Dieting by proxy

I am suffering from that most depressing of syndromes.

WeightWatcherhousen’s Syndrome.

Or ‘Dieting by Proxy’

This is the distressing effect on a man that is caused implicitly by having a wife that is doing Weight Watchers. Life suddenly becomes just that little bit duller.
Its not just Weight Watchers of course, there are billions of variants of the dieting by proxy illness that affects us husbands. Whatever the latest diet is called though, the results are the same.
Unfortunately, an earlier agreement that seemed to make so much sense at the start of the marriage comes back to bite us on the ankles. For years we have benefited from our wife’s skill at doing the weekly shop. Not for us men, the chore of dragging a trolley round a crowded supermarket – oh no, you enjoy yourself love! Suddenly this becomes the biggest mistake of your marital career. Once the lady of the house is dieting – the whole house is dieting.

No treats will be purchased, in case our weak willed women are tempted by them. Every meal will be carefully planned in the finest detail, including portion size. This is vital so that your wife can control her intake, I accept that. I just can’t see why these women’s infamous multi-tasking skills don’t apply here. Why do my portions have to be the same? So much thought is being put into mealtimes that there are suddenly no mistakes being made, no longer will I get a text on my way home saying “We are all out of chicken, want to fetch Chinese?” No way – now we will be having something with Chick Peas in it instead.

Then there is the atmosphere to contend with.

There are two atmospheric issues to deal with.
Firstly, you suddenly have a woman running loose about the house that has not been chocolateized recently. This instantly causes tension. Should your wife be strong willed enough to continue this insane situation during her ‘special week’ then frankly you are better off spending some money on a hotel for a few days, because life would be hell at home. Even during normal days it is bad enough. Women need chocolate to make them cooperative, you can’t live in the same house as an under chocolated woman, everyone knows that.

Then there are the vegetables.
Every meal has vegetables, and where there are vegetables there is methane. It’s possible that across the globe diets are responsible for a greater release of methane than McDonald’s cows. That means that diets are causing global warming!

So I’m here, tip toeing around a walking time bomb of attitude and internal combustion, whilst coping with a distinct lack of culinary gratification.

WeightWatcherhousen’s Syndrome affects 1 in 3 married men in Britain, and Dieting by Proxy is the biggest cause of male depression in the world.

Bear with me readers – I’m not feeling at my best.

Also on my Blog: Glen's Life.

Appealing to both sexes? Is it possible?

Please will you help me. I have just had a non fiction book proposal rejected by a publisher and this is what they said:

"I think your pitch was really great and the stories luridly fascinating, but the bottom line is I don't think it has an audience. As a feature article both men and women would give it 5 mins and love it. But as a book it has to be primarily for either men or women and I think it falls down between the two. It is about the lives of the ultra rich but it is quite dark and misogynistic. We recently came a cropper with a similar book called Divorce Confidential which was a brilliant read, but was not finally for men or women."

Divorce Confidential - Amazon link

I would like to understand this better. If books are for men or women - what ingredients do I need to make the book appeal to both? Or is it simply not possible?

It would be great if you would be willing to read the book and then feedback, via the comments, why you think this book hasn't been a success. Apparently, it's a great read. I am going to get a copy too.

I would welcome your help in this matter. Of course, if you can't be arsed then that's fine too.

I have posted this on my blog too.

Parents aren't perfect

Your parents aren't always right.

They are not flawless. They're not always virtuous. They won't always be there when you need them.

They lie.

They err.

They fight.

They sometimes set bad examples.

They are unreasonable.

They are demanding.

They are needy.

A lot of times they're simply selfish.

At all times -- they're human.

And we have to recognize them as such.

Like all children, I put my parents on a pedestal for the longest time.

Until I became a teenager.

I remember analyzing them a bit more critically. Calling them out on their "wrongdoings." Not taking their word for everything.

Respecting them, but not worshiping them.

I was jaded, you might say.

But I also recognized early on that they were just trying to do their best.

Juggling their jobs, their relationship, their aspirations, their ambitions, and their only child.

Parenting is no easy task.

I'm observing my friends struggle every day.

Since most of them have toddlers, the biggest thing right now is making sure they mind their language in front of their kids. No saying "shit" or "crap" or "damn."

They will repeat everything.

As the kids grow, the parents -- my friends -- will start minding other things. Behaviors, habits, beliefs.

But just as I don't acknowledge them, or myself, as perfect, in time their kids won't either.

It's hard when the myth shatters.

I remember the time I started seeing my parents as just two individuals with all their follies.

It hurt.

