Serafina AWOL

Today Serafina the guinea pig ran away. She had been taken out of her cage and was enjoying the lawn and the bright summer day when she slipped out of Anoushka's hands and scampered away. Never to be found again.

Anoushka has been sad all day. Her tears well-up every few minutes, threatening to spill-over and cascade. We keep assuring her that we'll look for Serafina and she'll come back but it doesn't really help cheer her up.

Just an hour ago, she set the words to a new song, to the tune of Frere Jacques - Serafina, Serafina, will you come, will you come, we love you, we love you, will you come, will you come?

So we decided to join in and ended up introducing another word to her lines - We 'really' love you....

"Stop you guys!! Stop, Stop!! There's no 'really' here - just we e e e love you, no 'really'!! Try again!"

So this time Anil said, "Wow, she can really sing! Just like her Dad!" (he never likes admitting his wife can carry a tune better!)

Anoushka said, "Helloo! Er...Daddy...did you forget you don't really know how to sing?

"You are a bad singer (said with a matter of fact shrug). It's Ok, I still love you!"

Poor Anil! What a blow! :))

Stage of Love

One day during a long drive to upstate New York or Canada, our favorite tedious car rides, she demanded cartoons. We moaned and groaned and asked her how we could get cartoons for her in the car. She chided me gently saying it wasn’t hard at all and aimed an imaginary remote control somewhere toward the rearview mirror, said “click”, smiled and said, “There!”. Then she handed this “remote”, also known as the “clicker” in our home, to me. I had to reach for it and take it because she wanted me to change the channel to “Spongebob Squarepants”. Of course the catchy opening tune was then demanded, “The song, mommy!” and I had no choice but to clear my throat and launch into a soulful rendition of, “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS, absorbent and yellow and porous is he, SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS, SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS, SPONGEBOBBBBBBBBBB, SQUAREPANTS!! Ta da da da da da ta da da!”, replete with the final beats. History, rather a family tradition, was created that day.

Every car ride has since become a live cartoon show, with one of us getting in character as Spongebob or Patrick the starfish or Squidward or their mammal friend Sandy, who always has an oxygen bubble on during her under the sea travels. The other one of us naturally representing the forces of evil in Plankton or Mr Crab. If the creators of this ubiquitous cartoon were to hear the turns the story takes they would hire her on the spot, she could feed us for life! The channel keeps getting changed through Fairly Odd Parents, Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends, Kim Possible, Jimmy Neutron… a never-ending parade of shows! There is no getting away!

Then we have the messes and the spills that have rendered a beige carpet rainbow hued, tiny Lego bits that jab the soles of our bare feet and clumps of dried play dough on every available surface. One would think the child is left to run wild without much disciplining of any kind. Not true, she gets the stern look every now and then or the inquiry about spills or messes and the answer comes back, “Bad Anoushka did it! It wasn’t me mommy!” Sometimes Bad Anoushka is replaced by Hernia. Hernia is apparently evil and even worse than Bad Anoushka. She is reserved for the more egregious crimes of messiness like Sunny-D and Oreo cookie soup, or a brown and viscous concoction stirred up in a cereal bowl that earns the distinction of being “mashed potato soup”. Invariably it is Hernia at the other end of the toy ladle stirring things up in this particular cauldron.

The world is a stage that often finds dad and daughter front and center, facing a one person audience of yours truly; some of us were meant to observe, applaud, marvel and laugh uproariously, capturing each memory for future recollection. They’ve devised this act where the tiny dictator, the supreme ruler of this house on top of a winding hill path, commands, “Bring the Green Goblin!” Her humble attendant waves his index finger across his face, blinks his eyes a couple of times, and emerges in character saying, “I am going to destroy Spiderman!” Sometimes in more compassionate moments he is asked to bring Peter Parker’s uncle just so the line – With great power comes great responsibility – can get repeated. The stories almost always launch into previously unexplored directions, quite the writer’s dream, as these popular characters are led to new adventures and perfect re-enactments of an emerging perception of good and evil in a fascinating four year old brain. Once the show is over the actors converge upon the audience, one wants a moment alone with her and the other wants a “huggy” or a “kissy” (maybe they both really want the same thing!) or a walk around the house with the soles of her feet perched on the tops of mine. And so the day ends, its adventures lovingly folded within the pages of an interactive comic book live with characters that engage and amuse.

