On Mother's Day and Father's Day, we send our parents cards and flowers and gifts. We tell them we appreciate them, we tell them we love them. Then we spend the rest of the year trying to avoid them.
Well, some of us try harder than others.
According to two recent polls, 36% of elderly parents say their grown children have failed to help them in a time of need in the past five years.
And that doesn't even include all those parents who can't remember. Perhaps poor memory is a good thing. If I'm ever an aging parent, I want to remember my children as the most loving and caring people. And if they're not, I want to forget.
But the only thing I'll probably forget is to put them in my will.
Let's face it: Parents can be a pain at times. They expect so much out of you. Do this, do that, eat this, eat that, marry this, marry that. There's no satisfying them.
But you have to overlook your entire childhood to turn your back on your parents. There are so many reasons to be grateful to them. Here are just a few:
---They didn't abort you. Yes, some of them easily could have, but they chose to accept at least 18 years of responsibility. Sure, you brought them lots of joy, but you also brought them lots of migraines. Thanks to you, they had to invest more money in aspirin than in the stock market.
---They changed your diaper about 2,750 times. You may have many talents today, but for the first years of your life, your only talent was soiling a diaper. Soon after that, you developed another talent: wetting the bed. You were so good at that, they thought you'd do it for the rest of your life.
---They forced you to do your homework. You preferred to watch cartoons on television, but they knew you couldn't make a career out of that. Unless you ended up on welfare. They encouraged you to earn good grades and graduate from school. They didn't want you to sell drugs for a living, without going to pharmacy school.
---They lost so much sleep worrying about you, they haven't yet caught up. That's why they have to go to bed at 7 p.m. They'd have to sleep continuously for five years to make up for your puberty alone.
---They spent a small fortune on you. Without you, they could have vacationed every year in the Bahamas and bought a sports car -- instead of that totally uncool station wagon. And they could have bought lots of fancy appliances and furniture, items that are guaranteed to never talk back or ask for allowances.
---They were so proud of you. Why do you think they took one billion photos of you? You weren't that cute. They even snapped shots of you taking a bath, as though that was some big achievement. When you took your first step, they acted like you had walked on the moon. They wanted to tell everybody, even the mail carrier. When you spoke your first word, they wanted to put an announcement in the newspaper. They wanted to call CNN.
Consider yourself lucky if you have two parents or even just one. You can't replace a parent. You can't go to the store and buy one, even if you're as loaded as Bill Gates.
Parents aren't perfect, but chances are, no one will ever love you the same way.
My wife and I have spent several weeks discussing names for our baby and we've finally agreed on something: We hate each other's choices.
At this rate, giving birth to the baby will be a lot easier than naming it. Only one person gives birth (thank goodness!), whereas, in some families, naming a baby can involve as many as 50, with suggestions pouring in from parents, grandparents, siblings, friends, co-workers, and even the idiot next door. The one who named his daughters Mandy and Sandy, and his sons Andy, Randy and Handy. If he has a fourth son, he's already thought of a good name: Gandhi.
Luckily for us, no one else is suggesting names. But there are certainly enough names being tossed around. I never realized that name-selecting could produce so much name-calling. I don't know how many times I've had to defend my honor: "Hey! My name is Shashi. It starts with an 'S' and ends with an 'i' but I wish you'd stop confusing it with SHUSHI."
If we don't decide on a name soon, we'll be forced to follow the tradition of some cultures: naming the baby after the loudest sound the mother makes in labor. How else do you think Oprah got her name?
Among my wife's favorite names for girls is Tarangini, an Indian name. She considers it rather melodious, I consider it just odious. Tarangini. We might as well name the baby Tarantula. That sounds a lot better.
If your name happens to be Tarangini, please don't get angry with me. Get angry with your parents. They're the ones who named you.
Perhaps they weren't thinking straight. I'm not suggesting they were drinking, but that could explain why the word "gin" appears in your name.
Among my wife's favorite names for boys is Kashyap, another Indian name that's almost as melodious as Tarangini. I can't help imagining the teasing he'd get at an American school cafeteria: "Hey, Kashyap! Please pass the ketchup." Not to mention the ribbing during running competitions: "Hey, Kashyap! Please catch up!"
My wife has a theory why her "unenlightened" husband can't appreciate these beautiful names -- he didn't grow up reading literature in Tamil, Sanskrit and Bengali. "Just because you didn't learn to appreciate sounds in these languages doesn't mean these names aren't beautiful to the ears." She makes a good point. Now all she needs is a good name.
She believes that her favorite names may one day become universal, just as Indian names are gracing westerners such as Canadian humorist Chandra Clarke and Hollywood actress Uma Thurman. My wife may be right, but I'll be absolutely stunned the day I meet a non-Indian named Tarangini.
Of course, I have no right to make fun of names, because my name is not only old-fashioned, it doesn't reflect my rich Indian heritage. But it's too late to change my name. I've been a Shashi for so many years, I don't want to suddenly turn into a Shashikant or Shashikumar.
My wife has convinced me that it's important to give our baby an Indian name. Though she likes some western names such as Olivia, she says, "I don't believe it's our role to propagate them." As far as I'm concerned, if we end up naming our baby Tarangini, we'll be done propagating!
