I ate a house

Really I did.

My little one has been sick all week, and now that her appetite is back, I thought I’d make some of her favorite food – carrot muffins. But what do I find in the drawer where I keep my bakeware?

Ikea gingerbread house packages! I had gotten these back in October, fully intending to host a cute little gingerbread house making shindig for the kiddos and their little buddies. But then, one thing lead to another, and as the holiday busy meter soared, these packages disappeared into the vortex of forgotten good intentions.

Sweetie, you know I have a major thing for those autumn flavored goodies, right? Gingerbread, Cinnamon, Pumpkin Spice and the like. Once the first leaves start to fall, I morph into a walking target for coffee shops selling expensive desserts masquerading as lattes. It’s a bit unholy to even say, but I confess I’ll take a slice of pumpkin cake over chocolate mousse…anyday.

So what’s a moti to do, with 6 packages of this stuff? In January?

You know it.

I opened one up, thinking that at the very least I’d beta-test this shit.

The aroma of faux gingerbread, fully processed to the point it’s shelf-life must be on the order of decades, hit my nostrils and shamelessly, knowing that I was about to jump down that rabbit hole, I nibbled on not so small a piece.

The rest is history.

Chimney went first.

Then the front door.

The roof and windows were next…at which point I started feeling a bit sick. But why stop now, I asked myself. What use would two large wall panels of a gingerbread house be? Into my human compost bin body they went. With a tall glass of milk. 2%. Because that’s all we had in the fridge. But I was past the point of caring.

It was like Christmas for one. On a Friday morning. At the end of January.

And I ate a whole house.

Now I have to bury the other five.

One thought on “I ate a house

  1. OK. That was pathetic Moti. I know how you love those “ghoray” types of goodies more than chocolate like the rest of us. But seriously??? That was a bottom low. Even I have standards…sometimes! At least you could have dipped it warm chai to mask the stale flavor. But I guess rock bottom doesn’t have standards;)

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Starting Monday…again!

OK so I blew it again…and again…now I am just hitting record highs..again. Weighing in at 153:(  but I started today. Tuesday. Mondays are over-rated. Plus, in honor of MLK day, I rocked out with ice cream, a bagel, a burger and more ice cream and of course my mixed nuts with chocolate chunks from Tjs, I went strong until 11:59 last night.   Today, I made a shit load of juices, green and carrot. Had 2 protein bars, lots of water, went for a walk. Gosh…my thighs were jiggling out of control! It was like a layer of lard that just latched on within the past 2 weeks.

Clearly I am a bit down about this recent explosion of ass:(  hope I can keep moving and juicing this week…or something..

One thought on “Starting Monday…again!

  1. keep juicing sweetie…are you using the vitamix? i keep hearing good things about it. don’t know if it’s just the latest fad or if it’s actually worth the $300ish that it goes for. anyways, soon that lard will be replaced by muscle…you can do it! you’ve done it before and you’ll do it again, i believe in you! xo

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will run…for chocolate

It’s hard for me to get motivated to exercise. Unless there’s some deliciousness in the form of a prize at the end. Sure, adrenaline, endorphins, satisfaction from activating unused muscle groups, pride of completion, etc – are all good reasons to get up and burn some calories. But for this moti, there’s a better reason. Chocolate.

That’s why I woke up at the ass crack of dawn this past Sunday and schlepped my jiggly bits over to the start line of America’s sweetest run, the Hot Chocolate 5k.

It was a crisp San Francisco morning, and there I was, with about 10,000 other chocolate lovers running through Golden Gate Park – like zombies in search of fresh meat… except we were zombies in search of hot cocoa. There were graceful runners, nervous runners, runners with tutus, runners grooving to music piping through ear buds, old runners, young runners, skinny runners, chunky runners, and everything in between. And there was me, panting like a rhino, overheated by the three extra layers of wicking I was wearing (tactical error), thinking only of crossing the finish line to get my chocolate fix.

Check out the finishers mug. Delish. Whereas some folks around me were nibbling at their bananas and taking sophisticated sips from their cups, I guzzled the hot cocoa, and devoured every crunchy krispie of the rice krispie treat, dipped in the chocolate sauce of course. And all this before 8.30AM. Hey, a moti has her priorities.

Ok. Time for the math.

Let me be liberal and estimate that I burned about 800 calories that morning from the running. Let me be conservative and estimate that I consumed about 1300 calories after the finish line (rice krispie: 200cal, hot cocoa: 500 cal, chocolate dipping sauce and pretzels: 400cal, marshmallows and wafer cookies: 200).

A 500 calorie net gain.

Was it worth it?

Hell yeah!!!

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Year in review: No zips, clasps or laces.

