Shall we eat Dick, instead?

“It is all about reiteration, recognizance and following up relentlessly to ensure that your work gets done. You feel me people, do you feel what I am saying here?” Dick looks around, his voice rising in decimals, his back straight and blood shot eyes wide enough to cover Rita’s generous boobs.

 

We all nod our unenthusiastic ‘hmms’ and scroll down the screen to the next point in the agenda.

 

“It is like my son, you know.” He continues. Rita, almost groans out loud but then saves her ass by pretending to cough. “Every single morning I lift my son’s sorry butt and plant it on that atrocious fluorescent green and yellow, plastic potty. I sit there with him for five, ten, even fifteen minutes, squatting just like he does and grunting loud and clear to make him poop in that potty. And when he does, only then does he get rewarded by his favorite fruit loops.”

 

A strong whiff of chicken steak, tiramisu and the smell of someone’s butt crack invades my nose and almost makes me throw up in my mouth. I realize that Dan, who is sitting next to me, has let out a silent, yet smelly fart.

 

I pick up a glass of water and cover my mouth and nose with it, while giving Dan the evil eye. He shrugs and whispers, “What?”

 

Ah, I think, the fucker ate before the meeting. This goddamned meeting was supposed to be only for half an hour, and already we are at the ninety-minute mark with sixty minutes of the single dad’s potty training anecdotes.

 

“You feel me people? Do you?” Dick increases his voice by a couple of more decimals.

 

“Yes…yes.” We speak in unison and Ana burps loud enough to make sleepy Todd jump on his seat.

 

“I am sorry, it is acid reflux.” Ana apologizes. “Been too long since I ate, you know.” She said.

 

Ah, I could kiss Ana. She said it; she said what we were all thinking. All heads turn to Dick. At least now he will realize and give this snail paced meeting a break.

 

“True, very true, Ana.” He says. “I have observed with my son as well, that whenever he eats in long gaps, he suffers from terrible constipation the next day and oh, don’t even get me started on the stomach pains.”

 

“Please don’t!” Dan whispers under his breath.

 

What the fuck, I think as I notice Ana’s face fall, Todd’s eyes close again and another smellier fart from Dan.

 

Our daft boss continues his rant while staring down Rita’s cleavage and a wave of acid assaults my esophagus. I burp a little and take another sip of water. I wonder if I could excuse myself and run outside to grab a quick bite, but I know my teammates would probably break into my home at night and kill me in my sleep.

 

“Co-relate eating on time with our tasks. Can you? Can anyone give me an example?” He asks.

 

He looks around as all of us scramble to look elsewhere, anywhere but him.

 

His eyes roam over us for a moment and zero in on Todd, who is sitting with his eyes close and mouth open.

 

“Todd?” He asks.

 

“Todd? Todd?” he repeats twice as Ana nudges him with her elbow. Todd wakes up screaming “Potty…potty.”

 

“What Todd?” Dick asks.

 

“What Dick?” Todd says.

 

“Can you give me an example that co-relates eating on time with the tasks we perform at work?” Dick repeats his questions.

 

I am holding the edge of the table in a death grip, Todd’s answer would either make me split in uncontrollable giggles or make us all want to hide under the table in embarrassment.

 

“Well like this meeting, Dick.” Todd says as his wipes the drool off his mouth with a tissue.

 

“What about the meeting, Todd?” Dick’s voice has lowered now and his eyes narrow into slits.

 

“… umm nothing actually. I mean sometimes we can kind of forego eating on time, because… I mean because meetings like this are important.” Todd almost whispers.

 

“And?” Dick asks.

 

“And even though I am not yet married, I am gaining a lot of insight into parenting, especially potty training.”

 

“Good.” Dick smiles and turns to Dan and me. “Anything else?”

 

Dan looks at me, I turn my face the other side, he takes the hint and jumps in, “I agree… I mean completely agree. In spite of my evident homosexuality, who knows when I might have to potty train some… some stranger’s child.”

 

“I understand, Dan.” Dick smiles. “Homosexuality is curse for those who love parenting.”

 

I believe we have already established, that Dick is a dick.

 

“Potty training is a skill, people; one that needs a tremendously disciplined approach. You find saying a ‘No’ difficult to these grown ass, ugly looking colleagues? Imagine having to say ‘No’ to a cute, chubby toddler with drool dripping down their mouth.”

 

We nod out of practice.

