoy, and sometimes leave comments on lukewarm blogs because that blogger did so on ours. We often lose the opportunity to repeat traffic because we’re either forgotten by the time we write again or write about something entirely different. So our traffic is often sporadic and our blog makes you wonder what it’s all about. Thankfully, most hot-cold bloggers are often new in town and eventually find their own personality, their own gang and hopefully, their muse.
So who are you going home with tonight?
So Woman’s Day has come and gone. Retail stores got another opportunity for a sale, Hallmark got another boost in greeting card sales before mother’s day and sister’s day and father’s day and that-guy-you-met-at-the-bus-stop-day come around and we all got pampered with inspiring articles and FB status updates.
It’s great being a woman. Even though it means I’ll never be completely happy with my figure or my shoe collection, I wouldn’t swap this for anything else.
But on this day, let’s not forget the men who make us happy women. And just why should they share our limelight?
- They don’t get a men’s day where the whole world tells them they are so special because they’re men, regardless of whether they are angels or assholes. I agree, that’s not very original, but how would we feel if they did have a men’s day with all the pampering and the works, and we didn’t?
- They put up with our “Can you believe she said this?” bitching game and “So brown shoes or red? But this won’t go with my hairclip!” matching game whether they want to or not. Of course, we hone their social and aesthetic quotient and make them understand beauty better, but they don’t realize we’re doing them a favor by helping us pick out our outfit, do they?
- Whether they are our fathers, brothers or partners, they make a big paradigm shift. They get used to 28-day calendars instead of 365-day ones. They understand acronyms and phrases like PMS, DSW and “whatever”. They get used to us borrowing their shaving gel to shave our legs and not putting it back. They realize that splurging on that hundredth pair of shoe doesn’t make us vain or greedy, but it’s comparable to their search for the perfect tool-kit. In any case, they choose to empathize with us instead of ridiculing us.
- They put up with our hypocrisies. Really, how is swooning over Johnny Depp justified when admiring Angelina Jolie equals staring at her boobs? How is bringing up his mistakes from five years ago justified when he’s not allowed to bring up the last time you missed a credit card payment?
But seriously, thank you, dear men for making my day every day of the year. Thank you for being straightforward with me and telling me when I’m wrong so I can improve. Thank you for telling me I’m beautiful on the days I look like hell. Thank you for wrapping me in your arms and making me feel like the safest, strongest person in the world.
Here’s my return gift to you.
- I know how deep it cuts you when I cry, so I promise not to be weepy unless I absolutely can’t hold out. And I promise never to use them as tools of emotional blackmail.
- I promise to always mean what I say, because that’s what you do, and it makes my life so much easier.
- This is for my best buddies: I promise not to make you my girlfriend. After all, the reason I like you is because I prefer being around you over girl(y) friends. My select gang of girlfriends knows exactly what I’m talking about, so I’m not worried they will take offence.
- This is for my dad: I promise to hold your hand when we walk and kiss you good night no matter how old I get, because that’s why you love having daughters… we’re not ashamed to say we love you.
- And finally, this is for my man: I promise not to get jealous of the other women in your life. Unless they are hotter than me, of course.
Happy Woman’s day, all. And wish you a happy every day.
Remember those NRI relatives who would only drink Bisleri water, incessantly complained about the unclean streets and took vaccinations before they travelled to their homeland?
Now it’s quite the opposite. Most of our generation is more grounded, takes more pride in our origins and actively tries to preserve our roots. We were cool even before we set foot on a foreign land, and we took to our new world like dolphins to the sea. We don’t need to flash our international baggage tags and complain about jet lag for two weeks to feel cool. Instead, as soon as we dump our bags we head to our favorite roadside vendor and have that vada pao (vada sambhar in my case) like it should be had. Our accent disappears on its own on the flight into India and returns on the flight out. We make mental notes to change the units in our head (km, not miles. Kilos, not pounds) just so we don’t accidentally come across as being a showoff. We do everything to ensure that living in India for only a few weeks of the year hasn’t changed us a bit. We are the generation of closet NRI’s.
But after 8 years of living abroad, I’m dismayed to realize that NRI is not just an attitude problem. It is as real as your fear of ghosts. Never mind if ghosts are real, but the fear is.
Here are a few signs that you may just be a closet NRI, and tips to stay safely in that closet.
Ettu, Tummy? After landing in Bangalore, I eagerly run to the nearest Adiga’s and order my usual Mysore Masala Dosa, Vada Sambhar and filter coffee to satisfy my South-Indian cravings. But I sniffle through the dosa and weep my way through the vada because they’re too spicy, painfully aware that they’ll make me cry on their way out too. Ouch.
