Toilet humor

Everyone who has a child knows this: you just cannot enjoy a restaurant meal again the way you used to as a couple, looking into each other's eyes, sipping wine or a martini, sharing bites and commenting on how the food is simple yet complex or just plan bad and therefore beneath you. It even worked (for us on some fortunate days) when the baby was an infant sleeping rapturously in his car seat while we made intelligent conversation.

Now, of course, all that has to be left in the past.

These days dinners are all about trying to make it through the evening without a tantrum, without spoiling everyone's outfits with a sloppy mess, and by deftly negotiating with the child over his angry demands for that one toy that he just has to have that very minute. All of this I can deal with, with elan. There is just one thing I try and make sure doesn't interfere with dinner and that is the toilet. The rule is: the boy has to make a trip there before we sit at the table to avoid any unforeseen consequences.

All had been going well, according to plan (or close) until this one night.

Picture this: We're at a lovely Italian place. Dim lights, soft music, the smell of garlicky dishes being delivered here and there fills the air. It's crowded and loud which is great since it keeps our boy amused. He happily makes squiggles and patterns with his crayons until his pasta arrives. It's steaming hot so I ask him if he wants to make a quick pit stop before he starts eating. "Yes," he says and so we go to the bathroom and are back right in time for the pasta is now just right. He begins eating. I sip happily on my Peach Bellini able to, if not stare into my love's eyes, at least chat with him looking at him sideways.

Then it happens. Hubby has to take a "quick" phone call and our son suddenly stops eating.
"What's the matter? Don't you like it?" My calamari arrives, hot, spicy and steaming. I take a bite when he answers, "My stomach hurts."
I put down my fork and ask the dreaded question, "Do you have to go potty?"
"Yes," he says eagerly and begins to slide down our booth. I sigh and look towards the door where hubby is still talking on the phone. Fine. I dutifully start to pull our boy out of our booth.

Our 'too close for comfort' neighboring booth has an older couple seated talking animatedly. They're super well dressed and sipping wine. "Sorry," I say as we scootch past. "I am going potty," my son announces to them. Luckily the woman starts to giggle and dismisses my mortified apologies. On our way to the bathroom I tell him never to do that again.

I take the boy to the toilet and settle him down. And there we are for ten minutes.
"Nothing," he says and we step out.
As soon as we reach our table, he settles down and eats a few more bites. I eat my calamari and watch for hubby to return so we can have a semblance of a civilized dinner. Minutes later, baby clutches his stomach again and says, "My stomach hurts, lets try again."
We slide out once more.
"So soon?" The chic lady asks.
"False alarm, last time," I offer.
I try to be motherly and patient and lead my son back to the ladies. He settles down again and I stand by the door, clenching my teeth, losing my appetite by the second (now I know you're shaking your head saying what a bad mother I am but hear me out. I have had to consult psychiatrists about my aversion to public bathrooms so bear with me).
"Are you angry with me?" the poor thing asks.
"Of course not darling, are you able to...?"
"No."
Another ten minutes pass and we're nowhere close to putting an end to this saga.
"Nothing, lets go," he says.
We wash hands etc etc and go back to the table. The calamari is cold. Hubby is back from his phone call looking perturbed but luckily the boy is digging into his dinner. I attack my cold calamari and warm peach bellini and wait.
It's always third time lucky.
"I want to try again," he says at last.
"Your turn," I say to hubby, and take a swig of my drink. Then I look at the waiter and ask him to pack our tortellinis to go.

Race relations

My son goes to this nursery where he's one of two Asian kids or to be more specific, one of two South Asian kids. The other's also a boy. I have never had a problem with race relations in the U.S if I exclude the one time a disgruntled car wash manager called me an Indian b!@#h because I left the car wash without getting a wash. And I only did that since he was so rude from the start. Anyhow, the car wash closed in a week.

Revenge is sweet.

But I digress. This school. I've been taking my son there for over two years now. The other mum I speak of wears a hijab. A charming woman but we aren't even friends. And I mention that for a reason--why is it then that everyone mistakes me for her and my son for hers, asking after my son naming the other boy.

Even after their kid's been in the same class as mine for months. Then they ask me inane questions such as, so you speak Urdu at home? No we don't. Its a beautiful language, but not ours. It's appalling how little people seem to know, or even notice. The headscarf should be a dead giveaway. No?

To top it all, she's all American, born and raised. Close your eyes and Tiffany or Heather might be speaking. I on the other hand am the one with the accent. I wonder if she has similar problems. Probably, this is why she avoids me. Still, I suppose it's the best we can get for living in a sterilized suburb.

Now, for all that ranting I do above perched on my high horse, here's the shoe on the other foot.

Every teenage Caucasian girl with straight hair of no matter what color, looks the same to me. It's my shame.

I once had to go like two feet close to a girl playing soccer to make sure she wasn't my son's baby sitter. I mean I had been waving to her frantically for over the course of an hour and she had ignored me. It then occurred to me that perhaps she wasn't being rude. That it probably just wasn't her. And lo and behold, it wasn't. I needed to be within kissing distance to be sure. Skinny girl, straight brown hair with blonde highlights, heavy eye make up, playing soccer. Must be her.

