Forty-Something Years in Ninaland

Post Apocalypse: Carpet is Installed


Photo by erik cid on Unsplash

What to do now?

So we got new carpet and it feels like silk, the house looks new. Putting stuff back in place is easier than taking it down it seems. Besides, we threw away all the unnecessary crap. It occurs to me that I was supposed to be working on the book I’m writing this entire time, instead, I’ve been doing household shit for like a week. I need to get back to my life.

Then I wonder, do I have a life? I call some friends I haven’t talked to in a week and it becomes clear that I need to go back and join my so called life. Since I’ve decided I’m going to spend the summer writing, perhaps I should be writing. Besides this blog, I have two books I’m working on. One of them I will be selling on this blog very soon, hopefully.

I still have a pile of junk in my kitchen in the basement that I have to go through. I spilled some popcorn on the new carpet in my room. I haven’t told anyone, they will think I don’t appreciate it and am going to ruin it. I will vacuum it up, soon. Why was I eating popcorn in my bed? I don’t know, I was hungry. They say you shouldn’t eat in bed, oh well.

The carpet is dark brown in the living room. I was not pleased with this choice, but now that I see it, it actually works. For some reason, the room looks bigger. Let’s fast forward to right now:

Photo by Glenn Carstens-Peters on Unsplash

I don’t want to write. I basically don’t want to do anything at all I think. I kind of don’t want to exist. That is different than wanting to die. I don’t want to die. I’m just tired of doing, and doing, and doing. I’m sitting in a Starbucks with a good friend, staring at a McDonald’s. There is a black man who has some beaded necklaces on and a long beard, he looks like he might be Rastafarian. I know nothing about that culture. I want to ask him what it’s like.

There’s a pretty woman with false eyelashes sitting by the window, she is studying a textbook that is all highlighted in yellow. She has purple ear buds on and I wonder what she is studying and what she is listening to. For a moment I want to be her, she seems like she has a purpose. That book looks really complicated. But I remember, I’ve read complex and sophisticated texts in school and I have had enough school. I actually don’t want to go back as a student, I like being a teacher or professor.

I’m thinking the cute man with the blue and white striped shirt is smiling because life is good. It is you know, he reminds me of that. I forget sometimes how good it can be. It seems that everyone is on a computer in this joint, except one man is reading a newspaper. Remember paper? I mean as bad as it is for the environment, I sometimes miss paper. I miss reading hard cover books and even paperbacks.

Photo by Amanda Sandlin on Unsplash

I’m staring at a yellow line on the cement parking lot outside. I wonder about this yellow line, and all the lines I’ve drawn in my life. They have all been sort of yellow. Like the fresh bananas I bought from the market the other day. I buy them mostly for my father, who like an ape cannot live without bananas. There is a woman with a white hat at the coffee bar. Her hat reminds me of a black hat I wore this winter. I thought I looked like a movie star, but actually, I looked like me with a hat on.

I’ve always wanted a raspberry beret. I always wanted Prince. Although he was a little skinny for my taste.

These are the kinds of things I think when I’m not doing stuff around the house because we got new carpet. Is this all worth going back to?


Hair and Heroines–Repost


Thursday, February 5, 2015

Hair and Heroines

Are you grossed out? Be honest. I told my students in my Composition I class to be honest when I showed them a slew of pictures of unshaven women from and the Huffington Post.

“I’m grossed out,” said a one woman and one man in my class. “I think it’s beautiful,” said another red-headed woman. She told us she had scars on her body and her boyfriend thought they were lovely. He loved her imperfections. “I don’t mind,” said another European man in my class.

Photo by Intoxifaded

Is hair even an imperfection if everyone has it?

Sikhs are not supposed to cut their hair or shave their body. They happen to think that’s perfect.

After reading the article in that depicted Sikh women’s struggle with their body hair, the same man who said he was grossed out said he respected these women and were inspired by their strength. The woman who said she was also not comfortable with the site, said she sort of changed her mind about it when she read the article.  These women had overcome bullying and taunting from the general public.

Photo by Ben Hopper

Both of these students said, however, that if someone is doing something just for their religion or their society, they don’t respect it as much as if the women were just doing it for themselves.

Hold on a minute, if someone wears a turban just for their religion, maybe not even for themselves, I still respect it. I think respect has to be given to everyone’s beliefs. If they are doing it for their religion, maybe they believe is what god wants, aren’t they doing it for themselves too?

