"How are you? Everything okay? Under control?”
It was a first from my dad… okay, it’s a first for me to be pregnant and ready to pop and all of that, and I notice the dynamic around me slowly change with every passing month, but still… this degree of articulated concern from the father is something I haven’t been used to. And I have been through enough to deserve it.
For the longest time, I was always ‘one of the boys’ as far as my dad was concerned. We went to the same salon for a haircut when I was little, watched matinees together, played rummy, I was his errand girl for ciggies till my mother put a blanket ban on it, he inducted me into watching test cricket… exploring obscure places on the map, and quizzing. What we also shared was a passion for cooking, in which we collaborated quite often, to produce delicacies ‘off the rack’
Of course he also took me shopping, but it was always, “One, two three… pick up something soon, while I have a smoke at the door. Five minutes?”
Later, as I dated suitable and unsuitable boys, he had just a peripheral interest in what they were all about, and rarely went beyond a handshake or a grunt in his communication. To him, they were mere distractions, something that his "limited attention span Gemini daugher" would soon lose interest in, and until I announced I was marrying the man, he was never of any consequence.
It’s true that he never thought I needed to be ‘escorted’ for an early morning class that I had to take a 5.30 am train for (and the railway station was a good twenty minute walk from the house), or even fetch me post a late night excursion. As my mother whined about how times were bad and one had to take special care of daughters, my dad puffed away, “She is a tough one,” he would say. “I wouldn’t worry about her..”
I guess I was, and amply demonstrated it at age fourteen on a trip to Delhi, when a country bumpkin tried to paw me in one of the Teen Murti Bhavan museums… I picked up a stool to hit him with before dad arrived and tried to calm me down. He realized then that I was a woman.
Now, as I waddle into my last stage of pregnancy, dad can’t help but notice how vulnerable I am, physically at least… and I can sense that there is a lot he wants to say and ask, but all he manages, on the phone or in person is, “How are you?”
I guess it’s a big deal for him being a grand dad and all of that. More importantly, he realizes that finally, we will be even. We will soon both be parents, and that’s a bit surreal to deal with.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Some mothers do 've them
"Lap it all up now. Very soon, it will no longer be about you,” said one veteran mom who dropped by last week to check on how I was doing.
She is not the only one. Every woman has something to say about the imminent ‘storm.’
“Try and get all the sleep you can now…you ain’t getting any for months now..”
“ Don’t worry, all the pain will be worth it, when you hold your bundle of joy…”
“Watch TV, lie on your side…”
“Listen to music, read, talk to your baby…”
“Whatever you do, don’t use disposable diapers.. take it from me…”
“That’s the end of your life…only susu-potty now…”
Believe me, these are not regressive, low self-esteem, purposeless women—most of them have been high achievers, super-bright and super-creative, held or still hold good jobs, are attractive, articulate and make good money, but somehow transform into mommy divas the minute they know you are expecting.
Unlike marriage or career, motherhood instills a cockiness in all women, as though they have got a booster shot of hormonal confidence. Everyone, right from the lady in the lift to the maid to random woman you met at the Café to the sales assistant at the mall has this “We know.. we have been there” look and some advice to offer.
I wondered how such martyr mothers get created. Is it that some women use motherhood to create a new power equation that is so fuzzy that the world lets them have the benefit of doubt, because it’s pointless challenging it anyway?
But one friend Vasu who will remain my inspiration said something to me that stuck. “You will realize that there will always be another way … that you could have done many things differently. That someone else always knows more than you do. But when it comes to babies, expect the unexpected… just do what instinctively comes to you.”
It’s surreal, but I feel something is going to irreversibly change about me by the time I write this column again, which could well be next week, or a few weeks from now. I just hope it’s for the better.
Of course I will do exactly what seems right to me, even though I feel more laden with an information overdose than the 13 extra kilos on me. Yes, I am fully aware of the divide between natural birthing and epidural infused labour, of the politics of C-secs versus vaginal deliveries, of actual labour versus induced labour, of nursing versus formula, of super-lactating cows versus existential milk machines.
I do not know where I will fit into all this motherhood hierarchy and frankly, I don’t care. All I know is that I will be one cool mom. And hopefully, I will have enough chick and wit in me to last a while, mommydom notwithstanding.
She is not the only one. Every woman has something to say about the imminent ‘storm.’
