Anal meanderings

I may just be anal. I'm not certain, but there comes a point when one has to consider that their preparedness is really over-preparedness, to the extent that they're just plain anal. Going through my bag, I discovered: A multipurpose plug, four rechargeable AA batteries and charger, a (soft) hairbrush, a little comb, a notebook with those plastic divider thingies in place, a bunch of A4 sheets, some nine pens, a thick black marker, two empty mini-DV tapes, an empty hi8 tape, a box with blank CDs and DVDs, and a (very manly) mint flavored Nivea chapstick. I then went down to that beautiful, sexy darling of mine, to examine her contents and came across my tripod, with an excellent unbranded headphone-mic with crystal clear sound that I use for voiceovers, five bars of dark chocolate (oft replenished), a pair of sunglasses, a few strips of peppermint Orbit white, a (rough) hairbrush, two sealed pine tree-shaped air freshners, a bunch of little candies in the ashtray, and some change in the change-holding thingie. Aurelia's boot contained a bucket, with cleaning supplies and a dry duster inside, a little bag with a change of clothes, a bottle of Davidoff Goodlife, and an extra bottle of shampoo, and two spare tubes for her tyres.
Edit: There is also my one and only hairband in the bag that I've been using for the last three years, and two hair ties, although those are lost and replaced frequently.

I had a little epiphany. There is still some good left in the world. The other day, on the way home from Karol Bagh, after getting a little work done on Aurelia, I discovered we were completely out of gas. Now it was slightly foggy, I was ready to admit I was a bit chilly, and I'd forgotten my trenchcoat at home. Being rather close to the roundabout at the end of Shanti Path, the only petrol pump I could think of was an Indianoil a good two kilometers back at the peak of an uphill road. After about forty minutes of pushing, panting and freezing, I finally got to the top of the road. By this point one of the Indianoil employees saw me and ran over along with three of his colleagues to help me get Aurelia over, and after filling the tank again, pointed out the little attached Subway. While I was parking Aurelia on the side, one of Indianoil guys went in and said something to the Subway guy, who got to work on a sandwich immediately. Upon entering the Subway, I was seated on a table with a little hot-air blower set next to it, and was presented with a massive sandwich consisting of vegetables and hunks of meat and cheese, not the normal token piss-poor slices they toss in usually, piping hot, with a nice room-temperature bottle of Gatorade and a slice of gooey cake. While I attacked the food set out before me with gusto, I was joined by the Subway guy and two of the Indianoil fellows, who went about telling me that I ought to have come up and asked them to come down and help, and rattling off the other petrol pumps close by, and how rising petrol prices was affecting them, and basically keeping me company while I ate. The Subway guy then refused to let me pay for the meal, and instead pulled out a bag with a dozen freshly-baked, warm, gooey double chocolate chip cookies, and made one heart-warming statement: "No one should be out in this cold alone, these biscuits are our warmth, that we're sending with you to keep you warm on your way home."

One of my dearest friends in the world is getting married. She's in town for the wedding, and I had lunch with her today. I get to meet the fiancé tomorrow, for the first time. It's an arranged thingie, and as this is the first time a friend this close is getting married, I need to start a precedent of laying down the law with the guy she's going to spend the rest of her life with. I also have no idea what I'm going to get her. Ideas, people, I need ideas. It's bad enough that when I asked her to tell me what to get her as I didn't want to get something someone else got, she told me that what I'd get her, no one else would ever come up with. Help!

The next blog I want you folks to visit is that of the lovely Wiseling. Now this girl is most endearing, and her writing worth spending time over. Do go visit her.

Also, allow me to make your day. This song sure did it for me the other day when Neha sent me there.

Anyone else notice this post is in an absolutely deliciously sized font?

Chasing cars...

Other than eve teasing, one of the most popular depraved, depressing topics our beloved Times likes to write about, is road rage. Common forms of letting it out include shattering windshields, puncturing tyres, or plain vanilla beating the fuck out of a dude with a cricket bat.
Now we've all had to share the roads with bad drivers, who'll either swerve a lot, or else flash their lights and honk like jackasses, and even some that like to brake at random. Now these people cause us to suffer stress which can lead to heart problems (ache and shock, when faced with damage to our own vehicles), the last thing we want at the end of a busy and stressful day at work. I have therefore taken it upon myself to devise a method of dealing with road rage that won't land us on the front page of any hateful newspaper with the word 'Times' in its title. Why don't we go over it with the help of that great song by Snow Patrol, Chasing Cars.