I think I can safely say that in 2013, I only wore bottoms with a zip about, uh…three times. There was the time I wore red capri jeans under a denim shirt to an Easter brunch (uncomfortable). Then there was a formal dinner for huZBands work, when I wore fancy black trousers and a blouse (boring). And there was the time I was traveling and my suitcase didn’t arrive with my flight, and I had to buy an emergency pair of trousers that, unfortunately, came with a zip.

Outside of these incidents, I have only worn stretchy work out/yoga pants (Lululemon Studio pants are a top fave), leggings, or jeans with elasticized waists.

Cool factor? Low.

Comfort factor. Off the charts.

See ya’ later, YKK

Frankly, as I get older (maybe even wiser) I just don’t give a rat’s ass about whether it’s chic or not. I love to be comfortable. Maybe it’s a function of the jelly belly rolls that never went away after having a baby. Or maybe it’s because I am more confident in myself, and don’t care about fitting in with the stylistas, or maybe it’s pure laziness. Whatever the reason, I do not regret having parted ways with the fly.

Goodbye zippers.

After liberating myself from the prison of zippers, I decided to keep on going… why limit comfort to my groin and waist?

So I went and bought five of the most fantastic, comfortable sports bras found in the known Milky Way, and I get away with wearing them ALL the time. No kidding…yes, even under formal clothes. When you’re a small B cup, it’s easy enough. Cleavage has never been an issue, as there is nothing to enhance, no silhouette to highlight, nothing to draw attention to. I love my sports bras so much, I have designated a separate drawer for them, while my old torturous bras now sit in that drawer with those other artifacts – my swimsuits.

Am not gonna miss you…

Goodbye bra-clasps.

And why stop there? Moving down to my feet…I now only wearing laceless shoes, whether ballet flats, or slip on Converses. Lacing up shoes is so 2012. I can slip them on and off while balancing two sleeping kids on my hips, carrying three bags of groceries in my teeth, cradling my cell phone under my chin, and chopping onions for the evening meal. How’s that for multi-tasking?

Goodbye laces.

Seriously, who has the time?

Now the question is…what irritating sartorial component can I ditch in 2014?

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it’s me…148

Holy shit moti!  This was a rough one.

139 to 148 in less then 2 weeks

White girl version of me :(

In just 2 weeks Pummy I exploded! I got down to 139 before Chi -town and here I am again…148. BUT it’s ok. Boot camp starts Jan 2nd. Not Jan 1 cause I want to enjoy some more junk while being hungover New Years day.  Am I going to rage this New years eve? New years is over rated but we are going to a kid friendly party and of course I will probably down a bottle of red while I am there. Hope they have cupcakes for desert.

Had a great holiday in Chicago with the family.  Enjoyed fudge and lindt balls for breakfast lunch and dinner which started the binging trend for me. Never worked out once as planned. Ordered protein shakes and bars to my sisters place and not one of anything was consumed. What a wasted shipping cost! I was positive I would maintain over the holidays, packed my sneakers and all. Oh well…seeing as how I have mentally already allowed myself a buffer until Jan 2nd. May as well go to town!

So here was my day…1 bag of lindt balls, egg sandwiches with Mayonnaise and all. Killed the bag of this orgasmic chocolate bark I bought yesterday from Coscto. Had a hot dog and some dumplings for lunch and tonight…well it’s already 7pm. The kids just finished having some apples and I am thinking once they are down I can go in for the french vanilla from TJs with chocolate chips like last night. BUT guess what Moti?  I discovered a full box of chocolate covered digestibles!!! I feel like I just won the lottery…woot woot! They were hidden in the back behind all the protein bars. Can’t wait for everyone to get to bed. Snuck a few while the kids went up to brush. Now I just need HuZband to hit the hay early. Keep trying to convince him he needs a good nights rest to bring in the new year..instead he wants to hang and watch a movie? WTF! Can’t he see I have plans tonight? And they don’t include him or sharing of any sort. I have loading to do, or should I say finishing everything sweet in sight.  I am a few days in and going strong, yeah I feel sort of sick but this has to be done. Can’t leave any of this shit laying around the house.  Some things never change but this year I am starting at a new playing field. I am still down at least a 10er from last year.

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Pummi pedals

Sweetie! Has it really been over a year?  Yup.

And we’re still moti? Yup.

Ok…so maybe we’re not as motilicious as we used to be, but dang, I’m still carting around these multi-layered belly rolls.

How does Pinky do it? How do some women carry twins and look like Olive Oyl with a whiffle ball wedged under their sweater?

Then there are those women who give birth and five days later look like they’re going to junior prom. And I’m not just talking celebrities that are paid to look good. I’m talking about the hot mom whose kid goes to school with your kid, who just had her fourth baby, and showed up to PTA night in skinny jeans and a waist length jacket.

WTF?

Ok sure, there’s genetics. And self-discipline. And a refusal to eat Bavarian creme donuts. But there’s gotta be more to it…

So in comes Soul Cycle.