Not much different from our very own writer’s forum I imagine, where each day we grow our member listing by real and imaginary members, weaving engaging stories of amnesiac Japanese swamis, hermits in Mongolia, a quaint old lady in Alabama, her erudite son, a Japanese woman who earns her living by hand modeling and even an alien. It is wonderful to know that she will never want for imaginary friends and foes even after she leaves childhood behind! :)

The Light Greens Are Here

Why is it that certain things start penetrating our consciousness relentlessly after the first initial exposure? I sheepishly admit that I never used to think too much about our environment, about the interdependence of things, about endangered species, greenhouse gases, energy crisis, global warming, alternative fuels and now I do. I was vaguely aware but certainly not conscientious about doing my bit for environmental protection. I am lax about recycling, I drive a sports utility vehicle, I live in a new development that is a result of accelerated urban sprawl and I have been guilty of thinking that any adverse consequences are so far into the future and that I needn’t worry. A classic case of myopia, the same lack of vision for which we fault Bush and crew.

But all of a sudden I am bombarded with images. Everything I read points to a danger that is imminent. Al Gore, US presidential hopeful in the year 2000, eased out of the running despite garnering the popular vote, has made a film called An Inconvenient Truth. The film has received considerable critical acclaim and critics have said it drives the point home. People are finally listening to Gore and not dismissing him as a left leaning liberal. I can’t wait to see this movie myself. I want to be scared witless about what we are doing to our planet. Maybe then I’ll be jogged out of my inertia.

I see confused and lost deer around my neighborhood, I see them dead in the middle of the road the next day. I come across news items that make my head spin, stories of campus warnings at a northern university asking people to be careful of attacking, rampaging deer, stories about wandering mountain lions or lost coyotes. The frequency with which stories of bears wandering around on highways or foraging through people’s backyards are appearing in the media is getting shorter and shorter. It is almost as if we have encroached so far into their territories that they have simply had enough and refuse to take it anymore. They are opposing us “immigrants” just as we oppose people crossing our borders. Ironically, I often meet people who suggest that hunting is all about maintaining environmental balance, that we have a problem of overpopulation of black bears and deer. They fight for their right to bear arms and to hunt because they think they are doing their bit for the environment by keeping these populations in check, after having destroyed their natural habitat!

We keep clearing the forests, draining our swamps, hunting, fishing, feeding like locusts on all that sustains us, unconcerned about our ravages. This is perhaps why some reviews have suggested that Gore’s movie is part horror. Perhaps it is the mild winter we all had, or perhaps we’re still reeling from the wrath of Hurricanes Katrina and Rita in 2005, or the Indian Ocean Tsunami of December 2004, but maybe many of us are finally sitting up and taking notice or at least starting to wonder if there is a possible connection between these events and the melting polar ice caps. Maybe global warming is a reality after all. All of a sudden we find ourselves believing that Al Gore could possibly win the 2008 presidential elections using the environment as his platform. The holes in our pockets from gas prices that simply refuse to come down are probably responsible for the creation of a whole new subset of people like us – the light greens - those of us who are willing to start taking baby steps toward doing right by Planet Earth. We want to start car pooling, driving smaller cars that get more mileage, or driving hybrids, we want energy efficient appliances in our homes, even though our homes are still going up in areas that were lush forests before. But there certainly is a perceptible shift in our thinking.

Boomerang Poems

David introduced me to Boomerang poems, a description can be found on his blog, and I was tempted to try my hand at it. Here are my two attempts:

It’s May and still I require a jacket
The morning sun blinds me as I head east
Into the din, the clamor, and racket
Into the ravenous belly of the beast
Each day patterned on the one before
Each new experience a matter of habit
Then the cold rains drench me to the core
It's May and still I require a jacket

And another slightly vain attempt, inspired by the comments this photograph received:



Had I known they liked convertibles
I wouldn’t have wasted my youth in sedans
Would have hit the roads highly visible
Would have built a legion of fans
They’d flatter me with a lingering glance
They’d think I was approachable
Life would have never lacked romance
Had I known they liked convertibles

No Tears

The cell phone connection was breaking up. She kept calling my name and inquiring if I was still on the other end of the line, then she handed the phone to my Dad. I could hear them very clearly but I guess they weren’t able to hear a single thing I said. Then I heard my Dad say to my Mom, “She must be crying”. I kept shouting, as best I could from my cubicle at work, that I wasn’t crying. I kept saying hello, but they didn’t hear me, they were convinced I was in tears.

