The P&P Project

I know it’s in my bag somewhere, I just have to find it. While you wait, order yourself another drink, won’t you?


Women and their purses baffle Mr. Khanna. Nothing to it I say!

We may not have a linebacker’s shoulders but damned if we let that hold us back! A girl needs her bag, her oversized bag damnit.

Not being the most organized, my bags’ insides are often comparable to a war ravaged scene. But I am covered, I am. I have carried the usual suspects, you know, make-up, shades, wallet, keys, gum, IPad, a book. On occasion, maps, camera, sun-screen, bottled-water, an umbrella, flats to change in to, toothbrush, extra pair of tights in case of a snag (TMI you say? Hush!). Tissues too. I may lose them to the depths of my bag but, have them I will. Unknowingly, I seem to also carry a magnet most times. One that immediately attracts my husband’s keys, wallet and what-have-you only to leave his hands free so that he can then gesture enthusiastically while poking fun at my rather big bag. (Let’s just add that and, why men leave the toilet seat up or can’t ask for directions to the list of things we don’t understand about them.)

I am no masochist (except when it comes to high heels) but if I must (and I choose to) carry the weight of the world on my shoulders, I ought to do it fabulously. And if toting what I want on my shoulder means paying an arm (and a leg) for it, then so be it. (The irony isn’t lost on me.) Besides, am positive Céline would make my shoulders hurt less. That’s a clinical study waiting to happen, and am willing to participate.

Pain threshold (and the need to mess with your head) aside, come evening, can you blame us for picking the tiniest bag on hand? Don’t be fooled though, we can still MacGyver anything we need out of it’s contents. Except for maybe a map. Have no use for it, can’t read ’em anyway.

Oh, the going to the bathroom in packs thing, no big mystery there. We are just giving each other’s (very sore) shoulders a rub. No, it never leads to anything else. Mostly. I’ve said too much already…

Picture Credit: Tina Tang

Stop. Don’t you see it’s Red?


It took my turning Thirty (gulp) to finally try ‘red lips’. Try I did, and how. There’s just been no looking back since.

Having always pined for a different time (you know I’ve always had a thing for Fifties-Sixties), I haven’t exactly been immune to the allure, the charm of red lips, being that the women of the time sported the hue with just the right panache and studied nonchalance.

I love the coquettishness of it. The sexuality. That it can be gauche and vulgar. Sophisticated and timeless. That it means power and confidence. That it means being all Woman.

Not being one who was ever comfortable with too much attention (don’t let my husband tell you otherwise), am certainly surprised how taken I am by the hue. Turning older definitely had something to do with it. Let’s face it, we all turn into world-weary, world-wise women a lot sooner than what our parents ever gave us credit for. But the truth is, it took me all of three decades to become the woman I am today. And that woman sure isn’t shy of red.

Forget the fact that it brightens up a dreary day or simply turns heads… The fact is, I like who I become when I wear it.

Kiss. Kiss.



“Your 30th birthday is an important landmark. You are now ready, after ten years of dicking around with your personal style, to select a signature lipstick. This is the lipstick that will get you through thick and thin. When you are screaming for mercy during childbirth, this is the lipstick that will be smeared across your face. When you kiss the corpses of your dead parents, this is the color that will stain their cheeks. This is the lipstick that will flow into the fine lines and wrinkles around your mouth as the death rattle grips your throat. Choosing this lipstick is a momentous task. In order to complete it, you need to be slightly drunk.” -Simon Doonan, Eccentric Glamour

The Blues, they sing to me.


Cue song? Okay. How Blue Can You Get?