Fashion, travel and lifestyle

If you hoped for fancy pictures of my Greek getaway in dreamy dresses and lustful sangrias, congratulations! you just got played! I neither have the money, resources,a photographer boyfriend or a dumb brain to pout and pose on my vacations (or even go on vacations for that matter) . So I prefer to do what I do best ,which is, humor.

This post is about my everyday tryst with fashion as I embattle the dirty, dilapidated roads of Delhi to  reach the Metro for more dirt and dilapidation plus sweat as a premium and finally attempt to reach office in true Carrie Bradshaw style, minus New York and the glamour. And all the couture and Blahnicks . And the droolworthy bags. That’s  basically everything, damn:(:( I have Carrie’s hair though,  wild and unmaneagable, just the way both of us don’t want it to be….

Anyway getting back on track, since I recently relocated to New delhi I’m temporarily hoarding at my best friend’s place. Considering I’m cheap,  I ensure I make friends at all possible places so I can freeload as much as I want to. However this friend of mine stays in South Delhi. So whenever anyone asks me where I’m put up,  I tell them I stay with my friend in South Delhi and they all pry at me with envy. South Delhi is considered to be a very posh, ‘far from being in India’ kinda locality.  But as fate may have it,  the south Delhi I was hoarding at was far from being fancy. In fact it was far from anything that you may name – civilization, cleanliness, roads, water….just anything. It was a locality that would seem like Danny Boyle’s dream-half naked children taking a shit in the middle of the road accompanied with dogs and cows as poop-mates,   roads smeared with red pan that closely resemble the Jallianwala bhag massacre site, people who look like they have saved millions of rupees by never having to spend on toiletries, men ogling at the slightest trace of skin, so on and so forth. Amidst all this,  when people roll their eyes and do the ‘so you stay in south Delhi ‘at me,  I take it like its no big deal. Of course the real deal is far from what they think it is…Poor losers Buhahaha!

As all of you know,  I work for fashion and so I have this gargantuan challenge of always having to look like a million bucks. At least I could’ve been a designer, the bunch who are perpetually dressed as refugees and get the leeway of being the ‘creative’ lot and can live life as per their whims and fancies. But I ,on the other hand work as a freaking  buyer and I have to constantly attend trade shows and  business meetings with vendors. So I have no way but to look goddamn put together.

But I’m poor and I stay in so called ‘South Delhi’. God may not have given me the money but certainly gave me the brains to fake like I have loads of ’em. Everyday I spend at least an hour on my hair and makeup to look bomb AF.  Fyi, I have expensive products (courtesy: EMI on Amazon…oh what would the world be without you Amazon?) But I obviously cannot step out looking like that in our ‘South Del’ for I’ll be bombed. So I use like 5 scarves of different colors to wrap every part of my body and top it with a dirty old cardigan to sign off in style.  I carry my heels in a separate bag and wear dirty chappals. Basically I step out of the house looking like Deepika padukone on the inside and Ranveer Singh on the outside.

As I enter the Metro Station everyday ,  I notice people looking at me with a variety of expressions. Funny, clueless, disgust, fear and even paranoia. Of course they have a reason..Delhi has the reputation of getting bombed every now and then, as if there is no enough mess already. But I don’t really care, as I’m not gonna meet these people again even if it means boarding the Metro at the same station everyday. India is a home to 1.2 billion people and the probability of meeting the same person twice at random is an improbable event except when your life is a Bollywood movie starring Shah Rukh Khan. I step into or rather pushed into the train and within a few seconds begin to gasp for breath. Being vertically challenged, my face levels with most people’s armpits and never have I felt so unfortunate in my life for being born a minion. After twenty minutes of battle between my nose and  sweaty armpits, I get down at my station to reach my workplace.  I quickly take an auto in the same mummified look and prod the already enraged autidriver (don’t ask me why enraged?  Everybody in Gurgaon is perpetually enraged. Just accept it and live with it)  to drive faster. Finally as I near my office, I hurriedly remove my Ranveer Singh outfits and slip on my heels. One day it so happened that the driver was so engaged in raging his way through the traffic that he completely ignored my shenanigans at the back of the auto. When I got down to pay the money,  he asked ‘Why are you paying me?’ and ‘Where is the girl who I dropped here?’. It took a whole twenty minutes to explain that I’m the ‘girl’ ,with my near to pathetic Hindi skills!

