That inexplicable link between hunger, depression and weight fluctuations

I have been depressed for the past few days. The reasons vary from the mundane to the exotic. (For a better understanding of the situation kindly refer to earlier posts.) I haven’t been this depressed since the girl I was involved with died in a car crash.

I’ve been down and it’s getting so bad that even my co workers have started giving me weird looks. One very outspoken co worker went to the extent of saying that I looked like a truck had run over me. Asked to elucidate she said she’d seen a similar expression on a person’s face and that was in a hospital and the person in question had undergone an experience quite similar to being run over by a truck.

Torn – pocket – mouthed co workers aside I know I’m horribly depressed because I’ve chucked my weight loss plan out the window. Cookies, crisps, chocolates, candy bars, cakes – fattening, mouth watering goodies of every variety. You name it and I’ve eaten it. My average calorific intake is probably in the region of 20,000 to 30,000 calories per day.

I’ve been on the depression diet for a week now. One full week. And I’ve lost 3 pounds.

Cue – raised eyebrows, dropped jaws, crashing sounds made by coffee mugs dropped by incredulous disbelievers, etc, etc. Go back and read the figures twice and look up the adjectives in the dictionary. And no your eyes are not playing tricks on you. I’ve lost weight. Inspite of inhaling enough food to feed ten people I have managed to shed some of the poundage that has been the butt of jokes for eons.

Years of religiously drinking a horrible concoction of holy basil, tea leaves, ginger and lemon in warm water early in the morning, Atkins, South Beach, Long Island, (the diets, not the places,) jogging, running, biking, push ups and pull ups, stomach crunches, abexercisers – I must have fattened the coffers of a lot of kingpins of the weight loss mafia. And the worst part is, NOT A SINGLE BLOODY THING WORKED!

All it took was a heady mix of suicidal thought inducing depression and a diet comprising solely of JUNK BLOODY FOOD and the outcome was rapid weight loss. The fat melted off like an ice cube on a Miami sidewalk at the height of summer. I have finally fit into my old jeans and my new bought – it – for – 100 – bucks – off – the – roadside – vendor’s - rack hoodie. Small consolation. I’m still depressed remember? Even retail therapy, yes that’s when I got the hoodie, and finding a new flavor of ice-cream at Baskin Robbins did not help.

So folks forget about every diet you have ever heard of, including the diet coke, cocaine and cigarettes diet that supermodels go on before a fashion week. (What you didn’t know that? Where do you think Karolina Kurkova, the supermodel who got voted the sexiest woman alive on the planet a few days ago, got her body from? Apart from the discreet plastic surgeon that is. What you di……forget it. I’ll save that for another day. When I’m less manic depressive that is.) Forget about the gyms you frequent, break free from the shackles of weight loss bondage. Find a reason to be depressed, eat every damn thing that you haven’t eaten in eons and brood. The fat will go faster than a hot cake off the bakery shelf. It really and truly works. No dieting, No exercising, No VLCC, No Shahnaz Husain. Just good old depression and binge eating. Period.Enjoy.
Any one care to disagree?

Being laid off - my worst nightmare come true

I’m being pushed from the frying pan into the fire. And when I’m fully roasted I’ll be chucked into the bin. Take your pick – Terminated, Resigned, Chucked out, given the boot, pushed into oblivion, laid off, etc, etc. I’ve said it but I’m still not willing to believe it.

5 months, that’s all it took. Already I’ve been chewed alive by the Capital. Pretty soon I’ll be spit out and that will be the end of that story. It’s surreal, that’s all I can say. I walked into this city with nothing. I’ll walk out with very little. In the interim I’ve probably accumulated enough bad karma to last me a lifetime and a half.

Will I miss the city? NO. Will I miss my job? NO. Will I miss my co – workers? NO. Will I miss the room that I rent by the month? NO. Then WHY THE BLOODY FUCKING HELL AM I DEPRESSED?

I’m depressed because I don’t know where I’m going to go next. I have no avenues, no options. I’m going to be thrown out on my left ear rather unceremoniously. And when I gather up the courage to pick myself up and dust myself off, I won’t know where to go.