 

“If you,” Dick continues “can master the art of disciplining and saying ‘No’ to a toddler, you, my friends have arrived? You have true leadership potential.”

 

There are a few more unenthusiastic ‘hmms’ and ‘yesses’. I look at my watch; we were two and a half hours into a half an hour meeting.

 

And now even my stomach is grumbling, I clench my gut and sit still to ensure the thundering in my tummy goes unnoticed by my colleagues, especially my boss.

 

My phone pings, I lower it under the desk as Dick rants on about the how the quality team in our department can learn from him. It is all in the way he measures the health of his toddler son by examining his poop every day.

 

“You see, folks. You need to get your hands dirty here.” He concludes.

 

I unlock my phone to see that Rita has created a group, with just us, Dan, Todd, Ana and I, minus Dick.

 

The title of the group says – Should we eat him instead?

 

I quickly send five ‘rolling with laughter’ emojis and lock my phone. Almost instantly there’s another vibration. With nothing better to do than listen to my boss rant about handling loosies in toddlers, I unlock the phone again. Todd has written, “But how? I am famished, btw.”

Just then Ana responds, “I have a knife in my bag, a big one.”

I still respond with the same laughing emoji, when Dan writes, “Hell yes… slash the fucker.”

What the fuck? I think and type, “Are you guys serious?”

Rita responds, “Of course, Dick, the prick, calls us over a weekend and then doesn’t let us eat lunch. What else can we do, but eat him?”

“Yeah… why not?” Ana chimes in.

I smile at the evident mockery and decided to partake in the charade.

“I’d like to eat his ample belly.” Todd says.

“His thighs for me, please.” Dan writes.

“I would definitely scoop his eyes out with a ladle, dip them in melted chocolate and make loud crunching noises as I chew on them.” Rita writes, obviously frustrated by his blatant staring.

“It would be his fingers for me, fry them up and crunch on those bones.” Ana types.

“I call dibs on his fat arms.” I type and smile.

 

via Shall we eat Dick, instead?

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Date with a writer

The other day I went on a date with a writer, you know because I am a writer, and I do have this weird notion that writers are good in bed.

I connected with him on Facebook. He sent me a friend request and I read his poetry where he pushes the books off the desk and his woman shatters the glasses kept on the study table, they throw away the clothes scattered on the clothes line and clean the bed off all pillows.

And then in clutter free room they make passionate love.

Well, if that weren’t an indication of his raging, intense libido, nothing would be.

We chatted; I told him that he writes well.

He replied, “Once written I don’t own it. Your eyes and soul make it beautiful.”

I smiled because even with a writer, you need to wade through a ton of bullshit before you can have an actual conversation.

And then he ‘opined’ the ‘postulate’ that since we were in the same city, we could perhaps meet sometime.

His ‘opining’ and ‘postulation’ wasn’t really necessary because had he not asked, I would’ve suggested a meeting myself.

I had been depraved of a good romp in bed for so long that lately my bidet was my favourite gadget at home. But that didn’t mean I was into one-night stands or friends with benefits. I really needed to get to know the guy well and to be courted, before I even started anything. I am old school like that.

We met at Starbucks, where I walked in a Mango dress carrying my Fendi bag and wearing Aldo shoes.

glasses-for-men-03

It did not take much to recognise him there, the only man sitting in a corner furiously typing away.

He was the kind of writer who would buy kurtas from FabIndia and then poke holes in it to fit into the ‘struggling writer’ stereotype; the kind who would carry his Macbook Pro in a jhola and order Pumpkin spice latte from Starbucks.

His silhouette profile picture did not do justice to the fact that his beard almost reached his cheekbones like a Neanderthal with zero access to a razor blade. And his hair was long enough to be tied in a bun as thick as a donut. Between his head and his chin, there was a lot of hair and very little face.

Although the one thing his profile image did do justice to, was his muscular physique. If the muscles bulging at the seams of his kurta were any indication, he looked like he lived in the gym.

“Hi Moni” I said.

He took his own time to look up from his laptop and roamed his bespectacled eyes on me.

“Your pictures do not do justice, you know.” He spoke with a smile.

I smiled and sat down. That compliment did not deserve a response.

Even with the beard covering his face, I knew he was much younger than I was. Not that age were a barrier, but I did hope our ideologies met.

“So, what are you writing?” I asked.

“Oh well I am writing Erotica, and my heroine is called, Natasha.” He said with a wide smile.

