Twisted DNA

Warning: If you experience nausea, dizziness, diarrhea or sudden buildup of ear wax, you may be suffering from a fatal reaction caused by the blog. Technorati reports that this blog already caused more than 100 reactions:

OK, you got the point. Technorati used to call them, very appropriately, “links.” Now they are “reactions.” It bothers me when people use obscure terms to represent something very simple. They are either trying to make it easy for laypeople to understand or be politically correct. In most cases it ends up confusing us.

Since we are on the topic of obscure expressions, here are some more examples:

• “Contact your health care professional“: Means “see your doctor” but why use one word when three are sufficient!

• “A store associate will help you”: Basically a salesperson but calling him an “associate” makes him sound less sleazy.

• Single Family Dwelling: Sounds like some kind of haunted house. It simply means “house”.

• Administrative assistant: Means “secretary” and I don’t know why “assistant” is less offensive than “secretary”

• There will be work force actions: You will be searching for a job soon

• Concession stand: Means the popcorn and soda stand outside a movie theater. They make it sound like they are selling food at dirt cheap prices, calling it “concession,” when in fact soda and popcorn cost more than a month’s salary.

• Senior Citizens: Old people. It’s funny to note that a lot of these senior citizens are not citizens

• “I need to freshen up“: Women don’t pee. They freshen up.

• In-flight refreshments: Peanuts and half a can of soda.

• “They consummated their relationship”: A delicate way of saying they jumped in the bed and did it until the bed broke.

• “Oh, she is just an Adult Entertainer, honey”: Whichever way you call a “stripper”, you are screwed after this.

Statistics is a bitch. Take, for example, the fact that statistically I only have one relative per 1000 square miles in India. But all that is completely thrown off when I go to my town. In my hometown, my relatives are more densely populated than dust mites. Every time I step outside, i am bound to meet at least one of them. I mean my relatives, not dust mites.

On my last visit, this relative of mine sneaked up on me on the street. To avoid this person I wouldn’t hesitate to jump into the sewer overrun by the pigs, whose company I would probably enjoy more. But he didn’t give me a chance. Our conversation ended like this:

He: I heard that Indians are discriminated against in the US, is that true? The white people treat us like second-grade citizens?
Me: I don’t know about rest of the US but it is not true about where I live. In fact, white people are the minority in Bay Area and people often joke that they are the second grade citizens there.
He: People of that country don’t understand what great country we come from. They don’t understand the value of our culture. Even a dirty Negro thinks he is better than us.

I stood there with my mouth open. I didn’t know where to begin to correct him. I politely informed him that “Negro” is a politically incorrect term and that implying blacks are a “lesser” race than us is infuriating. I regret that I didn’t quite know how to tell him he was the biggest racist I ever met and he personally is “lesser” than the pigs I referred to earlier.

When people are happy in life, they have a tendency to ruin it. They do things like getting married. I don’t have a problem if people get married, as long as they don’t expect me to show up with blessings and $100 gift cards. But I didn’t crib too much when a Punjabi acquaintance of ours invited us for their daughter’s wedding and corresponding lunch. I heard Punjabi weddings serve the most delicious food.

On the day of the wedding, we got delayed and arrived a little late to the wedding but on time for lunch. I was starving by the time we got to the venue. The hot sun and long drive didn’t bother me; the lure of the mouth-watering makki-di-rotis and lassis kept me going.

There has to be a Murphy’s Law that says all occasions that you need to wear a suit for happen at mid-afternoon with a blazing 100 degrees out there. And of course, the wedding has to be in a gurudwara on the top of a hill and the parking lot is almost full. So you park in the furthermost parking spot available. While contemplating the life’s irony of having to climb a hill exactly when you are wearing the most uncomfortable leather shoes, your kid has to go, as-a-matter-of-factly, “Dad, I need to pee. Now.” Nothing like a sprint up the hill to work your appetite.

After the bathroom visit, we went straight to the main event of the wedding. Lunch. As I made my way into the dining room, a guy at the door politely informed me that I needed to cover my hair with a cloth, as it was the Sikh custom. I more politely informed him that I am not a Sikh. About 10 people around me politely informed me that it didn’t matter.

I had to wear a rag from the pile of recycled charity rags that adorned many an oily hair before. I didn’t hesitate to comply because it was close to 1PM and I was so hungry that these Earthly matters couldn’t stand between me and Lunch.

To our horror we realized the buffet was almost empty. No Makki-di-roti. No Aloo-Amritsari. No Pista lassi. No nothing. What was left was a heap of paneer pakodas and some mystery daal.

After a brief huddle with the family, we decided to make do with the deep fried cheese. And, boy was it delicious! I ate so much that I could barely move. By the time we finished our lunch, the dining hall was empty and the buffet tables were being removed. Then something odd happened. They started rearranging the buffet tables and decorating them. Being the curious person I am, I caught a worker and asked what the hell was going on.