I tried it today. Word is that it’s life-changing and makes you sweat till the pounds melt off. The marketing is ingenious. When you sign up, they send you an email saying “Get ready to be inspired. Transformed. Then celebrate.” Hell yeah! I wanna be inspired. And transformed. And celebrate.

Plus I want to know why people would pay $30 a class…to spin. ?!

So I went. And uh, yeah. I spun. My mind that is. My friggin’ moti mind simply spun out of control as I huffed and puffed in the back row, where I thought I’d safely distance myself from the ridiculously ripped arms and abs of the instructor, and pretty much everyone else in the first two rows.

Where was my mind? Why wasn’t it in the game? Rather than concentrate on what the instructor was saying (“Up! Now down! Right, right, left, right! Twist! Bend!”), all I could think about was whether anyone had ever tried to harness the kilojoules produced by all the pedaling.

Seriously though…what if there was a way to connect each spin cycle to a turbine-esque mechanism, in order to harvest the collective efforts of the cyclers?  I mean if kinetic energy equals 1/2 the mass times the velocity squared, then shit, we could start a business inviting fat-asses to cycle till they send energy back to the power grid.

We’d give them money for it. Yeah, that’s what we could do!

We could pay them to cycle. And they would lose weight doing it. And we would produce electricity, kind of like a pseudo-power plant, and help the world move towards a diminished dependence on fossil fuels.

I was getting excited. Fuck Exxon and Chevron! No more spills in the Gulf coast. No more seagulls walking around in a daze, looking like they’d smoked too much dope.

And we’d turn into a nation of slim people. Obliterate obesity.

I would need to do the research. Put together a business plan. Look for some VCs. My heart was beating fast. Not cuz I was spinning or anything, but because I was so psyched about my brainwave.

Next thing I know, the ridiculously ripped abs instructor is standing in front of me, asking me if I’m ok. Apparently I had stopped pedaling and was staring into space.

Longer story now shortened: I left the class. Went to Starbucks. Got a grande Pumpkin Spice Latte with whipped cream.

I’ll deal with belly rolls later. Today, I’m solving the energy crisis.

One thought on “Pummi pedals

  1. Really Moti? You may as well have added a donut to your latte…what’s another 1000 calories when you are on a roll! So I usually love your weight loss ideas but this one ain’t gonna happen sista…not in our lifetime;) Keep cycling moto!

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Arrray MOTI…or NOT?

It’s has been over a year since I have written any updates on my life…

Where to start…ok let’s start with my weight. Wow has it been a battle I am still struggling to win. So since we left off after trying HCG, the 4 hour body, Weight watchers and just down right starvation. I found a miracle plan…so I thought. IDEAL PROTEIN!  Never heard of it? Well neither had I. Until my sister told me about a bunch of moto’s at her gym who starting shrinking…and shrinking fricken fast! So she sends me a text saying “Ideal Protein”…I am like yeah…protein is pretty ideal I guess. So I start eating more meat that day. Then she called me the next day and said “did you look into it?”  I am like ”yeah protein is good for you, I am totally cutting out the carbs tomorrow.”   Ok long story short…I found a place who administers it! Yes, I said administer…like it is an injection that makes you thin!  Not quite but pretty close…NOT. You eat 3 packets of “Ideal protein packets”  that come in various forms…ie. shakes, soups, puddings etc. My favorite!  Dark Chocolate pudding!

You eat a shit load of vitamins, omega, potassium, multi, calcium/ magnesium. You add 2 cups of veggies in at lunch and 8 oz of meat protein for dinner with 2 cups of veggies. Pretty simple right? And yes, the answer is YESSS!!! My fast ass was 162 and I dropped to a little mini at 132.  That’s 30 fricken lbs I lost in 4 months!!!  Well…I was not only feeling my best but I looked damn good! So I went out and bought a new wardrobe…like 15 new pairs of pants and 25 new tops, 2 pairs of boots and 4 leather jackets. I no longer rocked one size fits all leggings and moo moos that covered my dump truck.

So what’s the catch? I must be looking like a fricken super model.  Right? Well not quite…I went thought maintenance…replacing a packet for lunch with your own protein and 2 cups of veggies…blah blah blah….sounds easy..but hell No.  I gained 4 lbs back the first week. Because I guess that was to “replenish” my glycogen tank. OK whatever.  Went to NYC for Pinky’s baby shower the following weekend….yup..she’s preggo with twins! And not to mention she rocked leather leggings, stilettos and looked like a stick figure with a ball in the middle. How cute….fricken Pinky!  I rocked out eating at my old fav spots…drank my face off and came back at 147. WTF? I gained like 15lbs in less than 2 weeks??? So I tried to drink a shit load of water to get rid of the cupcakes and bread pudding I inhaled from Magnolia bakery and all the other crapI poured down my throat. I got down a few… 143. Ok so that’s only 11 from my bottom low.   So then a week later I go out and drink my face off again and have wendy’s to kill the hangover. I was sooo going to start the next day. Because it’s always better to start on a Monday.   So I downed a box of chocolate covered digestible cookies with some milk and vanilla ice cream.   Monday am….150?????  WTF? How do you gain 7 lbs over a weekend? Well…clearly just ask me. Apparently I didn’t consume enough “Ideal protein.”