A delicate stomach is the biggest symptom of NRI-hhea. Your tummy and palate have gotten used to the blander food you eat every day. And the germophobic society you live in doesn’t help your immune system either. I order a lassi or a sweet along with my food so I can eat in a more dignified manner. Yoghurt is also great for the digestive system. And when I return, I add an extra half teaspoon of chilli powder to my normal cooking, just to keep up with the spice levels of my vacation.
And the germs? You don’t have to apologize for your stomach having turned an NRI. Just don’t baby it and make it more complacent. If you have to, secretly take a course of mild antibiotics after you land so your body has a little help in adjusting to its new environment. And then get back to living it up, for the best chaats aren’t made in five-star hotels.
- You’re dumb without your smartphone. You stand on a street full of restaurants, biting your nails and lost on which one to eat at. Your smartphone is probably not unlocked to be used with an Indian SIM, and you’re using your mom’s Nokia 1100. That means no Yelp or Open Table or Trip Advisor. Even if you do have a working smartphone, there aren’t enough Burrp reviews and the few that are there look fake. You’re incapable of making a decision and you freeze up.
As a safe option, I visit my old haunts unless I know better options. Nostalgia’s a good excuse for the unadventurous. Better still, I let my friends decide where to meet. And I always make sure mom’s kept some food in the fridge, just in case.
- You get cheated because you’ve become naïve. That auto driver didn’t reset the meter when you started, and gave you lesser change. People cut in on you in lines all the time. The supermarket cashier billed you for the chewing gum but it never came home. You’re outraged that some random stranger wasn’t honest when you trusted him for no reason at all.
Remember your mom’s words when you were ten? Check the bill, check the items and count the change. Take nothing for granted. Naïve is another word for dumb, and you don’t want to be that. The next time someone cuts into my line, I’m speaking up, because trying to stare them down doesn’t work when I’m staring at their backs.
- You’re always the first one to arrive. You remember how Indian Standard Time works, you even worked it yourself once. And you know that your friends aren’t really going to arrive at 8 PM. So you play video games, read the newspaper for the third time, take a little nap, take extra time getting dressed and still land up only 15 minutes past 8 PM and spend the next half hour alone and overdressed.
If you don’t want to be early, be late. Simple. I plan to reach late not for an 8 PM table, but for an 8:30 PM table. That way my fashionably late is fashionable. If you’re too late, you can always blame it on that old friend—jet lag.
- You’re dehydrated because you don’t drink water. What else do you do when you’re travelling out of the city and don’t want to step into dark, smelly public restrooms?
But it’s unhealthy. Being a guy is only slightly better when you’re travelling.
So what do you do?
Yoga, baby! Remember chair pose? Oh yeah. Learn to squat in mid-air, and girls, learn to aim!
But seriously, I plan my day so I’m going to be at a restaurant which has relatively cleaner restrooms. I also drink lots of water an hour before my lunch break and before heading to bed to stay hydrated.
After you return, visit your local highway gas stations to see that West isn’t always the best. Ever hiked? If compostable ‘honey bucket’s don’t make you start squatting, nothing will.
Enjoy your vacation, my dear NRI’s. And stay in that closet.
At least once every 30th birthday party, someone says “Welcome to the new 20’s!”
But do you really want to relive your 20’s? Do you remember yourself at 20? We were less confused and more sure of ourselves than as teenagers, but we still didn’t have a clue about anything. We drove too fast, spoke too loud and partied too hard because we could. I did too, and no regrets about that! But we also took people too seriously, took ourselves too seriously and had quite a few trips and falls on our way to adulthood. Criticisms hurt us deep, our own shortcomings betrayed us and failures broke us.
I’ve always believed that every five years, you graduate into a new phase of life. Your views mature, your opinions find clarity (and sometimes, an immovable conviction which may be good or bad) and you look at things very differently. Seriously, a 25 year old thinks differently from a 20-year old and if they don’t, God help them! But the 20’s as a decade have a common theme running through them — getting comfortable with yourself, with life and with your place in the universe.
I’ve lived up my 20’s, and I am what I am because of them. Good times taught me to let my hair down and enjoy. Tough times taught me perseverance. Mean people gave me bitter lessons in human nature while friends, family and ironically, my pets taught me to have faith in humanity. My partner taught me to love myself for what I am. I won, I lost, I flew and tripped and crashed, but somewhere along the way, I learned to keep my head and find balance.