I mean I get the kids’ point, that if the women are keeping their hair because they think it makes them beautiful and real and helps them express who they really are, respect should be given. If they are only doing it to please god it seems rather dicey. However, respect is still due I believe.

Photo by Ben Hopper

There was a Sikh woman I once met who didn’t shave her legs or underarms because she was a feminist. I thought she was awesome. Was she doing it for herself, or for this belief in feminism or for or sort of against society norms? Where is her self in all this?

“Women should not have to follow society’s idea of what their bodies should look like,” the student with the scars added.

I agree. I’m Sikh but I still cut my hair, shave my legs and underarms and thread my eyebrows and take care of my facial hair. Am I weak?

I mean I think I look maybe pretty or something without a mustache, however, I completely respect those women who think it makes no difference.

Photo by Ben Hopper

It’s tragic that we live in a society that wants them to feel ugly. I remember this Sikh woman who didn’t know what to do about her daughter who could possibly have a condition that made her grow extra facial hair.  She didn’t know if she should give her daughter this medicine that would make it go away. Her worry was that Sikhs think of hair as a gift from god.

I did not cut the hair on my head until I was twenty-six. I did, however, shave all my ‘unwanted’ hair starting at the age of twelve. I consider myself a Sikh, although I am by no means religious. I consider myself a feminist as well, although by no means am I a good one.

I guess my idea of beauty still involves hair styles and hairless faces and bodies and make-up. I understand that god didn’t make me naturally that way. However, in my humble opinion, we do a lot of unnatural things…However, I have deep respect for my Sikh sisters who don’t touch a razor or scissors to their hair. I hope they equally have respect for my opinion.

Photo by Ben Hopper

I walk around with the name Kaur (a Sikh last name for women) and I do not do it to identify as a Sikh, I chose it as my pen name because it is my middle name. And it means princess. And I’m a princess. However, I don’t sit here trying to represent the views of everyone in my religion. I only represent my views.

I told a dude to call me princess once and he said he would never because he didn’t believe in aristocracy. Well, I believe in feminism and I’m still a princess looking for her Singh, or lion. As sexist and old fashioned as that sounds.

Photo by Ben Hopper

You can call me a hypocrite because I don’t follow like one thing or whatever. Call me anything you want. I’m complex.

I don’t have to go by your standards and you don’t have to go by mine. We are all free.

Thank god for that…


Please visit this site to read the entire article in Kaur Life

Epilog: I thought I was done with this article until I realized something. I have something more to say. We consider hair to be flaws on women’s bodies. This is obviously not a fair thought. However, if I believe that why am I removing the hair from my body? Because perhaps my mind is flawed.

I have bought into the beauty standards of our country and even now our world. Can I unlearn this? Maybe, but I got bigger fish to fry. If I want to unlearn something, first I must unlearn the idea that I am unworthy as a woman without a thin perfect body. I have a long list of stuff I would rather not believe or do, but I have been conditioned as such. Maybe we are all a little robotic and do things because the herd is doing them.

I want to be my own person, just like everybody else does. There you go.


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Tree Talk


Photo by Mark Bouldoukian on Unsplash

I’m looking at a tree

as if it explains something about me

I’m shorter than the tree

so tree: who knows how long I have loved you.

I see you bare in the winter

I want to put clothes on you when you are leafless.

I want to tell you about bark

about how it grows around my neck

the leaves build a crown around my head.

tell me your secrets, oh great tree.

tell me what I’m missing when I’m not here

standing next to you in the sun.

tell me about those tuesdays

when the asian boy next door risks everything

to climb your branches and leaves nothing

on the ground, he takes himself fully up there.

I think about climbing trees but I feel too old

and out of shape to do it right.

you know your yesterdays

if you had hands you would read them

but instead, we read the rings around your stump.

we walk by you, we don’t even see you anymore.

we only see our own reflection in the sun.

but it’s you, it’s been you all this time.

you have been watching me.

tell me tree, who am I?


Apocalyptic Adventures: The Carpet Change Part Three…


Photo by Sergiu Nista on Unsplash

Ok, so I have a few things I’m required to do around the house. Let’s not call them chores. I’m not 12 and chores sounds so Little House on the Prairie. I don’t have to milk the cow or anything like that. You know what the most irritating thing I have to do is? Take out the trash!

