Wednesday, 29 April 2009
Picture this. Its New Jersey. With great difficulty we have found an apartment which is:
1. Walking distance to the train station
2. Affordable and
3. Has only a minimum number of creepos in the complex
So what if the trash-can was about 0.5 miles away? And the laundry room reminded me of ghost stories of yore? So what? Anyway I was not living there. My husband was. (DON'T tell me how weird that sounds, I know, I know).
Innocently I went over one weekend and we agreed, after discussion, that we should cook and eat at home. He scrounged around in his fridge and came up with a .. mmm.. certain vegetable. And of course, enough beer. The mmm.. vegetable was cut, rice and dhal (moong, if you must ask) were washed, the rice cooker was set up, and the pressure cooker goaded into the task it must often perform.
As an aside, in my defense, I always hated that pressure cooker. It was small, it was aluminum (see me drop the 'i' woo hoo). I dislike that material of cooker, generally preferring stainless steel. This one was especially hateful because it was black on the inside. I also hate circulon, if anyone is interested. Anyway.
So we switched on some music, twisted off the tops of some beers, straightened out the futon (placed conveniently about 1 m from the electric stove, this was a studio apartment of sorts, the 'kitchen' and the 'living room' were one married unit), and were, well, talking.
Ka Boom Crash Pssh Shakalaka
The vegetable was cabbage. I had followed mother in law's diktak that dhal should never be cooked without turmeric in it. Cabbage Moongdhal Turmeric. Splattered all over the tiny apartment.
The smell was something astonishing.
I still hate that cooker. It had evil designs from the beginning, I tell you. My fingers still smell of that .. that... we spent hours trying to clean it up. Fuck, we must have used up a roll of kitchen towels. And then had to do that walk to the garbage dump place (skunks ran away from us, believe me).
And soon after that, we moved.
(I think one should tag Perakath to re-narrate the story related to eggs, fungus, and electric water kettles.)
The department dug deep into its kind soul and bequeathed a brand new, blue carpeted, number lock door-ed, swanky big office with giant windows (but sadly, virtually no view if you did not count the inevitable Jignes-bhai smoking cigarette after cigarette outside as an attractive thing to stare at). I was so damn excited. No one had ever done such a thing for me.
But it was time to move our things out of the basement hell-hole with the exploding pipes (it sounded like) and into the new place. I had reams and reams of paper already, although I was there for less than a year. I had papers with my scrawled handwriting. Notes. Notebooks. A few cheap textbooks.
My companions in crime, viz. my office mates, belonged to three categories of human (and yes, there were three of them):
1. An army-trained person with close cropped hair who filed everything neatly, never had an extra piece of paper on his desk (you get the drift)
2. The guy who did everything online, shopping, writing, playing, videos, photos, memories, and thus had nothing to move except his computer.
3. A hairy monster who obeyed no rule known to mankind.
We took an old wheelbarrow and piled it high with our things. The boys carried the computers (we had two giant Dec-Alpha machines we used as servers in addition to small macs on our desks) and other things painstakingly, yelling at me the whole time "Kenny what a waste of skin Why don't you hit the gym a bit more" and such loving things.
We then opened up the filing cabinets. As always mine was filled with all sorts of things. Guy No. 1 had a neat system with labels that one could read and stuff. Guy No. 2 had opted to not have a filing cabinet at all (see above).
Now the final one. We found a bunch of black hair first. EEEEWW I screamed. DOOOOOOD the guys screamed.
WHAT? Oh this.
Splllsssh he just lifted it with his hand and threw it on the floor.
I bravely peered in again after that. Well actually my good friends made me peer in, mildly threatening to shut me up in the cabinet if not. I found the following:
1. Some textbooks in Greek (Of course he is Greek, and damn proud of it)
2. Some loose papers all smushed up
3. An innocuous looking coffee mug
Now the last item caught my interest. I thought. Look. Let the beasts carry everything up. I will wash this mug and pretend to contribute to the exercise. Well, actually the others refused to touch it so I had to.
I found, on closer inspection, that it had a species of spoon sticking out of it. I thought, good, now we have a mug and a spoon, will be handy when we finally get our own office coffee maker and start brewing coffee mmmm the smell of fresh brewed coffee wafting in the mornings as I type 'tail filename' obsessively to see how my simulations have progressed.
