Too Pretty . . . .

A couple of days ago, I was having a conversation with our lovely Au Pair, Fe, about some of her friends back home in Brazil.

She was giving me the rundown on some of her friends back at home. She was trying to explain one to me in particular . . .

"You know, she is just soooo, sooo nice - and she is sooooo, soooo great. I just miss her so much. And you know - she is so pretty, but she doesn't ACT like she is too pretty, you know what I mean?"

I nodded my head. Because of course I totally understood what she meant.

"I mean, like, she is really pretty. You know, how sometimes . . . ?" Fe looked at me for confirmation.

"How sometimes . . . What?" I asked.

"You know. How sometimes when someone is so good looking, you can't even imagine that they . . . . you know . . . " she said.

"They they . . . what?" I asked.

"That they are so good looking, you can't even imagine that they would like do something . . . like . . . poop."

She looked at me, ready for me to laugh and ask her what the heck she was talking about.

But I totally GOT it.

"Oh man!" I said. "She sounds . . . kind of like . . . well, I bet I wouldn't like her! I hate when people are so pretty - like not-poopable pretty!"

We both nodded our heads in agreement, for this was surely unfair. To be so pretty that your poop probably DID smell like roses.

I felt like we were on to something - some unspoken, but often felt common denominator in the whole attractiveness quotient that certain people command.

"Ok - so like - if we were talking Hollywood celebrities . . . which celebrity would you say you coudn't imagine ever poops?" I asked, just to make sure we had the same standards when judging attractiveness.

"Cameron Diaz. She certainly never poops." Fe said with confidence.

"Are you kidding me? She totally poops. Didn't you ever see "There's Something About Mary"?" Fe nodded but looked confused.

I elaborated. "Well," I explained, "Anyone who does what she did to her hair in that movie is too down to earth to NOT go to the bathroom. She probably burps in public too! Hmmmm. Who would I pick? Oh . . . I know!" Inspiration had hit. "Penelope Cruz!"

Fe nodded, so fast I though her head would come off. "Yes! She would NEVER, EVER poop!" she exclaimed. "Who else? What about for a guy?"

"That guy from "Harry Potter" who is in those stupid "Twilight" movies that you like!" I said.

"You mean Edward? Robert Pattison?" Fe said.

"Whatever!? He can't poop! He's a vampire!" I said, for I am well-versed on these things.

"Precisely," she said, nodding. "Who else?"

"Catherine Zeta Jones." Did you see her in "Entrapment"?

"Oh! That "Zorro" woman would never poop. NOT possible. Also - Angelina Jolie."

"Jennifer Anniston!" Wow - how did Brad Pitt feel about that? Two for two . .

"That girl from Titanic?" Fe said, "You know - Kate Winslet?"

"Yes?" I asked, wondering where she was going.

"Well, she DEFINITELY poops." Fe informed me.

"Wow. Yeah, I can totally see that." This is only because I saw her in "The Extras" when she was talking potty talk as a dirty ass nun,

"And Britney Spears? I bet she is really bad. Like - so bad, there is not enough air freshener for it."

"Hmmm." I said, not wanting to pass judgment (but totally agreeing at the same time).

So, just so everyone knows - we are in the midst of potty training and if you read my post the other day, you will know why we have a one poop, I mean, one track mind. Sorry if I have been a little bit more crass than normal, but if you can't handle this shit, we can't roll together right now, because it's pretty much all we talk about in this house right now . . .

Hope you have a brilliant week . . .

XOXO,
Kiran

Rolling on the River

Today is June 25th, 2010.

John and I have been married for five years.

It's been an eventful five years for us.

A new home.

2 beautiful children.

Some major career decisions.

We lost some people who were very important to us.

We moved on together.

Lots of laughter.

Lots of tears.

Some yelling. (Ok, Ok, lots of it - We both have hot tempers, what can I say?)

Today, my parents called me up to wish us a "Happy Anniversary!" My mother took the phone, after the handoff from my Papa, to tell me the following Hindi saying:

"ACHAL RAHE AHIBAAT TUMHARA JUB TUK GUJNG JAMUN JUL DHAARA"

I asked her what it meant and she said:

"May your married life be forever, just as the flow of the water in the Ganges and Jamuna rivers, which never, ever stops."

My mom doesn't usually have sayings like this for me. She is usually asking me if I want more roti or bhaat and when am i going to stop with all this silly diet, piet thing (Indians - well, at least the ones in my family - have a way of emphasizing things by making meaningless rhymes out of them) But this saying? I thought it was really beautiful - honestly one of the best anniversary gifts we could have received.