Watering the flowers is second worst on the list.

I’m not good at either one of these things. Trash bags are heavy, especially when you are emptying out thirty years of garbage from your home in order to install new carpet. But my dad is blind with a heart and blood pressure problem and my mom has severe back and shoulder pain. That leaves me. There are still a million and one trash bags in our garage. I have yet to take them out. It costs around 400 dollars if you hire a junk removal company. Forget that. Even I think that’s outrageous and I don’t want to remove the trash myself. The city will only take like twenty bags at a time, I honestly don’t know how many we have.

So my parent’s bright idea was to ask our neighbor if we could put fifteen or so bags on their lot to give to the city garbage trucks. However, our neighbors are never home, so my dad said, “We will just leave the bags on their grass, they won’t mind.”

“What?” I asked. “Are you crazy? That is completely inappropriate!” I yelled. “They will think we are the dirty Indians who live next door.”

“So what if they think that?” My mom asked. What exactly is happening here? Am I living in another dimension, have we lost all decorum?

Anyways, turned out the neighbor had too many bags out themselves, so we never asked. Our other neighbor we suspect does not like us, since they put up a rope to define the property lines when our lawn mowing company started mowing part of their lawn by mistake. I love this town.

Photo by Hannah Sears on Unsplash

My flowers are another story. I don’t know how to water them without taking a bath myself, I get the water all over me. That is why I avoid watering the flowers and why they are essentially burning up. The thing about a dead plant is, you can’t give it CPR, there is no real way to resuscitate it. I’m sorry but watering flowers every single day is just tedious.

Photo by JJ Thompson on Unsplash

I’m an idiot, why did I volunteer to do this? My parents are constantly upset that I haven’t taken out the garbage or watered the plants on time.

You know what the real problem is? I’ll tell you what it is. I’m not as diligent as my parents expect me to be because I’m not an immigrant and they are immigrants.  There is a mentality in immigrants to work yourself to the bone and never care about leisure time that my parents subscribe to. Am I lazy? I don’t like that word.

Let me give you an example: So they send two dudes from Art Van to do our carpet on the first day. These fellows are fellow Americans, they seem nice and stuff. However, they took eight hours to carpet one room. Then they complained about the heaviness of the furniture to their boss.

So my parents are livid, if they did one room in eight hours, doing the rest of the carpet in the entire home would take the rest of our lives. So my dad calls the manager of the carpet installers. My dad raises a huge ruckus and they decide to send five Mexican brothers to do the job, they are all literally brothers. Not only did they did so many rooms in eight hours, I can’t count that high, they didn’t complain for one moment about anything. We gave them pizza and coke and they were overly grateful.

You want to get a job done, hire immigrants people. Speaking as the daughter of immigrants I can vouch for the fact that my parents worked harder than the average joe and definitely harder than I ever worked. That’s not to say anything against regular old Americans in America. We, the citizens who were born here, take a lot for granted and we believe very strongly in our leisure time. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.

While the boys were changing up the carpet I started to talk to my parents, but my mom kept interrupting me because she was worried the carpet guys were listening. As if they were going to write a tell all book about our family. Because we are so very interesting. I believe I was talking about a new man I met on the Interwebs. I was probably telling her that I summoned him with my writing, he found my blog somehow and we met via that. We did not meet on an online dating site, and that is something I’m proud of.

So anyway, I’m telling her how he’s super smart and very kind and my mother interrupts me again in Hindi. She actually made me speak Hindi to her and my father in order to hide our conversation from these Hispanic men who barely knew English. This is the same woman who believed that our phone stopped working because we gave AT&T a bad rating on a phone survey. She was convinced we were black balled from getting phone service from them because we gave them a one in every category.

So I start speaking in Hindi and it occurred to me how many languages were being spoken at one time in my home. The manager of the carpet men was a Lebanese man who was yelling at what must have been his wife in Arabic or Lebanese, whatever they speak in Lebanon. The Latin men were speaking in Spanish, my parents and I were mixing Hindi and English with a hint of Punjabi. For a moment I really reveled in how international our home had suddenly become. It reminded me of when I was in New York in Central Park and I would hear various languages when I took a walk.