But the spoon and mug refused to part from each other. It was, really, less than a year since we had occupied that basement hell hole. So it must have been in like the first week of school that the guy had drunk coffee, stirred it with said spoon, and then thought 'Instead of washing let me put it in the filing cabinet to see what it hatches'
There was encrusted coffee and creamer at the bottom. The spoon resolutely using that as glue. It emitted a faint smell of boiled cabbage.
To his extreme distress, I threw it away, mug, coffee, spoon and all.
You could have washed it, he said plaintively.
Well, I could have, I probably should have, now that I am a mother and have encountered poop of all consistencies and nose-snot in the Tirupati temple on my Kanjeevaram silk, and pee everywhere, and a dabba-full of dhal-rice on the airport floor several times, I would have washed that mug, lovingly even.
Tuesday, 28 April 2009
Right. That means I need to have appropriate footwear for the purpose. I do hope that although I will be all dodderingly old and all, I will still have shoes. As in my bank of Nikes that I love (but currently hate a teeny bit because they are old but not yet old enough for middleclassmentality to throw out). I hope I will be all set with that. But slippers?
I am bare-footed at home. In fact, on some levels, I define home as a place that I can be bare-footed at. We always make it a point to take off our foot-wear when we enter someone's home, unless they absolutely insist that we don't. Mine are usually old and encrusted with years of grime in any case, so its best that way. So anyway, here I will be, bare-footed, all the foot-wear strewn around the entrance foyer of the house, directing this hose-pipe at two in the morning (or is it afternoon? naah.). The water is suddenly shut off. Its 2020 or something folks, we have consumed so much that running taps at all times of day and night is a distant dream, and memory.
Judging by my current crop, my hands will close on:
1. Two pairs of very flat, but very colourful Rs.150 a pair chappals. All weather.
2. One very old ratty brown 'pumps' from lifestyle. Also flat.
3. A pair of golden looking things that are very casual to general people but to me are what I wear when I (play) 'dress up'. Flat but not all weather for sure.
Which would I choose? The all weather elcheapo things are what I wear everyday, and would hate to lose. The others might get wet and get ruined, and that would be horrid since I would have to then, horror of horrors, shop for new ones.
What a dilemma!
(And yes, the same is applicable to potential suitors from the distaff side, if she is so inclined. (a) I would have to deal with it since the husband world war etc. and (2) I would be fine with the concept, the theoretical part of it, just not the practice of it)
Monday, 27 April 2009
But after a point it just got irritating. We never figured that he would turn out to be so damn needy. Heck, we should have seen it coming, but we were too busy thinking up recipes and inhaling fumes of elaborate cooking I suppose. So then we were really annoyed with him and at our wits end to get rid of him (he had become somewhat of a shadow). Cruelty, like refusing him food for example, was not our forte. At least I had my distractions. I would say, okay folks, I am checking out, its the weekend, and here is my husband coming over. (Oh yes, we were married but still living apart, it was absolute craziness already in my life). So my poor roommate had it worse. She was battling a hundred things in her personal life, and writing up her thesis and what not, and this guy like a limpet getting on her nerves.
In those days, when we could, we could discuss, hey, this guy, whats wrong with him? He has everything going for him, I mean, compared to us. His parents are super supportive, and can even afford to get him stuff so his financial worries are minimal. He barely needs to cook cause we feed him all the time. He is doing real well in his studies, and his professors love him and are not cruel to him. Whats the problem then? Just don't understand, we would say to each other.
And here, she, had just lost her father, mine was super sick all the time, her thesis advisor was emitting funny vibes, much like mine, we were slogging at work. At least my stipend was assured but she had to do lot of extra work to earn hers. We both had siblings who had babies that we wanted to see and perpetually missed, like an ache over and above everything else. I had my long distance thing going on and no clarity on when I would manage to finish up and we would get together. Actually it never occurred to us to think that perhaps, our problems will seem trivial to others, who are battling bigger demons!
So we would agree that some people will complain and crib and be all crying no matter how many good things are going on. They will only see the bad things they have to deal with. I mean to others, these things might be trivial, but to them, in their mind, they blow it up so much that its the end of the world. Finally we might even have put that lens to ourselves and figured it out. I think we learned a lot from that experience. That everyone is different. That everyone has a different capacity for crap. That what is unsurmountably painful for you is a small fly I can swat off. I think we learned to look on the bright side, make mental lists of good and bad. To absorb the pain and make ourselves stronger.
Heck yeah, there are all sorts of strange people in this world. And this disgruntled bear of a girl who complains incessantly about her very routine existence (and really stupid little challenges that life throws at her), is just as strange as that bean-pole of a guy who used to sit at the doorstep and cry saying he missed his mum.