With this,  I wrap up my fashion and travel post.  For all the b*****s who post fancy pictures in Seychelles and Maldives and mess up my stomach by aggravating my acidity, this is for you! On your face…

Malice in tinderland Part-II

Before I begin, this post is for you AK….He is one among the small group of people that WordPress lovingly calls ‘My followers’. This post is a part-II of the very first post I wrote here

For all my non-Indian followers, a small footnote: Tamilians are an ethnic majority in the southern part of India, and the main reason why Trump hates immigrants. (Because, when you are a Tamilian all you get to do is sit in the Bay area and write endless codes to save the Googles and Microsofts  of the world) With this bit of info, read on….

After he sent that text, I got very curious. Then I asked him how do you know that I’m Tamil? And he told me that he was kinda one himself as his dad was from Coimbatore, and he can easily recognise Tamil faces. I was actually offended at this revelation because even  I’m one among the 1.2 billion Indians who speak nationalism but wouldn’t take pride in buying anything that’s Indian. I love my language,  I love my people (or rather love to fake it that way) but hate it when someone says I look like one. With that began our endless chatting. We discussed our interests and  passion (Read: Just a whole bunch of lies to seem really cool). After an hour , out of the blue, he asked me ‘Do you smoke?’  I got enticed and typed YES! He was like, ‘Oh in caps and all huh?’ I told him I smoke just two everyday and try to keep it that way because  nicotine addiction is crazy ( especially for girls, with crazier jobs) and I don’t want to become a living chimney. He replied saying , ‘Ewww so you thought I meant cigarettes? ‘,I replied ‘yes’ in my usual affirmative, know-it-all self. It was then that he clarified that he meant pot. Ohh,now I get the California connection,I thought.

The next thirty minutes were spent in him educating me on weed edibles, the kind you would find in Amsterdam. This guy somehow managed to smuggle them into India. He asked me out and we fixed our date the very next day. He told me that he would bring the edibles along  and I was ‘only’ super excited, nothing more….(In the meanwhile I ditched the poor IIMian who I led on so much, and didn’t feel even an iota of guilt about that. Yes, I am what guys fondly refer to as ‘BITCH’ in all caps)

The next day I woke up to get ready for office. We fixed our date after office at 7 pm. I did not think much on deciding what to wear because I was more interested in the edibles than the guy.Also I got this vibe that we are gonna end up as good friends and nothing beyond. And also, I didn’t wanna look like I was trying too much. Nothing is hotter than looking effortlessly hot, I thought. I just paired my super distressed skinnies with a white tank and spent only an hour on my hair and makeup . I strapped on the highest  heels that I ever owned. And then, after all these efforts,  I did look effortless. I reached office and resumed my usual business of putting on earphones, switching on some music and straddling off to oblivion far from my obnoxious colleagues. The day passed and then ‘The clock struck seven , I ran down….Hickory D**kory  Dock’.

He was waiting downstairs and  we greeted each other with a customary handshake.Then we got in the car and began our Odyssey with Bangalore’s traffic. Yeah, if there was a contest between Odysseus and Bangaloreans as to who would reach their homes first, the former would win hands down. Any  Bangalorean would vouch for this.The traffic was turning out to be nightmarish as I’m a good talker but a very poor conversation starter. Yeah, I can’t handle uncomfortable silences. But the Vincent Vega beside me couldn’t get any better. He did not roll me ‘one of those’ but definitely fed me one of those. ‘Time for the edibles lady’, he screamed and showed it to me . I freaked out. It was a tiny white pill and looked nothing close to pot. I popped one and it tasted like what could’ve if Mentos slept with pot and decided to sleep with it forever. After that, a sudden feeling of panic struck me…’this is not some date rape shit right?’ I asked him. He did not say anything, instead he gave me a creepy smile…..a very creepy smile…a very very creepy smile……

P.S: Don’t worry, I survived that night…maybe just enough to share my story!