“Try and get all the sleep you can now…you ain’t getting any for months now..”
“ Don’t worry, all the pain will be worth it, when you hold your bundle of joy…”
“Watch TV, lie on your side…”
“Listen to music, read, talk to your baby…”
“Whatever you do, don’t use disposable diapers.. take it from me…”
“That’s the end of your life…only susu-potty now…”
Believe me, these are not regressive, low self-esteem, purposeless women—most of them have been high achievers, super-bright and super-creative, held or still hold good jobs, are attractive, articulate and make good money, but somehow transform into mommy divas the minute they know you are expecting.
Unlike marriage or career, motherhood instills a cockiness in all women, as though they have got a booster shot of hormonal confidence. Everyone, right from the lady in the lift to the maid to random woman you met at the Café to the sales assistant at the mall has this “We know.. we have been there” look and some advice to offer.
I wondered how such martyr mothers get created. Is it that some women use motherhood to create a new power equation that is so fuzzy that the world lets them have the benefit of doubt, because it’s pointless challenging it anyway?
But one friend Vasu who will remain my inspiration said something to me that stuck. “You will realize that there will always be another way … that you could have done many things differently. That someone else always knows more than you do. But when it comes to babies, expect the unexpected… just do what instinctively comes to you.”
It’s surreal, but I feel something is going to irreversibly change about me by the time I write this column again, which could well be next week, or a few weeks from now. I just hope it’s for the better.
Of course I will do exactly what seems right to me, even though I feel more laden with an information overdose than the 13 extra kilos on me. Yes, I am fully aware of the divide between natural birthing and epidural infused labour, of the politics of C-secs versus vaginal deliveries, of actual labour versus induced labour, of nursing versus formula, of super-lactating cows versus existential milk machines.
I do not know where I will fit into all this motherhood hierarchy and frankly, I don’t care. All I know is that I will be one cool mom. And hopefully, I will have enough chick and wit in me to last a while, mommydom notwithstanding.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Parent trap
The mother is over to ease me into childbirth, as I waddle through my last days of pregnancy. We haven’t shared a habitat in a while and have different approaches to things—life, people, food—although when it comes to hospital visits, my mother has much more bravado than I do. She has, after all, squeezed twins out, had valve replacements and dealt with ICUs like it’s second nature to her.
We are both currently in parenting modes in different ways, as she cares for me and I do the same for the little one kicking away inside of me. And then of course there are my two resident feline offspring, who have also sensed that something’s up, so they are ever so gentle and clingy with me, and we also have conversations about the same. The husband, who still doesn’t speak Cat finds it fascinating to hear an ongoing dialogue that me and Nadia (my first born) or Bravo (my three legged James Bond of a cat) have at 6 am every day. Nadia seems concerned that our relationship will change, and I assure her that it won’t, and before she knows it, my child and her will be buddies. Bravo doesn’t have any such apprehensions, and is in a “more, the merrier” kind of zone.
I have always wondered whether I’d make a good mother—even though I have had (and continue to have) a pretty good innings with four legged babies— the fact that one day, my two-legged offspring could tell me (as I do to my mom) that what I’m doing doesn’t make sense, and here is a better way, rattles me.
I also have a high benchmark to live up to, as mine is nothing short of a super mom. She has balanced work, parenting, social life and family ties immaculately, and is a top scorer in each of these spheres. She loved her job till the very end (after having worked close to forty years) and won many accolades in her long career, and is still fondly remembered as a teacher. As a mother, I think she did a pretty good job of us, me and my twin siblings, though she still laments, “If only I had more time. If I could only have stayed at home..”
The problem with being a parent is that one never ceases to be one— it’s a process that begins, but never ends, like it hasn’t for my mother— I had better come to terms with that. And it’s not about cleaning poop or washing butts or feeding or any of the chores. It’s about always putting someone else’s interest before yours. Marriage doesn’t necessarily teach you that; hopefully, becoming a parent does.
Am I ready for it? I don’t know, but will soon find out.