Am I incompetent? No. Am I the kind of person who’s going to shirk from working? No. Am I completely useless? No. At the end of the day, there’s no major reason why I’m being singled out for the lay off. There are others in the same boat as me but that is no consolation. I’m not going to derive any consolation from the fact that there are others who would undergo the same thing.

Finding solace in someone else’s misfortune ensures rebirth as a cockroach. And I frankly don’t want to be a cockroach or any other creepy crawly for that matter. I’ll move from being salaried and homeless to being job less and homeless.

And yes I’m trying to find a job but so far its all one big blank. Zilch. Nada. Nix. Nyet. It is the best of times and it is the worst of times (Sorry Charles, my apologies for shamelessly plagiarizing your famous opening line and converting it into the present tense.)
So folks today’s post is solely dedicated to all those people who have been mercilessly sacrificed at the altar of cost cutting. Here’s to you guys. I can truly say that I share your pain.

Paranoid Parents – the bane of my existence! Part - I

Readers will note at the outset that the personal pronoun is conspicuously missing from the beginning of the title. That’s because this piece and its counterparts are not dedicated just to my set, but also to quite a few other paranoid parents that I have ever had the misfortune to come across. I shall, purely for the sake of reader interest, restrict myself to the immediate instances of paranoia exhibited by choice specimens of the parental category of Homo sapiens.

Charity begins at home, so will criticism, derision and censorship. My parents – well educated, well read pillars of society. But when it comes to making decisions and taking responsibility of their own kids………. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, its CA’s parents making their exit after falling prey to their paranoia of being held responsible for taking a decision!

The latest incident of their paranoia involves, as usual, a phone call. I’ll paraphrase the call to cover more ground as opposed to a blow by blow account. It’s not going to be pretty folks even with the paraphrasing.

The key players this time were Grandpapa and the Pater Familia. The gist of the conversation was that there were “decisions” to be taken and Daddy dear wasn’t ready to take them. (What’s new? When has he ever deigned to take a decision? And decisions? Plural? More than one? I’m surprised he didn’t asphyxiate on the spot.)

Well this time both of them, yes that’s right folks, BOTH of them called up AT THE EXACT SAME TIME and got angrier and angrier because, surprise surprise, they were both getting a busy signal.

When they did get through it was a sorry rehash of past verbal trashings that they dished out. Why can’t the two of them find something new to air during their verbal trashings? I mean it’s like watching the same bloody re-run for the HUNDREDTH time. And where, I ask you, is the punch of the earliest trashings? The startling revelations of ineptitude, the sparkling wit and black humor, the refreshing feeling of knowing that individuals you thought were holier than thou are actually flawed. Oh the horror of those early trashings, where art thou?

Ultimately I was left with the proverbial broken pieces of a clay pot and asked to put it back together again. I did the best I could, a quick dose of verbal superglue and a liberal sprinkling of lies (I accumulated some really bad karma on this one) did the trick.

Daddy dearest was left laboring under the blissful mis-impression that someone else had taken the decisions (he will at some point definitely shift the blame onto Grandpapa hopefully overlooking my mediation) and as usual Grandpapa remarked at the sensibility of the solution. And once again I was forced to bite my tongue hard to keep from blurting out that it was put together by me. I tell you there’s no credit to be had here. But then, do I really need it?

Where, if at all is the justice? When will my dysfunctional family come face to face with the fact that, hellooooo you’re weird. When will that epiphany strike?

In the meantime, I’ll just polish off the last of the cookies, binge eating always helps.

Demented Dysfunctional Aunts (DDA) and their equally demented behavior patterns

Today’s complaint is about the bane of any Single and ready to mingle (SRTM’s) life – a happily married aunt with kids at college, loads of free time on her hands and a do - gooder spirit that refuses to say die who shall henceforth be known as Demented Dysfunctional Aunt or DDA for short.