I appreciated the blessing my mother gave me this morning, not only because of the beauty and the significance of the words - in India, the Ganges and the Jamuna rivers are considered sacred, holy waters - but because it made me realize that there are forces in a marriage, which make the ebb and flow of this relationship as mercurial as any river . . .

The stillness, the calm. Serenity on a sunny, spring day.

The birth of our children.

The uncontrollable flash floods, prompted by tumultuous storms.

The nights FOLLOWING the births of our children and the sleepless nights, the hormonal mood swings and my ability t burst into tears on command.

The class 5 rapids that swept us along a path which we had no control over and which made us feel helpless under the pull of the river.

Seeing our 7 day old son receive a spinal tap.

The beauty of leaping off a waterfall into the cool, crisp river below.

Life. And every day we get to live it - the pain, the beauty, the joy, the awful stubbornness which could be our downfall.

All of it.

So I guess for now, we will just keeping going with the flow . . .

Happy Anniversary, Husband.

XOXO,

Kiran

The river is within us, the sea is all about us.

-T.S. Eliot Four Quartets,'The Dry Salvages', pt.1.

Because Poop Happens

You know, I joke about how it's hard to get out of the house with two kids.

How, by the time I get home from work, or from traveling - the thought of having to lug my two kids around with a diaper bag that never seems to have what I need in it, exactly when I need it, makes me want to stay close to home.

But some of you have said - "It's important to get out there! So you don't lose your sanity!"

Which has me scratching my head because when did you ever hear me say I had any to begin with?

So last weekend, I decided that it was time to venture out. It was a good a time as any. My husband was yelling at the TV, constructively providing feedback cursing and yelling like an effing lunatic during the broadcast of the England vs. USA game for the World Cup. Frankly, he was scaring the crap out of me, I thought he could use some "alone" time.


I decided to pack up the kids and took off to go shopping. Our Au Pair, Fe, also wanted to come with me because all of John's yelling was giving her a serious headache she wanted some new clothes.


So we go to a clothes store with Shaila and Nico in tow. They are both still in diapers. (Yes, Shaila is almost three and still in diapers. Adventures in Potty Training is another post. Please don't judge. Ok, go ahead - I suck).

We walk into the store and I feel like a drug addict who just stumbled upon a "buy one joint, get this line of coke 1/2 off!" sale. The sheer smell of clothes that I really have no business of wearing unless I planned on going clubbing in Jersey with my body from like, ten years ago, intoxicated me.


I recognized that I was in trouble.


So I start piling clothes onto Nico's stroller. John would not mind this little shopping expedition, I told myself. This was confirmed when he called to tell me that the US had tied England 1-1, and his relief gave me clear license to run up some damage on our credit cards.

NOTE: Had England won, I would have hastily left the store to provide support and love for my husband.

(Snort).

About ten minutes in, I catch a whiff of something.

"Mommy! Mommy!! I pooped! It's a big one, Mommy!" screamed Shaila, in order to ensure that everyone in the store was aware of her special gifts.

I wrinkled my nose and bent down to check out the evidence and sure enough, she was right.

(Now, I know half of you may find it strange that after becoming a mother I find it wholly appropriate to bend down and take a whiff of my child's hiny. The other half of you are nodding your head in complete understanding and totally ready (HOLLA!) to start a support group for what we have become).

I looked over at Fe. "We have to go soon," I advised as I did a mental inventory of the financial damage of our purchases.

Suddenly, the shrillness of my daughter's already shrill whine reached a new pitch, yet unheard by me.

Shaila: "MOMMY!!!! I POOPED!!!!"
Me: "Yes - Honey. I know! We are leaving."
Shaila: "MOMMY!!! BUT LOOK!!! HERE IS MY POOP!!!"

And there it was.

ALL OVER HER FREAKING HANDS.

LIKE, ALL OVER.

Now, this was not the kind of store that had nice, cush bathrooms for its clients. Nor did it have changing tables to clean my children up. The clothing racks also were not spread far apart, far, far away from the reaching poopy hands of my child.

Oh, crap.

I looked at Fe helplessly as we tried to rally the poops, oops, I mean, TROOPS, and get things under control. Fe rushed out of the store with Shaila to change her diaper in our car while I held down the fort with Nico, who was doing backflips in his stroller trying to keep up with all the action.