Fenty is Stronger

Over the years,  we have witnessed multiple instances of collaborations between musicians and fashion brands. Ideally fashion brands enter into such associations when they are trying to revamp or give some diversification to their brand, amongst many other reasons. The companies  choose influencers who would strongly resonate with the kind of personality they have envisioned for their brand. More often than not, these associations turn out to be a one-time affair and subsequently vanish into the darkest holes of history. This can be attributed to multiple reasons, the most popular one being, lack of any visible significance in the outcome of the collaboration. Such reviews occur due to poor relevancy between the two collaborators, lacking in thought and good judgement ultimately culminating in the rhetoric ,’What on earth is this celebrity doing with the brand?’. In today’s post I will be writing about two such fashion collabs which have caused much stir in the fashion industry in recent times.

People always prefer to start on a positive note. I beg to differ. The reason being , you can appreciate light only after experiencing the dark. You need a yardstick to compare how good is too good.

If being a successful rapper and a husband to a fame lusting social media queen are reasons enough for someone to become a fashion designer, then sorry folks, we are nearing the age of Fashion apocalypse. Expediting this apocalypse is the fact that Kanye’s show caused a lot newbie designers to reschedule their slots in NYFW to ensure maximum press coverage for his line. Hedonism personified, it may seem but it garnered front row audience in the ranks of Anna Wintour,  the high priestess of the fashion industry of our times. Coming to the designs, (should we even call them designs?) they seemed like creations  that would be perceived as an excuse in the name of fashion ,clearly lacking innovation , creativity or anything close to aesthetics. The show was a parade of miserable human beings which made us seem like we stepped into Trump’s worst nightmare- starving refugees. However, the line proved to be a commercial success with the Yeezy boots selling out in seconds after they went live. This also explains the brand’s collaboration with Kanye for the fourth time despite rantings from almost all major fashion powerhouses. Sadly in a deeply commercialised world , we have to believe in the vox  populi-opinions or beliefs of the majority. This can only be termed as a gross humiliation to fashion , further foddering the belief that fame and money can achieve anything. Nothing more, nothing less….poster_med0000000A.jpg

On the other hand, our bad gal RiRi once again went on to prove that she is the undisputed queen of swagger and badassery with her FentyXPuma line. I was particularly thrilled at her latest collection displayed in the  AW17 Paris fashion week . The line was themed ‘School kids gone rogue’ and ‘What would you wear to detention?’. Wow, how cool right? That’s so Rihanna! The collection mainly consisted of cropped hoodies (cropped enough to get you a detention), flannel skirts, full length puffer jackets, teddy bear backpacks and Rihanna’s favourite thigh high lace up boots. The collection screamed ‘Rihanna’ in its loudest tone. It was the perfect amalgamation of high school innocence coupled with wildness.The show was set in a bibliotheque which was in perfect sync with the line. This show would definitely  go down in history as one of the best collaborations that perfectly reverberated with the influencer’s personality without compromising on the brand’s ideology. To sum up, this collaboration is proof that we need more Rihannas and less Kanyes  in the world of fashion!

Some of my favorites from the show….

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Why shoes are better than boyfriends?

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‘ Which Game of thrones character are you?’

‘Which Disney Princess are you?’