We are both currently in parenting modes in different ways, as she cares for me and I do the same for the little one kicking away inside of me. And then of course there are my two resident feline offspring, who have also sensed that something’s up, so they are ever so gentle and clingy with me, and we also have conversations about the same. The husband, who still doesn’t speak Cat finds it fascinating to hear an ongoing dialogue that me and Nadia (my first born) or Bravo (my three legged James Bond of a cat) have at 6 am every day. Nadia seems concerned that our relationship will change, and I assure her that it won’t, and before she knows it, my child and her will be buddies. Bravo doesn’t have any such apprehensions, and is in a “more, the merrier” kind of zone.
I have always wondered whether I’d make a good mother—even though I have had (and continue to have) a pretty good innings with four legged babies— the fact that one day, my two-legged offspring could tell me (as I do to my mom) that what I’m doing doesn’t make sense, and here is a better way, rattles me.
I also have a high benchmark to live up to, as mine is nothing short of a super mom. She has balanced work, parenting, social life and family ties immaculately, and is a top scorer in each of these spheres. She loved her job till the very end (after having worked close to forty years) and won many accolades in her long career, and is still fondly remembered as a teacher. As a mother, I think she did a pretty good job of us, me and my twin siblings, though she still laments, “If only I had more time. If I could only have stayed at home..”
The problem with being a parent is that one never ceases to be one— it’s a process that begins, but never ends, like it hasn’t for my mother— I had better come to terms with that. And it’s not about cleaning poop or washing butts or feeding or any of the chores. It’s about always putting someone else’s interest before yours. Marriage doesn’t necessarily teach you that; hopefully, becoming a parent does.
Am I ready for it? I don’t know, but will soon find out.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Mamas and papas
The husband casually mentioned the p-word a few weeks ago, on one of our weekend drives to some place for lunch. We haven’t had too many existential discussions thus far, so I thought all was going well.
Back when I was a child, there was no parenting. You were born, someone ended up looking after you (in my case it was grandma, great grandma, assorted uncles, aunts, a few good neighbours) and one day you went to school, and before you knew, you were out of it. Now, it’s about “What’s your parenting approach going to be like? Hands on or hands off? By the book or improve? Traditional or modern?
“So when are we going to discuss parenting?,” he piped with much glee. I shuddered at the thought. I never thought he would bring it up, and I seriously believed it was going to be a case of whatever mommy says, goes. And why not? Even the supreme court justices seem to propagate that one must always listen to ‘the wife’.
I wasn’t nervous without reason. The husband’s idea of parenting includes, among other things, a second Play Station controller that I have always been an unlikely candidate for, a trip to Mc Donald’s (or was it KFC?) when the child is six, and a sustained anti-lauki, anti-karela and anti-padval campaign.
Suddenly, I had visions of the kid ordering a triple cheese burger with extra fries and coke on its first outing (the husband’s idea of a healthy meal) and me bursting a capillary at the table. Or the child learning to use a Play station controller before he/she learns to read or write. Worse, the child rejecting vegetables at the table and demanding hot dogs.
The whole vegetarian thing, which so far has been rather cool with the husband might soon become a bone of contention in our relationship. Okay, when you marry a man, you marry his habits, not his family. But when you have a child with a man, some of those habits are likely to be passed on. My point is, who decides what to pass on?
Here is my “god please don’t let this pass on” list
1. Imagining ants, cockroaches where there are none and making desperate attempts to gas them, believing they will multiply into millions in minutes, invade your body and destroy you.
2. Not being able to look at footwear that hasn’t been perfectly aligned, and aligning them at every given opportunity
3. Hoarding clothes and things one hasn’t had any use for in years.
4. Announcing that one is starved, making one’s plate with much flourish and admiring and sighing at it, but eventually eating four hours later.
5. Wanting a backup of twenty bulbs, ten packets of chips and peanuts, ten toothpastes and toothbrushes, innumerable shaving gels and aftershaves, “just in case”
This is what I wouldn’t mind being passed on:
1. Being good at cleaning up after a meal
2. Taking the garbage out
3. Efficiency at sink duty
4. Never raising your voice when with a lady.
Which brings me to why do men get married? Answer: It’s their only chance to look good. And fatherhood just rounds it off so well. Oh well!
Back when I was a child, there was no parenting. You were born, someone ended up looking after you (in my case it was grandma, great grandma, assorted uncles, aunts, a few good neighbours) and one day you went to school, and before you knew, you were out of it. Now, it’s about “What’s your parenting approach going to be like? Hands on or hands off? By the book or improve? Traditional or modern?
