How to Tell You Are a Nosy Busybody

Here’s a quick quiz to tell if you belong to that aggravating tribe that suffers from the chronic inability to mind their own business.

Situation #1: There’s a clearly 18-year-old girl standing at the bus stop sporting rings on her toes. You:
A. Think she has pretty feet and that it’s probably time you got a pedicure yourself.
B. Ask her whether she is married. When she says she isn’t, you scowl and look accusingly at her ringed toes.
(+ 10 if you lecture her on how only married women in India must wear toe rings)

#2: There’s a garden party on at your neighbour’s house. You:
A. Peek over the wall, wonder what the occasion is but say no more.
B. Hang your head over the wall, supply minute-by-minute updates on who is at the party, what is being served, what style of clothing is being flaunted and so on
(+10 if you telephone your neighbour to ask what is going on and shamelessly wangle an invite for you, your family, your son’s classmate’s ailing grandmother, her incontinent cousin etc)

#3: Your colleague opens up her lunch box. You spy cheese and deep-fried goodies. You:
A. Say “Oh, yum!” and go back to your “feast” comprising of two peas and a carrot.
B. Give her a lecture on what a terrible diet she has, the effects of cholesterol, the advantages of eating two peas and a carrot.
(+10 if you supply a calorie count for each item in her lunch box, +2000 if you call her fat, +3000 if you aren’t exactly a poster child for health & fitness yourself)

#4: You hear that a couple has gotten a divorce recently. You:
A. Go “tsk, tsk”, make some expression of sympathy and shrug it off with a “C’est la vie. It is probably better this way.”
B. Exhaust every contact you might have to find out what went wrong, speculating over “obvious reasons” like did he cheat, was she “too dominating”, was it the in-laws?
(+10 if you are judgmental enough to say how frivolous youngsters these days are for walking out of a marriage without suffering it through for the rest of their lives unlike the good old days)

#5: There’s a couple stranded on the road; the guy busy changing a flat tyre: You:
A. Offer to lend a helping hand or go “Tsk, tsk” and carry on.
B. Stand around scratching your arse, offering advice on the best way to do things or sniggering at the stranded duo.
(+10 if you ogle the female occupants of the car and +200 if you then scratch other parts of your anatomy)

#6: You see a car stopped next to a toppled scooter. You:
A. Wonder what happened but carry on since it really isn’t any of your business.
B. Stop, gape and automatically assume the lady driver knocked the scooter over.
(+10 if you give the driver, whom you instantly presume must be guilty, a lecture on the cardinal sin of not knowing the local language.)

#7: You’re regularly checking on my blog because you:
A. Think it’s a decent read or “time pass”
B. Think it’s the best way to keep tabs on yours truly, providing you enough dirt for your next gossip session with the rest of your group of jobless busybodies
(+10 if you have texted/Facebooked/emailed me asking who/what I was referring to.)

#8: You’re reading this post and thinking:
A. Haha! Right on! You tell ‘em, girl!
B. Oh, my god, is the b*t** referring to me?
(+10 if you’re thinking “I wonder who she is referring to? Let me text/Facebook/email her and see.”)

Scoring:
Mostly As: You are one of a dying breed. It would be lovely to catch up over a cup of coffee some time. Text/Facebook/email me.
Mostly Bs: As BC says, you are appallingly “downmarket”. Remember to carve that on your epitaph before hurling yourself before the nearest speeding bus and doing us all one big favour.

The War Against Wassup

“Wassup?”

Or other variations of that irritating word.

Nothing can be more annoying than that single word popping up on my cellphone. Is it a greeting? An expression of concern for my well-being, perhaps?

For the most part, it appears to be a handy substitute for all those who have trouble making any semblance of decent conversation – and there are plenty of that sort out there as I’m beginning to find out all over again.

“I would like to lynch the next person who sends me that singularly most annoying word again as a text message”, I cribbed to Terror#1 this afternoon. “What is with the word anyway? What is one expected to say in response?”, I spat.

Terror#1, who often shares my sentiments on a lot of things like this – blame it on our “hilly-billy” backgrounds (as BC puts it) – reasoned that it probably stemmed from people being in AIESEC, where it is supposedly a way of greeting. He then went on to explain that since the word is used in Budweiser advertisements, the “Wassupers” were probably hoping to star in the brewer’s next commercial. I suspect Terror#1 might have had one too many Buds to come up with that explanation!

I would even venture that one’s usage of “wassup” is a keen indicator of one’s social prowess. Take for instance the little episode the other day as BC and I shared a couple of laughs and a chinwag over some fruity cocktails and chicken wings.

Well into the pleasant evening (pleasant up to that point at least, eh, BC?), a waiter came up and looking rather apologetic told me, “Ma’am, your bill has been paid already”. “What?”, I asked feeling rather stupid. “That guy at the bar insisted on paying the bill”, the waiter replied sheepishly as BC and I exchanged slightly alarmed but flummoxed glances.