Today, I am comfortable with the best and worst of myself, I am more confident and I know when to care about people’s opinions and when to give a damn. I take myself a little less seriously and I laugh more — both at myself and at the little joys of life. I am a little less tolerant of bullshit but may go a little more by conviction than reason sometimes. I’m more considerate but I may be a bit forgetful — for the life of me, I can’t remember what I did on my 20th birthday! I’ve conquered a few old fears, picked up some new ones and made peace with some — I’ll never watch a horror movie or calmly manage creepy crawlies, but at least I know my limits. I still don’t know the purpose of my life, but I’ve got the rest of my life to figure that out and I have a feeling I’m on the right path.
Granted, I’d choose my figure at 21 any day, but I look forward to the 30’s, simply because I know I’ve gotten all that I could out of my 20’s. But there will be challenges and oddballs of a different kind — I may be young at heart, but how will I like myself when those fine lines attack my skin and see the first splash of gray? Will I feel beautiful when I become enormous during motherhood? How will I see dear ones experiencing the troubles of old age? There are so many more profound questions that I still can’t even form but still fret over.
But que sara sara, I tell myself, for if I’ve come so far, I’ll go farther. And just like time, there’s only one way to go in life — forward. If the 20’s have taught me anything, it’s that life doesn’t care about ages and decades when it’s handing out its lessons.
So as I blow the candles out this birthday, although I’ll be cursing the increased lungpower required to blow all those darn candles out, I’ll warm my heart with the experiences past, keep my eyes on the future and keep my feet firmly in the present. For today is tomorrow’s yesterday, and your best shot at making happy memories is to live it up now.
While you figure that last bit out, on a lighter note, here’s three things I can’t believe I said in my 20’s:
- Whee!! I gained two kilos! Now my jeans will finally fit!
- I wish I had a bit of gray hair so people would take me seriously 😦
- Dude … when we’re old, like when we’re thirty-five or something, we’ll be those uncles and aunties that our mothers warned us of!
Younger me, you may just be right about that one!
Like reading that infamous magazine at salons or secretly flip thru your spouse’s flush-tank library in the privacy of your bathroom? If you learn a few tricks from them, you just might get more clicks and likes on your blog.
1. Catchy titles. If you’ve read at least two Cosmos, you know what catches your attention. No, you don’t need to restrict yourself to writing about sex or steamy secrets to grab those (eye) balls, but choose a fascinating topic or a fascinating title to sell your un-fascinating topic. If it sounds controversial or like a self-help guide, it will arouse people’s curiosity, for curiosity doesn’t just kill cats. It kills time, too.
2. Philosophy-proof it. Ever had Cosmo preach you on morality or attempt a profound topic on your place in the universe? If people wanted to know the answer to life, they surely wouldn’t be browsing through their Facebook newsfeed or Gmail notifications to click into your blog. They want an easy, mildly intellectual entertainment. So entertain them. And keep a private journal of your philosophical arguments so you can laugh at them decades later. (Really? You thought they served single malt scotch in heaven?)
3. Timing is everything. See how they publish articles on how to keep your man from straying just when a celebrity cheating scandal hits the stands? Stay updated. Also, if you’re a FB blog promoter, remember that most people only see the top few items on their Facebook newsfeed, so put yours in the top five when they have the time to actually read it. Do not post just as office hours are starting or ending, or as weekends are beginning or ending, or when people are most likely catching their workouts or sleeping.
4. Photos. A picture speaks a thousand words, right? And no one has time or patience to read a thousand words. Admit it, you didn’t really pick up your first Cosmo for reading. So get clicking.
5. Lists, lists, lists. Cosmo has immortalized lists, and for a good reason. Your friends would rather get in on the hot gossip on their newsfeed than read a lengthy, wordy blog on why you love dolphins. So keep it short and bullet-point it to make it easier to browse through. Choose a nice-sounding number of steps (5,7 and10 sound better than 4,6 and 8; 3 is too short and anything more than 10 is too long) and make sure your title says ‘x-steps to …’ to tell people it’s a list.
Never thought that the quintessential waiting room mag could actually do more than help you kill time, right?
You’re now ready to celebrate this in 7 ways…
If you’re one of those people whose name is a four-letter word (pun intended) or can be shortened to a sensible four-letter word, probably nothing. Of course, you love your name, think your nickname’s pretty cool and move on to more important things in life. Lucky you. You’ve never been that weirdo with that weird name no one has the guts to even attempt saying.
Really, you think people never get your name right, you Ameets and Aroons and Hais? Try Sriramaprakash. That’s right, no breaks in between. And I saw you blink there.
