Category: Emotions

Bobbleheads, solar dancers and the kind…

  

In the midst of “monkeys jumping on the bed, kittens losing their mittens and the wheels on the bus going round and round”, there is one thing that keeps me sane, other than my baby girl smiling of course, and that is the innumerable bobbleheads/solar dancers that are dancing on my patio stand. I love them. No wonder I run to the Dollar Tree once they come out with the new collection. Currently, I have around 20 of them. Different characters, all dancing merrily in the sun, or even on a cold windy day.

Every day when my baby is having her morning nap, I love sitting on the sofa, looking at them nodding their heads merrily, slowly going tkk-tkk. There is some sort of peace in watching them move. Probably, it is the rhythm, or the precision of every bobble. A lot of people turn their heads to see the dancers, while they are walking the dog, or going for a walk, or a jog. I have seen quite a number of people smile looking at them. Our Fedex delivery lady loves them. She says so herself every time she drops a package.

I add on to the collection every now and then, much to my husband’s displeasure. He hates the Dollar Tree and he hates my bobbleheads, though the first bobblehead I bought, the valentine devil, adores his otherwise messy cubicle. This was last year, when I didn’t know a little devil of our own was on her way. I am addicted to them and have passed on the same thing to my mother in law. Why else would she take these back to India? 😛

As I write this post, I see my baby girl playing on her gym mat and my adorable dancers dancing away to glory to the tunes of the sun in sunny SanDiego. Sure, life is messy, but these bobbleheads teach us that we still can dance all day long.

pooja

 

Charging Bull

Source: Wikimedia Commons
Jimmy Joe, my friend, 
walked through the Wall Street,
thinking of the years he had spent minting
money, that he never needed. He let out a 
sigh, slid on ice and crumpled down on the 
ground like an old sack. Out from his 
pocket, came a weed. He smoked a 
pot, blew into his mouth-organ a sad song
that carried his past, that carried his present,
and his future. His life had shown him the middle finger,
for he had given it a fuck. He now wandered
aimlessly, thinking history will repeat itself
and he will be charging, sitting on the bull
that had been fed on money and not on
the love that was now, not his. He
had loved his wife, she was no Marilyn Monroe,
she had left him for another, 
when his shares came crashing down.
He was down in the dumps, but, even dumps 
wouldn’t take him, for, he had rejected them once.
He thought money could buy him happiness,
and it did, for sometime. But, he lost his happiness
and he lost his money, because, he forgot to be a human,
he forgot to be humane!
*As a part of NaPoWriMo. #21
*The prompt by NaPoWriMo today was: “to write a “New York School” poem using the recipe found here. The New York School is the name by which a group of poets that all lived in New York in the 1950s and 1960s. The most well-known members are Frank O’Hara, John Ashbery, and Kenneth Koch. Their poems are actually very different from one another, but many “New York School” poems display a sort of conversational tone, references to friends and to places in and around New York, humor, inclusion of pop culture, and a sense of the importance of art (visual, poetic, and otherwise). Here’s a fairly representative example.
In following the recipe, you can include as many (or as few) of the listed elements as you wish.
” 
*Also, do visit my friends who are participating in the challenge. You won’t be disappointed.
pooja

Milk and me…

 

Crazy title? Not really, there are so many underlying emotions associated with “milk”. Sic sic.

Err..I will stop being a shitty piece of melodramatic fur ball that I am and tell you why I hate milk ! Wait a minute, from the title, did you by any chance think that I love milk? No, not even in my dreams can I love milk.  And when I say milk, I refer to the white, frothy, plain, liquid source of the so called “very important calcium”. 
 
It all started 27 years ago, (I will be 27 this August, wish me “Happy B’day”, ok? *Rolls her eyes and thinks how much more lame can she get*) , when I was a baby. I don’t remember if I hated milk then but my mommy tells me that I was a terror to be breastfed. I realise it is such a pain for the small babies to drink the same plain milk for months together. I would have preferred atleast flavored milk, or say, a pizza to munch along with it, but, I don’t know why, mommy doesn’t agree. Mommies, I say, are very stubborn.
 
The hatred grew stronger with age. My mom would run behind me with a glass of milk every single day. She tried to feed me plain milk, Complan, Horlicks, Bournvita, Boost, etc but I wouldn’t budge. I cried, wailed, woke up the neighbours but I refused to drink milk. One day she asked me as to why I hated milk so much. I told her, “I can smell the cow/buffalo in the milk and it stinks so horribly that my nose wants to go hide somewhere at the sight of milk”. Wait a minute, does nose see? Forget it, let me continue. So, according to her, the problem was the smell. Wrong. The problem was bigger. It was the smell, the taste and the texture. 
 
My mom couldn’t cope up with the tantrum I threw on seeing milk. So, she decided to leave me and the milk alone so that we could bond over time. She was wrong. I was elated when she left me alone with the milk. I found so many new ways to dispose off the milk that my mom didn’t know what method I would use next. When mom wasn’t around, I would pour the milk in the sink, sometimes, in the bathroom. But she found out. I wasn’t the one to give up. I found a new way to dispose it off. I would go feed the milk to our “Sapota/ Chikoo” tree. Believe me, I am responsible for the ever sweet, most tasty fruits we get every year from that tree. I fed it the nutrition it wanted, depriving myself of it. I am so proud of my sacrifice.
 
Mom stopped telling me to drink milk as I grew older. She started giving me curd, buttermilk, ice creams, milkshakes, flavoured milk as substitutes which I enjoyed. I hated only plain milk you see.  Only if she had thought of all this before, she would have freed herself from so much hassle. 
 
Present day situation is no different. They say “In life, opposites attract”. It is true. My husband loves milk. I can’t appreciate the fact for reasons you already know. But, he hates fruit. So, now we have found a way where both of us drink milk and eat fruit without cribbing – thanks to milkshake. I drink milkshake thinking it has fruits and my husband drinks milkshake thinking it has milk. It is all about perception you see.
 
P.S. : I have no idea why there is no connection between the various paragraphs of this post. *Realises that it is the same with all her posts and smirks.*

pooja


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