This was POOP-tastic.
A real, jolly freaking poop-isode.
Simply Poop-endous.

Life may hand you lemons. If it does? I advise that you make some lemonade.

On the other hand? Life may also hand you poop. In which case, I say, change the diaper and keep on shopping.

I am ever grateful that Fe was with me that day to help me out. As it is, the scars are healing slowly, but had I been alone on that expedition, you can guarantee I would not be leaving my house voluntarily till the kids were like, in freaking middle school.


XOXO,
Kiran

My Achey Breaky Heart

I have a friend who is going through a case of heartbreak right now.

It's a time I know from past experience. A time when every love song on the radio is about you. Screw it - not just love songs. Every FREAKING song. You start crying when you hear some shit from Jay-Z that you never would have even listened to before, but he liked it and so then you liked it and oh my god, you just can't stop crying.

H to the Izzo, my friends.

What I wanted to tell my friend today was that I completely understand.

I spent my early 20's as the instigator of heartache. And then, things started to change.

I was the recipient of a broken heart, not the creator of one. I learned some humility. I learned that I was also stronger than I ever gave myself credit for.

The reality is that I was a "repeat heartacher" - I didn't necessarily move on from my past experience imparted with the wisdom to ensure I did not repeat mistakes. I was just as dumb each time I moved on to the next guy - if anything, my self-confidence had dissipated to a point where I think I actually got progressively dumber about my choices when it came to the men I chose to keep company with.

To pine for.

To be pretty pathetic about, quite frankly.

I recall one of my first memories of heartbreak in college. I was dating a really nice guy. His name was Michael and he was the SPIT and IMAGE (some of you will think I wrote this wrong and should have said spitting image - but trust me, I am right) of Tom Cruise.

Now, this was Tom Cruise before he had jumped on Oprah's couches and started praying to aliens and beating up on Brooke Shields.

Tom Cruise before that crap was pretty damn hot. Who remembers Tom Cruise in the first Mission Impossible? Hellloooooo . . . .

So anyway.

Mike was the SPIT and IMAGE (i told you - go and reference it - it's right!) of Mr. Top Gun himself. Add to that, he was a swimmer on our men's championship swim team and you can guess he wasn't too shabby when it came to his physique either.

So, you know how the story goes. He's really into me. Like, REALLY into me. I'm not really sure I'm all that into him. But he convinces me. I fall in love. I'm really into HIM, really into him. And then - well.

THE END.

Now, I don't blame him. If I looked like the biggest movie star out there and I rocked a body like that - I would probably not want to be stuck with me either. I would milk it for what it was worth and surround myself with as many sorority girls as I possibly could.

And so he did.

And so I cried. Oh boy, did I cry.

But I healed. It took some time, but it happened.

Until the next guy came along . . . and I got to do it all over again . . .

I'm married today, and I recall all of this now with a wry smile on my face and the wounds on my heart fully healed. While it hurt like hell - I wouldn't trade these experiences for the world.

What I want to tell my friend (and he knows very well who he is, as he sits there writing drunk Facebook status messages that are looking more and more like he is mainlining Tequila) is this:

You will move on.
You will find someone else.
It's possible that your heart may break again.
Your heart won't know what joy means if it has never felt pain.
You will learn to respect love more with each moment that passes of your pain.
And you will heal.
Vodka won't heal it. Anger won't heal it.
But you can use them as a crutch. For a day, for maybe two.
But NO more.
You can cry. But again - not for too long.
You will pick yourself up. You will dust yourself off.
You WILL NOT drunk dial.
Never drunk dial.
You are loved. You are supported.
Love will come again.

[A] final comfort that is small, but not cold: The heart is the only broken instrument that works. ~T.E. Kalem


XOXO,
Kiran

Addicted to Housewives

I am in a dark place.

And so, I think it's time to make this "confession time."

My TV watching taste has gone to hell the past few years.

I didn't used to be like this! I really didn't watch TV at all.

But THAT was BEFORE I discovered what a DVR was.

And now? Well now, my world has changed.

Some might say, for the worse. But I see it as, I am just looking at life from a different lens. And granted, not one I am behind, but whatever. I pay the cable bills, right?

I don't know when it happened. But before I knew it, my DVR recorded list was a cacophany of reality shows that I would have scoffed at in a previous life.

You know. When I was cool.

But now? Housewives of NY cannot be missed. And did you see what that ho-bag did on Housewives of NJ? Uggh. It's so toxic that of course, I have to see what happens next.