Somehow, all parts of my name are jinxed. I was born Chaitanya VS, prefer Chaitanya Vembar but I’m officially Sriramaprakash C Vembar.
North Indian teachers called me chey-than-ee-aa-vee-ess. Friends teased me with Chutney-aa or Vembar-Sambar. I’ve responded to being called my similar-sounding sister’s name, my dad’s name, a pharmacy’s name (CVS robbed me of the only easy version of my name), a Starbucks beverage (Chai, anyone?) and now respond to a bewildered look followed by, “Er… You.”
When I introduce myself, people blank out for a bit and then ask me to repeat it, and Indians then solemnly inform me that Chaitanya is a guy’s name. I say, no, it’s unisex. But they insist, some even vehemently, because no girl has ever been called that before. So we’ve had invitations, prizes, legal documents arriving for Mr. Chaitanya, and the look of surprise on people’s face when they finally meet me no longer surprises us. My wedding invite looked like a gay wedding, and if I take my husband’s name, it reinforces the maleness of my name. Seriously, I wanted to be called Chaitanya Aadarsh, but its implications would be worse for Adi.
All that with my actual first name. Now my erroneous passport that carelessly shuffled a few harmless initials around makes people unequivocally think of a guy when they hear my name—a weird one at that.
Now, just like everybody else, I love my name. All of it. The long one’s my dad’s name, so I love it too—on him. And I hate the ISKCON parents for naming their kids (incidentally, all boys) Chaitanya. If you’re called Chaithanya or Chaitra or Tanya, I dislike you just a wee bit. I want to be unique, just like everybody else.
But I wish I could change a few things about it.
First, I wish I were a guy with a girl’s name instead. Being a girl has its perks, right? I had to find my own way from the airport when I moved to the US for my Master’s, a stranger in a strange land, and find new room mates and everything because the eager single guys at the India Club thought I was a guy, and the brownie points wouldn’t count if they weren’t being a knight in shining armor to a lost and lonely female student. One guy actually told me later that he’d have given me a ride if only he’d known I was a girl. I vehemently boycotted the club all through my program.
Second, I wish people would at least try to say my name right. Hey, you say Schwarzenegger, don’t you? Fine, I couldn’t say that for the longest time, so you’re forgiven. But Chai, as in Chai-tea latte and Tanya are easy to put together. Just don’t call me Tanya, I’ve seen too many vamps on soap operas with that name. It annoys me when people don’t even get Vembar. The R is important; Vembaaa tells me you’re a lazy goat.
But in a world of two-syllable names and little exposure to foreign names, I often lose out on the sayability scale.
However, every dark cloud has a silver lining, and I’ve made the most of it. For starters, I never have to think of icebreaker topics. A warm smile followed by, “That’s me, it’s a tough name, isn’t it” almost always elicits a sheepish grin from the addressee. I get an instant you’re-one-of-us smile from everyone when I introduce myself at ISKCON. I had ambitious plans to share mine and dad’s frequent flyer numbers until somebody else probably tried and got caught and now we’re required to enter age and gender. And it’s always with a pleasant surprise that people realize I’m a girl when they meet me. There is an unspoken self-sexism that exists among the males sometimes.
Finally, I thank my lucky stars I don’t have one of those funny Indian names that get transliterated into scandalously funny nicknames. I have some of you on my friend list, so I’ll skip examples and save my friendships. My due respect to you folks, but I feel your pain. And I sincerely hope you’ve learned to laugh at yourselves too.
After all, weird is a form of unique, isn’t it?
We are the generation that has seen it all. We spooled stuck cassettes with pencils, switched to shiny round CDs and then reached new levels of coolness with iPods. We started writing with wooden pencils that needed sharpening every hundred words, switched to the more advanced ‘pen-tils’ or mechanical pencils and now scramble to find a single pen in the house when the rare occasion demands that something be written down. My dad would flip if he saw me writing on the back of receipts or on my bare hands with my lip-liner.
However, we’ve changed with the times, and the times have been merciful to us. No longer do we lose our precious music collection because the tape caught fungus or the dog scratched the CD. Of course, the iPod is treacherous too and even more so—ask me how lethal the combination of butterfingers and water can be to your decades old music collection. Not to mention the shortcuts that make us stupid and lazy. No longer do we listen to the entire tape just to get to our favorite song. And no longer do we bother to spell correctly anymore, because spell-checking software covers up for abysmally bad spellings.