I wasn’t in tears then. I am not quick to tears. The only times I remember shedding any tears are those when I am enraged beyond belief. My anger manifests itself in tears but crying due to an innate sadness, that I cannot recollect. When my parents thought I wasn’t speaking on the phone because I was crying, I was quite calm. What I was trying to scream and tell them was that this was a better option, that they would be happier now because their previous situation was not much different from hell. But that is a message I never got to convey. The connection broke up.

It has been over an hour since I had that conversation and it is still echoing inside. All I have done all morning is replay it in my head. The hurt that was being expressed by my parents was immense and my powers to appease, non-existent. I am separated by 400 long miles, by choices, decisions, circumstances in my life and theirs. I have ideas of what would constitute an ideal situation but I cannot find enough support for my ideas. There wouldn’t be a happier person than me if my parents were to come and live with me. But they would never agree to spend more than a couple of months at a stretch with me out of consideration for my own in-laws who they probably still mistakenly believe, have a greater right to be in my home than they do, the other more practical reason being the affordability of healthcare in Canada versus the US.

My in-laws are not in the best of shape either and my husband is their only son. My father-in-law has a heart condition and my mother-in-law has a cornucopia of ailments. But they are not homeless in a foreign land. They have a place they call home that is fairly near to both their children and all their grandchildren. They might want to draw parallels between my parents’ situation and their own but, even though both situations are grim, to my mind one is certainly more dire than the other.

The time has come for us to find the best way to ensure adequate comfort levels for our parents as they live out their 6th decade and approach their 7th, 8th and 9th decades. I am extremely concerned and although I wasn’t crying when they thought I was crying before, I would be lying if I said I wasn’t feeling the tears of frustration and desperation welling up now.

But tears are never useful. Now more than ever, the advice about living each day as it comes, becomes more meaningful. Each day will bring new emergencies and new contingencies; the only thing we can count on is our own preparedness. Tears only serve to cloud judgment.

Expectations Begone

The natural laws dictate that parents instinctively take care of their children, nourish them, nurture them. It is not a matter of choice, it isn’t a matter of conscience, it is what normal human beings do. And as children we view this care, this love as our entitlement and take it for granted all our lives. They are the solid fortress that will always shelter us, the one warm and safe place where we’ll never be rejected, thwarted, ridiculed, or unwelcome. No matter how dysfunctional a family is and how critical one is of one’s parents, there is always the sense that no one is as much your very own, in this otherwise cold world, as your parents. Then the betrayal hits, when they can no longer do what we always thought they would do for us, when they walk out of the roles in which we had them cast, when age and illness sets in.

But sadly the relationship plays itself out just as if it was a fortress and its former inhabitants. What comes to my mind often is a light and sound show at Red Fort, Delhi that I saw as a child. They used to spotlight various corners of the fort in lights and they used to play dialogues and music in the background so that one could imagine a lively place where the courtiers had gathered in the king’s court or the women were assembled together in the harem, laughing and joking. They used to make it come alive, help one imagine how it would have been all those hundreds of years ago. Just like a wave of nostalgia that hits you when you go back to a place you used to call home as a child, the place that was the warm, safe haven and is now like a crumbling fortress, deserted and bereft of life. As grown-ups we seldom return to the places of our youth. We remember the snatches of good times as the spotlight of memory rests on one scene or another from the past and briefly relive these instants but we never return. We selfishly take what the home, the parents within, provided for us and then we leave, never to come back. It is almost as if instinct leads us to sever these connections and to move on. That’s our brutal hard-wiring, I believe.

But as evolved human beings we have managed to move past and camouflage any hard-wiring with which nature endowed us. Thousands of years of evolution have gone into rendering certain organs meaningless, certain instincts redundant. We don’t hunt, we don’t gather, we don’t dress ourselves in animal skins or bark, why then do we continue to leave our parents behind? We educate ourselves, we are civilized and we have a conscience, so why is it so hard to care for aging parents the same way that they did for us? Why the old folks’ homes? They didn’t put us in young infants’ homes when we were infants.