I’m cursed with not one, not two BUT SEVEN SPECIMENS of the aforementioned species. Blame it on the lack of birth control or on the fact that my Dad got married twice but I have SEVEN DEMENTED DYSFUNCTIONAL AUNTS to contend with.

Here’s what DDA no. 2 did recently, on a Saturday evening no less, I mean why can’t people at least respect the sanctity of weekends?

7 bloody p.m. and the cell phone rings. I stretch one perfectly toned arm out of the comfort of the blanket (Like any other person on the planet I am entitled to a lie in now and then.) The second my hand makes contact with the cool metal surface of the phone and sends a jarring note through my entire system I just know that its going to be ugly. Period. The belief is further strengthened by the unknown number, carrying like a beacon of kinship and identity THE Hometown’s STD code at the beginning, flashing on the cell’s display.

Me – Hello??????? ( Voice conveying perfectly brewed mixture of mild inquisitiveness, disgust at the unknown caller’s inability to pick a more appropriate time to call and barely concealed outrage at being disturbed by the scum of the earth, automatically tagged so without a trial as said scum has dared to wake me, on the other end of the line.)

Unknown Caller (identity yet to be established) – CA Betaaaaaaa (Indian term of endearment utilized for both genders, loosely translated replaces sweetie pie / sweetheart)!!! How are you??????? It’s meeeeeeeee!!!!!! (Hazy glimmerings of recognition start to dart around my mind, no it couldn’t be, but alas! It is, very much so! Okay, which moron gave out my new number?)

Me – C____ Auntie????? (Hazy glimmerings gradually turning into full on disco strobe lights soon to be metamorphosed into blinding fox light with enough mega wattage to light up an entire continent. Voice inflection reset to – “What a pleasant surprise!!” mode)

C____ Auntie (Henceforth known as DDA, for clarifications pass your peepers over the top of the post) – Yes Betaaaa!!!!!!! (Voice conveying unbridled amounts of love and affection for long lost prodigal nephew, scratch that, son.) How are you????? (Voice inflections bringing to mind visions of ample bosoms and ham hock arms crushing me to near oblivion, thank god fervently that she’s on the other end of a phone line.)

Me – I’m doing Grrrrrreat Auntie, How are Youuuuuuuuu??? (Well modulated voice conveying nothing except familial bonding, affection and so glaaaaaad to hear from you - ness.)

DDA – Betaaaaaa!!!!!!!

DDA – (Voice quavering with unspent emotion and unshed tears but gradually coming into its own as the conversation / monologue progresses) I was just thinking the other day that my dear little cootchie coo (that would be me folks) is all grown up (Hey!!!!!!You noticed??????????) and it’s high time that I found you a life long friend.

If my sister were alive (cue sound of nose being blown) but anyway (false enthusiasm injected successfully into the heart of the baritone) I have just the girl for Youuuuuu!!!!!!!! (Attempt at conveying genuine enthusiasm via the aforementioned baritone fails miserably at the second u.)

Half an hour spent extolling the virtues of THE GIRL – Five - five, dark, engineer, MBA in the making, unwilling to leave job or relocate to another city, can’t cook, doesn’t want to learn, slightly (emphasis on the slightly folks) overweight, and best of all, she only has ONE younger brother (One too many if you ask me) who’s not so good at studying. Everything else is A - OKAY.

It is bloody not. Soooooo NOT okay.

Me – (Voice inflections after major conflict settle on surprised.) gosh C____ Auntie, I don’t know what to say. (I bloody well do but I don’t want Grandmamma on my case for the next ten days and I also do not want this conversation to be chalked up as another stinker in the ongoing saga of CA versus well meaning family members and hung for all to see in the Small Townie hall of infamy. The Shame! The sheer horror of it all!!!!!!)

DDA - If my sister were alive (liberal dose of unconcealed emotional baggage carrying inflection with a strong dash of reminiscence thrown in for good measure) I’m sure she’d just loooooooove her (cue the violins playing the theme from Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham in perfect sync with DDA’s nose blowing.)

After well planned silence in which the violinists have played the entire piece twice and done their level best to extract a tear from my eye, my not obliging setting them back a bit, DDA says – Now where was I? (Hopefully on the way to the mental asylum but then that’s really too much to hope for.)