Saturday, 25 April 2009
But sometimes, an unexpected visit from a friend from work, in a very non-work mode, with her little cute baby in tow, following closely on her heels, the over-spirited boy from the neighbours, noise, ghost stories, little hands knocking on the Teddy Bears book (patting with a flat hand, knocking with the fist, interesting way to read a book, surely), and a compressed fifteen minutes of unadulterated fun, works too!
Thursday, 23 April 2009
1. Brush teeth
2. Drink milk
4. Eat breakfast
& there is no need on earth to take two hours to do these things, making it an average of half an hour per task, and believe me, her teeth are NOT that clean.
Finally, in a desperate bid to get out of the house somehow, I leaned toward the door, passing to pick up keys. The bunch felt different. Heavy. It turned out that the husband has loped off with my bunch. Dammit. My office keys. Rest are okay. Despite the nomadic existence (thats the only way to describe our lives just now), we have our car & current house keys in duplicate each so that was fine. But my office keys? Nightmare it was, trying to tell people what had happened and why I was not a criminal. I was led, at one point, in front of two ferocious looking security guards wearing belts and carrying some kind of implements aimed at breaking doors. Stares I got, for sure.
Though it has not been said overtly by him, I have sort of taken up the task of driving the Skoda occasionally. Now generally the way it has worked is this. I have my Zen. I drive it when the husband is not around. When he is, he will drive both cars, with some schema such as, smelly-gym-trip = zen; pune-trip = skoda, and so on. I DON'T drive when he is around. And no, its not because he is a better driver, but because it increases my blood temperature. Even on long trips when I should be contributing instead of sitting on ass and so on. Foh-get-it. So now, once we moved, we did strange things like this -
1. Load piles of things in skoda
2. Leave it behind in the old apartment
3. Go every once in a while and stare at it
This caused the battery to die, and a white-elephant episode involving the skoda dealers and much heartache and bills and so on. So now the husband one day drove the skoda (and all its itinerant piles of things) to our current shelter and left it there in the wild bush in front. It gleamed there like a silver mammoth, in the sun. I ignored it for a few days then the petrol in my zen ran out (and yes, I work hard to engineer it such that I am not the one filling petrol in the cars, its a pain, I never remember which side the tank is on though I dimly recognise that one eats petrol and the other eats diesel). I started making statements like 'Oh I need to drive the skoda to prevent it from dying' and doing just that. On my 0.45 km commute (each way) each day. I was walking to work a lot when mum was here but now with the innumerable and inevitable bags, not to mention the child, and the heat, I have taken to driving around a bit, once a day or so.
The first day I drove it, I was a bit apprehensive. It has been years since I sat behind the Skoda wheel. Blast it, its like a truck. It was fun though, something different than my Zen, and despite its size, it turns very well. But to press the clutch in fully, my toes have to be in fully extended position, which is frankly annoying. There is not much traffic around and anyway everything is quite near so it was okay.
Then I bravely ventured out and filled petrol in the Zen. And went back to driving it. Again, the first day was a relief, so much lighter! I felt much more in control and yes, my toes stopped cribbing too. Music loud in our ears we would cruise around, the monster and I.
A week later, I have taken to alternating. Definitely, the conditioning of air in the Skoda is much superior to that in the Zen, so afternoons are a good time to unleash it. I am in a hurry in the mornings, after all the dawdling we do at home (see above) so then the Zen is a good, no-brainer type option. For a person who dislikes driving, and really only drives about 1.8 km per days, thats an awful lot of cars and talk about driving. I know.
My vegetable patch is running wild with ants. "The last one will be eaten by ants" prophesy in Sanskrit; courtesy Marquez. Inspired, I told the gardener "Let them eat it; they are god's creatures too." He was rather taken aback and took it as a call to stop weeding (and even, for that matter, watering) the garden. Weeds are god's creatures too. Water? Water is god's creation too, the plants can get it when s/he makes rain. I leave dying plants right there, in the hope that
1. The ants can have their fill
2. The soil, which is full of cement now, will become nice
and I can deal with it all later. Next year.
I am reasonably gruntled now. At least, less disgruntled. Gypsy style I wait for the day when I can pick up bags and move again.
Monday, 20 April 2009
Guys, you need to post 5 things that you love about being a mom/dad) and find someone to link to and tag - someone from your own country, if you like, but definitely someone from another country ..and to leave a link to the post at HBM, who started this tag.