If I lay here. If I just lay here

The optimum, well optimum as far as I'm concerned, posture for driving a car is a comfortable one. Allow me to demonstrate my own. Now I'm a tall guy. So my seat is always as far back as it can go. For those of you not blessed with a nearly six and a half foot stature *cough*Aurora*cough*, comfort may still be achieved with the seat as far forward as it can be. Merely tilt the backrest down by about, say thirty degrees, and coast.

Would you lie with me and just forget the world?

The next step is to find a top speed that is comfortable, easy to maneuver at, and attainable within the top three gears, say, 40. Now a speed such as this is both fuel efficient, and think about it, even if you do drive like a mad (wo)man, that seventy year old uncleji you overtook is going to catch up to you at the next red light. Now you have to stay the course. Don't go over your top speed, no matter who comes up behind you. The only exception to this rule is ambulances. Please guys, for fuck's sake, let an ambulance pass you by. Force other dudes (such as the seventy year old) off the road if you have to, but give the guy the ambulance is rushing to that little extra five-second chance.

I don't know, how to say, how I feel

Now if what you feel is hatred, such as for some asshole in a CRV who just nicked your rear view right off, there's a great form of revenge. Keep in mind that all Pioneer systems have the same remote. That's right, every single one. Just get up next to the guy, make sure you're on the left of that guy, when you're in the driver's seat that is, aim arbitrarily into his car, and press something. A good button to start with is the 'SRC' button. Short depressions of that button will alternate the system between CD, Tape, Auxillary, and Radio. Even better, if you hold it down, his music system turns off entirely. This can serve to freak him out completely, and get him to calm the hell down. Keep in mind, this isn't recommended on crowded roads, but can be great at a red light. If you're lucky, as I once was, the guy might see it as a game, and in turn whip out his own remote, and aim for your music system. The game ends when one of the cars ends up impaled on the HCBS divider. Again, not recommended on crowded roads, and being on the left is far more advantageous, as you don't have too much trouble aiming from the driver's seat. Also, try to aim without looking, your eyes belong on the road. Always.

Those three words

"Like hell, bitch." We always encounter one punju dude with completely black tinted windows who's in a real awful hurry to get somewhere. Remember, we're going at 40, so he should be able to overtake easily enough. If he resorts to flashing his high beam and honking, he's asking for it. A key skill here is downshifting. Simply press down on the clutch, go into neutral, press the gas for a fraction of a second, press the clutch again, and change to a lower gear. If you timed it right, the car won't jolt when you hit the gas again, and with some practice, this whole process can take just a second or two. This is also a useful skill to possess when tackling U-turns, as you can be back at your beloved 40 in no time. The benefit of this process is that you're now moving at 40, but at third (or second, not recommended unless you really know what you're doing. You know what, just go to third, it's good pickup on most cars anyway) gear, where your pick up is exponentially better, and you can speed up in no time. Simply catch up to the car in front, and gently nudge (not physically) him into moving to the left by softly honking (mildly, you're not a punju dude, remember) until he moves to the left. You then draw up to level with him, and match his speed. Stay with him, effectively blocking off punju dude's passage, and possibly instilling in him a tiny bit of patience. Oh who am I kidding, he's never going to learn any patience, but you have to admit, this is tons of fun. Oh and if he passes anyway, try to follow him into a really congested place, and give him a taste of his own medicine (flashers and horn), where he can't get out of the way anyway. Mehrauli road is recommended for this maneuver between 6:30 and 9:00PM.

Okay, I got bored of writing this, and I'm really really tired. So just enjoy the song in its entirety. It's got a semi-decent looking lead singer, some rain, and you Grey's Anatomy fans can relate.

Oh and also, go read Neha's blog. It totally rocks and stuff.

Edit: I was wrong. That lead singer's an ugly bitch.

On modern day gymming...

I say modern day gymming because well, I don't know what gymming was like before I started it three years ago. In my own experience, however, It has been consistently amusing. Although not the most noble reason, a constant source of amusement lies in the discomfort of others.

As of February last, I'd been fairly unable to actually attend the gym due to a not-so-minor back problem; I was one of those people you read about in the papers getting hit by a blueline, the difference being that I lived. My back however, didn't do so well. Now a ton of physio and a whole bunch of aasans I can't name later, I'm back at the gym. Truth be told I've been back there a little over two months, and now that I'm finally seeing some results, along with the fact that I've put on seven kilos, got my chest back to a respectable forty-two inches and can do more than one chin up at a time, I'm talking about it. I've also been able to con one of my classmates into joining with me, although he isn't the most complacent as regards getting out of bed at 6:30 in the morning and actually exercising. I suppose the most delicious aspect of working out at that ungodly hour, other than the sheer beauty of a nearly-empty gym, would be the complete lack of tangible feeling in the extremities by the end of the drive up to the gym premises. It takes a good twenty minutes of warming up just to get that feeling back, and another twenty to get the joints nice and free.