Why couldn't they be perfect?

And why did I have to feel like an ingrate for thinking of them such?

They had so many expectations of me.

But I had even more. Of them.

I resented them for being who they were -- thinking I was part of a dysfunctional family.

Why did this have to happen to me?

Until, years, later I realized that all of us are part of dysfunctional families. There is nothing like a functional family.

All families are comprised of people -- and people aren't perfect.

The disappointment faded away.

I started empathizing with them -- as an adult. A flawed, imperfect, human being.

They were just like me.

Like the rest of the world, I used to see them in myself -- the eyes, the hair, the nose, the jawline.

Now I started seeing me in them.

It's been easier since. I relate with them on a completely different level now.

In their head, I will always be their six-year-old.

And they will always be my parents, telling me to not do this, to do that better, worrying about me, encouraging me, brimming with pride at my smallest accomplishments.


Some things will never change.

But some things have.

I don't dwell anymore. Neither do I expect the world of them.

I listen more.

And try to rationally understand.

I see them objectively for who they are.

I am able to say "it's ok."

They are my parents. But they're also adults figuring their way about life.

Just like the rest of us.



Also posted on my blog.

Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010 Mansi Bhatia

Be Willing to be Touched by Others

There is a place I noticed called, Blind Massage. The blue sign would be darkened, the shades drawn, and I would exhale deeply at the missed moment. I was drawn to this place like a magnet, because I like to find things that are in plain sight. The title intrigued me, a new mystery for me to discover, that seemed to taunt me on my evening walks.

Sometimes, you forget things when the door appears to be closed, and it just seems like a missed opportunity. On one night, I peered in because I just couldn't let this place go. Every time, the same scene; a strange foreign girl (me) peering in at the massage tables...only three of them...and a darkened room. Blind Massage seemed like a strange name. I would have easily forgotten it, had it been named something else. I could have gone anywhere else, but I would look at the glitzy spas and just keep walking. The young women dressed more like call girls, rather than masseurs. Long red lacquered nails and gowns with furs that said nothing of any deeper ability. Sure, I shouldn't judge them. I don't. I just kept thinking of a little place where only the locals frequented.

After, I returned from teaching today, I decided to take my walk earlier. My messages to friends and family could wait, after all I was filled with thoughts of a lecture I had just given on our need to create and to imagine. It was a strange walk, one of those walks where I just felt like everything was magic. Those too happy moments, that tend to irritate people. I was in a strangely great mood on a Monday, a day that everyone hates, and I always have loved (yes, I love Mondays). Mondays were a day were I would think about how I could improve on something, during the week...an attitude, a belief, a habit gone wrong - in short, a day of new beginnings. Instead of once a year, I got 52 opportunities to recreate my life. That was the way I used to view Mondays...the placebo effect worked, because that mindset spread to everyday.

A PhD student was staring at me in class, and he apologized, "I'm sorry, I just realized you are beautiful." Every teacher with gray hair should be so lucky to hear that from a student, let alone from a culture that doesn't believe Western women are 'hot'. I went into a store and found a pair of pants I liked, but they were too long. "Wait, try them on and I can shorten them for you in 20 minutes." Ah...OK? Yes, look at the map...ah...yes, I am in China. I went down the block a little further, and there was a make up store...ladies...I can't tell you how hard it is for me to find foundation...yes, foundation in this country...I have been looking for 3 months. A lady was making up a young girl. I smile, and look around, and then pull out my compact...and let her know what I need..."Oh, of course we have that here..." REALLY? I went through a search of at least 50 stores...not a one...OK... The next, had a scarf I was looking for...the right fabric too.

It's Monday...a special day. And the blue light was on. Blind Massage was open. Oh, no, this was tooo good. Not for a moment did I hesitate or even worry that I might be turned away. I walked in and there was a line, but oh, just enough space for me to sit down. I didn't know any Chinese, but I saw with my own eyes...why...the blind were giving massages. I was excited...and became willing to be touched and not just touch.

I pulled out my practice script, and showed a lady my limited ability...and was encouraged by them. "Look...she's learning..." I took a picture and realized what I was seeing. I learned how to stop seeing when it was my turn and closed my eyes and surrendered to feeling. A massage with my clothes on...that felt like I had been invaded with healing fingers. A man articulated every muscle and I realized the journey in that moment.

A beauty that surpassed the girls I walked away from, to the beauty of their sighted hands in this little place. I felt I learned how in this moment to be touched by people who are normally either stared at or walked away from. I was the first foreigner that had ever come into their business, who wasn't afraid to be touched by their hands.