‘ 10 reasons why Kendall Jenner is better than Kylie Jenner? ‘

Every single morning Facebook greets me with cringe worthy Pulitzer  deserving articles like the ones above. How many people have the time and energy to actually read this kind of crappy literature?The answer is ,almost everybody .Yes, let us be honest here. There are few things in this world that everybody does but no one accepts.Like farting.If reports from highly verified sources are to be believed, the number of people who confess to first degree murder outnumber those who have confessed to farting. (Yeah I like making s**t up like this, apologies)

Anyway,getting back on track I was doing some mental math as to how many precious , potentially productive hours I waste on reading such noteworthy works of literature every single day. The figures got me gobsmacked. Any normal human would have sworn to  social media abstinence after getting knocked out due to the abysmal Facebook induced brain drain . But that’s not me, that’s not who I am…. I want revenge, I seek revenge and I will avenge.

Hell yeah! This made me realize that I am indebted to this society in a way. The society that created Facebook and made me waste thousands of man hours and grey cells into reading such eruditical masterpieces which when put into good use could have won my gradeophilic South Indian family an IITian  daughter, or so they would assume. But let us not dig graves , I thought. How am I going to repay this society that denied me a shot at IIT and possibly a Nobel prize. That’s when I decided I am going to write an article on “Why shoes are better than boyfriends?”

Reason 1:  Very high values of ROI

Unlike men. Countless dates to hip clubs,  bars and restaurants and being the alpha woman I am , always insist on splitting cards with my dates. Then one day, reality slaps me like a bitch making me realize that I have been dating a schmuck all the while. Wherein on the other hand,  the super sexy double platform heels that I bought from Aldo remains loyal to me even after two years of ups and downs , both in my life and on Indian roads.

Reason 2: You get to choose the length

Err…I meant the heel height.

Reason 3: If you see a better one, you can always own it

Actually I would contradict on this point. You can always have a better option…just ensure you secure your phone with a good password.

Reason 4: It hurts to bring the best out of you

Unlike men . You go on depression, weight loss and an ugly face. Sigh……

Reason 5: You get to dump it any time, (of course) with absolutely no hangups

Unlike men. Majority of who will go on a slandering mode creating a picture that would make people look at you and scream, ‘Hey that’s the monster on Insidious chapter 3’.

With this I would like to congratulate everybody who has reached reading till here. The article ends now and I would like to announce that you have successfully wasted two  minutes of your life by reading absolute crap. Join the club. This post is a tribute to all those people who write pointless blogs for reasons unfathomable to mankind.

By the way, I took the Disney princess test and found I’m princess Belle! Awwwww……

 

 

 

Extreme Vetting

I always assumed that money and power can buy everything….Okay , if not everything , at least a great pair of shoes! Since a teenager,I used to imagine the day I would step into a Chanel store and shop like Blair Waldorf. Sadly at 26,I’m still watching Gossip Girl and hoping for that day to come. The closest I could get to the Upper east side is by watching Gossip Girl on Netflix. Besides all this ranting,to my great dismay, there are several people who, despite wielding an awfully insane amount of money and power, turn out to be complete schmucks when it comes to the f-word.( F being fashion). All they have to do is hire a good stylist and pay them well. Is that a lot of work? On that note, I decided that I’m gonna vet people who possess “great power and poor style”. These are the people who have perpetrated first degree sartorial crimes and no amount of good behavior can justify a parole to these “walking fashion halls of shame!!”

Angela Merkel:

The German chancellor has been on a self imposed sartorial exile, probably since the beginning of time. I once read somewhere that Merkel buys her own clothes. Sorry yo, your attempts at fashion are as catastrophic as your Greek bailout policy. She can always be spotted wearing trousers that are extra long and suits that are extra tight which further accentuate her nowhere-close-to-perfect  body. No matter how hard I try to exempt from body-shaming,  at one point I’m still human who can afford to err. I wish Merkel gets some divine intervention to dissolve her off her fashion crimes.

P.S: The low cut plunging disaster she wore to the Oslo Convention deserves a special mention here. Slow claps….

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However, I decided to give Angela a quick makeover.

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I feel shift dresses are a boon to older women with ‘realistic’ bodies. (Because not everybody is Sophia Vergara in this big fair world). A shift dress with the right fit and length can do wonders to elevate your look. Combine it with a pair of comfortable heels and a good tote and you are good to go! Is this too hard?