“So when are we going to discuss parenting?,” he piped with much glee. I shuddered at the thought. I never thought he would bring it up, and I seriously believed it was going to be a case of whatever mommy says, goes. And why not? Even the supreme court justices seem to propagate that one must always listen to ‘the wife’.
I wasn’t nervous without reason. The husband’s idea of parenting includes, among other things, a second Play Station controller that I have always been an unlikely candidate for, a trip to Mc Donald’s (or was it KFC?) when the child is six, and a sustained anti-lauki, anti-karela and anti-padval campaign.
Suddenly, I had visions of the kid ordering a triple cheese burger with extra fries and coke on its first outing (the husband’s idea of a healthy meal) and me bursting a capillary at the table. Or the child learning to use a Play station controller before he/she learns to read or write. Worse, the child rejecting vegetables at the table and demanding hot dogs.
The whole vegetarian thing, which so far has been rather cool with the husband might soon become a bone of contention in our relationship. Okay, when you marry a man, you marry his habits, not his family. But when you have a child with a man, some of those habits are likely to be passed on. My point is, who decides what to pass on?
Here is my “god please don’t let this pass on” list
1. Imagining ants, cockroaches where there are none and making desperate attempts to gas them, believing they will multiply into millions in minutes, invade your body and destroy you.
2. Not being able to look at footwear that hasn’t been perfectly aligned, and aligning them at every given opportunity
3. Hoarding clothes and things one hasn’t had any use for in years.
4. Announcing that one is starved, making one’s plate with much flourish and admiring and sighing at it, but eventually eating four hours later.
5. Wanting a backup of twenty bulbs, ten packets of chips and peanuts, ten toothpastes and toothbrushes, innumerable shaving gels and aftershaves, “just in case”
This is what I wouldn’t mind being passed on:
1. Being good at cleaning up after a meal
2. Taking the garbage out
3. Efficiency at sink duty
4. Never raising your voice when with a lady.
Which brings me to why do men get married? Answer: It’s their only chance to look good. And fatherhood just rounds it off so well. Oh well!
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Mera naam Meru
Somewhere between the time I was officially banned from driving (read six months ago) by the husband and other loved ones, thanks to being visibly pregnant, and when I actually imposed it upon myself (read a month ago), I got inducted into the Meru clan.
First a few admissions. I hate being driven. I can barely tolerate the husband, I am extremely critical of friends’ drivers, I’ve had a rough time with drivers that I hired in the past (the last one burst many a blood vessel for me; please do not hire him if he ever comes to you). Also, I am not one for hiring cabs, as I hate being on hold, or having to explain common-sense directions to nincompoops. I am a get-up-and-go-kinda girl. I hate waiting or being waited upon.
Since my own paper had written reams about the Meru some time last year, I figured, no testimony quite like home, and took the plunge. What I didn’t bargain for is that a good eight months have passed since that article. And in these months, a lot of s&*%@t seems to have hit the ceiling. Their backend has completely collapsed, and the front end is nothing much to shout about, as most of the cabs have faulty air conditioners or are battered by bad driving. I want to know how some of the drivers qualify to even be there on the road.
But since I live in no-cab zone and sitting in an autorickshaw can only mean one thing, considering how pregnant I am, I resigned myself to Merugiri a few weeks ago. Little did I realise that I had just ensured myself an unlimited supply of Braxton Hicks (false contractions for the uninitiated or non-pregnant). Starting with calling in for the Meru every night for the next morning, being caller number 40 most times, holding on endlessly (they don’t believe in frequent flier programs) only to be told, “ Sorry, all slots are full, why don’t you try again tomorrow morning?” Repeat.
Forget thinking happy thoughts. Forget coming to office unruffled. Forget beginning the day with happy men. When you are in Meruland, none of the above is happening
So if he is not complaining about the ‘trophik’ on SV road, or whining about you not wanting to take the ‘highbay’, he is chatting to his village brethren either on the phone, or across the street, whenever another Meru passes by or braking recklessly, even as you point how pregnant you are.
The three good men that redeemed it for me, and I wish to thank them in print—were drivers Mohammed Jamal Shaikh, Ramesh Shirsat and Alwin Pinto. The rest, and their syrupy BPO service, which is all words and no play can take a walk. Seriously, if I had a free pizza for every time a Meru was late, I’d be a pizza baroness by now.
