Penis Envy... no really...

Despite what they teach you in psychology 101, I think girls don’t really have penis envy until after they’ve had to work their uteruses (uteri?) a couple of times. It’s only after the broody fruits of the womb have turned the sunshine of your life into Ground Zero that you look around and realise that the pecking order is decided by the cocks.
Oh yes, a veritable V8 of mixed metaphors. But if you knew how long it took to type that sentence while I saved myself from losing my train of thought by saving my almost 9 month old from pulling furniture on her head…
Where were we? Penis envy. Yes. I have penis envy. I am four months shy of turning 32 and years after I made peace with my breasts, peace with my mother, yes, even peace with my gargantuan bum… I now wish I was a man.
Watching television… let me qualify: watching television as the 9 month old randomly flicked channels I saw a teaser for a show that would, they said, tell you all about boys… and their toys. But there wasn’t a boy there onscreen. No… only grown men who frankly could do with a day of beauty and a lesson in posture, playing with small expensive easily breakable electronic status symbols. I stared as the television flicked past the mediocre recipe shows, the house-breaking shows, Mr Bean… I was transfixed. Boys will always be boys. Then how on earth can it be a man’s world?!
Deep in the heartlands, tucked away at the bottom of the Himalayas, it will take you three days to walk to Malana. I’ve heard that the main business here is to roll out the resin off the marijuana plants and pack it and send it to yuppies in cities where they smoke it and think deep thoughts and talk deep shit.
Malana is run by the women. They grow it, harvest it, pack it, export it (surreptiously of course). The men meanwhile lie around in a stupor, bereft of the authority that comes from a patriarchal society. Polyandry makes sure that they always have to take care of children from multiple partners. They are probably thrown a few coppers for food or track pants or the odd moisturiser and now and then I’m sure some of the women pat them on the head and sing them ‘wind beneath my wings’. I’m not sure if the men ever look in the mirror and wonder how they’re going to get back into the rat race when they’ve been running the brat race so long. Perhaps they don’t. Perhaps their toys are still unbreakable, brightly coloured and made by Fisherprice.

Independence Day last year:
Look at these guys! Look at the one to the extreme left... what in god's name is he saluting? Or is he fixing his hair? Someone should teach this children how to salute. I went to a school talent contest the other day and this fourteen year old's 'talent' was to play the national anthem on her flute. She couldn't! She kept losing her air... so we stood, then she stopped and started four times and whistled in all the wrong places. Ludicrous. Also I am not physically capable of standing with my arms to the side. Like I don't sing happy birthday. I don't do the 'attention!'... i can't hear the word without 'seeker' after it... in my MIND!

Chocolate:
Could I eat any more? My will is made of something small and jellylike. Push it, it quivers, prod it, it gives way... Leave it out near the fridge and it melts. My best friend lives in London and my other friend is six foot tall, has a freezer full of meat, ice and milk bottles and a ridiculously untidy vegetable tray at the bottom. I find myself with my head in the refridgerator (great, i've forgotten how to spell now) anytime I'm bored.
This chocolate thing has got to stop. It is really an addiction. I ate half a bar of Rittersport yesterday. I want to stand up in a support group and say, I am a chocoholic. And then everyone should feel my tyres and nod sympathetically. Bob, my sister says that brinjals have nicotine in them. That's why they taste so good smoked... hmmm...

Dinner today:
Brinjals. The cook adds sugar to the food. I need to develop an imaginary diabetic condition to guilt her out of not putting any. Psycho.

Irritation:
What's wrong with me? I'm just irritable with everyone. The permanent roommate silently agreed (by not loudly disagreeing) that I just work up an irritation with everyone I come into contact with. That must be true. Tomorrow I will tell of the actress from Hum Aapke Hain Kaun with whom it all went pot bellied... pear shaped... whatever... Yes, she was wearing black leather pants and she had no arse. But is that any reason to judge her... (YES! YES MORON! My mind screams... sssshhhhhh...)

Monday Morning

Dinner Today:
It's going to be sauce bolognaise... I'm still on the detox thing that we invented ourselves... So no pasta for me. I have 5 kilos to go before I'm the supahstylee mama. So this blog can be a diary of what I'm going to do with my big bum once it gets smaller.

Weather:
Winter in Bombay. HAhahahahhaaaa... It's really not that cold. And now when nosey mummies (do I have a look on my face that says 'weirdo mum does not know what she is doing!'?) come up and ask me why the 8 month old has no fleece jacket and hood in 25 degree weather, I look them in the eye (and what big eyes I have granma) and say, 'But it's NOT cold.' Cos, its not!

What's weird is how my feet get all chapped and peasant like. Still, I could have been a hairy ex-rocker in New York like our friend Uday who once, in excruciating detail explained how absolutely creepy it was to put moisturiser on a pair of men's legs (his own). I laughed. But actually, stretchy-inners-to-let-babies-out aside, it sure made me glad to not be a man.

The help:
I know, I sound like a real lady of leisure with my cook and lady who cleans the house. Which is fine, I will not justify it. But does everyone else have employees who constantly need validation? There is really something about my face. The cook comes and asks the most inane questions and has the disconcerting habit of opening the door of the bedroom even when I'm inside, putting the baby to sleep or worse, stuffing nursing pads into my bra. I don't have the language or I would be sarcastic to her in Hindi. This not being fluent in the lingua local is like having one less limb. The one attached to fingers you can flip, verbally. (here she is again! man... she asked if she should put celery in the bolognaise after I took it out of the fridge, laid it out on the chopping board and said, put celery in it. She wants me...)

Work in progress:
I think people who describe their lives as 'work in progress' should be spanked on the soles for being a) inane, b) self-indulgent, c)cliche users. Also women who refer to themselves as hot, game show contestants who refer to themselves as 'mad' (what does that mean? you are willingly making a fool of yourself on national television. is it not obvious that you are stark raving...?)

Crows:
My mum says that I should stop entertaining the crows because they may have bird flu. There is also the theory that us people who live in this disgusting primordial pool of germs called Bombay are probably immune to bird flu. Hope this is true because the crows really entertain the baby and one of her first words was 'ka!'.