Menosoupal [men-oh-soo-pal]; the condition of landing oneself in even hotter water.


One of the things that has caused me stress in recent years is the loss of short-term memory power.  Sigh.

Trouble is, another thing that gets deactivated in menosoup is one's ability to see accurately what the mirror is showing.  Particularly when afflicted by menocle.  In the first 'chapter' of this birthday event I mentioned the inability to even remember it WAS a birthday.  That too, my own.  Then there was the debacle on the telephone.

{STOP!  You missed it?!  Go Back!  March 1st post.}

Once I had sorted out to whom I had been talking and followed the instructions given, I was in fact ready by 6:30pm.  Nothing short of a miracle really, as at that time tying on a sari could take anything up to 15 minutes.  Waiting on the kerb outside the cottage I got lost in thinking what a beaut-full moon it was tonight and how gorgeous that spider web looked, all silvery reflection and dewy.  Spiderton had expanded since the previous day and it was fascinating to observe.  No doubt you'll be reading about that again.  Repetition is a symptom of menosoup.  But then again so is forgetfulness. 

No, let's call it absent-mindedness.  This gives the illusion of genius.

Car draws up, light goes on and there is Emm all poshed up to the heels and ear-dangles.  This being an April's evening in Sydney, it was a tad chill-eh so your's truly had pulled the pallu (sari train) round her shoulders to protect against the falling moisture.  Effective covering this.  Hides a multitude of sins.

We arrive at our destination in the cultural centre of a back-city suburb where the place is heaving with the entire sub-continental population of the greater metropolitan area.  Good news for the promoters of visiting artist.  Potential cauldron for me.  You see, I adore Emm.  She is my fellow conspirator,  Bollywood sound piece and all-round good egg.  Then again, she can be a tad critical at times.  I am definitely the dowdy one, never been a fashion plate.  I am half her height.  Oh, fine, that was over-stating it.  I am two thirds her height.  But I get noticed by virtue of being in proximity.  I like that.  She's beautiful and some of that beauty gets shared with me.  That I lack elegance, however, is a given.  Still she does what she can with me.

"Drop your pallu YAM, it's hot in here.  It will look better when trailing, that's a gorgeous sari."

Now thankfully, at that point of standing in the foyer I could honestly respond, "Not yet, I am still cold and I forgot my shawl." Following which, having been rushed earlier and not then taking the left turn into the toilet, I now required to avail myself of the facilities at the hall.  There was a bit of a queue and in that small space it did become rather warm.  This being modern ladies arrangements, the establishment had a full-length mirror on the wall beside the entrance which was being used liberally by all the incredibly pretty women attending the function.  I couldn't get near it at that stage and didn't have the specs on, so decided to wait until after I had visited the stall to check my pleats and fall et cetera.  Besides , have never been that fond of being around silly young things all sniggering together.

In the cubicle, it being necessary to make all sorts of wriggling to manage the sari and protect if from the unfortunate looking floor, the pallu got re-draped. _ _ _.  I recall, in an earlier post, mentioning things about the ground yawing and the heart getting squeezed .

Oh yeah, the quick witted among you will be getting the gist by now.  Another thing overlooked in the half hour dash at home was the wearing of the choli (blouse).

It's. Not. My. Fault.  Menopolysocksication is to blame.

If I had even put on my best new slinky black brassiere it would not have been soooo dreadful.  After all inner wear is quite the fashion for outer wear nowadays.  But no.  This was the decade-old overwashed, overstretched, under-supportive, once-was-white all grey variety used for slopping around at home. [Note to self - remember mother's advice on fresh underwear.] 

The air-conditioning in the hall demanded that this little chill-eh bean keep her pallu over shoulder the whole evening.  Genius, what?

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