I digress. Modern day gymming consists of varying degrees of pain. One of the prime forms is an absolute lack of eye candy. Ninety percent of the people dedicated enough to attend the gym at that ungodly hour of the morning are particularly unfit, and/or old. The fact that I met Taru over a year prior in a similar setting notwithstanding, and being considerably underweight due to a lack of sleep and an off the charts metabolism, my own usage of the cardio section of my gym is fairly limited, although it does consist of much avoiding of conversation with the aforementioned unfit sections of gymmers, as any talk with individuals running on parallel treadmills, and the subsequent instinctive looking at those individuals can result in a particularly painful fall. In my presence, a whopping eighteen people have fallen off their treadmills, three of which managed to slip off the back edge in an effort to emulate my long-strides at high speeds. There were also the creepy 40-something mothers who were talking about my most lovely sculpted butt loud enough for me to hear, while I stretched one fine morning.

Moving onto the basement, the weights section. After an eight month hiatus from weight lifting of any kind, everything is torture. Of course, being treated like a war hero by the other dedicated early morning gymmers who have made little to no improvement to their own physiques in the subsequent months, can prove to be quite motivating. These guys, while uncouth and absolutely dripping of testosterone, are shining examples of loyalty and brotherhood, as evidenced on the occasion I dared to ask for some of the lighter dumbbells one particularly large fellow was sitting amidst a sea of and seemed to be lording over. He seemed to take my request as a personal affront to his right over all the twenty-odd dumbbells of a myriad of weight denominations he had surrounded himself with and stood up, rather threateningly. To my surprise, all these other chaps stood up to him and warned him in rather curt haryanavi to be nice to Reno bhai.

The various denizens of the basement vary in their mannerisms. There's the trainer, a huge faced (and chested) ex-CRPF officer who has a 12.8 second 100 meter sprint time and a penchant for telling people to eat peanuts. He also likes to talk about violins, and plays the Indian flute.
He's usually followed around by a fellow with a massive shoulder span that could exceed three and a half fellows about my size, most wonderfully sculpted butts optional, standing side by side. He thumps walks about with a menacing look on his face, but has a voice akin to a Barbara Streisand number played on fast forward. He also giggles like a schoolgirl with a crush, and is very, very polite, especially regarding sharing weights. Oh and the guy has enough strength to make one think that anyone can pull off a set of 22 overhead one arm tricep curls with a 35kilo(77lbs) dumbell.
There's also the sub 30-ish little person who I can't seem to stop calling 'adorable' in my head. In fact whenever I see him, my mind goes off to a chorus of "Aww, look at the cute little midget," and (so I've been told) my face gets the same look it gets when I see a puppy. I do hope that's the reason for the dirty looks he gives me, rather than the possibility that I may just be saying the chorus line out loud.

Now while I certainly have a very long way to go and multiple goals to achieve yet, starting with the purely cosmetic long term, a 52 inch chest, 18 inch biceps and no more than a 30 inch waist(only 1 inch more than what I currently have), to the short term where I intend to have a securely strengthened enough and supported back to be back on top of a horse in another three months' time, I hope to retain the positive note I've been on for the last two months.
Care to keep me motivated with your exercise stories?