And it doesn't stop there. I "know somebody" - you know "a friend" - who watches "The City" and "The Hills" on MTV. Which is really bad because you know that there is not even one iota of "reality" in any of it it. But gosh I lurve the clothes ("The City") and gawking at the bad plastic surgery ("The Hills").

So here is my question to you . . .

What are your television confessions? Tell me the truth. Don't be all like "Oh, my vice is that I watch CNN too much, ha ha ha!" because I won't buy it.

Because apparently I have a really firm grip on reality.

Now if you'll excuse me, Bethany is Getting Married.

XOXO,

Kiran

My First Haircut

The following is a definition from Wikipedia:

Mundan - The Chudakarana (Sanskrit: चूड़ाकरण, Cūḍākaraṇa) (literally, arrangement of the hair tuft) or the Mundana (literally, tonsure), is the eighth of the sixteen Hindu saṃskāras (sacraments), in which a child receives his/her first haircut.

When I was three years old, I had a pretty strong sense of myself. Granted, I wasn't fully versed in my ABC's quite yet, but I was pretty confident in a few things.

My parents loved me.
My brothers and sisters loved me.
I loved White Castle hamburgers.
White Castle hamburgers always made me sick.
It's not easy being green.
Donnie and Marie were a great team.
I was a pretty little girl.

Now, I think most little girls are pretty little girls. At the age of three, I was used to going to the grocery store with my mother and having little old ladies stoop down to talk to me and say "Aren't you just the prettiest thing?"

And in my heart of hearts, I knew that it wasn't like I was winning the Miss America Pageant or anything. But it made my heart swell with pride.

Especially when people told me what long, pretty hair I had.

I had long curls that went down my back and which my older sister would artfully arrange in pretty little clips, ponytails and pigtails.

I was a rockstar.

So, it was quite traumatic for me when, at the age of three, my parents took me to a temple in New York City and shaved my head in front of an audience comprised of close family members and friends who looked on with pride at this lovely coming of age for me.

For this was my first haircut.

I went from being a pretty little girl to looking like a traumatized little boy.

Now when I went to the store with my parents, instead of getting, "Oh - you're so pretty!" I would get "What a handsome little boy! He's almost pretty!"

And I would want to run and hide.

At first my mom dressed me in cute little frocks and feminine clothes. But it probably confused people and pretty soon afterward, she just started dressing me like a boy.

I kid you not.

If you look back at family albums from that time, when I was between the age of 3 - 4, I am dressed very much like a boy - lots of corduroy pants, sweater vests and polo shirts.

The worst is - I remember. All of it.

Perhaps this is why haircuts are still so traumatizing for me today.

Thanks for the memories, Ma and Papa.

You know I love you but is it cool if I forward all my therapist bills to you?

Thanks!

XOXO,

Kiran

Life Lessons from Sex and the City

I don't get out much these days.

As someone who used to be a complete and utter extrovert, this would have been an alarming idea to me when I was in my 20's. I would have looked at you like you were LOCO had you told me I would prefer to spend most of my weekends at home.

But the reality is, it's just so much easier. And given the full time job and two kids in diapers, going out seems like a total pain in the ass. At least for now.

So it was a nice treat to go out with a lovely group of women last night to watch "Sex in the City 2" and not be thinking about potty training, work drama or the rather strange color of Nico's poop that day.

And what I learned last night were some extremely valuable lessons. It was a true eye-opening experience.

And I realize that I have totally had it wrong. I am going about my life like a total jackass. Now, thanks to this movie, I plan to incorporate a few changes and I should be good to go.

Note: there may be some spoilers in here, so please don't read if you are a true purist about anyone sullying your movie experience.

Lesson 1: Whining incessantly and nonsensically makes women more desirable to men.

Apparently, I had this totally wrong. I should have been berating John anytime he comes home tired from work, buys new appliances or does not buy me $500 shoes. And if he buys me a gift and I don't like it, I should sulk and insult him and insinuate that he doesn't love me enough.

Lesson 2: Eating is overrated.

If you want to look like Carrie Bradshaw, you should probably just stop eating now. Especially if you want your ribs to stick out just so as you bum around in designer dregs.

It's true though, that all that extra whining may burn additional calories, so if you are on a strict whining regimen, you might be alright.

