And I am frothing at the mouth. Frothing would be an understatement. Make that rolling on the ground and thrashing furiously in helpless rage and frustration. I am in the kind of situation where your train gets stuck between stations and you’re wedged between smelly armpits and bony elbows. You cant get off and walk and nor can you bear the wait. You know.
I did a hopping on the floor kind of Rumpelstiltskin tantrum this morning when the hands of the clock raced to 7.45, and leaving home time was 8 am. Nothing was done. I’d been lazing around placidly under the assumption that said cook and said maid would ring the doorbell at 7.30 am as was their norm, and as promised via telephonic call yesterday evening. I woke up in the morning at ease. Snoozed in for ten minutes extra.
Stretched langourously. Thought about what a beautiful day it was. Kissed the sleeping child snoring mouth open drool down the side of his cheek foot placed in proprietoral fashion over my stomach. Rolled around aimlessly on the bed, watching the sunlight break over the dark night sky. Took my time brushing my teeth, every corner and crevice of said oral cavity, examined newly emergent pimples and wrinkles in great detail, even kissed the spouse good morning. Something that one had sadly neglected to do through this entire maidless month given that the second spent doing so through the maidless, cookless month would have been spent more fruitfully in switching the geyser on.
One sipped one’s morning tea with the lazy ease that comes from overconfidence that the breakfast will be made, the clothes will be washed, the dusting done, and the meal for the day cooked. All would be right with the world and the Manrals once the door bell rang. But it didnt. And didnt. And when it did, all the denizens rushed to find everyone (read milkman, newspaper man, garbage) who needed to arrive, in order to keep the house in working order had arrived, except the duo most awaited for. Maybe we would have just hired a brass band and rolled out a red carpet, and strewn some flowers on it. Dammit. We would have strewn ourselves on it had they done us the courtesy of showing up as promised.
And so, I know the kitchen beckons me this evening, and that is so not a happy prospect. I dread cooking like I dread a rootcanal because I have to wipe off my lipstick. I am not a good cook. Cancel that. I am a horrible cook. I sweat buckets in the kitchen. I grumble and get irritable and fling things around. I cut my fingers. I burn parts of my body. I snap at the child. I double salt everything because for the life of me I cannot remember whether I have salted the damn edible item. Which of course makes it inedible. Which results in me ordering takeaway, and the spouse looking ruefully at the small change left in his wallet. Anyway, you get the drift.
The moral of the post: Dont count on your maids before they land up. And do stock up on ready to cook meals. Also helps if you acquire a taste for cup-o-noodles and smileys. Which, as you might be interested to know, is what is on the menu tonight chez Manral.