I am now on day 3. Pummi is also doing a low carb routine. BTW- she went all gluten free and shit the past few months after she moved to CA, she’s dropped at a mini midget. Personally this whole “gluten free” thing is for the tree hugger gora’s if you ask me.

Will keep you posted on my progress…need to get back to at least 138 ASAP. Going to visit my sisters family for the holidays next week. She has this annual holiday party and told all her friends that I dropped 30 lbs. Unfortunately the way I am bouncing around it appears to be more like 6.  Talk about a let down:(

P.S. nice to be back Pummi…I missed our online Gup Shup!

One thought on “Arrray MOTI…or NOT?

  1. Oh man. You’re killing me. Why the hell did you have to mention Magnolia? Now all I can think about is cupcakes. Specifically, red velvet cupcakes. With cream cheese frosting. Oh lord. I feel like I’m starving. I can literally feel the hunger pangs resonating up my esophagous. How do you spell esaphagus? Esophagus? Cool, that must be it since spell check didn’t put the squiggly red line underneath it. I’m so smart. Figured it out on my own. But I still want a cupcake. Gosh darn it Sweetie!

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Lululemon? Not

Sweetie here…

Ok so my fat ass decided today was the day to get off the couch and do something while the kids were at school.  I met up with a few moms who do a workout on the park every morning.  I managed to do some pushups and a few other random things but MOST importantly one of the girls was wearing this awesome shirt/ sweatshirt type thing. It was perfect!  Thin enough to layer it with a t-shirt and thick enough to wear it joggling with a sports bra underneath on a chilly day. Not that I jog but I still want to look like I do.  The top also had a super cool pocket in the lower back area to store your keys,  the color was grey and black my favorite! It had Lululemon written all over it!

I was assuming it was Lululemon so I asked the girl “I love your top, do they still have it in stock?”  The girl looked at me as though I had discovered some lifelong hidden secret.  She said “umm…if you are thinking Lululemon it’s not quite. Believe it not it’s actually from Target.”  WHAT??? OMG! I was in shock for at least about 8 seconds before I could speak again. All I could do was think about the fact that I had to have it. She said she got it a while ago so not sure if it was still in stock. Who buys adult clothing at target anyway? Just kidding…. Pummi;) I ran home…yup…actually sprinted to get online and get researching! I found it…it was online…yes!

Shortly I realized when I went to add it to my cart is said “no longer available online”L But there was a target nearby that did have it in stock!  Woo hoo!  I picked up the little guy from class and drove 35 minutes to complete my mission.  I cruised the racks to find the “activewear” section and managed to find the top, there were only a few left…I was sooo excited until I realized all of the remaining tops were sixe XS! There was no way I was able to sweeze my rolls in that thing! Who the F*&K is a size XS anyway? Perhaps those skinny Lululemon bitches who are too cool for target;(

Anyways…didn’t manage to find the top. Came home and searched every zip code I have any friends in across the country and still no luck. Guess it wasn’t mean to be. I did buy a black head removal mask. If I am going to be unstylish and fat, may as well have good skin;)

 

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Airports, Airlines, Tickets and Burqas

Sweetie here…back from a world wind summer…

Flying with kids is never a breeze…especially when you are flying solo. HuZband met us in NY after we spent a week in Chicago with family. Kids were ready to go back to check out our old stomping grounds…it’s been 16 months since we moved out of NY and to the westcoast.

Morning of my flight I got an orbitz alert saying my flight had been cancelled and they rebooked us to arrvie at JFK at 7pm. WTF? We were supposed to arrive at 1pm and get started with our long awaited playdate with family friends. OK so I manage to get rebooked through american airlines instead of my cancelled united flight.  After spending over an hour on the phone, I was told orbitz had to reissue the ticket…orbitz told me this was a united problem. United told me this was an orbitz problem.  Around 45 mins later on the phone, American said I was all set.

Arrived at the airport with kids, car seats and 55 mins left to grab a bite to eat. Curb side refused me because issue with the ticket, I go to the counter…apparently I wasn’t all set, spend 45 minutes waiting for them to sort out to the ticket including staying on hold with American while the check in dude stayed on hold with United on the other phone…apparently they needed to get their money from Obitz. Flight now leaves in 12 mins. Kids are a mess fighting with each other and I am about the have a nervous breakdown. Finally! We were all set! Guy attempts to put our bags on belt and says we might be able to make the flight…the belt for the bags breaks right before my bags move any further.  Guy helps us beat the security line and said he will have someone run the bags over. We try to go through and I forgot to take out my laptop and empty kids water bottles. We have 7 mins remaining and the gate is about a 3 min walk away. They have to put my computer and water bottles through again and the person before me has some sketchy stuff in his bag so they need to look at the screen for another minute…finally my bags get cleared…then they need to test my water bottles to make sure it’s really water…REALLY?