There, I have said it. Now someone please sue me. Or make me believe that the system works.
First a few admissions. I hate being driven. I can barely tolerate the husband, I am extremely critical of friends’ drivers, I’ve had a rough time with drivers that I hired in the past (the last one burst many a blood vessel for me; please do not hire him if he ever comes to you). Also, I am not one for hiring cabs, as I hate being on hold, or having to explain common-sense directions to nincompoops. I am a get-up-and-go-kinda girl. I hate waiting or being waited upon.
Since my own paper had written reams about the Meru some time last year, I figured, no testimony quite like home, and took the plunge. What I didn’t bargain for is that a good eight months have passed since that article. And in these months, a lot of s&*%@t seems to have hit the ceiling. Their backend has completely collapsed, and the front end is nothing much to shout about, as most of the cabs have faulty air conditioners or are battered by bad driving. I want to know how some of the drivers qualify to even be there on the road.
But since I live in no-cab zone and sitting in an autorickshaw can only mean one thing, considering how pregnant I am, I resigned myself to Merugiri a few weeks ago. Little did I realise that I had just ensured myself an unlimited supply of Braxton Hicks (false contractions for the uninitiated or non-pregnant). Starting with calling in for the Meru every night for the next morning, being caller number 40 most times, holding on endlessly (they don’t believe in frequent flier programs) only to be told, “ Sorry, all slots are full, why don’t you try again tomorrow morning?” Repeat.
Forget thinking happy thoughts. Forget coming to office unruffled. Forget beginning the day with happy men. When you are in Meruland, none of the above is happening
So if he is not complaining about the ‘trophik’ on SV road, or whining about you not wanting to take the ‘highbay’, he is chatting to his village brethren either on the phone, or across the street, whenever another Meru passes by or braking recklessly, even as you point how pregnant you are.
The three good men that redeemed it for me, and I wish to thank them in print—were drivers Mohammed Jamal Shaikh, Ramesh Shirsat and Alwin Pinto. The rest, and their syrupy BPO service, which is all words and no play can take a walk. Seriously, if I had a free pizza for every time a Meru was late, I’d be a pizza baroness by now.
There, I have said it. Now someone please sue me. Or make me believe that the system works.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Power of three
There I go being batty and losing focus again (true to what they say in those books). What I actually meant to talk about was my baby shower. To cut it short, there were 20 people who showed up, the cats had a wild time with the pink and blue balloons, though initially, they were entranced by the visual, as though it was a space ship. Once they figured that all it took was one touch of a claw to render it to shreds, they were happy all over again, as also with the multiple footwear that had parked itself at our entrance, each of which displayed nesting possibilities.
So purr so good!
But, as it turned out, the auspicious day was also marked by three other events fighting for attention. Two IPL matches, the Spanish Grand Prix and Man U Vs Man City at the Barclays Premier League.
The husband hadn’t uttered any sounds of such parallel action when I first announced the date. But after he guesstimated the restlessness of the guests, most of whom arrived on time, he created a parallel entertainment zone. The fact that my shindig began at 6 pm suited the couch potatoes fine.
So there were two clear groups—one that stuck to the brief (came to the baby shower, hung out with mommy and baby, and did baby shower things, like talk to mommy, ask suitable and unsuitable questions, act interested in what you have to say, nibble at the eats, and such like)
And then there were the ones that hung in the recreation zone. So there was much screaming –the Man U husband lost all sense of decorum since best man and Man U supporter was there for company. At some point, there was an ousting of the men when the women decided that watching Kolkata Knight Riders destroy themselves (for the 12th time) was a cooler option, counter plotting by the husband, who thought our sangeet DVD with all its embarrassing moments would be a neutral entertainment option..) and finally, rampant betting against KKR—of which, it turns out, I am the beneficiary, as the spoils have been directed towards contribution for the baby cot—which, by the way is frigging expensive, as are most baby things and having a baby.
So baby or no baby, when sport wants to steal the thunder, it always can..
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Jenny from the block
All a girl needs is five kinds of friends. One that knows style, one that knows books, one that knows money, one that knows food and one that knows men. If you have a friend that scores four out of five, you have hit the jackpot. Like I did, with Jenny.
