Working from Home
When I first started working from home I was concerned that my productivity would decrease with so many distractions at my fingertips, i.e. the refrigerator, the television, and the phone. But over the past few months I’ve somehow managed to put in less hours and get more work done.
Each day, by some miracle, I find the willpower to keep the television off. Considering my proximity to the kitchen I have somehow managed to not gain 100 pounds. And unless I need to get on a work related call I usually don’t bother to answer the phone (Nadia, you are the only exception to this rule!).
But on one day each week I long for my freezing cold office. I long for my non-ergonomic chair and the desk that exacerbates my carpal tunnel. Why? Because on one morning a week Ali parks himself at his desk, settles in, and says the five words I dread most: “I’m working from home today.” The minute I hear these words I can literally feel my productivity level plummet and my blood pressure spike.
Allow me to explain.
When Ali works from home his day revolves around food, and since he can’t find his way to the kitchen that means my day revolves around his food. Fresh granola must be made:
Followed a mere 2.5 hours later by lunch:
Followed by a cup or two of tea…and a snack of course. And then the request for an early dinner with very specific instructions – two sunny side up eggs on toast, no butter, no salt, very little oil, and the yolks must be cooked but NOT flipped:
If the yolks are flipped, or heaven forbid, if they break, all hell breaks loose around here.
When Ali works from home the kitchen sink goes from this:
To this:
In minutes. Several times a day.
When Ali works from home I am constantly hushed and glared at when I make even the slightest noise.
When Ali works from home I can hear his voice and many anonymous voices on speaker phone reverberate throughout the house. All.Day.Long.
When Ali works from home I am subject to never ending conversations about fascinating topics, including but not limited to, Microsoft, Lenovo, Symantec, ROI, call centers, viruses, cables, and SANs.
When Ali works from home I hear the constant chirps of AOL Instant Messenger.
When Ali works from home my eyes get a workout from all my eye-rolling.
When Ali works from home my historically low blood pressure is no longer a problem.
To top it all off I have just been informed that Ali plans to work from home tomorrow. Tomorrow may be the beginning of the end of our marriage.
God help me.
“Din”ner
The Din household has been in quite a dinner rut lately. This is because:
a. My picky family drives me crazy with their, “I don’t want to eat that because it’s chewy/it’s a vegetable/it’s green/it’s _____(feel free to fill in the blank).
b. Our refrigerator is perpetually empty. Even when I spend $100 at Trader Joe’s and return with at least 3 full bags of food, the fridge is still empty.
c. By the end of the day I am too tired to try to come up with some creative concoction that will appease all of our likes, dislikes, and food allergies.
This morning, however, I decided I was going to make a proper meal for a change since even I was starting to feel guilty for giving Maya hummus, pita bread, and apples for dinner again. After surveying the contents of our empty fridge, I was thrilled to find a package of cauliflower I’d randomly picked up on a recent trip to TJ’s. I figured I’d cook up some Aloo Gobi (Cauliflower with Potatoes) but the only problem was – and there is always a problem – that I had no potatoes or garlic, and while I was amazed to find an onion, Ali hates onions with a passion. He hates onions about as much as he hates Brooke Shields and her Latisse commercials. Trust me, that is A LOT.
So I randomly concocted the following recipe using what I had on hand/what I was allowed to use. I won’t pretend this is an authentic Indian dish and if my dad is reading this right now he is probably freaking out that I would even allude to this being an Indian dish, but it turned out pretty good, if I do say so myself.
Cauliflower with Peas
1 small cauliflower (I used the precut bag from Trader Joe’s)
1 cup of frozen peas
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 teaspoon black mustard seeds
1 teaspoon cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon turmeric
1/2 teaspoon salt
1. Blanch the cauliflower in boiling water for 5 minutes. Drain and set aside.
2. Heat the oil in a nonstick pan, over medium-high heat.
3. Add the mustard seeds and cumin seeds, stir until they start sizzling.
4. Add the turmeric and mix all the spices together.
5. Stir in the drained cauliflower and sprinkle the salt on top. Stir until the cauliflower is well combined with the spices.
6. Turn off the heat and add the frozen peas. Cover for five minutes to allow the peas to defrost.
This would be even better with cilantro (which I didn’t have) and the forbidden onions (I wasn’t willing to risk a divorce over something trivial like dinner). Instead I cooked up some brown rice, added some Trader Joe’s Mango Chutney, and a dollop of plain yogurt. This really hit the spot.
Naturally Maya refused to eat it. “Peas are mushy Mama, and that cauliflower thing looks weird.” Talk about the highest compliment a chef can receive, right? I told her to work it out because that was what was for dinner. But even as I said it I was digging into the freezer trying to find something else to appease my skinny child.
When will I learn??
Another trip to the dentist…
Going to the dentist was never a regular occurrence when my siblings and I were growing up. I suppose that with 3 kids things can get a little hectic and clean teeth aren’t exactly high on the list of priorities. (Don’t worry Mom, I’m not judging you – I’m barely pulling it together with one kid so I can see how maintaining the dental health of 3 would be a bit on the overwhelming side.) Anyway, add to the mix the fact that our dentist was our cheap Indian “Uncle” whose practice happened to be in Compton, and you can imagine how often we had regular checkups.
Did we want clean teeth or did we want to risk getting shot as we exited the freeway? What a toss-up.
When Maya was born I decided that I was going to take her regularly every six months. To a proper dentist. Not in Compton. Am I a dedicated mom or what?
So the first visit was a disaster, as expected. There were lots of tears (Maya), lots of screams (Maya), and lots of yelling (me). But since Maya turned 2, things have slowly progressed from the inevitable crying sessions, to threats, to bargaining, and back to threats. I realized that since threats were the way my parents got me to do things and since I clearly have mental problems, I thought I’d try to bribe bargain with her again. I told Maya that if she was a good girl and we left her appointment with no tears, complaints, or any other drama, then we’d stop for ice cream. If I’m being totally honest, I specifically told her NOT to tell the dentist that I promised her ice cream or there would be no ice cream. (We’ll tackle the topic of me teaching my daughter how to lie on another occasion.)
Who wouldn’t want to get their teeth cleaned if they could watch any on-demand DVD on a flat screen:
Pick a sticker, a toothbrush, toothpaste, AND a prize:
All in a pristine, paperless office?
Maya told the nurse, “My mama says I’m lucky that I get lots of rewards for being a good patient because when she goes to the dentist all she gets is a big bill.” I’ve learned the hard way, more than once, that Maya only hears me speak when I’m swearing or complaining about something.
After a lot of encouragement and numerous “Maya is doing SUCH a good job” statements, I’m happy to report we did in fact leave the office with no tears, complaints, or drama. Instead we left with a bag full of free stuff and shiny teeth:
Which we proceeded to make unshiny 10 minutes later as Maya received her reward for lying to a medical professional:
One scoop of mint chocolate chip in a cup, with the cone on the side. My daughter likes to take a bite of the cone and then a spoon of the ice cream so that there is never a moment when she won’t have both in her mouth at the same time. She maximizes bites, minimizes drips, and I’m proud to say she even offered me a taste. But before the spoon could even make it halfway to my mouth my Indian-giver child asked with a knowing smile, “But aren’t you allergic to ice cream Mama?”
Is my kid brilliant or what?
While I'm not going to win Mother/Wife of the Year Award anytime soon, I haven't killed anyone yet or shot myself in the head. And that, my friends, is how I calculate success these days. 
FANCY THAT FANCY THIS 