“Can we reverse that?”, we pleaded, sneaking a peek at our benevolent benefactor, who leaned against the bar watching us expressionlessly. The waiter shook his head, his face mirroring our confusion and angst. I considered giving him an earful for not having checked with us before being a total pushover and acceding to the man’s demand.

My inner bitch grappled with my inner goody-two-shoes – should we ignore the bill payer or go over and say thank you? The Pushover brought us a note from the guy, who continued eyeing us uncertainly. The note said something to the effect of “Could I join you guys? I only want some conversation.” We gave it the once-over, noting the bad handwriting, awkward sentence construction but decent grammar and perfect spelling. We nodded our approval to the Pushover, who then plonked another chair next to BC and not me. Was I ever glad! (Guess who was in line for a fat tip that night?)

For the next what-seemed-to-be-eternity, our benefactor waxed on about social media and made some polite chit-chat – the major part of which I refused to contribute to, opting instead to feign deafness as the music was “too loud”. In doing so, I put BC in a spot – she took it upon herself to act as an interpreter of sorts until I told her to give it up. Each time he asked me something, I would signal “Loud music, I cannot hear! Forget it!” BC has yet to forgive me but loves me still, bless her good little heart.

To his credit, Social Media Bloke was decent and had played his cards well up until then – our basic courteousness compelling us to give the man and his near-monologue on social media a patient listen. We are nice like that. It could have continued to be that way. However, he made one catastrophic mistake – he sent us both a few text messages with that singularly annoying word – “Wassup”.

Almost needless to say, Social Media Bloke has never seen or heard from us since. Yes, my inner bitch won – and after some wrestling with her conscience, so did BC’s.

Death to all Wassupers is all I can say at this point – and no prizes for guessing what their one-word epitaph will read.

Basically Bla...

If you're looking to lose your dignity in a hurry, quick, head to the nearest hospital and ask for a procedure that involves a) some degree of nudity and/or b) some sort of organ involved in excretory and/or reproductive functions, and voila! You've got yourself a winner!

Having decided that there was no better way to spend a fun Saturday afternoon than make three wasted trips to a hospital while they sorted out their ultrasound appointments, software and radiologist's schedule, I finally found myself in the waiting room with Cousin Binky waiting for an ultrasound.

We found the only two available seats in a corner of the crowded room and settled in. I glugged down water at routine intervals since they usually insist on a full bladder before conducting the scan.

After a longish wait, the nurses yelled out, "Basically Blah?!" "Yes!", I hollered back, leaping to my feet, preparing to wind my way up to the desk. "Is your bladder full?", they shouted across the crowded room, while 40 people now hung at the edge of their seats to be informed about the state of my bladder. Feeling slightly flustered at having to share such information with 40 nosy strangers, I mumbled something about "Hopefully. I've been drinking water" before slinking back down into my seat.

Five minutes later, I hear the same chorus: "Basically Blah?!"

40 heads automatically turned toward me, obviously now well and truly intrigued by the well-being of my bladder.

-"Yes?"
-"Is your bladder full?"
-"Yes."

Repeat the above shouting match about five times. My "full" bladder now had the fan following of a Colors TV soap. Step aside, child bride, BB's Bladder is the new star.

Having now convinced the nurses that I had a bladder worthy of being scanned by their tardy doctor, I was ushered into the examination room. The doctor threw me a look like I was a worm who'd popped out of a delicious fruit salad.

She barked, "Is your bladder full?" (Jeez, whatever happened to good, old-fashioned "Hello" ? Or should I have introduced myself as "Basically Full-Bladder Blah"?)

-"I think so. I've had a lot of water."
-"I asked you something, you're answering something else."
-"Yes, my bladder is full."
-"Do you feel like passing urine?"
-"Slightly."
-"Is it urgent?"
-"No."
-"Then your bladder is not full." (Guess who got out on the wrong side of the bed this morning?)

Awkward silence ensues, during which BB curses her indolent bladder.

Doc Charming, nonetheless, condescended to scan me and my sorry excuse for a full bladder. Then there was the incident of the cheeky gall bladder.

- What did you drink? Coffee?
- No.
- Then why can't I see your gall bladder?
- Old gally ain't feeling too sociable today and is in hiding, deal with it.

A while later, I walked out of the room, results in hand, and exited the place with Cousin Binky by my side. As we left, an infant in the waiting room mouthed its first words ever...

You guessed right.

"Bladder".

Gibbering Over A Gecko

Anyone who has known me long enough or well enough would know my severe aversion to the common gecko. Although I am crazy about just about every creature great and small, geckos (and men?) are not on that list.

The little fiends have terrorised me for years now. The aversion really kicked in when I spent two years in Chennai - possibly the worst two years of my life (not counting the two wasted with Ducky, of course). Geckos would bide their time in the common bathroom, waiting for me to trot in. Once I was well and truly in the midst of my bathing routine, they’d hurl their writhing bodies into my bucket of water or, worse, land on my bare back.

I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve run screaming from the bathroom in terror. I once ran full tilt, clad in only a towel, into my hostel warden. She glared at me in disgust, eyeing me not unlike a smug gecko, before declaring, “You Ooty girls have no shame!” (I had spent ten years in Ooty before moving to Chennai). “We Ooty girls also have no courage in the face of geckos!” I called back cheekily, before scurrying away to safety - away from conniving geckos and seething wardens.