What do I like about motherhood? Five things I like? FIVE things? You have GOT to be kidding me. You mean FIVE as in one less than the number of fingers on Hrithik Roshan’s hands? FIVE as in the number of years old the monster of a child of mine is? Is it not too big a number? Oh well, if you insist on it. Though to balance things out I do think that one should also be asked for at least five things that one hates about it. Or at least dislikes. You know, to be absolutely fair and all.
* I do enjoy the absolute sense of purpose it gives to your life. I mean I do have my job and I am a hundred other things such as a daughter a wife a daughter-in-law and all that jazz. But none of them have given me that sense of fullness, that feeling that ‘Ah ha! I am a somewhat important bit of flesh on this earth’ as the fact of being a mother. As always, what I like are the details. The innumerable little things to put on the list of things to do and pack (and not forget), such as extra crayons, and clips, and juice.
* Bibliophilia, I mean bibliomania. It is in the eyes. We walked into Landmark yesterday and two pairs of eyes were searching furiously. Found the corners and then that was it. No one could talk to either of us, we were like possessed creatures. Thankfully, being thirty years older, I came back to earth with a thud, quickly grabbed the Aseem Kaul, and dragged a reluctant monster out (clutching some book, of course). But those are times when I KNOW that this child is mine, that it has some of my genes. Otherwise it is hard to tell since she looks so much like her father and as far as I can see is so different in nature than me in other matters.
* The father. Other, wiser, better, saner moms than I have said this. But it is true for me as well. I love the man who is the father of my child a lot more now. And though he would never admit it, and cribs incessantly that this obsessive mommy-kenny is a poor shadow of the former Kenny, I am super sure that he is lying. He has been trying to convince the monster about my powers (whatever they might be). She has resisted believing him, probably recognizing it for what it is, blind love.
* I am a teacher, I suppose I cannot help it. It is quite in the blood with the weight of whole generations of the BunkPort family. And one of the good things about being a mother is that I can pretend to teach all nature of things to the hapless soul that has to spend so much time with me. Needless to say I learn a lot more than I manage to teach, which is in any case my aim in life, to masquerade as a teacher so no one thinks you are mad for going on reading and solving problems simply because you like it. And being a mother gives me unimagined opportunities for indulging in this pastime.
* The monster is a monster, despite the denials of some of my well-wishers and friends. They say be careful what you name the child, it will weigh upon her, and make her that. Well, that is clearly the case here. She periodically exhibits absolutely monstrous behavior, as befits her e-name. But her other name, the one we have picked out of love, she lives up to that one too (albeit occasionally). And those are times I cannot help feel that heart-wrenching love for her. And please I will stop now because I do think that it is as important for a mother to love as to let go and not impose too many expectations on her child.
I am really supposed to tag someone. But all (most of?) the mommies I know are tagged. So that leaves me the lounger, who is, of course, daddy^2 from Bengaluru, for perspective.
Dora cake happened. A number five cake too. It was a particularly harrowing day. New dress was duly worn, and looked so cute, I felt really like congratulating myself. She disliked it, of course. Not enough bling I suppose. I let her enjoy her cake and lunch with the friends in her play school and then when I went at 1 pm to pick her, she accused me of being late. We returned home and she loped off to the neighbours, to my consternation, to play a secret game with the boy (scary, eh?). We caught a flight later. It was supposed to be Kingfisher Red but turned out to be Kingfisher (and yes, we did see the bird again in one of our walks in Chennai too). Dinner with the father. Jumping and breaking the bed in the guest house. This was thursday. She denies it, but she had a good day, though tiring.
Friday was a busy day, new dress, also very cute, but most hated by monster. I spoke my brahmin tamizh to all sorts of large looming men around our new place. Then it was furniture shopping time, where I spoke in English till one time I called out to the monster. The guy was mildly surprised with that (WHY?). But that was better than the KF flight attendant referring to me as 'the young passenger' - the monster's kangaroo suitcase had been pushed into the back and I could not reach it. I asked her to find someone taller to help. She thought I needed all my bags carried and called reinforcements from the ground staff. Hello? First of all, I am old enough to be your mother. Second, I can carry my backpack and this little suitcase, and my tiny laptop bag easily, please, all those years in the gym are worth something. Oh no dear, I just could not reach the back of the overhead storage place, I can carry them alright, don't worry, I said aloud. I tried to not hate the furniture shopping. I mean considering we did not really buy anything finally, and on Sunday we saw a nice place with antique-ish things which I liked a lot. Plus I had enough time to indulge my(our)self at Landmark. Pippi Longstocking. Aseem Kaul. Ranjit Lal. Presumably I went to get return gifts for the kids.