Click to shop: Shift dress / Nude pumps / Tote

Kim Jong-un:

He has the looks that will make you L a little extra OL but policies that Kill.He looks like the egg that never hatched. To me , he looks very palatable though. Now talking about fashion choices, our second exhibit can always be spotted wearing something  that looks like the result of a one night stand between an ugly suit and an uglier tunic.Can’t get meaner than that, can’t help either.  I mean, just take a look…

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What’s with the ugly length though? Oops I forgot about it’s tunic ancestry…

The Deflated Basketball:

Probably,  the most eligible contenders of all times for the top spot ….Before building a wall across the Mexican border, he should probably build a smaller one across his mouth to stop talking s***t. (Why did I even say this??). I’m not here to judge his presidential abilities (Did I just say ‘Abilities’?…Okay let us not get there) but considering the awful amount of money in his possession ,don’t you think he owes this world (to say the least) some good fashion? But anyway, I would give him a fair play award for consistent bad performance across all departments, from bilateral ties to extra long red ties.However this red tie is more functional than you and I could ever think. Here we go…

Benefits of wearing an extra long tie:

a) To gag that giant O shaped orifice in his face. Also called mouth.

b)To grab pussycats considering he is a germaphobe

c)To RED FLAG himself early November

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If you suggest any other benefits of the iconic red tie (Secured with scotch tape), then please write in the comments section below.

Until then,

XOXO

(Sorry, I’m watching Gossip Girl)

 

 

 

Oral Diarrhea

“Hell hath no fury as a woman scorned”

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Said someone with a wise mouth. I have seen insanely insane amount of girls trying to cope up with bad breakups, cheating boyfriends, men who can’t man up and so on…. I have seen them running out of words to express their wrath. I have had friends who call me up and ask me to rape their exes with words to make them feel better. I have caused so much of carnage in the ‘EX’osphere that I thought I would extend a helping hand to people who seek my skills. This post is for all you girls out their on the look out for asshole stakes to rip your boyfriends off. Basically , I cant afford anymore of 3 am calls with rape requests…(Below are a few common instances of “after breakup” conversations)

Without much ado, here we go…

THE D’OFFEE

Me: Dude, cant you man up? Do you even have a D?

So called ‘man’: What do you think your friend was sucking on for the past four years??

Me: Toffees, I guess

‘MISS’PLACED

Ex: Baby I miss you

Me: I’m happy that I missed you…

Ex: That’s so mean

Me: That’s so me..

C(M)UDDLE:

Ex: I miss cuddling you…Is there anyway we could fix this?

Me: There is a hole in the wall right across the street. You can fix it there…

STRAIGHT UP:

Ex: Baby I’m sorry I messed it all up…Is there anyway we could straighten this up?

Me: Are you able to get it straight up in the first place??…Because you couldn’t the last time I saw

CHEATIN’ AIN’T HAPPENIN’

Ex: I didn’t really mean to cheat on you…It just happened

Me: Are you sure gonorrhea ain’t communicable? Cos I don’t wanna get it through phone by talking to you

Hmm…so I guess I have pretty much covered a few of the stereotypical conversations that would happen after a breakup. Now you now what to say. Damn the nice girls…It feels great to be  a bitch…Trust me, it is…it is…

If you need anymore advice slash axe your ex dialogs, do like my post and follow me. TA-TA!!

Copy Kat

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Everyday I make it a point to learn two words in English. I try to use those two words in all possible conversations even if it makes me seem like a lunatic.

A major part of my teenage dreams consisted of Katy Perry, but hey don’t judge me yet , although I do not have a very impressive rating on the Kinsey scale.Yesterday,as I was pondering about what to write in my next post , I came across a makeup tutorial on YouTube which showed how to recreate Katy Perry’s look for Cover girl. It was then that I decided I’m going to do a pastiche of Katy. Now what is a pastiche? According to Merriam -Webster, a pastiche is…

“An artistic work in a style that imitates that of another work, artist, or period”.