A perfect night

Nine o'clock, gtalk was signed out of, the twisty-top of the stack of films was opened, and movie titles were being mulled over. Seven Samurai, Foreign Correspondent, and The King of Comedy, a Kurosawa, a Hitchcock, and a Scorsese. The perfect way to spend a quiet night at home. A glance at the clock, ten past nine, a quick grin, all alone tonight. Ralph buzzes, a mental note to turn him off, message from a new years eve plans threatener, 'cum 2 da blcny'. A flash of white-hot rage, followed by a near-orgasm at the sight in the parking lot. A black and red 1968 Mustang, with yellow racing stripes down the bonnet. Two lovely ladies with shiny hair and tiny skirts, and a tall man leaning against the vehicle. One of the ladies shouts out You can drive it if you come to Raghav's. How can one resist.
Twenty minutes, a shower and much hair product later, we're on the road. Stifling the pangs of guilt at abandoning Aurelia, we truly get down to testing this rugged vehicle. Ren, we need to name this, just finished restoring her. HIM. Him? It's not that manly. HIM. ANASTASIO. What was said next was incoherent as it was a cacophony of squealing and complaining as Anastasio went from 40 to 150 in about five seconds. For the record, Anastasio is an Italian form of the Latin 'Anastacius', Resurrection.
At Raghav's, deep in the bowels of Noida, was a motley collection of some rather close friends of mine who I don't see often enough, mostly due to the fact that they live and work in Noida. After a round of hugs and introductions to some of the unknown faces, I was being led to the bar, when I heard a deep, throaty, sexy laugh. When I turned to find the source of the laughter, I was flashed with one of the widest, most genuine smiles I'd seen in a while, and those same lips moved to say something. I moved a little closer as I'd missed what she said, taking in what I was seeing. Long, naturally straight, shiny hair, one of the most beautiful faces I had ever seen, and the most perfect curves on a five foot eleven inch tall frame. I like your ear ring, said that throaty voice, with a bit of an accent like mine. My name's Seher.
It isn't often that I'm at a loss for words, but this encounter was one of those rare occasions. Seher came across immediately as hugely confident, witty in a deep, thought-inducing way that wasn't immediately apparent to people not familiar with that sort of wit, and an overall awareness of all of her traits. In essence, in a very immodest sense, a female version of me. She had also been blindsided by love on numerous occasions, including a very recent, massive heartbreak caused by the object of her affection suddenly walling her off, and yet retained faith in love, and believed that her soul mate was out there. While a majority of men over the years, and evidenced at the party itself, had found her height intimidating, I found myself increasingly referring to her height, a mere five inches less than my own as 'cute', which would cause her to flash one of those unforgettable smiles my way each time.
As the night wore on, we shared more of ourselves, finding a common love for cooking (and eating), merengue, and white roses, and she did at one point mention how she wanted to learn to belly dance, my single most favorite form of dance in the civilized world. We both sucked, quite terribly, at any form of non-coupley dance we attempted, and appreciated the same beer, Guiness, but drink very little of it, drink very little at all. Also, as I had formerly (quite incorrectly) assumed, I was the only person left who hadn't ever smoked a puff of anything in my life, she was right there with me, for the exact same reasons; never saw the point.
At around ten to twelve, the two of us decided to get some fresh air, and went up to the roof. As it was approaching midnight, and subsequently, new years, we decided to stay upstairs and share the moment alone. Contrary to what popular culture would leave you believing, we had a far more fulfilling new years moment; an amazingly long hug. Oblivious to the world, all phones calls, all shouting out of our names from below, we held each other for a good twenty minutes, before going back downstairs to continue the night.
As I've neglected to mention, she was the cousin of one of the guys there, a fellow whose decisions I haven't always agreed with, but have gotten along famously with his parents. Seher had just finished her undergrad in Denver and was spending a few months in town, considering looking for a year's worth of work experience here. She was to spend another month and a half at the very least anyway, a month and a half over which I would no doubt get to spend more time with her, so she said. Unfortunately, fate tends to have plans contrary to your own.
Around three in the morning, her dad called in from Denver, to tell her that his dad had died sometime in the last few hours, and that she had to get back there by an 8:30AM flight. Her cousin was far too drunk to take her home, so I offered to, another chance to give Anastasio a spin. We spent about half an hour there, while Seher packed, and I pretty much ignored her aunt and uncle, who later told me, when I went back there to apologize the next day, that they had considered introducing Seher to me at some point, as they thought we'd get along well. Leaving the house, the two of us stopped by at the Grand for an overpriced breakfast, as it was the coffee shop closest to the airport open at this time, and we were both pretty famished. We had also pretty much stopped saying much by this point, though I can imagine we both still had a lot to say.
Finally, at the airport, she refused to go in, choosing to stay at the separator bars at departure, holding my hands until about the last possible minute, when she gave me another perfect hug, a light peck on my cheek, and another of those smiles of hers, that reached well into her eyes.
I'm probably not going to see her again before July, from her email, but she did send me this little South Park character of me, knowing how much I love the show.

Mihi quoque

Son of a mountain goat. I didn't think it was possible to pull an abdominal muscle. It is, sweet mother of Jesus's great aunt, it is. Blame the retard who decided to test if his leftover former endurance extended to his abs as well. Three (+ 3) sets of 30 reps on day one of abs was a bad idea.