DDA – Ahhh! Yesssssss. (Snake like hiss with the steel like modulation conveying that the real purpose of the call is now under way.) What I want (finally we get somewhere) is that you should take the date and time of the girl’s birth and yours as well and go to some internet café and get the Horoscopes matched. You know the girl’s side is doing it as well and I want to be prepared. You never know what they might come up with. People will do anything to get out of paying a Dowry. I would have gone myself but ……… (Cue the long list of social engagements that DDA no. 2 as an active member of the community simply must attend – includes births, deaths, marriages, divorce showers, yes you read that right, fiftieth wedding anniversaries, etc. ) and Betaaaaaa, Grandmamma simply does not understand all this computer-shumputer business. You’ll do it, no Beta???? You know, if your mother were alive……..(Cue the violinists who are dispatched with a swift kick on the backside.)

Me – Sure C_____ Auntie, whatever you say. ( Must not betray incredulity, must not betray incredulity, must not……..you get the drift. I mean what the fuck is this? What next? Kindly schedule everything else from the venue to the marriage date to the Bride’s beauty parlor appointments yourself. Oh and while you’re at it you might as well lick the stamps too.)

DDA – Achha Betaa, write down the date and time and don’t feel shy. Just think that you’re doing it for a friend or something. Here it is….. (God forsaken date, God forsaken time, God forsaken place of birth. Was she born specifically to embarrass me into oblivion?)

DDA - Okay Betaaaaaa!!!!! Byeeeeeeeeeeeee! (Cue sound of shattering glass.)

Me – By………..CLICK! (Sound of call being disconnected by DDA.)

I can just see her pudgy little face beaming with self satisfaction of a job outsourced. Just to be mean I also imagine her doing high fives with DDA no. 1 and with Grandmamma as well.

I’m not incredulously angry anymore. Just sad. I Put my cell down and very slowly pull the blanket over my head. And then, without any warning surprising even myself, I begin to cry.

Of hopeless bosses and their equally hopeless calls (early in the morning)

8:00 a.m. The cell phone rings. I’m back from the gym – all ripe and smelling like a lethal combo of ten day old socks, gouda cheese and unwashed armpits. I’m munching on a carrot stick (Hello? What did you expect – a cheese sandwich?) My theory that all calls between the hours of 11:00 p.m. and 9 a.m. will shortly be proved to be right.

Me – Hello

Boss – GOOD MORNING

Me – Yessir (no that’s not a misspelling, that’s the way I say it. Just a tiny little inflection on the double s; just enough to separate the syllable but not nearly enough to be completely legible.)

Boss – I hope I didn’t disturb you, are you comfortable, should I call you back after you’ve reached the office?

Me – (What I really want to say – Obviously you disturbed me you twit, who do you think I am? The bloody CEO with a barrage of cooks, drivers, waiters, assorted minions who are falling over themselves to do my bidding? I have precisely 45 minutes to bathe, dress, eat the rest of my sodding breakfast and make it out the door so that I can reach exactly on time. And by the way, we’re not exactly having sex here, so the part about me being comfortable is totally irrelevant you dimwit. And why the hell did you call now if you think that calling me at the office would have been better? I didn’t ask you to wake me up now did I? )
What I actually say – not at all Sir, everything okay?

Boss – long rigmarole involving his movements from the office the previous day to the doctor’s appointment, to the subsequent minor under local anesthetic surgery followed by a FULL description of medication, precautions and number of days he’ll be out of office.
When he’s done he proceeds to pass on an assignment to me that he’s already done and found to be absolutely pointless in a tone of voice that implies that I’m being handpicked for a plum assignment.

By the time he’s winding down, (Cues – gradual loss of enthusiasm, changes in voice inflections, increased use of Big Boss’s surname, etc. – What you want the full list?), I have already put this down as a stinker of a day. And guess what? When he finally hangs up I’m a full TWENTY FIVE MINUTES LATE for work.

I swear I have really, really BAD Karma.