Dinner party on Saturday, almost difficult to convince her that it was for her birthday (yeah, I know, makes no sense, really). I managed to arrange balloons and a cake and whip up a cohesive set of adults. Children were lovely and I was amazed at how all the other kids have good eating habits in comparison, oh and we went later in the night to another party, and this little girl and my own sat next to me on the futon. Someone was playing a guitar and I was occasionally joining in the singing (softly of course). I mean old old songs. The girls would look up at me expectantly every time a new song started. I don't know, they were so very beautiful together, I thought I would burst though I had a headache and was eager to go home and sleep. The purple barbie shirt with the white skirt with a gigantic silver flower on it was, finally, an acceptable dress, per monster.
Back at the helm here, and yes, I am conscious of my tags, and I will post it next, chox and parul.
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
I have at least five posts on various topics half written and tucked away in some unidentifiable (physically that is) place on the computer (and the head).
I have similar number of lists of things to do tucked away, some on paper, some on the computer, some in my head.
I have taken to directing my disgust at one thing, and one person at a time.
Which means I will be back here when its your turn, you.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
My mum made me some extra special badam-kaju burfi. I had to help her out by moving the ladle around since she cannot do that once it starts becoming solidified. I was horrified at how much ghee went into the creation. But the taste was good in the end. I might have eaten too much. The monster and her father ate one piece each.
I took a nap, in my own honour. A pre-lunch nap. The best kind. (Sorry, mim, I know this will make you very jealous, just happened to click that day). A pre-lunch nap is great because you wake up and still there is half a day left, as opposed to an afternoon nap where you get the feeling that you have wasted the whole day away since so little of it is left. I usually don't take afternoon naps, especially now that the monster has more or less stopped doing that. Enough of naps now.
I did wear a new dress as prescribed. Some Fab India creation that I bought two months ago and saved for a rainy day. I hate wearing new clothes usually. I love the well worn blue shirts I wear on a regular basis. Some of them are as much as fifteen years old. But serviceable still. I wear one of them with a safety pin to augment the support of the button near the tummy. Just in case. Somehow I seem to run out of pants more often than I run out of shirts and blouses. Enough of my clothes now.
The monster was extra high maintenance the whole day. I was feeling quite disgusted with humanity in general and fussy children in particular. But I am glad to say that I did not disown her entirely. I took her shopping (it was a day off for me, for some jayanti type reasons), she seems to have suddenly grown. Nothing fits. Since she is quite picky and fussy and has opposite tastes from us, I have not bought her clothes in a while. I mean of course thats not true, but anyway nothing appropriate is usually to be found in her cupboard, so I decided to bite the bullet and go shopping (shudder, horrid thing that). She dressed herself in a blue pant and a tshirt that says "Munna Jeans." Usually she does not touch that tshirt ever since someone made fun of it (I do admit to two things: (a) bought from the boy's section and (b) does look funny).
We bought (a slice of) cake. Chocolate of course (is there any other kind?). Still have some left over. Yumm. Must. Eat. It. I am suddenly completely craving sweet things. I usually don't indulge (much). Either fried foods or sweet things. But I found myself dreaming of Basundi. Mum reminded me that she made me Basundi last year for my birthday. Okay, so, don't mean to be rude to elders, but how is that reminder useful to me? I ask you.
* No balloons (bored to blow them up)
* No gifts (thank heavens! overflowing home)
* New dress (Fab India)
* Hateful shopping (for monster's clothes. Ugh).
* Nice nap (Woohoo!)
* Badam-Kaju Burfi treat (yes!)
* No Basundi (boo)
Its official now. I am a middle aged (Ha!) much married (12 yrs & counting) professional (Ha Ha!) mommy of one (& What a monstrous one!)) who wears a safety pin in her blue shirt. And to the person who asked me last week if I was wearing bifocals: soon my dear, very soon.
Wednesday, 8 April 2009
Well, that is where I am right now.
I am a little bit disgusted, oh hell, I am a lot disgusted with humanity. On the one hand is the undeniable fact that humans, as a specie, have many faults. We pollute. We over-indulge. We rape and plunder and give and accept bribes and cheat in exams. Its okay with me (I know I am not the leader of the world, just a small person trying very hard to slink into obscurity and live out her life, but am entitled nevertheless to have opinions and make comments. Or perhaps that is another characteristic human trait itself, and is annoying to others. Oh well). But on the other hand, the callousness with which we do these things we do, and certain things such as selfishness and laziness, most especially, drive me crazy.
