a sunday night wedding
Imagine this: you and your husband are invited to a wedding.
Despite the fact that the card delineates that the wedding is on a Sunday night at 7:30 pm, boxed gifts are not welcome, and the venue is at least an hour away, you send in your affirmative RSVP.
You secure an overpriced and underqualified babysitter. You get into a very scratchy Indian outfit. You make an admirable attempt with your makeup knowing full well that you’re risking an eye infection and/or a striking resemblance to a clown.
You battle the LA traffic and get to the event at a respectable 8:00 pm. You follow the signs to the banquet rooms. You find the appropriate one and do a double take because:
- There is nobody there to greet you – not even a member of the wedding party.
- There are no appetizers, there are no drinks.
- There is nowhere to sit because the absent wedding party apparently demanded the banquet hall sealed shut before they went MIA.
As the hours tick by you feel your blood pressure rising. How can a Sunday night wedding not start at a respectable hour? What have these people been doing all day long? Do they not have to go to work in the morning?
I have no picture from the wedding I ditched so how about a photo from a wedding that was on time in every way instead?
By 9:30 pm you’re starving and consequently even bitchier than usual. And that’s bitchy.
At 10:00 pm you’ve still eaten nothing, neither the bride nor the groom has made an appearance, and even your normally calm husband is irritated. So you grow a brain, grab your husband, and depart. And on the way home, as you fluctuate between anger and confusion, you insist you may never attend an Indian/Pakistani wedding on a Sunday night again.
PS: I took my non-boxed gift with me too.
#whitegirlproblems
At 8:38 pm on Friday night my space bar broke.
At 8:39 pm I gave up trying to fix the space bar and called in reinforcements (aka my husband).
At 8:45 pm my own live member of the Geek Squad said he couldn’t help me. He then proceeded to deliver a lengthy lecture about how I “mistreat” my computer. And then he went back to working on his own laptop.
At 8:46 pm I sarcastically suggested we head to Best Buy to get my keyboard fixed since apparently my husband could give a sh#$.
At 8:47 pm my husband countered with his own sarcastic comment, “Maybe you should. They’re open until 9.”
In other news Ali opened a car hood for the first time in his life. And he did it in his orange sweater.
It took me until 8:50 pm to recover from his unexpected smartassness.
At 8:51 pm I called up Lenovo‘s technical support myself and then resigned myself to the fact that this is a really bad year for me technology-wise.
Yes…#whitegirlproblems.
74.5 hours later I’m impatiently waiting for a box from customer service to send in my broken laptop. I’m also pondering this: Since my marriage was based on the foundation that my husband can fix anything that plugs in, and it’s apparent to me now that he can’t, what exactly does he bring to the table?
games
Maya being off from school – as she is today – automatically means:
- I’ll be complaining about her on this blog.
- She won’t allow me to get any work done.
- I’ll be listening to things like: “Do you want to play Sorry or Monopoly with me Mama?” throughout the day.
It's really kind of amazing how much a 6-year-old can forgive. And forget.
Here’s the thing: when Maya asks me to play with her – and the poor kid is nothing if not persistent – I find myself consumed by this little tug of war:
- Thought 1: “What’s 20 minutes of your day Ameena? Just play with her. It’s not going to kill you.”
- Thought 2: I’d rather clean my kitchen floor.
I can take Maya to the library. I can make up a batch of brownies with her. I can take her to the park for hours. I’m even up for reading five Ivy & Bean
Unlike me, my kid is full of hugs and kisses.
But today it occurred to me that maybe I don’t have to change everything about myself in order to fit an idealistic notion of what Maya’s mother should be. I mean nobody’s perfect, right? And maybe Maya needs to start realizing this so she isn’t disappointed by imperfect people later in life.
In any case I think we can all agree that I am a master at rationalizing things to cover up my many imperfections, yes?
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 