Lesson 3: When you go to other countries, you should try your hardest to be insulting and make a mockery of the custom and culture

This is a really key lesson. Don't go there with too much respect because the locals won't know how to respond. You need to go with a clear sense of entitlement and superiority and say insulting things about subjects that are taboo in their society. And while you are at it, flip everyone the bird a few times and be as vulgar as you want.

Lesson 4: Show appreciation

If someone comps your $22,000/night hotel, flies you and your friends first class around the world, provides you each with your own private butler and car, it is really important to show how appreciative you are.

The way to do this is by acting like an oversexed tramp and complain about your hormones the entire time. It is silly to be nice and gracious about it, because this might confuse people and make them think you don't appreciate them. Everyone knows the way to show appreciation is by displaying as little class and self-respect as possible.

Lesson 5: The quickest way to get diamonds is by having "an accident" with an ex

Carrie's little dalliance with Aidan earned her a huge black diamond ring from "Big". If only I had known how rewarding infidelity could be.

Lesson 6: There is no such thing as too much Botox

Seriously. At least not for these ladies.

Lesson 7: Walk the walk

You should always walk like your hips are going to dislocate from your body. Walk like you are on a runway and pose whenever you can, even when you are walking alone on a beach or in a market. Walking pretentiously starts looking natural to people after they watch you doing it for an hour and a half.

Lesson 8: There are worse things than becoming a boring old married couple

There definitely are worse things in the world. Let's forget the serious stuff for a while like poverty, hunger and homelessness. Because that's not real life and it doesn't go well with Carrie's Manolos.

Something that is worse than being an old married couple? Being an annoying, self-absorbed, whiny woman concerned about becoming part of an old married couple.

Way worse.

*****************************

I may have missed some important lessons, so feel free to contribute. And don't get me wrong - I laughed at certain points in the movie and appreciated Miranda and Charlotte's characters more than I expected to.

The best scene in the movie had to be the very real conversation between Miranda and Charlotte around losing your individuality as a parent once you have children and some of the very real feelings that go along with it.

Loved it.

But the scene was great because it didn't feel contrived and there was something refreshingly honest and sweet about the interaction between two old friends, letting their guards down with each other.

Other than that, the clothes were pretty freaking amazing. I vacillated somewhere between major lust for Carrie's wardrobe and complete confusion.

And the constant male eye candy wasn't so bad either (although I could have dealt without the borderline porno scenes).

I guess I should get out more often, huh?

XOXO,
Kiran

Chasing Butterflies . . .

I don't usually post videos but I thought this was a really cute one of Shaila. She is running around the front yard in a nightgown and sneakers - it was taken about two months ago - so she seems older to me already . . .

Besties Forever . . .

I know one day my daughter is going to resent me.

Not because I didn't let her watch Dora. Or because I withheld her favorite Gummy Bears from her.

She's too young to remember she is pissed about that at the age of 2 1/2.

So I count on her short term memory to buy me some time and after she gets mad at me, I distract her and say something like, "Are you Mommy's Besty?"

To which (because I still hold the Gummy Bears in this house) she will give me a resounding "Yes! I love you my mommy!"

And I glow and I hug her and bask in the affection because I know how short lived the bliss is.

You see - I'm not naive.

I know that one day, she will scoff at the idea of us being "Besties."

I know that one day, if the worst offense she can find me guilty of is keeping her off a sugar high (and not some other kind of high) we are in really good shape.

I know that one day, the inventory of all the cute things and the cute pictures I take of her to commemorate all that cuteness will be dismissed with a roll of her eyes and careless flip of her hair.

I know that one day, she will bring some guy home, and he will be the prototypical bad boy, and I will hyperventilate until she is safely in her bed.

Hmm. Hmm.

Alone.

Thank you very much.

I know that one day, I will ask her to tell me what is wrong and she will look at me like I can't understand. Like I would never be able to get it.

I know all of these things, because she is me and I am she.

Because, however much of an individual she is and proves to be everyday, there is an irrefutable part of me in her.

So here is what I hope:

That I have the strength to be her mother while always offering the hand of friendship, even when she is not willing to take it.

That she shows better judgement in her vices (and her choice of men) than I have displayed at different points in her life.

That the bad boy is not really that bad. More "Dylan McKay" than "Marilyn Manson."

That I develop some anti-hyperventilation techniques. Quickly.

That she learns from some of my mistakes and talks to me. And lets me listen.

And that when she flips her hair, it's not burnt off from trying to reverse perm the curl out of her hair with a cheap bottle of Ogilve in her parent's bathroom.

Like someone she knows.

XOXO,

Kiran