Kids are in a cart, I start running to the gate, my leggings are now halfway down my rear but I didn’t care…needed to make the flight. My bag goes flying off the cart, computer, water bottles go flying…SHIT! I gather my stuff…thank god kids were contained in a cart and holding on tight. I flag down one of those transporter things. I said I have 4 mins to get to gate C31. She said…oh don’t think we will make it but we can try.  Damn right we are going to try!  We get there, run to the plane…door is closing, I scream for her to keep it open. We run onto the plane. Our seats are not together…hostess says put the kids in their assigned seats and we will figure it out later. Later? Really? Ages 2 and 4? A few kind people shuffled around and VOILA!!! We made it! Woo hoo! Water starts pouring out of my eyes…GOD DAMMIT was that stressful!  So…20 mins into the flight. I am in the middle Aryia fell asleep with her head on my lap. Caden kicked the chair in front of him a few times, he’s 2 yrs old..it happens.  Man in seat ahead of me turns around and says, “my wife is pregnant, can you switch places with your son?” I said…”NO, sorry! My daughter is fast asleep” but I was really thinking….when you fricken have your kid you will understand you don’t disrupt a sleeping kid especially when you are on a plane. Guys wife turns around wearing a full blown burka…head, neck face covered…YUP, you can only see her eyes. Caden turns to me and says…”mama, that’s a scary halloween mom!”

The women in front of usWe get to JFK, huZband was arriving from West Coast around the same time. My bags ended going to Boston…not sure how that was part of the trip but at least we arrived. Only took him 3 hours to pick up the rental car and for me to file my missing baggage complaint! Gotta love traveling!

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Gourmet Goosebumps

 

Seriously motigirls, I really DID have goosebumps after I finished cooking. The picture doesn’t do it justice, but the Coconut Curried Vegetable entree I made using the recipe from Vij’s Indian cuisine book is seriously sizzlingly scrumptious.

HuZBand couldn’t stop eating, pausing only to look up at me with eyes full of adoration and gratitude. I had to remind him that all I did was religiously follow the recipe. But he still thinks his moti wife is a genius.

The cons:

  • Prep&Cook Time: Long. This is not your average weekday quick fix dinner.
  • Coconut milk: Delicious, but unkind to one’s hips.
  • Turmeric: Friggin’ stains everything. EVERYTHING.
The pros:
  • Great way to eat veggies. I used eggplant, cauliflower and red bell pepper, adding pistachios for some crunch.
  • Makes large quantity and tastes even better the next day. I served it twice to different sets of friends, and they were suitably impressed.
  • Finger lickin’ tasty.

The real genius here is the man himself who created the recipe and generously shared it with the rest of us. Thank you Mr. Vij!

And thanks Sweetie for gifting me this cookbook. We owe you for every tasty bite!

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Cardamom cake craze


Hey all you motigirls, Pummi’s baaack!

And I’m riding high on the wings of major summer lovin’…

Something new has found its into way my heart, nostrils and ridiculously overstuffed recipe book: cardamom cake.

A moti friend made this for me, and as they say in Punjabi, mere moohn no lagayah. Quite literally, “it’s landed on my mouth.”

That’s not all where it’s landed – my hips, thighs, and handle bars have not been spared. But, it just might be worth it. Try for yourself, especially if you like the taste and smell of cardamom.

Mix the following into a batter:
  • 1/3 cup vegetable (or canola oil)
  • 3 large eggs
  • 1/4 cup reduced fat or regular buttermilk
  • 1 cup sour cream (greek yogurt if you want to reduce calories)
  • 3/4 cup sugar
  • 2 and 1/4 cups unbleached all purpose flour
  • 2 teaspoons baking powder
  • 1 teaspoon baking soda
  • 2 and 1/2  teaspoons ground cardamom
  • 1/2 teaspoon salt
Bake in lightly buttered loaf pan at 375F for 45 minutes or longer, until fork test comes out clean. Let it rest for ten minutes before taking out of pan.
Is this the best picture I have? Yes. Because once the cake was out of the pan, it was GONE. Landed on my mouth. :)

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Trails, tents and toilets.

Give me a sparkling clean toilet, shower and sink combo, and I’m a happy camper. Key word: camper. Incongruous concept? Yes, it is. Which is precisely why I don’t camp, due to the absence of my favorite amenity – the modern bathroom.