“Isn’t it a co-incidence?” He continued. “I just started writing about a Natasha while I am meeting one.”

I smiled again. If he did not drop the act, I would probably give up trying to court a decent intellectual and join Tinder.

“You knew you were meeting a Natasha, so no surprises there.” I said. I probably shouldn’t have, because he pushed his spectacles up and went back to typing furiously.

“You write a lot of Erotica, don’t you?” I asked, hoping to have a reasonable conversation.

“Yes, because I am an asshole, and I hate my own phallus.” He responded.

“That’s good to know.” I said and wondered who the fuck calls their dick, a phallus?

I did want to ask him about why he hated his phallus, and if the answer would have been because it was too small, I guess I would’ve ended the date then and there.

But I didn’t. Unlike Moni, I was polite and did not want to start off a conversation with a practical stranger on topics of assholes and phalluses.

“So Natasha, I also did read some of your striking pieces. It is beautiful that you would lay yourself bare for the world to see.” He said.

“Oh… I thought I only write fiction. How, pray tell, do I lay myself bare to the world?” I said.

“Well you know in that story, where this widowed mother is attacked by the police man. The beauty with which you describe him defiling her body was captivating.” He said.

“Umm… that was a rape scene.” I said.

“A beautiful one at that.” He responded, his eyes glinting.

Right there, I could feel my bidet calling out to me, telling me to get out because dating a writer was so not worth the effort. But you know me, and even if you don’t, I am an eternal optimist. I prefer giving people second, third, fourth and umpteen chances, just like I did with my cheating ex husband.

“I really like your prose, it is fluid and seamless.” I said in hopes of moving the topic away from how I lay myself bare when writing a rape scene.

He smiled, placed his hand on mine and said, “Just like your fluid body.”

Well, I had asked for it. I had asked for a writer with a raging libido. So if there was anyone to be blamed for this disappointing date, it was I.

“Thank you, Moni.” I said and snatched my hand away. His palms, callused, from lifting all those weights felt clammy on mine.

“So, how do you want to take this forward?” He asked sitting up straight.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Well, would you be the Natasha in my story?” He asked, again smiling from ear to ear.

Oh my God, this guy moved fast. I wondered. Was it something to do with the glaring age gap? Did I miss a few policy changes on romance, while I was busy giving my ex a dozen second chances?

It did not take Einstein, to understand what he was suggesting, but I still persisted in hopes that I might’ve misunderstood the blatant proposal.

“I don’t understand what you are saying.” I said.

He sighed and spoke, “Your place or mine.”

“Ohh…” I said. Faced with a choice, to stick to my romantic ideologies that were clearly a couple of decades archaic or to replace the bidet with this bearded, muscular hunk.

“Mine.” I said.

via Date with a writer

The Bride who was late

I was born late. I mean I stuck around mother’s womb a week or two, just to float listlessly in that rapidly constricting sack of amniotic fluid and critically analyze my life choices.

Which pretty much set my life’s precedent for the next thirty-five years. I don’t remember a single day at school when I wasn’t late. And I can’t forget my graduation day where my shame faced dad had to go up there on the stage and collect my certificate. I mean it wasn’t really my fault; I had to stop the traffic outside my college to let a family to turtles cross the road.

Or the fateful day I almost got married. I turned up after the guests had left and found my fiancé, Dan, busy doggy styling the wedding planner. Well, all I have to say is that when celebrating your Bachelorette the night before your wedding, never start a bar brawl with another woman who had come for her own Bachelorette. It is like a gang war between two families of hyenas; too much screaming, manic laughter and too little punches.

My only consolation was that I had messed up her nose as bad as she’d messed up my marriage.

But that’s not what this story is about. Definitely not about my life choices when I was alive. This is a story about what happened when I died, and died late at that.

Continue reading “The Bride who was late”

When I became a therapy dog…

“I thought Labradors are the best therapy animals “, I said as I stirred a cup of tea that I had made for my visitor; one that I did not quite enjoy a visit from. Not because he wasn’t easy on the eye, it was because every single time he walked through the threshold of my door, he carried bad, terrible, unsavoury and in this case, positively damning news.

“Labradors are on the brink of extinction, Thanks to another breed of cannibalistic canines, who deemed Labradors, a delicacy.” He spat out, and if looks could kill, they would’ve; but thanks to my completely oblivious attention span, I was busy trying to throw a badminton racquet at my seven year old, who had suddenly decided it would be fun to slide down the railing and not take the steps.