So I guess, its all the same folks. The confusion, the "exotic" faces that blend into one other. It all depends on what one's used to. What one has grown up seeing. Its my only excuse, and a bad one too, since I have been in this country for twelve years.

In my defense, I seldom confuse the adults. And then too, only if they have blondish, brown hair and similar names.

But hey, I am a member of an ethnic minority. That gives me the right to be indignant, doesn't it?

"Sure it does Mrs. Rafiq," they say to me in placating voices. "Sure it does."

Touche'.

My tryst with the movie business: "Beyond the crap"

I was cleaning out my CD drawer and what should I find but a dusty DVD, a copy of a film I'd like to forget, but which is also kinda memorable in many ways.

It was a copy of my first film. The first film I produced. Sounds grand, doesn't it? This film, which no one shall ever get to watch unless they're under my close supervision and even then they will be allowed to watch only the opening title sequence where it says in capital letters, "Produced by Ranjini Iyer and friend".

This labor of love and irritation took about a year and a half of my life and taught me a great deal. The first lesson: don't go about producing films with nary a care as to who is directing/controlling them. Second: this is bloody hard work and Third: I LOVE doing this. Next time, just make sure the people I work for are human and, Fourth: try and get paid for it.

Oh yes, we weren't paid. Or rather we're still waiting for our share of the profits. 5%, I think. It was the cherry on top of this sundae--the two people who walked away from the picture with the most injuries were my producing partner and I and we were the only two not to get paid for our efforts in this masterpiece.

This film (I won't give its name) is so bad, so very bad that Roger Ebert would be rendered too speechless to even give it three, four, six, infinite thumbs down. His thumb would be paralyzed by its badness (I don't mean badness in that hip way which means rad). His hands would be unable to move, his eyes would be blooodshot and unfocused. His lips frozen. His mind numb.

The sad, sad irony is...the book I've written which I think is a competent, strong effort (not genius of course but dashed good) is being rejected left, right and center while this vile piece of @#$%, I mean work, has won awards. Not razzies, but true awards--best picture (har har), best screenplay (which we co-wrote and therefore even more har har).

Despite the crappiness of the end result, I still wouldn't have minded so much the whole process because really, it is most interesting being a Producer. It's like being the COO of an operation. You get to hire people, location scout (since it was a low budget affair, we didn't have a location manager), conduct casting calls, manage the budgets. All this would be wonderful if only we weren't 'Producing' with one and often both arms tied above our heads. I.e no check signing power, no say in the final decision and so on and so forth.

What we were given full power of and left completely alone to deal with were the myriad complaints. Complaints from crew members who weren't paid on time (we didn't have the power to sign checks remember), complaints from actors who were called on set (and who'd taken days off from work) but who weren't on the shooting schedule because someone goofed up, complaints from people receiving rubber checks, complaints from the people who owned various shooting locations regarding insolent behavior on the part of the big guns. Complaints about...you get the idea.

To be honest, there were some flattering moments as well. To the average person on set, we were the top guns. Every so often I'd have some random crew person assume I was an extra and ask me not to stand in his light when I'd very coolly tell him who I was and watch as the gruffness melted into an almost feudal sensibility.

Then there were the overeager ones handing us scripts. We were the Producers right? The ones putting in the money. This is a common misconception. The Producer doesn't necessarily put in any money into a project. We're the hired underlings who're usually paid a lot of money. Executive Producer. Co-Producer and many creative Producer titles are reserved for money givers. Next time while watching a movie, especially an Indie film, see how many producers are listed. Several is the usual answer. The people who did the donkey work and got salaries and the well heeled ones who funded the film and got a title in return.

So much for the industry info. Where was I? Oh yes, the flattering moments. People, usually actors, would walk over to me and tell me about their true ambitions (to direct of course) and that they had a sizzling script that I just had to read. I'd open my mouth to tell them my husband and I were having trouble paying the mortgage (at that time, I was working with three clients on consulting jobs and working nights at an online teaching job. We were undergoing a rather troublesome financial crisis which is a story for a different post :-). But saying that would've sent them packing so all I'd do was nod. And they'd give me their ten second pitch. Now ideally, this should be what the script is about. But usually it would be an opening or very dramatic scene from the film. And of course they always know who they wanted to cast.

"So, what's your script about?" I'd say and glance at my watch as if I had places to go and they'd clear their breath and say, "Picture this. Jim Belushi..he'd be perfect for this part...is standing at an empty corridor. And suddenly, a pack of pit-bulls run up to him and leap towards him. Cut to title sequence." "Yes," I'd say patiently, but what's the rest of the film about. "Oh right," she or he'd say and launch into some detail.

There'd then be a loud call, an irate crew person striding towards me. Some complaint, of course. "Excuse me, important producing business," I'd then say and make my escape before my cover is blown.