Hey dolls, I’m sitting here stuffed to the gills trying to focus on serious work. For chrissakes, why can’t I focussssssss????? So I decided to come over to the Saloon and goof off a bit. (I have my scarf wrapped around my waist because the sheer girth of my lunch is showing
through my cashmere turtle neck and I’m ashamed for anyone to see me like this.)
What’s love got to do with it? Huh? That’s my big question. Love ain’t got nothing to do with it. Just ask the Indians in Mumbai. They get married, not for love, but because the relationship makes sense. It’s an arrangment, you see; it’s business; it’s commerce; it’s familial geography. Where are you from? Who is your family? What is your caste? Do you have cash on the bank? Or are you subsisting on bananas? These are the things they ask themselves before they decide to get married. Do they care how fat you are? I don’t think so. Do they care that you have an eating problem? I don’t think so. Do they care if you have ginormous boobs like Pamela Anderson? Maybe. I have never really seen an Indian woman with ginormous boobs like Pamela Anderson. Although, maybe they hide them well under that dress they wear. The Sari. Maybe the ginormous boobs are well hidden under the sari for her husband’s eyes only, as it should be.
But what has love to do with it, you ask? Not a damn thing, sport. Not a damn thing.