“Mom, where’s my Loreal ultra soft moisturising tick and flea shampoo?” Screamed my fourteen years old daughter, from her room.

“It is in your bathroom, right next to your fur conditioner, that cost me my monthly salary and the perfume, that made me want to give up my first born.” I shouted back as I sipped my tea.

“Can you come and give it to me, please?” She said.

I swear to God, if I hadn’t turned almost vegan a year ago, I would’ve eaten my own progeny. Forget Labradors, nothing tastes better than chewing your own flesh and blood.

Continue reading “When I became a therapy dog…”

When middle aged men serenade middle aged women…

I apologise if I have misled you by this title; made you think that as you read ahead you will be beguiled by a story of two middle-aged, hopeless romantics finding love and solace in each other.

Please remove all images of Jane Austen style wooing with a dark and brooding, yet occasionally witty, Mr. Darcy.

No, no, no, the following lines are not meant to reaffirm your faith in finding love, no matter the age.

I am going to talk about a real menace that many of us face, day in and day out that is social media and its unsolicited messages.

The ones where 20 something, 40 something, 60 something, men suddenly feel it is okay to tell you, how beautiful they think you are, in the first five minutes of the conversation.

And then follow it up with lame pick up lines like; I want us to be good friends.

This morning I received a notification on Facebook saying that Arpan P. (name changed) wants to connect with you. On further investigation I realised that Arpan happens to be in a senior leadership role in a Global Bank.

Great, I think, perhaps he has heard of me as a Leadership Coach, and wants to connect. Although it did bother me that he’d rather connect on Facebook than Linkedin, but then again, you never know where new business might come in, right?

So, with oodles of hope and an entrepreneurial mindset, I responded to his “Hi” with a “Hello, how may I help you?”

The conversation went something like this.

Arpan: Lakshmi , As now we don’t know each other… has no intention to bother u

Me (thinking so far so good): Sure, tell me…

Arpan: Tell me if I am. No intention of bothering u…

Me (thinking..hmm): How did you come to know about me?

Arpan (completely ignoring my question): I don’t intend to bother u, but I new to Bangalore…so exploring

Me (completely on alert): …

Arpan: So, I am new here and I am only looking for a good friend.

Me: I wonder, why would you choose to connect with only a woman, when all you need is a good friend.

Arpan (again ignoring my question): I think I am bothering u. Tel me if I…

u are very pretty.

Me: …

Arpan: Should I take ur silence as a “Yes”? It hard taking rejection from a girl this beautiful.

Me: … 

Arpan (perhaps realising there are unanswered questions): I…I saw ur author profile on Amazon.com. u really r very beautiful.

Me: (Blocked).

He saw my author profile and all he had to comment on was how I looked. I bet he didn’t buy a single book. Although, with that kind of language, I am not surprised.

It escapes my understanding how anyone can see your name on Linkedin, Amazon or any of those sites and then systematically set about searching you on Facebook, until they find you. And then actually message you with hopes that you will instantly become “good friends” with them, because they asked you to.

Can you even imagine how many “Lakshmi Priya’s” would be on Facebook?

This isn’t the first time I have received messages like this one, and this won’t be the last.

The reason I have chosen to share the conversation here and not within the Whatsapp group of my closest friends, is because I know that most of you are no strangers to attempts like this one.

Normally I would’ve screen-shotted it and shared it with my close friends and we would’ve laughed and laughed until we got bored of it.

But honestly today, I do feel offended.

Offended that just because I am a reasonably (this can be debated upon) successful professional, who is average looking and speaks her mind, doesn’t mean it is okay to text me and ask me to become your friend, by calling me pretty and beautiful, but not actually answering my questions.

I am 37 years old; I will call out on your mansplaining me and disrespecting me without batting an eyelid.

Did you really think I don’t know what I look like, in real life?

Did you really think I would believe you when you say I am beautiful?

Did you really think I am so insecure and craving for validation that I will run into your arms and be your “good friend”?

Did you really think, I haven’t had my share of being serenaded by good boys, bad boys, Mumma’s boys and absolutely fake boys?

I have two things to say to men like Arpan, first of all I have enough friends, second, I am writer, you really need to up your game, if you want me to be even remotely impressed by you.

Or wait, on second thoughts, I just have one thing to say;

I am too old for this shit.

Originally Published @ Women’s Web

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