Great!

I realized that what I am going to do is not a pastiche after all, after it involves my face. However….pastiche, pastiche,pastiche….I’ll never forget this word now.

Firstly, what does Katy have that I do not have? I hurriedly make a list.

Katy Kat Her Kitty Kat
Multi million dollar budget Let’s not even get there, considering my current jobless state
Katy Perry’s face My face, enough said!
Probably a Genesis pana vision camera, and state of the art editing software My dilapidated i-phone 4 that I have been using since the beginning of time. Editing credits: Boomerang by Instagram

Great. God is not so unfair after all….

You have your brush, you have your colors, you paint your paradise and in you go’-Nikos Kazantzakis 

I have my colors and I have my brushes and here I go to paint my face. So finally after two hours of intense labor, I emerged from my room after creating my masterpiece. I realised after looking at the mirror that the pastiche somewhere turned out to be a parody. I suggest that  Boomerang come with a slo mo feature. Because as you can see, Katy sways in like a stunning seductress wherein I, on the other hand look like I have been electrocuted.

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Sadly , my attempts at being a pastiche may have failed miserably but my attempts at being a monet have not. Now who is a monet? According to the Urban Dictionary, a monet is a….

“Really nice girl with a funny personality, always crazy and super chill. She has amazing eyes and perfect eyebrows, and is sweet.  As pretty as a painting. She’ll be a great girlfriend, is loyal, and extremely creative”.

What do you think? That’s me right? Err….I’m not so sure about the pretty as a painting part though.That being said monet,monet,monet……

If you want to know how I achieved this look anyway, click on the links below. BTW, nobody has sponsored me yet, I’m hoping they will…after reading this post!

Lips: Inglot matte lipstick

Face:NYX stay matte but not flat foundation in Nutmeg

Eyes:Long lasting 12 hour eyeliner

Blush: Lancome blush in Subtle Indien

 

 

 

Singled Out

Hey, I actually have a major confession to make. But please don’t judge me on that okay? With that promise let me tell you I have never been on a Valentine’s day date. Yes, never have I ever . No one except me would get a shot at the shots for this question. I guess it’s a curse , given that I have dated a gazillion men. However, on every V-day, I either had a major fight with my boyfriend/ was held up with some maniacal work/ was dating someone who lived in an oblivion where Valentine’s days ceased to exist. ( No kidding  but  if you have been following my blog for a while from now, you will be aware of the fact that I’m a douche-magnet, when it comes to choosing boyfriends) That being said, I’m not a quitter. I swore to myself that this year I cannot just Netflix and chill. I need to do something more exciting….

After a lot of deliberation, I finally decided to do something that  no girl on planet Earth would ever dare to do. Yes, drumroll please……ta-da-ta-da-da……For the first time in the history of Valentine’s days…I decided to take myself on a date. First things first, the most important rule of Masturdating is that you need to look hawt AF. That’s when you’ll get to be the other woman. And being the other woman while the guy drools and his girl groans can be one of the most exhilarating experiences ever. After hours and hours of mining my wardrobe ores, I finally managed to find something super sexy. I tried it on and to my dismay, I could see the biriyani I had for lunch sneering at me from my gut. So much guts…huh! Now I need to find my spandex. I looked at my wardrobe that looked nothing short of a bombing site at Alleppo. I momentarily gave up my idea of going out. But Im not a quitter. I love my job , I love my job….I told myself.

An hour passed,  and I had successfully suffocated my ‘pouting after a biriyani’ gut with layers of Spandex and waist trainers. I had also contoured my face so much so that people could actually practice rock climbing. After two hours of intense labour , I looked at the mirror to find that I looked nothing like myself. I felt so happy.

I took my mummified self to an ultra-hip club in Bangalore. I had already registered my name and my hoax date’s name on the guest list. I reached the venue and cooked up some c**k and bull story to the bouncer about how my date’s friend met with an accident and he will take at least an hour to reach. He seemed to believe in my pushed up cleavage more than my story. Somehow, he believed in something.And let me in.