All of a sudden I missed the world. Like the world world, this little suburb called Troy where I live is not that representative of the world. Troy is predominantly White, Indian and Asian. They are very few African Americans or Hispanic people. Even though it seems sort of international, it is a facade. Everyone speaks English to each other around town. In their homes, everyone speaks their native language, but outside those four walls, it is English all the way.

That’s kind of too bad. I wish the guy at the CVS counter didn’t know English so well and tried to speak to me in French or something. Wouldn’t it make life more interesting if you had a German dude who answered the phone when you ordered pizza? OK, I understand it can at times be difficult to understand foreign accents, like when you call a call center. Usually, call centers are either in Mexico or India. Even I have a problem understanding the Indian representatives at times. I don’t know why we get so mad about that though, we should have patience, they are just literally living in another world.

You know what I loved the most about the carpet dudes, we got them subway sandwiches on the second day they were there and they went undeniably out of their way to make sure all the furniture was put back exactly as it was supposed to be. They even moved furniture from one floor to another because we asked them to. They are technically not allowed to do that. Our furniture is heavy, mostly solid wood and stuff. Not an ounce of complaint from them.

They were just good people. We only gave them lunch, I wish I could give them a new life, a better life. They are most likely living in a one or two room apartment in Detroit. They likely send money back home when they can. They are most likely missing home and miserable. That’s the American dream, isn’t it?

You know what the truth is, I’m living the American dream. I live in a privileged neighborhood, I have so much stuff I need to throw some out. I don’t even know what I have, I’m such a bitch. When was the last time I appreciated this all? I complain about all the stuff I have to do and mix with my writing and teaching. But really, these are privileged complaints.

I am complaining about getting new carpet, and taking out the fucking trash and watering expensive flowers.

This is the first world.

I think I’m better than this.


The Apocalypse: Changing the Carpet Part Two…


I may have mentioned that we got new carpet. As lovely as that sounds, let me tell you a secret. It’s not lovely. It’s more like Hurricane Nina entered our home. In order to get new carpet, you have to turn your entire house upside down and backwards, so that not a single item is on a single surface in a carpeted area.

Let me tell you something about inanimate objects, they surprisingly don’t move by themselves. Shocking, I know. Since I don’t per say know any magic tricks, or that telepathically moving objects thing called something or the other, please google it for me. Telekinesis is what they officially call moving objects by mentally thinking about it. I don’t know how to do that so I had to go around the house picking up random stuff. Just stuff here and there and everywhere.

Do you have any idea how much stuff humans can accumulate after thirty years? Especially people who are on the hoarding side of the sliding scale of neatness. My family is not like an actual bunch of hoarders who need intervention, but we have accumulated a massive amount of useless clutter. From ugly old Indian green and yellow plaid cloth that could be made into Salvar Kameezes, but in my hands were thrown out immediately, to old medical cassette tapes from Yale University. No one in our family went to YALE! How did this STUFF enter our home, I ask you? And why is all of the crap of the house in the basement, where I live?

My mom’s a doctor so the amount of paper pads, pens, and paraphernalia that have medicine labels on them that are from pharmaceutical companies alone could fill up a pickup truck. I’m talking everything from paper weights with Gas X logos to umbrellas with huge PROZAC labels on them. It would have to be one hell of a rainy day for me to bring out that green Prozac umbrella, let me tell you.

Then there’s the magazines, one for every different type of medical analysis. JAMA, The Journal of the American Medical Association is my favorite. They every now and then will have photographs of huge puss filled dermatological conditions, ie disgusting huge ass zits on people’s groins or armpits or somewhere where puss should never go. The AFP or The American Family Physicians is a little tamer, they sometimes have drawings or cartoons on their covers of deadly contagious diseases that you could get by simply looking too closely at the illustrations. I’m telling you it is a mad house, this house of a doctor.

Actual article from JAMA

There are entire binders from conferences about more deadly diseases which when looking closely at the materials, one comes to realize that we are all going to die of a disgusting incurable disease.

It’s all very depressing.

So basically, while my mom was cleaning out her closet, I cleaned out all the medical paraphernalia from the last three decades in the basement without her consent. You see, she likes papers and information. I can’t have that unhealthy material brewing all over this house, we will all go madder than we already are. Hyprocandriacs that we are.