Typos are my biggest pet peeves. If you’re someone who mixes lose with loose, muddles their and they’re and there and bungles to and too, I secretly want to take you back to those dreaded primary school classrooms and make you write their spellings 500 times on the blackboard, a fool’s cap over your head. Dyslexia arising from complacency gets none of my sympathy. If you didn’t learn your spellings and their contexts right, the least you can do is run spell check. Let’s not even go into grammatical errors.
But I’ll still be your friend, because I have my stumbling blocks too, and I hide behind MS word’s brilliant auto-correct too. My tripping points?
– Occasion or occasion or occasion? (See, MS word auto-corrected all of them. How difficult was that?)
– Tomorrow (2ms? 1r?)
– Opportunity (it’s oppo, not oppu)
– Weird (Write 500 times, my frIEnds are not wEIrd)
– Erase (no Z in American English? I didn’t realize that)
Spell-check’s great, but there’s no substitute for knowing your stuff, right? And even that’s not enough sometimes. This friend once told me I’m a schizophrenic when he wanted to compliment me for being a quiet wild-child. Well, he’s French, he’s forgiven—mostly because he at least spelled it right. How about hearing your favorite song playing in the background on your first date and blurting out, “oh, I love U2!” Wish they had a babelfish to contextually auto-correct oral conversations.
Digressions apart, I write a bit and read a lot, and MS Word is my loyal helper. But as we have all discovered to much chagrin one time or the other, do we really trust it? Believe me, a world without MS word would be as much torture to me as a library full of crosswords and no pencils. But just like me, Ms Word is imperfect too. Sometimes she PMSes and complains incessantly (Fragment—consider revising! Comma use! Adjective use!). Sometimes she’s too lenient (grey v/s gray, leant v/s leaned) and you get your spelling culturally wrong, even with the American Dictionary turned on. Sometimes you wonder if she skipped English classes, messing up her its and it’s, who and whom and my most hated you’re and your. I hate it when I can’t get a synonym for idiot, and how crap gets corrected to craps. Wha…? Ms Word, you’re too prim, Siri’s cooler!
The only thing that annoys the craps out of me more is my now drowned iPhone’s auto-correct, which has been much thrashed already.
The bright side? Hey, at least the age of high-speed texting on the Nokia 1100’s is over. Thank you QWERTY for helping me think less harder to interpret my messages.
BFN. CU, U R gr8! ❤ U all!
|Ten great things about the state of Married-Ness||Ten not so great things about the state of Married-Ness|
|10.You have a whole new family to fall back on||10. You have a whole new family giving you (unsolicited) advice and fussing over you|
|9. You don’t have to vacuum, take out the trash or get rid of that giant spider yourself||9. Those super lazy cereal-for breakfast, cereal-for-lunch, Maggi–for-dinner days are officially over. You get used to dragging your feet to the kitchen in any state|
|8. Someone else pays for your shopping||8. You feel guilty indulging in $200 shoe-shopping trips when your shoe closet is overflowing in the first place, and he is content with his 6 pairs of shoes|
|7. Someone puts Tiger Balm on your forehead and makes you a ridiculously difficult but insanely delicious food when you have a migraine||7. No more tantrums. Ladies, the ring officially takes away your rights to any tantrums (I’m as tantrum-free as they come, but I’d still like to see my husband get me 5 red heart-shaped balloons for Valentine’s day, tied to his bike- just for kicks!)|
|6. One more special day in the year to get gifts!||6. Yet another special day in the year to give gifts. What do I get him again that is unique, just what he needs AND lasts forever???|
|5. You can wake someone up in the middle of the night and feel safer when you have a nightmare||5. You have to put up with snoring, and another alarm snooze|
|4. Random, don’t-stand-a-chance acquaintances don’t hit on you (“Can I make friendship with you?”)||4. The single hotties don’t waste their time on you. Ladies, that means no more “this one’s on me” either|
|3. Your social life expands two-fold to give you plenty of choices between having wild night outs, fun days in the park or cozy family dinners||3. Little Indian kids switch from calling you ‘akka’ or ‘didi’ to ‘Aunty’|
|2. Bottomline-you’re pampered (Fresh flowers all around the house, that special weekend-morning chai with just the right amount of milk, sitting through animated Disney princess movies once in a while…)||2. Ridicule and total disrespect for your OCDs frustrate the $%@& out of you (Spices arranged alphabetically, sheets crease-free throughout the night, comforter exactly parallel to the bed…)|
|1. You have a best friend to snuggle up to on bad days, open your heart out to and not be judged for it||1. You have to go all the way to the bathroom to fart (hey, everyone farts!)|