I suppose marriage does complicate matters. Husbands and wives have their own sets of parents and there appears to be a competition for limited resources, so to speak. Some cultures try to game the competition by invoking warped ideologies where the daughter is expected to have nothing to do with her parents after her marriage. They even reserve a portion of the wedding ceremonies for a meaningless ritual called kanyadan where the daughter is “given away” to her husband’s family, she is their possession now, given into the service of her husband and in-laws. So the parents she left behind have only their sons to rely on. The daughter’s unfortunate parents are told they can’t even help themselves to a glass of water at their daughter’s home, if they ever happen to visit.

So for people who are a part of cultures such as the one described above, if they are lucky enough to have a son, chances are they have pinned all their hopes and dreams on this son. The son stays devoted to his parents until, of course, he’s married. And then the tussle begins. His wife is expected to not just respect but ‘love’ her husband’s parents, a couple of strangers who she didn’t know growing up. People whose routines she doesn’t understand, who are so different from her own parents. She is expected to cultivate an instant admiration for them. If she fails to do this she is tagged evil or obnoxious. The poor son is now torn between his wife and his parents. The device used to game the system is what ends up blowing up in their faces.

Other cultures just outsource the care of their parents to agencies and organizations that exist for these purposes, where they live out the rest of their lives in impersonal and sterilized conditions. Either way, parents are always at the losing end.

But if civilization, compassion, conscience and basic humanity was to somehow exert itself wouldn’t parents, and children be happier? Daughters would always be able to care for their aging parents without their in-laws interfering and taunting them about how they are so devoted to their own parents and not to them. Sons would take care of their own parents without their wives raising any objections. There wouldn’t be any resentment on any side as each person tries to do what seems right to them. What is so difficult to understand about this?

And paralyzing expectations are at the root of everything. Why build an entire mountain of expectations from people over whom you really have no control. So many philosophers, thinkers have left behind words of wisdom about detachment about living a life free from expectations. Why not internalize this way of thinking? I intend to do this. I intend to raise a compassionate child and leave the rest to God. I don’t expect her to care for me in my old age and if I had a son I wouldn’t expect that from him either. In fact I don’t want to expect anything from anyone.

One must, at all stages be in control of ones own destiny. Admittedly, debilitating diseases, illnesses and other health related helplessness can interfere with the best of intentions; Murphy’s law does present itself in various incarnations, but one must plan. One must invest as much in one’s health while one can as one does towards cultivating a financial nest egg for one’s future, and then hope for the best. Because as the Stoics believed, there are things we just can’t control: Our bodies, our partners and our children, our friends and our colleagues, our houses, clothes and all material goods, our money, our jobs and worldly power, our reputation. According to Epictetus of the Stoic school of thought, the only things we can control are: Our judgment and opinions, our desires, our adversion and our aversion – all under control of our will. Herein lies the secret. This is the only thing for which we must strive – controlling the things that we can really control.

Commuting Thoughts

The last few times I wrote anything here there seemed to be a common theme of contentment that was creeping into my writing, slowly but surely. Those demons of ennui had stayed away for a very long time. The anguish about how mundane life appeared, about how similar each new day was to the last one was also disappearing, slowly but surely.

Rightly or wrongly, and perhaps prematurely, I had come to the conclusion that I was more or less contented with life. But I am not to be trusted with that sort of faux contentment, I feel quite pleased with myself even when I have managed to sweep all the dirt under the rug and things look picture perfect on the outside. So it would serve me well to remember not to get too complacent. Several clichés support this feeling viz., if something appears to good to be true it probably is.