Then there were my closets, yes that’s plural for too many clothes, too little time. I have clothes in every size, much like the women’s section of any mall. I basically have a department store all my own, in the several closets my clothing takes up. No, I will not give away clothes that are too small for me. I won’t do it. I will fit back into those fucking clothes again if it’s the last thing I do on this earth. Don’t doubt me!

Now let’s talk about books for a second. I used to think there was no such thing as bad books. I stand corrected. The entire series of Sweet Valley High books were found under my sister’s bed, along with the Babysitters Club and some other random adolescent erroneous literature. I’m obviously going to take them to the library, as soon as I gather the 78 dollars I owe them for three hard cover books I never returned. I am in possession of those three unreturned books, I actually even know where they are. Why have I not returned them in two years you ask? Why is the sky blue? When you figure that out I’ll tell you.

Anyways, speaking of books, we found a ratty old ripped up Bible while cleaning out one of the rooms. My dad wouldn’t let me throw it away because he heard it isn’t a bad book. And clearly it’s a great book, he hasn’t read it, I’ve read entire sections. The moral of the story is that if this Jesus is the savior business turns out to be true, we did not throw out that Bible gosh darn it. No, we didn’t. We might even read it one day.

OK, I’m not gonna lie. I read Sweet Valley High like it was Shakespeare for girls when I was in elementary school. It did not teach me how to read better. All it really taught me was to envy white blond girls with blue eyes, and pretty popular girls in high school. I blame my crushes on unattainable athletes in high school on Sweet Valley High. I really am against these toxic books and might even, dare we say, burn them. Wow, I’m thinking of burning a book. You learn something new about yourself every day. Anyone up for a bonfire? We could all sing old together…

Why are there so many songs about rainbows, and so many CD’s, tapes, records in this home??? We are not a recording studio. We own too much music. I never thought that could be a thing. Having too much music seems impossible, apparently, it’s not. My sister’s collection of hip hop from the nineties, mixed with Sarah McLachlan, Tori Amos, and U2 is apparently the collection of a lifetime. I had some friends move our sofa and they found her CD’s and hoarded them for themselves. Good riddance I said. Go, and take a few video and audio cassette tapes while you are at it. Haven’t you people heard of Spotify?

Records I can respect, we have a record player and it does sound kinda cool. But, please people. Get rid of your cassettes. They, whoever they are, have stopped making cassette tapes or video tapes, or cassette players or video players. It was mediocre technology, to begin with. Why are we holding on to this crap? My mother had a collection that went up to the ceiling of VHS tapes of old Bollywood Indian Movies. Thankfully our cleaning lady, who is a godsend, convinced her to say goodbye to said tapes. We threw them out. Halleluia!!!!

You’d think I could not possibly rant more about this carpet change. You would be wrong. I could go on for days. My back hurts, my belongings are still everywhere. I have no idea where my Apple TV remote is. Do you realize how small they make those Apple remotes? It’s like they want you to lose them and then buy a new Apple TV. I know, I know, first world problems.

My poor blind father could not find his shaving blades, his aftershave lotion etc. The house was in shambles!!!!!

Honestly, I think carpet is overrated. I wanted wooden floors. I don’t get a vote in this house. Just cause my parents pay the mortgage they don’t listen to me. The value of the house would increase with wooden floors. How do I know this? HGTV baby!

So if anyone ever suggests, in passing that you need new carpet. Think twice people.

Think twice, that’s only advice.




Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

We are all just striving to act like we are alive. Which one of us living, which lie? We are all standing in line to make a mistake. I’m first in line. You’ve made me, that wasn’t an error of judgment because now I am who I am.

Here’s a story: Sometimes I feel a long horrid empty boredom. I am going to a live play tonight and dinner, what is there to be sad about? When you are standing in the air, barely breathing, while I laugh, at the world. You cry because of the world.

I have too much while you don’t have enough. How can I live then? How am I supposed to breathe?

I want to breathe for you in your hands I want my face to touch yours. I want to breathe in your scent, your lovely air.

There are too many of us in this world. How did we find one another? Was it chance? Is it truth? They call it true love?

That’s a question, but I don’t need an answer. I need your skin to touch mine, inch by inch. You said you would kiss every part of my body. Don’t miss a spot.

You won’t let me help you, you wonder if I will help myself, die. Neither one of us living without the other. None of us will die until the time is right.

You said you loved me, it seems like years ago. You say it has only been days, I say life is a collection of days. What day is it today?