During a mandatory early-morning meditation session, I’d find myself face-to-face with a colourful garden lizard, replete with cilia-like spikes down his back, doing his morning push-ups, regarding me with a bright, beady eye while I looked on in mute horror.

Last night, the gecko brigade unleashed its horror on me again. While I scrubbed myself down with St.Ives’ apricot scrub in the bath tub, I heard a distinct “clink” beside my foot. Looking down, I spotted a young, pale-faced gecko eyeing me in the most disconcerting manner. In a split second, I was out of the bathroom. However, I have obviously developed some courage over the last decade. I returned to the scene of the attack brandishing WD-40. (Yes, it was the only thing closest and quickest to grab. Besides, it is touted as a versatile product with 2000 uses - I might have added #2001).

Then, standing six feet away from my tormentor, I spritzed like I’ve never spritzed before. My assailant first tried to dive for cover behind a giant bottle of strawberry bubble bath. However, I kept at him, like the cops dispelling a mob with a water cannon. Horrors! Completely disoriented (and possibly rust-free for life), he ran straight for me! I squealed, leaped over him and took cover in the bathtub again, keeping my finger down on the spray gun. I was GI Jane with that WD-40 I tell you.

This is when he breached the boundaries of battle, the unsporting scoundrel. He hopped into my bedroom at top speed like a highly caffeinated kid on a pogo stick. Too chicken to follow him immediately, lest he leap at me, I allowed him to skip under the bed before throwing on a bathrobe and dashing out for my weapons of mass destruction. Oh, yeah! Bring on the Baygon Multi-Insect Killer.

He was nowhere to be seen when I returned. “Fire first, ask questions later”, I reasoned with myself and doused the entire room with Baygon, spraying liberally under the bed, until I could taste the chemical on my tonsils. I swear I heard my neighbour, two blocks down, gag.

And just like that, it ended. I heard and saw no more of my attacker. What has become of him still remains a mystery this morning. Is he dead or plotting a more ferocious attack?

There was one positive thing to the entire episode. I am severely hematophobic - I’ve been known to faint, grow dizzy, break out in a cold sweat and clutch at inappropriate animate or inanimate objects for support at the sight of blood.

You can imagine my terror when I had to undergo a routine blood test this morning. However, five minutes after meekly offering up a vial of blood, I was trotting out quite normally with my dignity intact.

How did I manage to stay cool and calm this time? Simple: I kept my eyes closed and my mind firmly on the offensive gecko, reliving the horror of him making like a wallaby and scurrying under the bed.

One phobia to conquer another. And that’s how it’s done. *Holstering WD-40 and taking a bow*

The Monsoon Madness is Upon Us

As the Indian monsoon set in and the roads turned murky with suspicious flotsam and jetsam bobbing merrily into gutters, potholes and other unfortunate orifices, the damp air appeared to have affected the workings of otherwise rational human minds.

Monsoon madness, it would appear, is upon us.

How else could you explain why Bin would hurl a whole bottle of Bacardi Breezer in the Ant’s face, mistaking the figure skulking by her car to be a -- of all things -- a watermelon thief? Never mind that there may have been laptops, mobile phones, wallets and other valuables lying carelessly about -- oh, no sirree, that crouching form must most certainly have come for watermelons. This begs the question -- what watermelons? I have no answer to that one, simply because there were none in the vicinity. A more likely explanation would be that Bin has been afflicted by the monsoon madness.

The madness does not end there.

No doubt the deluge of Jamaican Passion upon the Ant’s face coupled with the shock of being pronounced a watermelon thief had a more damaging impact on the Ant’s brain than initially suspected. Some days later, in the midst of a mundane conversation, I mentioned something to the effect of “I will give her a call” or something equally bland. The Ant went saucer-eyed before exclaiming, “What! KO has nipple rings?”

I was completely befuddled. How on earth did a completely innocuous statement suddenly transform into something with earth-shattering implications? I mean, if KO sports radical pieces of jewellery, I can bet my bottom paisa that the pope would sport a tattoo -- if you get my drift.

KO reacted with the expected level of shock and horror when accused about her “dirty little secret”. The allegation, born out of a much mildewed mind, had a profound impact on the poor lass. She packed her bright red suitcase, wrapped a brighter green ribbon around it and presented herself at Oo’s doorstep in Ireland, calling herself an early Christmas present. I haven’t seen her in almost a month. (Read KO’s Irish escapades here)

The only apparently unaffected soul is BC, who appears to have pulled through the dreary weather relatively unscathed. However, considering that even BC has been babbling something about her being possibly kidnapped and taken back as a price bride for the Kikuyu people, I might just have to resign myself to the fact that I seem to be the sole survivor of this drizzly season.

I am Legend! Woot!

(As you can probably tell, Basically Blah has no material to blah about and is looking to incite a riot. My apologies to my regular readers, especially the ones who take all that time and effort to Google my blog every single day!)