So I am solving this problem (in my head) sort of simply. I don't want to get to know people beyond a point. See, on the surface, most people are good, law-abiding, generous, industrious folk. At least I don't know that they are not. When you start having lot of equations and interactions and generally getting lives all entangled, is when you realise other aspects of them. And I am unlikely to like those other aspects. I don't think I am rude to the person upon such realisation, but then I do feel all irritated and cranky about it on the inside. I am not a person given to extreme reactions, and would really not like my displeasure to be known to others, but fact is, it is there, in my head, it does not go away!
Its all fine and dandy with me to have a lot of 'friends' on facebook (which is a matter of concern however to space bar), but inside of me, I know what this means. Its a 'surface' friendship. And, really its good enough. Its a false statement, admittedly. It tells you that I am there, 'connected' to all these people the world over. The truth is clearly different. But for me, these e-relationships are perfect. If the visceral is actually missing, I don't mind it, in fact, I think I like it this way.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
(i) The Heat (is on. On the street)
(ii) The monster (is off. Her rocker)
(iii) The mind-numbing-ness of invigilating an exam (its true, known to happen)
Originally the Rhythm Was Gonna Get Me. Thankfully, it has done nothing of that sort in the past
420 months of existence. Heavens! Its that dreaded number. Roop Mahal Prem Gali types. Excuse me please!
The Child Is Not My Son! Because its my daughter.
Its not a Sunday but still, What A Black Day? This saturday.
Really, there were Bloodstains On The Carpet Since the monster got her toe stuck in the door and bled just a little but cried a lot.
But then, overall, less trouble than if there were Satin Sheets on the bed, thank goodness for cotton.
Gotto go, but really How Can I Resist You. I am bound to be back.
Friday, 3 April 2009
The monsters school has fully closed down its shutters (for us that is). I collected the Transfer Certi. They have optimistically remarked, 'UKG Completed' - I mean for what its worth. Since virtually no school will believe that. I don't know, just yesterday I overheard her on the phone saying 'Do you guess I am going to UKG after my Holidays? NO! I am going to FIRST STANDARD.' My troubles are thus postponed by a year, which is what I have for some serious full court press type brainwashing.
Yesterday, I managed to return home in time to take her to some neighborhood drawing class. I know! I know! I don't like drawing classes. The teacher was wearing a nightgown (which is a species of clothing I dislike intensely) but I had to try hard not be biased by that. She was at home after all and its her business what she wears at her home.
Swimming- I have to explore this today. I am irritated with the monster because she sleeps so late. But then I am happy too because if she wakes up at 6 am and starts touching my arm as I am typing its annoying too. But enrolling her for a swimming class ought to get her sched on track for early morning waking, which in the long run will work better for me. The vision is as follows: She goes swimming, and I quickly cross over and run or play basketball next door.
I was so annoyed in the evening that I asked my mum if she is okay if I go away and get some exercise. I took our two basketballs, and headed out. I drove. Gnashing my teeth all the while. I promptly got a call as I arrived at the courts and as I was walking with the phone in my ear and the orange things stuffed in my armpits some fellow walked up and signalled and took them away and filled them with air. It was a genuine pleasure to dribble a nicely filled ball. Where on EARTH are my bike pumps? They are missing for a while now. I shot hundreds of shots, and as usual my percentage was very high (since no one was guarding me). My wrist did not trouble, I did miss having a nice game, but I was conscious of it coming up on seven, and the ladies waiting at home for me.
I have a busy weekend coming up. I have to spend most of it in an extremely hot place. I wish I wish I could get away and go attend a meeting that I want to, and also tag on for the game in the evening with the husband. Plus we have a hundred things to talk about and iron out after he arrives back in town today. But don't think any of this is happening! I am bound to be more irritated then ever then.
I saw my first snake of the season today. Which was at once exciting and alarming. It slithered away behind the garage-like buildings and I feel sure it has now gone near my poor zen which I have been bad-mouthing. The heart pumps with the fear that the monster might have left the window slightly open (my back windows are not power) and also with the realization that whatever it is, the land belongs to this big brown snake with its snaky slithering first and then to us marauding humans.
And here at my desk with yesterday's bottle of water and the characteristic rubble of my disorganised work-life around me. Ten deep breaths. Go. At least I have fixed firefox. For now.