But I digress, when I decided to write something this morning I had something else on my mind. I had just arrived at work after a two-hour commute filled with the satin smooth, dulcet tones of Pandit Jasraj singing – Om Namah Bhagwatey Vasudeva. I am still in awe of the experience. I never thought I could enjoy listening to a bhajan so much. I was completely immersed in the experience. Till a few months ago the Stones’ Sympathy for the Devil had me feeling satisfied and today I was questioning whether I would ever go back to listening to the Rolling Stones! What has happened? What changed? Some folks (you know who you are) would like to call it a “turning point” and perhaps it is. Maybe I am seeing the world in a different context these days, a different perspective has certainly wafted in, like a fresh breeze through a window I had never noticed before. When and how and for what purpose I don’t know. Maybe it is the manifestation of a deep-seated desire to enrich my life. Maybe it is a realization that the time is now and I’ll never be as young, as healthy and as relatively carefree as I am today.

It isn’t something new, this nameless feeling. It was there when I wrote that god awful poem – One Needs to Settle in… or when I wrote Land more recently. The intangible feeling I am talking about is laced through everything I have ever tried to write. It reflects a search of sorts, a reaching out for something, and whatever this something is, it seems more within reach now than it ever did before. There is now an ease with which I can interact with people, the raw need to be liked and to please is no longer there. There was a sense of awkwardness in all my interactions before, a sense that I didn’t really fit in anywhere, not in the world I left behind, nor in the one I currently inhabit. But now it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. It took a long time to shed this desire to blend in, to fit and now I realize I was looking for fool’s gold. I already had everything I’ll ever need. I probably already have the “strong rope” that I thought I would need to acquire a few articles ago.

Of course, the search will only be complete when I finally understand what it was all about. But for now, each day brings the realization that I was probably living under a rock all these years when I felt discontented, unappreciated, unfulfilled, anxious, inadequate, helpless, untalented. I wouldn’t say the “-uns” have gone away completely or that the adjectives above have all been replaced by their exact antonyms, or what if anything changed but I don’t waste my time with them anymore. Each of these words conveyed the subtle message that ones happiness depended on someone else, or something else. As if the world owes one their happiness. Now I know the world owes me nothing. I have to find my own shady alcove and I can already see it, it isn’t too far away. It’s blissful, serene, has a hammock, stretched between two shady trees, that beckons…

Next Steps: Cooking…must learn, master and perfect the art of cooking so that little A doesn’t have to ask, “Mommy how come I’ve never eaten something you cooked?”

Epigraphs

Just started reading Joyce Carol Oates’s book – The Falls. At the beginning of the book she quotes a Dr Moses Blaine (A Niagara Falls Physician’s Log 1879-1905). I just had to mention it here because it is one of the creepiest, most hair-raising things I’ve ever read. Perhaps this effect is contextual because I have been to see The Falls several times.

The newlywed protagonist’s husband has just committed suicide as this novel opens, sacrificing his life to the Niagara while they were on their honeymoon…I too had my honeymoon at Niagara Falls, a fact which has no relevance other than getting me more involved with the story. Upon visiting Niagara Falls who doesn’t stand mesmerized, hypnotized by its sheer magnificence?

“The Falls at Niagara, comprising the American, the Bridal Veil and the enormous Horseshoe falls, exert upon a proportion of the human population, perhaps as many as forty percent (of adults), an uncanny effect called hydracropsychic. This morbid condition has been known to render even the will of the active, robust man in the prime of life temporarily invalid, as if under the spell of a malevolent hypnotist. Such a one, drawn to the turbulent rapids above The Falls, may stand for long minutes staring as if paralyzed. Speak to him in the most forcible tone, he will not hear you. Touch him, or attempt to restrain him, he may throw off your hand angrily. The eyes of the enthralled victim are fixed and dilated. There may be a mysterious biological attraction to the thunderous force of nature represented by The Falls, romantically misinterpreted as “magnificent” – “grand” – “Godly” – and so the unfortunate victim throws himself to his doom if he is not prevented.

We may speculate: Under the spell of The Falls the hapless individual both ceases to exist and yet wills to become immortal. A new birth, not unlike the Christian promise of the Resurrection of the Body, may be the cruelest hope. Silently the victim vows to The Falls – “Yes, you have killed thousands of men and women but you can’t kill me. Because I am me.”


I read that again and got goose pimples!

Anyway, the spine-chilling effect aside, how are good authors able to find the perfect epigraph for their novels? Who has even heard of Dr Moses Blaine? Yet Joyce Carol Oates was able to find the piece above and use it so effectively to position her novel. Is this extensive research or is it serendipity? Did she find the epigraph first, to serve as a trigger for a novel that she then wrote? I wonder. But this epigraph was the perfect hook for me. I now am immersed in a book I can’t put down.