Worker: We are setting up for lunch
Me: What did I just eat then?
Worker: Oh, that was breakfast.

The eventual lunch looked delicious. I had to be content just by looking at it as my prudish wife strongly felt I shouldn’t ask for a to-go box at a wedding.

Do you know that in the modern times in the blog-world a comment is an important part of the social etiquette? Do you know that your comment is the only proof for your friend bloggers that you read and understood a post? Do you understand that commenting is the way bloggers bond, establish friendships and form alliances?

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If you have 30 seconds
In 30 seconds you can barely get past Blogger.com’s dreaded word verification. So don’t even try to read the title of the post. Just enter “Wow! Great post” in the comments.

If you have 2 minutes
You still don’t have time to read the entire post. So glance through the post and pick any sentence with pompous words. Quote the line and write, “Man, how do you find such perfect words to express your thoughts.”

If the post is a poem
The good and bad thing about these poet-bloggers is that they think each line of their poem is a gem. Just pick any random line, quote it and say, “I love this line. This is the best line.”

If it is a rant post
Before you read any post do a search for the phrases, “Am I making sense”, “I am confused” or “hard to explain”. If you find them, don’t read the post. You won’t understand it. Also, your blogger friend couldn’t care less if you understood the post. All she wants is your support. Just tell her what she wants to hear. “I can understand you sweetie. Don’t forget I am here for you if you want to talk.”

If you actually have time to read a post
Then don’t follow the first rule and enter some random compliment. Read the post carefully. But in most cases the post makes no sense and you are left wondering if the post is in Pig Latin. In such cases simply say, “Wow great post.”

The whole obligatory meeting of relatives is like a chess game. You both are ostensibly dying to spend time with each other but in reality you both know that given an option between meeting the relative and watching PBS documentary on advances in colonoscopy, you would choose the latter any day. But neither would admit it. So it becomes a carefully planned game of excuses.

It was my cousin who made the first move, when she called me and said she was visiting California. I implored her to come stay with us, while hoping she wouldn’t. She told me she would love to, but alas, she had so many friends she needed visit. Nevertheless, she promised to make time for her dear cousin. No surprises there; this sequence of opening moves is as standard as the e4-e5 opening. We have to play this game to make sure neither of us have anything to complain to our parents about.

While she was in town, how much ever we tried, we could not find time to meet – for some reason cell phones didn’t work, text messages vanished into thin air, meetings popped up unannounced and sickness ran its devastating course. Essentially, we avoided each other like plague.

Finally, close to the time she was leaving, we agreed that my wife and I would take her out to a nice dinner and be done with the formality. It was indeed a nice, and delightfully short, dinner. Over dinner we talked about every living common relative of ours and were moving on to the ones peacefully resting in their graves when the check finally arrived.

The ride back from the restaurant was the last few minutes of our meeting – known as the “end game” - and needed to be played carefully. I told her, “It is wonderful spending time with you. So sad we spent such a short time. Are you sure you can’t just crash at our place and chat more?” She replied, “Sure. That would be fun.”

I was shocked, as if she played a C4 in Sicilian defense. She was supposed to say, “Oh, I would love to but my friends will be waiting for me.” Now I have no choice but continue the game.

Me: That’s great! Although I don’t want to spoil your plans if you made any already
Cousin: No, but you will have to drop at my friend’s place in the morning. I don’t want to impose on your busy weekday

Aha! You want me to back out.

Me: No, that’s not a problem.
Cousin: That’s great. (Pause). But you know, I didn’t bring any night dress.

She offered a draw. Perfect! It was nobody’s fault. We both dearly wished she came to our place but circumstances conspired differently.

Me: Oh darn! It would’ve been so much fun!

I forgot that there was another person in the car who is blissfully oblivious to all the subtleties of the intricate chess game going on there, A.K.A. the wife, who decided to speak.

W: Oh that’s not a problem. You can wear my clothes.

Damn! That shattered the status quo to million pieces. There was disappointed silence in the car for a few seconds.

Me: (Recovering) That settles it. We are going to my place then.
Cousin: (Gritting her teeth) Ok.

After a minute, I offered her a way out.

Me: You know, if you already made plans with your friends, you can just say it. We are cousins… there are no such formalities between us.

It was a gambit. And she accepted it!

Cousin: Yeah, I should go to my friends’ place. I am sure they are planning some games.
Me: Oh you should definitely go! Much more fun than talking about dead relatives.

We both laughed and sighed with relief.

Now all I have to do is call our respective parents and tell them that my cousin came all the way to California but didn’t have the time to stay at our place. Checkmate.