 

Decades ago, I tried the ‘sleeping in a tent thing.’ I went home with conjunctivitis, constipation and corns on my pinky toes. That’s what happens when, for four days, a stubborn moti rejects using campground toilets, refuses to remove her contact lenses and insists on hiking in Bensimons

Oh, and four days of zero grooming had me sprouting like a vegetable patch in spring. I had started off okay, epilated and buffed, but by mid-afternoon on day two of the wilderness expedition, my situation had turned somewhat hairy.

In fantasyland, I’d have miniaturizing magic, specifically to zap and carry my own bathroom around in the pocket of my fugly REI nomad pants. With steady access to my salon strength hair dryer, ceramic flat iron, frizz control products, tweezers, razors, anti-wrinkle cream and cuticle pusher, I would outdo Pocahontas. Sadly, such technology doesn’t exist, so the woods will have to wait.

Call me a diva. Prima donna. Princess. I’ll accept any of these titles, though I prefer to think of myself as ‘urban.’

Gora huZBand, on the other hand, is Smokey the Bears best friend. His idea of a good time is mule packing through Wyoming. What’s mule packing? Dunno. Where’s Wyoming? Doh.

Mercifully, love is all-powerful, and huZBand accepts me and my, um, eccentricities. In return, I’m happy for him to get his nature kicks. Solo.

But now that we have kids, a tug of war has begun. HuZBand is trying to turn them into junior rangers. When he lets them nose-dive into muddy ditches, I cringe, fearing leeches. When he releases the kids barefoot over farm land littered with cow dung, I pray their tetanus vaccinations are to date.  And when they dissect squirmy slimy things, I hover anxiously, hands on the trigger of my anti-bacterial pump.

And then there’s the food thing, naturally. The great outdoors doesn’t mean I stop being a moti.

HuZBand hits the trails with two carrot sticks, a small bag of peanuts, and water purification tablets.

Me – I’m toted out with granola and cereal bars, dried fruit and nuts, Pop-Tarts, Oreos, roasted seaweed, Ritz crackers, chocolate chip cookies and Fruit Roll-ups.  And lots of Gatorade for critical electrolyte replacement. Because ya’ never know what you’ll need for some alfresco nibbling.

“Pummi, this is not an inter-galactic voyage,” he says, staring at my bulging bag, “we’re only going on a three mile hike.”

“But the kids need food. What if we get lost? We should have reserves.”

“We won’t get lost. The trail is clearly marked, paved and stroller-friendly. It starts and ends in the same parking lot.”

“But if they get hungry?”

“They will survive. Trust me.”

I agree…my kids will survive. Thankfully, in this department, they take after their dad, and are not as ‘urban’ as I am. But how will I survive?

Guess I’ll have to buck up, hold on tight to my tote, suspend my bathroom obsession and patiently wait until it’s time to make S’mores.

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Spoiled donkeys

My mother kicked my brother’s ass on my 11th birthday. She’d taken us to Harrod’s, where I was allowed to buy three brand spanking new Sweet Valley High books - an outing I had been anticipating for months. But my shitty little sibling ruined it all.

I’m reminded of that episode because of the latest parenting article making the rounds – this one debating the spoiling of America’s children. After the sixth time it showed up in my inbox, I read it, and immediately flashed back to that afternoon where my mother’s no-nonsense, militant child-rearing methodology was put on public demonstration.

“Mummy, can I have this football?” My brother had asked, after spotting a giant basket of fluorescent sports equipment at the entrance to the toy department.

“No.” She’d replied. “You already have one.”

“But I want this one! Puh-lease get it for me!”

“Beta, I said no,” my mother had continued. Like a pathologist studying a biopsy slide, she was inspecting the stitching on a fancy stuffed doll. “Such bad quality. And they want 45 pounds for this! Hai hai…”

“Mummy puh-lease! I don’t have a yellow football! I need this one!”

“No. And don’t ask me again. It’s Pummi’s birthday, not yours. When it is your turn, we’ll come back and you can get it, okay?”

“Well…if you don’t buy it for me, then I’m-I’m-I’m going to steal it!”

Everyone froze, even my brother, who seemed astonished by his own words.

My mother went bat-shit crazy. Just totally fucking snapped.

“You gadda (donkey)! Haram-zada! How dare you? How dare you!” She shouted in Punjabi.

And then she started whacking him, up the side of his head, pat-tah, pat-tah, slap, slap! He howled, covering his head with his arms. She then switched to thrashing his bum with her massive Mary Poppins garment bag, and when he tried to run away, she grabbed him by the collar and kicked him in the shin. And it went on.

Yes. Right there, smack dab in the middle of shiny, swanky, sophisticated Harrods.

I was mortified. I remember inching away, trying to distance myself from the ugliness, hoping no one would guess I was associated with this Neanderthal family. This was futile, given she was brown, he was brown and I was brown, and everyone else in our immediate vicinity was some shade of pastry flour.