The Difference a Year Makes

Exactly a year has gone by since my last trip to Tampa-St Petersburg. Last year I spent Mother’s Day here alone. Attended a Mother’s Day brunch all by myself while others looked at me pityingly, wondering why my family wasn’t with me. There was no special reason for their not being with me. I was on a business trip and they hadn’t been able to accompany me. I had spent several hours walking on the beach, alone, sandals and camera in hand, waiting to capture the perfect sunset over the Gulf of Mexico. My mind was blank, I was neither happy nor sad, it wasn’t a long separation from my family, it was a few moments alone, spent in my own company. The sadness if any was about being at a complete loss at how best to spend time with myself. I walked for miles, I drove for miles, I shopped, I visited scenic spots and I kept wondering when it would start being an unforgettable experience. I like solitude, I like moments when there are no demands made on my time and no one wants to ask me any questions, but I suppose I wasn’t finding myself interesting enough to be with. To say my family was missing, would be stating the obvious, yet, I fully expect the keepers of general wisdom on health, well-being and psychological insights to say the missing thing was my family, my husband, my child and that I was feeling incomplete without them. Because of course, that’s all a married woman with child needs, to feel fulfilled!! (roll eyes here!)

I contrast last year’s lonesome visit with the visit this year. Anil and Anoushka are with me this year and there’s fun and laughter that bubbles up deep inside and makes the world seem like…well heaven. Things have taken on a new texture. Anoushka grasps my little finger, as we both roll up our pants and take off our shoes. We feel the sands shifting under us and scream every time a large wave threatens to knock us of off our feet. Anil is running ahead of us, camera in hand as he tries to take the candid pictures that are just never candid enough, since we’re both aware of his clicking. Anoushka is having the time of her life as she picks up shells. She is looking for something she calls a “wedding shell”, a magical, rainbow shell. Every now and then she wants to stop and bury her father’s or my toes in sand or make sand castles. The weather is perfect, the sunset glorious, we couldn’t have asked for a better time.

Did I have a better time this year, yes I did. It goes without saying. I love the company of the two A’s. But, amazingly enough, this time I enjoyed my own company as well.

There are things that they like doing together at which I am not very good, like swimming all day or baking by the side of the pool. So I let them do that without me, while I walked around the palatial hotel, a historic hotel of America – The DonCeSar Resort. I took in a leisurely afternoon at the spa, pampering my tired hands and feet and shopped at an exotic boutique. There were two beach weddings scheduled for the day. I ran into one of the grooms’ mother in the elevator. I had just finished shampooing and drying my hair and the groom’s mother told me how pretty my hair looked. The ice thus melted, we talked about her son’s wedding, how stressed she was and how she had just got herself a relaxing massage at the spa to get some of the stress worked out. She showed me the dress she was going to wear, a beautiful pink gown. There were dressed up people everywhere, at the bars, the lounge areas, bouffant hairstyles on bridesmaids and best men and groomsmen. It was fun to watch. I stared my fill, trying to find points of comparison between desi affairs and these displays of grandeur.

I then found a corner of the lobby that looked out to the sea, the view was spectacular and all I wanted to do was sit there and look out. There were no distractions, I wasn’t wishing I had a book, or that I was writing. I wasn’t missing my iPod, or reaching out for a magazine. I was just sitting in one place and not worrying about anything at all. It was quite a pleasant feeling. I was not in the least bit bored with my company, what had changed between this and the last visit?

The sun was finally setting as I watched and I decided to walk out to the balcony. The balcony also looked out to the swimming pool where Anil and Anoushka were hanging out. I wanted to try and attract their attention but they were busy. Anoushka was surrounded by 4 or five other friends in the pool and Anil was stretched out on a beach chair. They didn’t notice me, so I quietly observed. Anil was engrossed in a conversation with some blonde woman on the adjacent chair, who was drying out after a swim. They seemed to be in the middle of a very amusing and interesting conversation. Then I saw him reach for his pant pockets and get out a pack of Marlboros. He took out a cigarette, cupped his hands around it and lit it. After a slow drag on the cigarette he turned his attention back to the woman he was talking to and burst out laughing at something she said. I smiled as well and walked away.