Will we know each other by tomorrow at this time? You say you know my name, but you never say my name. How many names do you have? When it rains outside, that’s the only time I know how to say you. Rainman, don’t stand in the way of my dance. I dance for you, so you will come down from the clouds and whisper my name in my ear.

Let’s hold hands like lovers do. Give me your rainy hand. Let’s be together through this one, this storm where we sit in silence. They call it life, I call it a lie.

Photo by Geetanjal Khanna on Unsplash

We are miles away but you said distance is a figment of my imagination. When you say that you imagine that we are one. You once said we are one. I told you I don’t know how to do the right thing.

Your sleepy eyes show me everything I need to see. I tell you a lie and you tell me the sky is waiting for me.

I told you about the monsters under the bed and the demons in my head. You say we will all play pretend as if we are not already putting on a show.

Thoughts are free they say. I will give you a dollar for the right words. Write me a note about the end of time. Don’t you dare say anything about the end of us…

Sing my name, to the sky. Sing it loud, sing it high. Say no more than that. You don’t have to come up with words and clever conversation. I just want us to let go…

I was told I would be free.

I was told I would be free

None of this was my idea.

Photo by Pedro Gabriel Miziara on Unsplash


Dancing Girl


I think it was a past life

I am dancing on a red and gold intricately patterned oriental rug.

Then I feel something dripping between my legs.

It’s blood and I start to cry, this is the first time.

I’m wearing a blue sari with gold embroidery on the border.

The blood is thick, with a maroon hue.

I dance over it, getting wet red streaks on the bottom of my feet.

I don’t stop dancing. I don’t stop crying.

You walk in the door and I know you will ask me to sing

you cannot see the mess I’ve made, it blends with the woolen rug.

You look into my eyes instead of my feet

now my feet are still and my brown eyes are moving.

Love moves, did you know that?

It dances, I wish you would dance with me.

I am frozen, standing there, afraid to move.

Afraid to bleed all over your life.

They say I’m too young for love

but not too young to be hurt by it.

I think I have injured myself

and that is why I am bleeding.

The golden piles on my ankles make a jingling sound

I wonder if you know how bad I am.

As we stand in front of each other

I wonder if you could ever know me

the way this blood does.


My Last Will and Testament


Photo by Oscar Keys on Unsplash

I am dead now. Please don’t cry too much.

A little will not kill you.

Crying is not what killed me.

Perhaps a lack of crying did it.

But really I mean it, don’t cry for me…

Photo by Andrew Worley on Unsplash

Instead, celebrate my death.

Maybe red balloons would be in order and a cake.

I loved yellow cake with chocolate frosting.

A little coconut with that never hurt anyone.

Have a party. Wear paper hats. Have a drink on me.

I was always a fan of red wine and salty margaritas.

Have a good laugh at my expense.

I was never good at formal jokes, but you know I could make you laugh….hard.

Remember how much fun we had together

whoever you are I know we had fun.

Sing songs about me.

Photo by Mike Giles on Unsplash

You should know that in the shower I thought I was the next Whitney Houston.

Remember some of you, how we would randomly break out into song. Do that for me again. One more time.

In reality, I am just a song that is over.

If you never showed up in my life but are showing up at my funeral. Fuck you. Go back home.

I would like to leave my brain to Donald Trump, there is an instruction manual attached.

Use it you fool.

I am leaving my entire wardrobe to a small village in India.

I have enough clothes to clothe a small village.

I’m leaving my eyes for my blind father.

He’s the only one who really saw who I am.

My heart is for anyone, literally anyone who thinks that love is just a feeling.

My legs are for the man on the subway in New York who threatened to kill me because I sat in the Handicapped section. He was in a wheelchair with no legs. He can have mine, he got his wish, I’m dead.

And my spirit I leave to all of you.

My spirit has not died, I’m still here in this room.

Please know that I stand next to you

when you think of me or desire me to.

I’m your dead friend.

good bye for now only


3/4 Life Crises


Did I ever mention how my dad is having 3/4 life crises? He’s 73.

Our house is being redecorated by a blind man, my father, and it looks tremendous. He could see for a long time. He remembers.

It started with buying a new couch. Not just any ordinary couch. The best leather couches they make in Italy.