I tried to warn her. I tried to tell my wife, that learning to drive a stick shift is much harder than an automatic, but did she listen? Nope, she was too busy drooling over the burgundy Subaru Legacy wagon in a dealer's lot, convinced that THIS was the car for her, never mind that it had an extra pedal and a gear stick that went in more directions than Don King's hair.
"Why is it called a manual transmission?" she asked, and I tried to think of a simple but effective explanation: "Because every time you drive this car, you'll have to consult the manual. Now what do you say we look for an automatic?"
The salesman was no help. He told my wife that he once taught a female customer to drive a stick shift in 10 minutes. Ten minutes? That's how long it took my wife to realize she'd have to use both feet.
The salesman, of course, would have said just about anything to get my wife to buy the car. Considering it had power locks and windows, I'm surprised he didn't call it a semiautomatic. That would have given me a great way to get rid of telemarketers: "If you don't stop calling me at home, I'm going to send my wife over there with her semiautomatic. It's got four cylinders!"
I tried to tell my wife that it might take weeks, even months, for her to drive the car smoothly. "Stick shifts aren't easy," I said. But she had seen me handle a stick shift -- I've never owned an automatic -- and she thought, "If clumsy can do it, why can't I?"
She was soon signing the purchase agreement, beaming from ear to ear, almost as thrilled as the salesman. And so began one of the most frustrating periods of her life, as she attempted, bravely, to tame the stick-shift monster. "Go! Go! Go!" she would yell, as the car jerked and shook and stalled, unable to grasp such simple instructions. I tried to help, of course: "It's a Japanese car. What's the Japanese word for 'go'?"
Growing weary of my snide remarks, she tried to hire a professional instructor, but couldn't find one who taught stick shift. She was stuck with me -- in a way that even those wedding vows couldn't have prepared her. I was ready to answer all her questions, even if I had to be blunt.
Wife: "Why is the car making that awful grinding noise? Did I forget to do something?"
Actually, she wasn't quite that bad. I'm proud to say that my wife improved steadily, day by day, and in just two weeks, with a smile on her face, she was ready to try second gear.
It wasn't long before she was cruising down the road, switching gears with ease, wondering why her husband had made such a fuss. Then the inevitable happened: She spotted something red in the distance and said, "Oh no, it's a stop sign. How do I stop this thing?"
I had to remind her that stick shifts, just like automatic cars, are equipped with brakes, saving her the trouble of sticking her left foot out. But what she really wanted to know was which gear to stop in. She didn't care for my answer: "Any gear, dear. Just make sure you stop."
I've never been a big boxing fan, but Saturday night's battle of the sexes in Seattle caught my attention. It's not every day you get to see a man and woman duking it out. Most have the common decency to limit such behavior to their homes.
Of course, fights at home are almost always unfair and terrible. Unlike professional boxing, there are no rules or referees to make sure the fighters don't do something utterly crazy, like biting off an opponent's ear. And there are no promoters to make sure the fights are fixed.
The Seattle bout, pitting Margaret McGregor against Loi Chow, was the first time a woman had fought a man professionally and certainly required a lot of courage. Indeed, few people in the world are as brave as this man.
For a mere $1,500, Chow was willing to put his entire manhood on the line. And thanks to his courage, he now has the distinction of being the first male boxer -- perhaps in the history of the world -- to have his butt thoroughly whipped by a woman.
Poor guy didn't know what hit him. He spent much of the fight protecting himself from McGregor's relentless pounding. I don't know what he was thinking, but it was probably something like this: "Mommy! She's killing me!"
He may have to spend the rest of his life with a new nickname: "Puppy," as in Loi "Puppy" Chow.
He should have known that challenging a woman is a big risk. If you win, people say, "Big deal! She's a woman." If you lose, people say, "Big wimp! She's a woman."
I know this from experience. Two years ago, a female co-worker challenged me to an American Gladiators-style jousting match, in which the opponents try to knock each other off a pedestal. I was crazy enough to accept the challenge. I had everything to lose and nothing to gain, besides a massive headache.
But I was eager to finally knock a woman off her pedestal. Maybe she would think twice about challenging a man again.
I knocked her off twice and jumped into the lead. But she knocked me off thrice and won. I had no excuses. She wasn't bigger than me and, as far as I could tell, she wasn't on steroids.
I felt like I had disappointed the entire male population. Let's face it, men have always felt superior to women. But women are gradually proving them wrong, succeeding in many fields. However, men still feel superior in one field: sports. And as a proud man, I have just one thing to say to all you women who believe you're going to eventually take that away from us: "Please don't do it! It's the only thing we have left!"
I'm not kidding. I've watched female athletes and many of them scare me. Take Fatuma Roba of Ethiopia, the reigning Olympic champion in the marathon. If I joined one of her races at the 25-mile mark and challenged her for the final mile, the only way I'd keep up with her is with a telescope.
Believe me, female athletes are eager to prove they can beat men. Serena Williams, the U.S. Open tennis champion, tried to enter a men's tournament in Germany, but fortunately for all those men, she was denied. Serena can hit a ball harder than John McEnroe. And she can throw a racket farther than him, too.
I wouldn't challenge Serena in any sport. I've seen her muscles. Call me a wimp. Just don't call me stupid.