The club was filled with “Pouticus selfieaddictum”, a degenerated variant of Homosapiens characterized by excessive use of filters and self obsession. Girls in all shapes and sizes were going haywire, scrambling for places with the best lighting to pout and click selfies with their significantly insignificant others. I chose a nice corner  to witness all this tamasha and also to check out potentially vulnerable guy targets. As I was observing , my guydar intercepted some  intruder activity. At the rightmost corner was a guy, hot looking and visibly bored after never ending selfie sessions with his dumb looking girlfriend. I could see that he was checking me out but wasn’t so sure. I needed closure.I got up , tucked my stomach in and started walking in his direction to facilitate him with a good view. I looked from the corner of my eye and figured that he was no longer being sly. He was full on checking me out and my heart leapt. I checked out back at him and started playing along. Then he gave me a smile,  a very sly but sexy one…all the while doing his due diligence of posing for selfies. Then suddenly his girlfriend spoke, ‘Baby get me a vodka na, with cranberry juice…’ He seemed irritated with the sudden interception and got up. He looked at me from the bar counter and gestured me to check my phone. I didn’t quite understand. Was he asking for my number? Anyway I decided to wait. He came back with the vodka and again gestured me to check my phone. What am I supposed to do? Show him my number in sign language? Suddenly I heard a loud scream. …Ewwww….his girlfriend started throwing up in the middle of the club. Disgusting. I don’t understand why some girls have to drink in spite of knowing they can’t handle alcohol. I got so disgusted that I walked away. After two hours and twenty sly-gazings, I felt accomplished and decided to go home.

I came back home and my phone started buzzing. I just realized I had switched off my data all the while. Notifications from Tinder it said. Somebody had liked me. The first picture said swipe right to see my face.  I swiped right. F***k, that hunk I first saw in the club.

Another day, another douche, I thought. And swiped right. My phone buzzed, ” Hey sexy!”

Fashunned

Many of my non-fashion industry friends conveniently assume that just because I work for fashion , they can get their wedding lehenga made free of cost. So first of all , to all the freeloaders out there…working for fashion industry does not mean doing embroidery on your lehenga.Neither does it mean giving free makeover tips to change your dorky personal style. You should understand that just because a miniscule fraction amongst our IT infested population works for fashion, doesn’t make them the Holy Grail of Fashion. I’Ll tell you why. For this you first need to understand the types of people you would meet at a fashion office.

(Statutory warning:Below are snippets from my personal observation of people while working with the fashion industry. Sorry ex-colleagues, if you happen to find uncanny similarities to the below characters,  please consider this post a work of pure fiction)

The Dumb belle from South Del:  The GK chick whose mumma is a designer (Read: trophy wife in disguise) and pappa is some stinking rich businessman. She is the girl who incessantly complaints about being a ‘moti’ and tries to deceive her size 8 body into size 2 clothes. If only talking gibberish burnt calories! She is also the girl who brags about her boyfraand getting her a Chanel on her birthday. Just wanna scream, ‘Hey that’s so faatch’

The Gym Femme: The workout addict who never dares to say the ‘You-know-what’ wOrd fearing an extra ‘You-know-what’ by the mere utterance of ‘You-know-what’. Open her dabba during lunch and you can probably rechristen her as the ‘Bear Grylls of the plant kingdom’

The Haunty: The haunting 40s something aunty with the seven year ‘hitch’. She might even forget to bring her laptop but never her menopausal hormones

The Missfit: The two most intriguing questions in life to me are: How did Trump become president? Does anyone have an answer-no. How did some people land in a fashion job? Do I have an answer-no. These are the people who wear ‘Pama’ the Indian cousin of ‘Puma’ , a rare species of black panther that jumps to the right in T-shirts sold in Indian hawker markets. I have one logic as to how these people got hired. Perhaps, they won a lottery which gave them employment as a lucky prize

The Gayshionista: Probably the only type in this whole list that actually deserves a place in the office. Dressed to the nines, these guys are always impeccable. However, you always feel so judged in front of them. If you think girls working for fashion are always dolled up, please note it’s not for their boyfriends to praise them or for their other colleagues to envy them. It is only for their gay colleagues to stop judging them.But guys you should also understand that it’s so daunting to get an A+ from your Gayshion report card everyday.