Okay, so she can never give a satisfactory answer (at least according to her) to the utterly unimaginative, “What do you do?” or worse, “Where do you work?” query. She doesn’t have a real job (read doesn’t get a pay cheque which comes attached with a salary slip that constantly reminds her how much she has sold your soul for). She will probably never make it to Lotus Notes or KRAs or any such trappings of working in an organization, but she’s got what it takes.
She knows people (she has that sixth sense), clothes (she is a trained designer), money (although she doesn’t make too much of it), taxes (at least ways to get the husband to save them), food (she is the only carnivore who can make also love to vegetables) …and she knows a good deal when she sniffs one. Plus she knows men—she is as much a guy’s girl as a girl’s girl—one of the few people I can have a long (read more than five minutes) conversation with on the phone.
Her high-achiever brother, the cross-dressing son of a friend, the stubborn karigar who wants his way, the gay neighbour, the laidback husband, the cool brother-in-law, the boisterous uncle, the spirited grand-dad (who died recently), the rough-edged husband of a friend—they all rely on her for advice or just words of wisdom—though sometimes she pretends to be on the receiving end just to humour them.
Jenny has also spent a large part of her life negotiating with doctors—she is a rheumatoid arthritis patient who goes into surgery with nonchalance—each time to replace a major bone in her body. After a knee, a hip and a neck surgery, she might be scheduled for another knee, shoulder and elbow replacements in the future, but that has never deterred her from being a yes-girl to life.
So we meet.. and exchange notes—about the extremely lazy but golden-hearted men that we have married, their extreme incompetence when it comes to money or matters that involve paperwork, their extreme similarities (of falling asleep on the couch at 3 am), their extreme idiosyncrasies (being uber-attached to tattered pyjamas and cold-cuts) their extreme unreliability as far as keeping time or finding directions goes. What binds them is they love us to bits, are among the ‘few good men’ left and have never been disrespectful to women (known or unknown).
At 5’ 10, she is amongst my tallest, most elegant girlfriends. I have never seen her sloppy, or have a bad hair day, even though she doesn’t really have an‘office’ to go to. Her logic is, why dress up for others? She says it like it is. She’s my kinda girl.
Okay, so she can never give a satisfactory answer (at least according to her) to the utterly unimaginative, “What do you do?” or worse, “Where do you work?” query. She doesn’t have a real job (read doesn’t get a pay cheque which comes attached with a salary slip that constantly reminds her how much she has sold your soul for). She will probably never make it to Lotus Notes or KRAs or any such trappings of working in an organization, but she’s got what it takes.
She knows people (she has that sixth sense), clothes (she is a trained designer), money (although she doesn’t make too much of it), taxes (at least ways to get the husband to save them), food (she is the only carnivore who can make also love to vegetables) …and she knows a good deal when she sniffs one. Plus she knows men—she is as much a guy’s girl as a girl’s girl—one of the few people I can have a long (read more than five minutes) conversation with on the phone.
Her high-achiever brother, the cross-dressing son of a friend, the stubborn karigar who wants his way, the gay neighbour, the laidback husband, the cool brother-in-law, the boisterous uncle, the spirited grand-dad (who died recently), the rough-edged husband of a friend—they all rely on her for advice or just words of wisdom—though sometimes she pretends to be on the receiving end just to humour them.
Jenny has also spent a large part of her life negotiating with doctors—she is a rheumatoid arthritis patient who goes into surgery with nonchalance—each time to replace a major bone in her body. After a knee, a hip and a neck surgery, she might be scheduled for another knee, shoulder and elbow replacements in the future, but that has never deterred her from being a yes-girl to life.
So we meet.. and exchange notes—about the extremely lazy but golden-hearted men that we have married, their extreme incompetence when it comes to money or matters that involve paperwork, their extreme similarities (of falling asleep on the couch at 3 am), their extreme idiosyncrasies (being uber-attached to tattered pyjamas and cold-cuts) their extreme unreliability as far as keeping time or finding directions goes. What binds them is they love us to bits, are among the ‘few good men’ left and have never been disrespectful to women (known or unknown).
At 5’ 10, she is amongst my tallest, most elegant girlfriends. I have never seen her sloppy, or have a bad hair day, even though she doesn’t really have an‘office’ to go to. Her logic is, why dress up for others? She says it like it is. She’s my kinda girl.
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