That was a relatively necessary and tame purchase. But then we moved to the tables, he didn’t just want an ordinary everyday coffee table, he wanted one that was made of some special stone. So we found three tables that are made of some stone I can’t remember the name of. They have this really interesting red with gold swirls and different subtle colors.  They are stunningly gorgeous no doubt, however, was that really necessary?

I know, it’s his money. It may be my inheritance he is spending, but that is neither here nor there.

I mean some people get sports cars, he’s into furniture. He wants granite and marble dinner tables. OK. I can jive with that even. But we got a new deck, changed the carpet etc. We are tired, the carpet change was the most demanding because we had to flip the house upside down in order to do that. We are still putting it back together again. Like Humpty Dumpty, will it ever be the same again?

We, all four of us in the Uppal Family are not do-it-yourself people. I can barely keep our flowers and indoor plants alive. We pay people to do shit for us. Don’t get me wrong, we do not have an unending supply of money. We just would prefer not to get down on our hands and knees, except to pray. There is a lot of prayer in this house.

The thing that people don’t know about my father that I am publically revealing to the whole world is that he is an extremely knowledgeable man when it comes to Sikh Scriptures. If he finds out I’m doing this he will slap me. He can recite lines, entire passages and translate them from the Guru Granth Sahib, our scriptures. He doesn’t wear a turban so no one would believe the man spends hours in our prayer room listening to the scriptures and their translations. He could become a priest at this point, he knows so much. Too bad we don’t have priests in our religion.

I will be honest, the reason I don’t have a husband is that I’m looking for someone who would live up to the expectations that my father has given me. I want someone who is as good as my dad. My husband can be totally different. Oh, but he has to be as smart as my father. Have I mentioned that my dad is a genius? No, I’m not kidding. He is one of those people who just knows things. You know in our scriptures they talk a lot about saints. I think he is one. It says if you serve the saints you shall be saved or something like that.

I probably don’t serve him enough. I want to make him happy, I do all the regular stuff. I make him chai, I organize his medicines. I take him shopping for his tables etc. My mom does the rest. But I don’t’ know that I make him happy. We talk about politics, his favorite topic at the moment is Treason and Trump. You can’t really fault him for that. He is very passionate about world events and spirituality, those are his two favorite topics. Oh and stone and leather furniture.

You know we were getting a new car and there were some BMW’s and Lexus’s on sale for leases. He looked at the price and he could afford them.  But, he decided against a fancy car. I asked him why. “It’s good to keep a low profile,” he said. He is not into showing off. We bought another Camry.

The thing is, he is the reason that I am sane. He was the one who would knock on my door, never enter my room, but yell my name until I woke up. If I told him I wanted to sleep more, he would tell me he wasn’t moving from the door until I woke up. He told me later that that was hard to do, really hard. He’s not a harsh man. He is a very quiet mild mannered man who lives with two loud mouthed crazy women. And a third sister who is just as crazy if not just as loud.

He is interested in listening to books of spiritual leaders that I admire. He always goes back to the Sikh Scriptures and says that whatever my books say has already been said by the Sikh Gurus. He’s not wrong. I just like the modern view of god and spirituality is all. I don’t disagree with anything in the Sikh Scriptures, I just don’t always relate to them totally and completely. I’m sure that is totally and completely my own fault.

I will admit when my father asks me to do something, I tell him, every time, “not now.” In fact, he chants “not now!” to me sometimes for fun. His fun. Otherwise, I ask for five minutes, which inherently can turn into at least half an hour. At least. Why don’t I jump when my blind father asks me to do something? Cause I don’t think of him as disabled or different, I treat him exactly the same way I treated him when he could see. He’s my dad. I love him to death but he annoys me sometimes by asking to do too much.

His favorite request is: “Can you google that?” He has his own phone that is in blind mode, so he can talk to Siri and ask her to do anything for him. But he prefers me to Siri. I guess that’s one less woman I have to compete with.

He’s a funny guy. Like when I put a big sheet over a desk in my room, and there was stuff strewn everywhere underneath it, he called me up in Grad School and said, “You will not create anymore Burkha’s out of furniture in this house!” I don’t know if you got that joke, but whatever. He’s funny. He’s gained twenty pounds from a medicine that did not suit him. All day he will say “I paid three hundred dollars for that and it was crap!” He’s willing to pay thousands for a stone table though. Don’t think the man is cheap. Actually, he’s cheap about the small stuff, makes me go to Walmart for groceries, but spends money on big ticket items like tables and chairs.