A security guard ran over to diffuse and hush. He failed. My mother started shouting at him too.

“This son of mine is a stupid, stupid donkey. A donkey! I will kill him, then bring him back to life, and then kill him again. Steal? Let him try it! I will cut his hands off and feed them to the other donkeys!”

And it went on some more.

Somehow we all made it home – my brother still in one piece, my mother still in charge and not in jail for child abuse. And the birthday girl…sans Sweet Valley High, feeling tremendously sorry for herself, wishing an English family would adopt her.

No one adopted me. Or my brother. He’s still alive, has reached his 30s, and is the antithesis of spoiled. I too, am not spoiled.

But I’m not convinced about corporal punishment. Though I kind of wanted to throw down when my four year old ate my Girl Scout cookies. Cookie season was over, which meant I had to wait several months for more Thin Mints. I was so enraged, I locked myself in the bathroom. 

And maybe my kids are spoiled – I give them way too much and have fairly low expectations of how they should behave in return.

My mother makes fun of me when I try to discipline them.

“Time-out, shime-out,” she says using her typical desi inflection. “What is that nonsense Pummi? It’s not going to teach them a lesson.”

But when I don’t buy them what they want, guess who sneaks out and gets the goodies instead? My mother, the ball of gooey sap. She is no longer that woman in Harrods.

There are a gazillion parenting articles, and a gazillion views on how to raise your kids. I read them sometimes, think about them even less, and ultimately always conclude that parenting is a total bitch – as in it’s really, really hard. I just fumble through every day, and hope my kids won’t be assholes when they grow up.

Before writing this, I asked my brother if he has ever stolen. He was surprised by my question, and then assured me that he hasn’t. And I believe him.

I asked him if it’s because of that ass-kicking.

“What ass-kicking?” he asked, totally blank.

One thought on “Spoiled donkeys

  1. Holy Shit Pummi! What a great article, my little guy is a total asshole. Not sure how to nip it in the bud or shall I say “nip it in the the butt” like my mom does. I am changing my ways sista, just watch me become the most militant moti ma out there! Treats? Shmeets? WTF are those?

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Fat logic of leggings

At thirteen, I wore leggings. I’d rip them, exposing a bony knee through a cat’s cradle of stringy lycra, an homage to the Material Girl. By the 90s, my twiggy legs had mutated into meaty cylinders that I cloaked in baggy stonewashed jeans, kind of like these famous people here. 

Yes, it was unflattering. But at that time, newly chubby, my main concern was keeping my fleshy gams squarely covered. Leggings were a thing of the past.

Until the first time I saw Ms. Sweetie, roaming the neighborhood, dropping F bombs outside the pre-school in a pair of black, ankle-length leggings and Chuck Taylors. I pretended not to stare. Who was that brown girl? She was a looker. And she was loud.

.                    Really loud.

I was new in town, friend-less and in desperate need of upping my cool meter, which had fallen to precipitously low levels. Not that I’d ever been truly ‘cool,’ but I’d never been as frumpy as I was at that point. A year post-partum, I was still rolling around in f’ugly maternity pants, the kind with the stretchy “second skin” bump cover that turns an already overheated body into a furnace. Taking it one unattractive step further, I wore the pants with a see-through linen shirt under which my ‘ivory’ stomach morphed into a chestnut neck. Why don’t they make “second skin” for the dark brown girls?

And Sweetie was stylish. Sure, she was a moti, but her uniform was chic, and unlike me, she looked breezy and comfortable.

We soon became BFFs, and the topic turned to the pros of wearing leggings. They’ll suck your fat in Pummi. They’ll suck your fat in Pummi. They’ll suck your fat in Pummi, she’d keep telling me. But I wasn’t sold. I’m a dheet (stubborn) desi after all. I figured it wouldn’t work for me the way it did for her. Her legs were slimmer than mine and she wasn’t bothered by the sockless sweaty-toes-in-sneakers thing. Nope. Wasn’t gonna do it. No way. Until I did.

Fast forward to the present. Now I own 17 pairs of black leggings, ranging from Target capris to the $72 ones by Spanx. I also have 2 gray pairs and one very ill advisedly purchased red pair that make me feel like a superhero. 

And I love them all. Friggin’ LOVE them.

My leggings are my laundry cues. When down to 5 or less clean pairs, I activate emergency laundry mode. I allot two pairs for each weekday, three for Saturdays and Sundays. Reserves are critical – because ya’ never know how much toddler snot will be wiped on the lower half of your body.

And I wear them all the time. I squeeze my plumpy thighs and arse into leggings for the blue moon fancy dinner as well as for chasing my kiddos through mud and dog poop in the park. I’d sleep in them too but huZBand gets all weird. He doesn’t say anything, just sniffs and shrugs, until I grudgingly change into plaid flannel pajamas (wedding lingerie is at the bottom of a deep pit in the yard; will probably be there forever).

