I'm Kiran, I'm a dreamer. A writer. A singer. A mother. An ugly crier. An Indian-American. Who loves Gandhi. My stories are full of truth that is sometimes hard for me to say out loud. This blog is where I overcome my fears and live (and love) out loud.
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Wow. What Big Blue Balls You Have.
“Those blue balls are really great. I almost want to eat them.”
Yes. That’s what she said. Before I go any further, I just want to say this post isn’t perverted. It’s just me. And I couldn’t help but whet your appetite with that.
The other day, there was a huge jewelry event in the Northern Virginia area, right outside of Washington, D.C. Some of you are not aware of this, but in a few weeks, I am launching a company called Simply Om™. I am working at night and on weekends and in the middle of the night. Oh and early mornings. Because I also have a full time job and kids and have to shower now and then.
So what if I’m tired though? I’m excited.
I See Dead People. Or Maybe I Just Like Talking to Walls.
Me and Heather. Please excuse the naked man behind us.
Yesterday afternoon, I was working in my office when I heard the kids running into the house with our Au Pair, Heather.
“Mommy, mommy!” Shaila ran in yelling. “Heather is going to be sick!”
I looked up and over at Heather, whose face was three shades paler than her already fair Welsh complexion. She looked at me apologetically.
“I’m so sorry, Kiran. I am not at all well.”
Except when she said it, it didn’t sound like “not at all well.” It sounded like “naht aht ahll wehll,” with her sing-songy Welsh accent. Which I guess still sounds pretty sing-songy even when she is about to be sick.
Now, Heather never gets sick. Well, not really. Other than being a little hungover on some weekend mornings, she is pretty much in top form all the time.
My Husband, the Teeth Model
Yesterday was my husband’s birthday. I wished him “Happy Birthday” on Facebook, because this is the way you are supposed to profess your love to a spouse in the world of social media. You have to do things like this to let your Twitter crushes (Shout out to @Cali_Kid_Mike and @TheMichaelRock! No worries. I just stalk them platonically) and your ex-boyfriends on Facebook know that someone really did end up marrying you.
Now, I know that most everyone looks forward to his or her birthday on Facebook. Unless you are one of those people who doesn’t want anyone to know your birthday and you mark that shit as private. Or one of those people who doesn’t have a Facebook account because of privacy or because you are too good for it.
I know some of you guys. Some of you are even friends. I will not judge you except to say that I think you’re really weird.
Who Put the White in Snow White?
When adults would read me Snow White as a child, I always marveled at the beautiful Princess’s beauty. Her loving mother had wished for a daughter with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood and hair as black as coal.
Wow. She sounds pretty.
Except…. (Sound of a record scratching)
Back the fuck up, yo.
Skin as WHITE as snow?
Hmmm.
That’s me in the back with the pink shirt and the glasses.
I was raised in a pretty homogenous small town in New Jersey, at least when I was young. It started to become more and more diverse as droves of New Yorkers from Brooklyn, Staten Island and Queens started to move a little further out to raise larger families in bigger homes, where they could still commute to the city. When I graduated from high school, my yearbook reflected faces from around the world.
Over at Scary Mommy…
I wrote a post over at Scary Mommy called, “I Would Do Anything For Love, but my Boobs Won’t Do THAT.”
Well, that was the original title, but I told Jill to call it whatever she wanted because she knows her shit, it’s her blog and I could NOT get that darn Meatloaf song out of my head.
If you are here, thanks so much for coming. I hope to get to know you better at Masala Chica.
That being said, let me tell you a few things:
1) I curse. A lot. Not at people. Just at air mostly. If I say fuck, just pretend I said, “fudge” or “muggles.” It usually works out. I promise I will never curse at you.
Well, unless you curse at me first.
Letters to Myself
When I was a kid, I used to write “Letters to Myself.” This may seem odd and no, I don’t have multiple personalities. I just wanted to make sure that as an adult, I didn’t forget about all the “horrible” things my parents did to to embarrass me while I lived under their roof. I figured if I could warn myself in the future and help prevent my children from suffering the same kind of embarrassment that I had been through, we could potentially break the cycle. Thus leading to less money spent on counseling sessions, which would be a win-win from any perspective, because even my parents would agree that we shouldn’t waste money. I didn’t start the letters until I was in middle school, but I think I covered my bases pretty well.
So without further ado, let me present you with the teenage Masala Chica’s list of parental “Dos” and “Don’ts.”
You Don’t Have to Eat My Samosas
I often ask myself questions that have no easy answers. This week, one of those questions was, “Why do people keep googling “spicy kabob” and ending up on my website?”
Now, I get that the word “Masala” is in my blog name. Masala means “spice” in Hindi, so I totally get why people might say, “Hey I am going to go to this Indian cooking site and learn how to make samosas!”
Samosas. My mother’s are the best. EVER.
But those people must be disappointed when they come here and find no recipes for chicken tikka or palak paneer. I am sorry. And I can’t help that the top search queries to get to this site include “aloo tikki” and “gulab jamuns.”
This ain’t no cooking blog, yo.
Facebook Rules!
Do you like me? Do you really, REALLY like me?
The other day I read a great post by blogger and author, Tim Venable about why he shut down his Facebook account. If you haven’t read it, I highly suggest it. Tim’s realization of the version or representation that we create of ourselves on Facebook brought with it an understanding that, well…
It’s not real.
Not all the time anyway. And the need for validation and the brief stamp of approval we may receive through Facebook is fleeting and impermanent. I think he says it best when he writes, “…the messages we receive, the comments on our comments on our comments, the pictures we see, are all part of the air we breathe, and it doesn’t sustain us.” He says a lot of other deep and profound things on his post, so hop over there and read it, because I can’t do it justice.
Botoxification Nation
So I ventured into some heavy stuff yesterday. I think I am going to give everyone a brief respite from the heavy stuff and take you somewhere else today. Someplace a little bit lighter.
You know how some days, you just look in the mirror and you feel a little – oh gosh – what’s the word? Dowdy? Lackluster? Just not quite as hot as your bad ass self wants to be?
And some times it’s not just days. It could be a phase. Like – “Oh, I hated that period where I had that really bad layered cut!” or “I was in Graduate school. I didn’t have time to look cute!” Even “Why in God’s name did you let me get bangs? Don’t EVER do that again, Girlfriend!” looking back at pictures we managed to hide somewhere but never quite forget.
Courtesy of Shutterstock
Ann Coulter – I’m Here for You
Dear Ann,
I don’t like to get political on this blog. Sometimes I’ll dabble into things like religion but for the most part, I stay neutral. You might be able to guess my leanings through some of my posts, but again nothing definitive.
So this is not an attack on the Republican party, of which I know you are a part of. Because I do not think you are a true representative of that party. I think you are an outlier, an exception, a person who does not speak for the majority of your party. I mean, at least this is my hope, because if people like you are the voice of the party then the Republicans are pretty much screwed.
You see, Ann (I’m assuming I can call you that, right? It’s actually much better than the other names I want to call you, so let’s just go with the basic, “Ann.”) there are people in this world who value kindness. Who value empathy. Who value the differences between people.
I'm Kiran, I'm a dreamer. A writer. A singer. A mother. An ugly crier. An Indian-American. Who loves Gandhi. My stories are full of truth that is sometimes hard for me to say out loud. This blog is where I overcome my fears and live (and love) out loud.
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