I love him. He taught me what unconditional love is even though I didn’t do the career choice he wanted, and I’m currently talking to a guy who isn’t making more than $100,000 a year. He has gotten used to it all and accepted me for who I am.

He helped to make me who I am.

So if you like this blog, and you like my ideas, you should respect him.

He helped form my brain.

Thank you, Daddy.


My Real Profile



Dear prospective suitors, please read this entire profile before contacting me, if you don’t you might regret it…

Dear Dudes,

After reading this profile I can almost guarantee you won’t date me. So why am I being so honest? Because I want to find that one guy out there who can love me for me.

So here we go:

I am crazy. I know a lot of people use the word ‘crazy’ in jest, I’m not doing that here. I’m dead serious. I’m Bipolar. When I say I’m certifiable, let’s just say the certificates were given out and I got the medal for being mental. Let me tell you what kind of awards I received. All I will say is I’ve been in a psych ward and I wasn’t visiting. I’ve been locked in a padded room and it wasn’t a yoga studio. I’ve screamed “Fuck you!” to every doctor, nurse, or patient that passed me in the hospital when I was locked in said room. I also screamed, “You can’t do this! I know my rights! I know my rights!” I’m not sure precisely what rights I was referring to but I sure as hell knew them.

I have had delusions. I have thought that I was being stalked by invisible men, who actually existed in real life. I thought I was on the Nina Show, quite similar to the Truman Show. I thought I was on a reality show but didn’t know it my whole life. When I saw security cameras I thought I was being taped. I have thought worse things which I will not mention before the first date.

I once laughed so hard that people thought for sure I was doing hard drugs. What was I laughing at, you ask? There was this hilarious voice in my head, I wish I remembered his jokes. I’m sure there are individuals in this world who still believe I’m a drug addict, even though I’ve only smoked pot in my life. It makes me hungry, it’s not good for my diet so I quit.

I may or may not have sent looooong love letters to a man who I thought was the love of my life. He did not share this thought. Poor guy, never even did or said anything about it. Kept my crazy confidential. I’m sorry. To him, I’m sorry. I sent him gifts as well. I never followed him around,  is that still technically stalking? Hmmm…

Yup, that’s me.

I am a bitch. I know, I know, you don’t like that word. No one likes to be called that word, even me. But let’s face it, I sent out an email demeaning my best friend to all her friends in my thirties. I yelled at my father on the phone because I was convinced his blindness had been cured by the love of my life and he never told me, in my twenties. My sister claims I spit on her when she was five and I was ten. I definitely pushed her off the couch once and broke her arm when we were kids.

I wasn’t a mean girl in high school, I was weird, straight up strange. I wore hippie clothes and studied astrology and numerology. They called me The Metaphysical Vegetarian at my school paper that I wrote for. I had a 3.3 GPA but got into U of M because I wrote a sob story about how I had started high school with a 3.0 and went up to a 4.0 by junior year because I had been inspired by my so-called dysfunctional family. They thought the improvement was moving or something I think even though I did highly mediocre on the SAT and ACT. I got a D- in Calculus senior year and literally fell asleep during the A.P. exam. Don’t worry boys, I still eventually got into grad school after bombing the GRE.

So does that mean I’m not smart? That’s for me to know and you to find out.

I have restless leg syndrome. So if you are planning on sleeping with me, you might want to sleep on the floor or something cause I may kick you off the bed. I talk and very occasionally walk in my sleep as well. I most likely won’t kill you in my sleep by accident, but I can make no promises. It’s probably more likely I’ll do it on purpose. That’s the reason they don’t let me buy a gun.

I have a delusion that I have Rosacea but actually, my skin just gets pink when I’m stressed. I’m so high maintenance that I used to use bottled water to wash my face. I have more makeup than the average drag queen. I don’t wear it all at once, I don’t really wear that much, but am convinced I don’t look good without it. It’s a real possibility that I look scary without makeup.

I hate my weight but if you dare say I’m fat, it will probably end badly for you.

I don’t respond well to fetishes, S&M or painful things in the bedroom.

Besides that, I’m a real hoot. You will meet no other woman like me ever in your life, good, bad, or ugly.

That is the truth.