Last Thursday was a bit of a strange day. I had turned Ralph off for the majority of the day as we were in the middle of a rather rushed couple of shoots; the semester's about done, and now everyone realizes that they have about seven pending assignments to get done. We took a quick break around 5:30 to get some food, soon after which I got a text from a former colleague telling me there was a rumor that Benazir Bhutto had been shot. Very, very soon after, it was all over the news, and from snatches of conversation all over Saket, Bhutto's name was audible. A few other people called seeking either confirmation, or to share the news, though in no ones' tone could I detect too much surprise or shock, and it seemed everyone had the same thoughts on the matter as I did; It was a matter of when, not if. The world has lost a brilliant leader, a strong woman, and a symbol of hope. I have nothing but respect and admiration for Bhutto, a woman who accomplished so much, and overcame immense adversity. While Pakistan's history hasn't exactly assigned a crystal clear plaque to Bhutto's reputation, it can't deny that she had the power to change her country, and had wielded that power in the past, and would have wielded it well in the future.

Christmas was a different experience as compared to the routine of finding myself cuddling someone gorgeous I had been following for the last couple of years, and it involved a Greek dinner the night before with an ex who resembled Shannyn Sossamon, a bit of a weakness of mine, and a big festive lunch at the house of my mother's jilted friend(her son-of-a-bitch husband left her for some Italian chick, leaving her to care for a three year old alone) where I met a Stephens professor who studied there with my Dad in the 60s, and had a lot of memories, and a lot of respect for him. Rather ironically, this fellow was the father of a kid who graduated the year after I did at my old (eleventh) school, and was the jilted husband of my French teacher at the school before it (tenth). He was running a part-time media course and was rather interested to know how we went about ours, and I just happened to have a mini-dv POS seated on Aurelia's back seat, and a tape I had taken a dump on(technical term, not what you think) the night before. Also, during a discussion with my sister about her inability to make sense of logic (the subject), he revealed that he had had trouble teaching a fellow I know well as the fat hairy music guy who called me 'Boy Band' for some reason and perpetually needed his workstation AND chair, no matter what I was working on, the same subject. Looking back to the times that guy made me get up and give him his chair in the middle of a busy day prior to an endless night shift, I'm not surprised at this fellow's lack of logic. We won't name this fellow, but this hint ought to help; he has an almost girl's name. And he's hairy and fat. And he does music stories. And I can't stand him, but I keep running into him at bars, and always shake his hand warmly, remembering a former colleague.

This new years, I deserve my ideal new years eve, one I've been attempting for the last six. It involves me, a water bottle, a locked door, and my six-and-a-half foot by six-and-a-half foot bed, with my room's landline disconnected, and Ralph off, having already sent new years messages out. Somehow, every year, those plans get screwed over. This year, when I told my roomies about it, they came to the conclusion that I was depressed, and have informed me that they're all going to be back in town by the 31st morning with a big carton of Guiness with my name on it, and enough of their piss-poor kingfisher to last them as well. Some of them were roared at the other day for not picking up the slack, and not having any basil on hand for a sandstorm, and are apprehensive about violating my new years eve plans, so there's the slight chance I'll get away with it this year after all.

You know how they say that the way you spend your new years is going to be the way the rest of your year goes? I want a peaceful year where I accomplish a lot. I'm going to try to kick it off by accomplishing a whole lot of sleep 31st night.

My sincerest well wishes to all you faithful readers, perusers and lurkers, and even you, strange anonymous stalker-guy-who-knows-way-too-much-about-me. Have a great year ahead.

Racquet (almost) breaks modem. Causes Racket.

I found a badminton racquet, and decided to practice my smash. I momentarily forgot that racquet + my smash + modem = bad. It has something to do with the kinetic energy of a tall man through a light badminton racquet onto a stationary blinking modem.

Today's top story, an orgy was reported in the southern district of New Delhi. Images follow.



I don't know about you guys, but I'm really tempted to tuck into that voluptuous little tart on the left.