Simply Stunning

I am really hot and bothered this morning. No, seriously, I am mad enough to spit nails, breathe fire, see red and all at the same time. Have you seen the latest about the good Samaritan left to bleed to death on a street in Queens? It is enough to make you cry and I did. Seems a woman was being mugged and this homeless man stepped in to stop the assault. He was stabbed by the mugger and left to die. For over an hour. As people walked by. And took his photograph. And lifted his body, saw the blood and walked away. What the hell has happened to us?…..hell being the keyword here. Have we become so numb to evil acts that we can just walk by as someone helplessly bleeds to death right in front of us?

I am going to tell you all something right now. I will never, and I mean never, walk by. I can’t. It’s not the way I was raised. It’s not the way I raised my children. It’s not the way my grandchildren are being raised. I would rather get hurt or even die doing what is right than to live a safe life that I am ashamed of.

I do not regret for one minute, the time I moved a battered woman and her baby into our home. Yes, her six foot tall “husband” came to my door looking for her. Yes, he threatened me. Yes, I was scared. But guess what? I never showed my fear. What I showed that woman beating coward was claws and fangs. And he left. Without another word. Because that’s what cowards do when confronted by a short crazy woman. Now do you think that six foot man was afraid of me? Not for a second. What he was, was stunned. Stunned that someone would stand up to him and speak the truth. And the truth, as spoken to him that day, was that he was not getting into my house to get to her. Not without a fight. And if he chose to fight, he better make it a good one because I would go down to the end fighting like a crazed lunatic to protect that woman and her son.

I don’t regret jumping into the middle of two grown women fighting as a group of men stood by watching and laughing. I could not walk by the “entertainment” of seeing one woman pummel another woman at the beach. Sorry, I’m just strange like that. Was everyone involved drunk? I am pretty sure they were. Does that matter to me? Not in the least. All I saw was someone being hurt while others watched and it made me crazy. So I grabbed the injured girl by the shirt and pulled her back while stepping in front of the other girl. And you know what happened? The other girl just stared at me and the idiot men got quiet. Because I am so big and bad and brave? Hardly. It all stopped because they were all stunned that some ridiculously short, round, middle-aged lunatic would actually step in. Do I think they listened to a word of my tirade against the inhumanity of man? Puhleeze! They laughed in my face and walked away. So I won. They. Walked. Away.

I don’t regret confronting the man who was beating his girlfriend in public. Yep, right there in the Taco Bell parking lot. Sitting in his truck. Beating her. So when I confronted him, he stopped and stared at me. Because he was stunned. Because other people had just parked, looked at them and walked inside to order their tacos. And when his girlfriend didn’t want to come with me, she was stunned that I gave her my phone number and told her I had a room for her when she finally got sick of being hit.

I am not telling any of this so you will think I am wonderful or crazy or desperate for therapy. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter what you think of me. It does matter what I think of me, however. It matters when I am laying in bed at night trying to fall asleep. It matters when I look in the mirror. It matters when I look into the faces of my husband and children and grandchildren. What I do, what is in my heart towards my fellow man, matters.