I am never more comfortable, confident and happy in clothing than when I am in a pair of leggings.

And Sweetie, I’m eternally grateful to you. You introduced me to a life liberated from the torture of squeezing my squishy belly rolls and planetary butt cheeks into high waist mom jeans. Thank you.

But(t)…

…there’s a problem here.

I think leggings are keeping me from losing weight. Sure, chocolate cupcakes and late night pints of Haagen-Daaz have something to do with it too. But the impetus to lose weight due to improper respiration and extreme discomfort from ill–fitting clothing is no longer there. When I wear leggings, I feel slim. Looking down the length of my body, I see skinny ankles (the only skinny part of me) poking out of a pair of cute shoes, and well, hot damn, I feel good.

It’s an illusion, I know. Almost as bad as thinking it’s reasonable to wear a bikini three and a half weeks after birthing triplets.

So what’s a moti to do?

Should I:

-Throw out my leggings, return to wearing pants that require unbuttoning and/or unzipping beneath a long tunic to prevent an attack of appendicitis? Then lose weight, and buy skinny jeans like the rest of the universe?

OR

-Stick to wearing my leggings, and continue to be a blissful, comfortable chunk-master?

Sweetie? Whaddya think? You got me into this mess…

One thought on “Fat logic of leggings

  1. Array Pummi!
    Who gives a F&*K? You scored a huZband who clearly digs your trunks sucked into those skin tight leggings AND you feel skinny in them! Win win sista!
    However, unless you want the world to see the pot holes in that rump shaker, you need to ditch the red AND the gray. Those are worse than skinny jeans. Think of it as the equivalent of wearing daisy dukes and thinking nobody can see the jiggly cellulite lumps or stubble trouble in the flesh! Maybe in your past life Motu! And let’s not forget…you got that whole “Desi bingy leg” thing going! (‘bingy’- pronounced “bing-eee” means: crooked)

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Gulab Jammin’…

Sweetie. Man, where are you?

I wish you lived close by. You’re the only moti I know capable of sniffing out desserts covered in plastic wrap inside a bulletproof display case wedged between shelves of moldy poppadum in the basement of smelly Indian stores. Like the Romans needed domesticated pigs to hunt for truffles, I needed your snout to find me a decent gulab jamun

Because I just had a shitty day. One of those days that made me wonder why I bothered to obtain an education, to acquire skills and an appreciation of the finer things in life. What was the point when all I did for the past fourteen hours was wipe poop, scrape boogies, mop pee, vacuum cheerios and short order cook for irreverent, ungrateful (but cute) little humanoids?

Whenever I get down like this, I need a gulab jamun. Not a wanna be donut hole, but the bonafide 100% spongy, milky, cardamom laced ball of flour soaked in rose scented syrup and deep fried in ghee. As a staunch defender of desi cuisine, I say with pride that if you’re eating the real deal, it’s pretty hard to out-calorie a gulab jamun or find something more nutritionally bankrupt.

My gulab jamun comfort eating goes back to the days before Pummi was even a true moti. I even got others to gulab jamun their way to happiness…

It started in Manhattan when I was a sassy working-woman who wore hip huggers and belts, and thought belly tires were automotive parts.  Yeah, it was a long time ago, because, as you know, I haven’t worn a belt in years. But back then, whenever a colleague blundered, a boss chewed someone out, or pretty much anything happened that lowered office morale, I’d do what my nani (grandma) used to do – make things better with some deep fried joy.

“It’s jammin’ time!” I’d exclaim.  (Yeah I’ve always been a cornball).

Then I’d dispatch an intern downtown to my favorite dhaba. This was, and still is, the best friggin’ dhaba in the big A, evidenced by the wads of discarded turmeric stained napkins littering the curb outside – souvenirs left by Sardar cabbies after they’d finish mopping their beards.

The intern would return with a huge box of sweet golden tukras (pieces) of heaven, and like neanderthals, my colleagues and I would devour them, blissfully ignorant of the instant bloating in our abdomens. And, like magic, the ego boo-boos would dissolve, and the world would be good again.

Really, it worked. It still works. If you don’t believe me, then the next time life gets you down, eat a gulab jamun. Or two. Or three. You don’t have to be a moti to be into it. You just need to find a good one. But if, like me, you live 2918 miles away from my old dhaba in Tribeca, you’re kind of screwed.

So where do I get one right NOW? My local Indian store sucks. The tangerine colored ladoos taste like play-doh and the rasmalai smells like rotted baby formula.

Oh, fuck it. I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to Krispy Kreme, to find me a donut hole.

3 thoughts on “Gulab Jammin’…

  1. Array Pummi, you are one hopeless Moti. I do actually know the power those juicy brown balls can have on a Moti. But I gotta say that those new cake balls from Starbucks seem to be doing it for me.

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