Although fairly new to the blogspace, and tending not to be particularly inclined (or maybe the chance hadn't arisen) to meet all you loving readers and perusers of my little slice of google's god's given cyberspace deigned blogger, we decided to meet the lovely Scoutypoo on her recent visit down to Delhi.
First of all, the girl isn't fond of sleep. She called me to see her at four in the afternoon the first day, pulling me out of an exhaustion-induced coma. I met her, wet hair and all, at a possible future location of my murderous belly dance scene for my latest planned fiction film along with her friend, a quiet, sadistic coffee-butcher(this one added milk AND sugar to the helpless java), and most endearing sister, who spared no time at all getting acquainted. Gun to my head, completely honest, the little sister-thing had me at 'bye freak'. Scoutypoo also texted me about Shahrukh uncle after I'd entered my sleep countdown. I did get back at her though, oh yes I did, I replied to it when I woke up at six the next morning before workout. :D
At this point I must mention that I love Scoutypoo to death for the sheer fact that she correctly types out and punctuates all her texts, so my inbox didn't get another bunch of useless messages 'dat luk lyk dis', the kind 'ppl' know not to send me, lest I refuse to reply. I only accept 'dose' messages in times of extreme emergency, and my boys know well that at those times, a simple 'fn kar' will suffice. I say my boys know that because excluding my dear sister (I think I'm number 4 on her speed dial), none of the other lovely ladies in my life type like punju boys.
Scoutypoo also loves to point out how very muskle-y I am, and sits very meekly and appreciatively(as regards my driving) by my side when Aurelia's getting us around town. She also smoked and drank nigh incessantly while in my company, and is exceptionally good at picking up on when I'm being sarcastic, to the point that I never have to tell her when I'm doing as much. No love, that wasn't sarcasm at all.
Our Scoutypoo's a pleasantly plump, TINY little punju lady, although she takes certain umbrage to being called so(the plump part). As far as I'm concerned, Curvy would just have to be the world's sexiest body type. In fact, all models need more curves, and so do you, dear. That's right, I mean you. Not you dude, that paunch isn't flattering, I mean the girl next to you. Bingo. Scoutypoo's also rather quick about dressing appropriately. Just shy of new year's, and the girl's walking about in a very large shirt which she cleverly turned into a dress, along with stockings she tells me her aunt's dog tore while hugging her leg. I still maintain the dog was humping her. Being as brave as she was, I didn't feel the need to hand her my trenchcoat (yes, I got my trenchcoat out of where it was hiding), for fear it would drag behind her about a foot and a half, giving Priya a spring cleaning. I also didn't pull my extra coat out of Aurelia's back seat, for similar reasons. I just wanted breakfast.
Which brings me to my final point. Scoutypoo has an abysmal appetite. Who ever heard of not finishing four pancakes? Why post-gym I had a banana, two oranges and an apple, my usual post-workout snack, which we'll deem 'former breakfast'. At college I had two cups of coffee and an aloo paratha, midbreakfasten, then at the bloody pretentious place we landed upon for what Scoutypoo called a late breakfast, which between you guys and me, we'll refer to as 'latter breakfast', I had this little concoction called 'Eggstravaganza', that involved two massive slices of (non sweet, thank you Jesus, our waiter, pronounced like Jose, mind you) french toast, topped with two poached eggs (Jesus was mighty reluctant to poach the poor eggs, he said something along the lines of poaching being illegal), two slices of bacon (cooked just right) and some (I'll assume two, since everything else was in pairs) chopped and something-ed potatoes, lots of poor potatoes put through some deranged bake/fry torture by a masochistic chef in the open kitchen behind me. I even had Scoutypoo's fourth pancake with very diluted maple syrup that refused to sink into the damn non-porous pancake, followed by coffee.
Ah now the coffee. Scoutypoo was barged in on while relieving her tiny bladder for the thirty-fourth time. This by a married man with a kid. I had a front row seat to that spectacle. He walked past the door, giving it a tiny nudge, finding it loose, pushed harder, to which an outraged, albeit not really visible Scoutypoo slammed the door crushing his hand in his face.
To conclude, I'll mention that the silly girl forgot to demand I cook something for her. Silly, silly girl.

The Big Pick

There comes a time in one's life when they're faced with a big decision. A decision that, for starters, would change a lot, and that would affect the outcome of future events. A decision that could change who you see looking back when you look into a mirror, and in effect, cause the taking of further decisions which would in turn lead you further into that direction.
Every now and then, that being very rarely over the passing years, we're all faced with such a decision, and we spend time thinking about it, mulling over the possibilities, weighing the consequences, dreading the results. The only answer is to look the decision square in the face, take a step in the right direction, and deal with the consequences as they come, no matter what varying degree of inconsolable.
When that time comes one day at the crack of a chilly dawn, the time to make a big, bad choice, a choice that could possibly change one's life altogether, all that is needed is the strength to pick.

Mushroom and Cheese Sandwich Spread, or Nutella?