The Rains May Fall

    Laying my head back I close my eyes. Corralled tumbleweeds are given free range. The wind is howling. It is going to rain. Holding the coffee cup in my hand I watch the curtains of the day close and the rain descends. The tumbleweeds take a sharp turn and gather up the dust of past rains. There was the Conspiracy Rain in my early twenty’s. Late afternoon, the pinks of the sunrise were peaking out. The radio played one of those songs that makes you laugh and cry as memories tap on your heart like the rain on the windshield. I pulled into a parking lot, parked the car and opened the door. Finding just the right spot, I walked over to the perfect puddle of rain and jumped square in the middle. Just one jump was all that I needed.
    Then there’s the rain of the Benevolent Gods. While on a five month journey cross country on motorcycles, a severe band of rain squalls found us along one of those unending stretches of Texas highways. Unable to see we inched along until we found an overpass. Motorcycles safe from harm, we scaled the cement wall and popped a squat. There we sat in our bright yellow rain slickers soaked to the skin and pouring the water out of our shoes. Luckily we had a few cinnamon rolls left over from breakfast. You’d be surprised, when you’re hungry, how your mind can conveniently not notice the only food you have is as soaked as your jeans. As we carefully portioned out little pieces, as always with a picnic, the ants found us. I tossed a couple of crumbs away from us hoping they would follow the trail and leave us alone. Soaked, hungry, cold and wet I found myself drenched in laughter, almost falling down the cement overpass wall. Would they go back to their ant hill and tell the others about the day the Giant Yellow Cinnamon Roll Gods visited and gave them mana?
    There’s also the rain of the Not So Good Helper. Ever have that experience of watching a car accident happening and there’s nothing you can do? Watching the young construction helper work on the deck was one of those experiences. You just knew this was not going to be good. The day had been beautiful. When night fell so did the rain. With the rain came the flood streams into the house through the basement windows. I now understand the Little Dutch Boy nursery rhyme. Standing on chairs, step ladders and the back of a recliner I tried to abate the flooding as best I could. The rains lasted all night as did the towel vigil. I remember the combination of panic and anger welling up inside me with its own flood until my inner dam burst and I yelled out to my deceased mother “I could use some help here Mama!” With that plea, I dropped my weary arms, watched the water pour into the house and had to laugh. 
    Finally there is always the Rain of Tears. We’ve all had those days. The Rain of Tears when the events of life so overwhelm you yet offers no reprieve, no sanctuary nor place to hide. Lest we think life malevolent or cruel, the skies open, the rains fall and we stand composed and camouflaged with our tears.
    Yep, it is raining tonight. Holding the cup of coffee I notice the tumbleweeds have settled. Alternatively, they simply could be plotting. Whatever their intent, I shall go outside and listen to the rain. I shall tell the stars, hidden but always there, to bring the joy of a mud puddle to those whose hearts are heavy. I will tell the clouds as they continue their course to feed those who are hungry – physically, emotionally and spiritually and keep them safe from harm. And to the ever present moon which is partnered with the sun, I will instruct these sentinels to seal and heal the broken hearts and those who are crying – silently and in the rain. They do not have to be so strong that they can only cry in the rain. Yes, it is raining tonight. This is good. Every drop that falls has a purpose.

[also posted on my blog']

Escape From Bombay (written circa 1993)

Bombay hit us the instant we stepped off the train. Millions of people ran around in disorderly chaos. The air was thick with breath. Our main aim was to get to Bombay Dadar and depart. To get there we had to risk the local services which are a cross between Network South East and the Tube. The train doors never close and crowds rarely wait for the train to stop before they jump on and off.

Bombay is India’s biggest city with an ever increasing population of ten million, 3000 a day arrive in search of hope. It is the city of fortune. A metropolis of corporate enterprises, businesses, the media and India’s film industry. As a direct result of all the hope it offers it is probably the city with the worst poverty my little eyes have seen. Miles and miles of ghettos and slums line the outer and inner city. Some are run-down and some are enterprisingly green, with yards full of lush green herbs; but they are all poor.

We made it to dastardly Dadar to discover that the waiting list for the waiting list for a reservation was fully booked. Onwards and upwards. Trains, crowds and crowds; lost looks and a million faces, colours suspended within a dusty, musky, stale smell. More waiting, asking questions to puzzled eyes. Eventually Bombay Victoria Central Reservations. First train to Bangalore at 10.10pm; six hours to kill. What do we do? Jeremy deposited me in the refreshment room while he went to phone Aeroflot to try and change the flight.

“I speak English.” I looked up. A British born Indian named Clayton chatted to me, tried very hard to buy me a coffee and spilt dahl on the guide book. The conversation was somewhat limited; essentially to do with the geography of the U.K and where I lived in relation to London. Eventually he left to further his geographical knowledge with another unsuspecting tourist.

Where is Bombay Kurla? At 7.00pm we walked straight into “Rush Hour”. Within seconds of standing on a deserted station we were surrounded by mad, foaming at the mouth, commuters, all of them desperate to be on the first train to Bombay Kurla even though a second was due a minute later. As the train was arriving the crowd surged forward; Jerry and I, with the help of an Indian business man, held back against the torrent of bodies, barely able to remain standing on the platform. Sedately we boarded the next train.

The forty minute journey allowed us to watch the city tick along. A snapshot look into the lives of thousands. Bombay life at the close of play seemed very soothing after our hectic day. We arrived in Kurla two hours before the train was due to leave. We sat on the platform, drank chai, ate plumcake and teased the chai boys. The warm, sweet tea refreshed and energised us. The station was like a huge aircraft hanger in the middle of suburban Bombay. The atmosphere was much more relaxed than the centre of town. The hours passed quickly and pleasantly.

The Bombay Kurla - Bangalore Express arrived. It was to be it’s virgin journey. There was great celebration as the guard handed out coconut and sugar crystals. We had a four berth carriage to ourselves. Bliss. With our ten rupee (25p) bed rolls we settled down in crisp, clean, sheets and slept.

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