Okay, with this I’ll wrap up my post for today (cos I got lazy). Hope you will think twice before asking fashion advice from your so called fashionista friends. That being said, I guess I have earned enough bad karma for slandering my colleagues and ex-colleagues. I’m definitely going to hell .

 

 

 

 

Malice in Tinderland -Part 1

After dating (Read:’Duh’ting) a douchebag for four years,I got dumped and swore to celibacy for almost two years. I was so used to seeing all my friends canoodling with their partners (sometimes other’s partners too) all the time, but weirdly these scenes would never affect me.Instead I had the time of my life seeing eerie shadows of couples lurking near washrooms and making out on Saturday night parties. Gargantuan efforts to hook me up with random Toms, D**ks and Harries went amiss. Finally the time came when everybody concluded that the estrogen in my system was no longer working. I was mildly convinced at this statement and decided to test myself with Jamie Dornan’s CK campaign …and thank God, I was still doable. As all my past relationships have truly and earnestly earned the distinction of being complete catastrophes, this time around, I did not want to waste time in a serious relationship. So i went ‘Knock knock’ at the ‘Google of the despo world’-Tinder. On the first day, I went bonkers swiping dorks to the right and hunks to the left. Then with time, I became adept at swiping and started swiping at all places humanly possible- In the office boardroom, in the middle of my meetings, in the washrooms and so on.Finally, after a week , I was texting seven different guys all at the same time. Woah! I felt like a teenager all over again. I cursed  my douchebag-ex because of who I missed out on all this fun for all these years. I really got along well with this one guy from IIM. He was cute, funny and intelligent. Of course, I am a sapiosexual too – the benchmark criteria for being on tinder. If you have been tindering around for a while , you would have stumped across : 27, male, sapiosexual /25,male, I dont even know who a sapiosexual is but I’m still a sapiosexual / 19, ‘man-in-the-making’ kid, saposexual (trust me, sap-o-sexual…L-O-L)…So after going through all these ‘gruelling and harrowing to the mind and eye’ profiles, I came across this IIM-Aian , a true to his words ‘sapiosexual’. We had a good time texting and having long intellectual (sorry, the South Indian in me simply  refuses to die) conversations. He asked me out after three days of relentless ‘coming out in the middle of a bath to check for his messages’-texting and chatting, and I was super thrilled. So we had planned to meet at a high-end drink and dine place at Indiranagar (This story is based out of Bangalore , just FYI) on Friday. Meanwhile, it was Wednesday already and I was spending an uneventful (Read: as usual) day at office and opened Tinder. Some kid had ‘Superliked’ me. The first picture was rather hazy and poorly lit and all that I could make out was ‘a kid who badly wanted to hook up without getting caught’. I swiped to the second picture…OMG, not a kid after all. Great abs, great body and a hunk-in-the-making. I swiped to the third picture…OMG, amazing bike too. My ‘Guy’dar  sensed excitement and I began reading the description: Loves nose rings (Now I understand the superliking), would take you out for dinner even if you don’t have one. P.S: My bike is not in India . (Phew) . I have never dated guys below my age and this guy was four years younger to me. So, I decided to step in and test waters as a pedophile.I swiped right hurriedly and took off for a customary ‘ We do nothing but drink chai in a meeting’ meeting with my boss. In the middle of my chai, my phone shuddered. I slyly opened Tinder. It said: ‘Hi di'(Di is a sexist tamil equivalent of ‘yaar’ , just so you know)…F***k , how did he know I was Tamil?? Little did I know that ‘Hi’ was gonna change my life forever….