hidden talents
One of my greatest talents is my ability to suck the fun out of any situation.
For example, when Maya and Ali chase each other through the house every evening, screaming bloody murder, I scream back that our child-hating neighbor is going to call the police and that I’m not going to care when the cops take them both away because I’ll finally enjoy some peace and quiet.
Yeah, I’m not sure why I can’t just enjoy the fact that they’re spending “quality time” together either.
Anyway my Ramadan-observing, reflective self decided to look into the error of my ways. And I realized that my talent is borne of my inherent need for Control and Order, my irritation at my husband and child’s total disregard for civility, my general lack of patience, and the fact that if I’m not going to be the responsible one in this family, there will be total chaos.
So now that I’ve identified my latest shortcoming, I’ve decided to try to remedy it. This means that I will try my hardest not to assign Maya a page from her Brain Quest workbook
I’m also going to stop remarking, “I guess dinner is going to magically appear on the table, all on it’s own,” as Ali sits in front of the TV watching hours upon hours of the Top Gear.
I took Maya for a pedicure and didn’t comment on the fact that she changed her mind on the color 3 times. Or that she smudged her nails twice. Progress?
And finally, I’m going to stop worrying that “The Experts” are right and that this blog – something I started for absolutely no reason other than to have fun making fun of Ali and Maya – is going to lose readership now that I no longer have time to post on a consistent schedule.
So if my traffic goes down because I blog when I have time instead of every Tuesday and Friday at 12:01 am? I think I’ll survive.
no international calling
I’m 36-years-old and my father still pays for my cell phone.
Yes really.
I don’t blame you for thinking less of me as the situation is rather absurd. But in my defense, the whole thing was my dad’s idea. This is because by joining forces we were able to get on a family plan and get new phones and save money in the process.
And I had no choice but to go along with it because my dad is Indian and thus securing the best deal always takes precedence over most everything else. Including my self-respect.
Anyway, it was for this reason that I was unable to text or call my husband while I was in Europe.
I mean technically I could have, as my phone was on and working throughout the trip. But when I debated calling Ali to find out why he was not at Harrod’s at the designated meeting spot that he chose, at the time he dictated, and then imagined my dad lecturing me when he received our wireless bill, I decided to exercise some patience.
Here’s how the story ended:
- Ali sent me a text telling me he’d be 10 minutes late.
- He eventually showed up 20 minutes later, huffing and puffing that his “massage went over” and that he “was enjoying the spa facilities so much that he lost track of time.”
- I bit back several rude comments and rolled my eyes instead.
- And then told him, “It appears that your extraordinary talent at making me wait for you knows no geographical bounds.”
Now there’s nothing to do but wait for the sh#$ to hit the fan when my dad sees the pending and surely astronomical international text charges, courtesy of my husband. And his lateness.
grateful?
Here’s the bad thing about London…you basically pay 10 times what you’d pay anywhere else for the privilege of staying in a room the size of a closet. I’ve accepted this.
I complain about it (of course) but I’ve accepted it.
But after two days and two nights of serious claustrophobia, we beat a hasty retreat from the overrated Langham and checked into the randomly named – but beautiful – Rocco Forte Brown’s Hotel instead.
Talk about the right decision. The hotel was even kid friendly! They had everything from kid’s toothpaste and bath toys, to a Maya-sized robe/slippers and a personalized cookie. I was seriously impressed. And so was Maya.
Or so I thought until she took a look out the window and said: “Could this view be any more terrible?”
Now if I’d ever dared to say something like this, my Indian father would have smacked me from here to kingdom come and back. And then, 6 months later, he’d smack me again out of the blue when he randomly remembered my obnoxious comment.
Me? I have a “hands-off policy” and thus launched into a lecture instead about how ungrateful Maya is, how she needs to watch her mouth, and how she should appreciate all that she has instead of wanting all the things she can’t have.
But later, when my blood pressure had settled a bit I realized something: Maya’s just mimicking me. I mean, instead of being grateful that I was in London, there I was complaining about how troublesome it was that the Langham Hotel elevators were the size of coffins.
I’m going to try to practice what I preach for a change. I’m sure I’ll fail. But I’m still going to try.
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 