I thought back to the time 14 years ago, the first year of our marriage. He was a heavy smoker then and every time he lit a cigarette I used to snatch it away from him in a maniacal way, destroying it in seconds. I used to search his jacket pockets, his pant pockets, his nightstand and when he stopped keeping his cigarettes in these very obvious places, I had found the other not-so-obvious places – the hollow space in the trunk of the car where the spare tire generally resides, underneath couches, behind flush tanks, on top of closets, there wasn’t a secret space in any corner of the house that wasn’t immune to my searches. He couldn’t hide a pack of cigarettes anywhere. I have broken and flushed more packs of cigarettes than I care to remember. I even followed him, surreptitiously, to a sports bar that was within walking distance to our apartment. I spied on him while he sat down and ordered a drink and then I stormed in as soon as he lit up, tearing the cigarette away from him and yelling in front of everyone at the top of my voice.

I look back on my behavior and I am appalled at the type of person I was! I was like all these other women who I now despise, who think they can marry someone and then make it their life’s mission to change the men they’ve married. Marriage never works that way, I have known this for several years now. My shenanigans never succeeded in getting him to quit smoking. He still smokes, never in front of me, although he continues to tell me he doesn’t smoke. Smokers never realize that a smoker’s smell is something they can never disguise. And like I did this time in Tampa, I have seen him smoking enough times now, but my reaction fourteen years ago was so different from what it was yesterday. There wasn’t a trace of anger, sadness perhaps at his disregard for his health, but no anger. It really is his life, how he wants to live it, whether it’s about smoking, or what he spends his time watching or his pastimes, his friends, the people he chooses to talk to, he needs to be free to do all those things. Relationships should never be about smothering.

People do change with time, I wouldn’t call it mellowing. Mellowing implies a softening or dulling of every sharp, jagged edge. I like the idea of certain edges getting sharper with time and the others blunted, curved, so that in the end, rather, before the end, one gets to being a finely chiseled version of ones former self.

So this time I was happy to have had their company, I was at peace with myself, I relished every idyllic moment, enjoyed the moments I spent alone and feel refreshed, raring to go again.

Specialized Snobbery?

We have always been aware of the existence of snobs. Some of us were gregarious, some shy and certain others were simply snobs. Snobs were the kind of people who frowned upon everything and felt superior to everyone. That was then. This is now. Yes 'snobs' as we knew them are a thing of the past. We now have 'niche' snobs. So instead of aspiring to be a snob one seeks specialization.

Over the last few weeks I have come across "tea snobs", "hotel snobs", "coffee snobs", "Mac Snobs", "PC Snobs"... the list is endless. There are more flavors of snobbery than Ben & Jerry ever invented for their ice creams.

Snobbishness is an aspirational quality and if one aspires one achieves. But now the choices are endless, confusing! I have to decide what kind of a snob I want to become. Maybe I'll invent my own brand of snobbishness. My husband is already a McDonald's Value Meal snob, I need to think...time is running out...there must be something that sets me apart that calls out...this is me...this makes me unique... I am not like the rest of you.

It is a complicated world out there. The choices are immense and being a generalist in any field isn't enough now it seems. We want to say, hey we are nice people, we are not snobs, with the exception of tea. When it comes to tea we only want Earl Grey.

Why just today I was reading an article in the New York Times about a growing concern for the environment. Al Gore is finally getting the validation he sought. People are genuinely concerned that he may have a point. His documentary - An Inconvenient Truth - is all set to be released on May 24th. A movie that reviewers have said manages to effectively drive home the truth that if we don't take action now, we're doomed, global warming is a reality and we are actively engaged in the destruction of our own planet. I mention this in the context of increasing "specialization" because this article talks about a class of people known as "light green". So now we have our "browns" (what else can we call the loonies who don't share the growing concern for the environment?), the "greens" the activist recyclers and role models like Darryl Hannah who drive cars that run on discarded McDonald lard and our "light greens". The "light greens" are the people who will not eliminate habits that are destructive to the health of the planet but will do us all the favor of cutting back. They will drive smaller SUVs, they will be less destructive to the environment than they were before. Well, I suppose there is something to be said for baby steps!