I'm presently reading a collection of short stories by Joyce Carol Oates. It's called Faithless. She writes mournful, desolate prose that I enjoy. There's one about a waitress that's particularly sad and depressing. On summer afternoons, when your eyelids are closing slowly like stage curtains, she makes a good read. There's a certain gumminess about her writing that goes with this weather.
The mangoes have come. And since I eat for two whenever it suits me, I've been feasting on them. Do not give me pregnant woman advice on how I should avoid papaya, pineapple, mango etc etc because I'm not going to listen to you. I eat joy-making things. I will hang upside down from a tree and eat plums if I feel like it.
The mother has been rearranging my cupboard. But I'm not angry like I used to be. Every time a parent visits, we get a newly arranged house. So for about a week, one never knows where which dal is. I'm anyway not very talented in the dal department. I only know that the one in the corner is what we put in sambar. So if someone changes that position, I am not to be blamed. I've made sambar with channa dal and not even known the difference. But I'm still zen, see? I feel sorrier for parents these days, knowing that I'm going to cross over to that side soon. I think I should stop reading Joyce Carol Oates and read something sarcastic immediately.
The doctor said the baby has very good growth. I felt like it had achieved a star in its report card. Maybe my parents adopted me from China. I should stop feeling so yay-my-baby-kicks-ass.