ODE TO A BLOODY CRAPPY DAY

A string of lousy days. Numbing cough cold meds. Crappy late nights monday morning blues. Groggy eyes parched throat. Early hour scramble scramble scramble. Groan, my baby has to be packed-off to her play-school. Why the shits is it so f**king cold in this part of our country? In november? November..........a fleeting image of Guns 'n' roses and men with long blond hair flashes in my mind..........my nails are turning blue. I've loved november all my life. I was born on the first day of this month. My whole family was born in this month. I don't want to ever feel blue in november. The love of my life is at some Godforsaken place where cellphones don't seem to draw signals, its his Birthday today, and I can't get to talk to him. Bummer. I've woken up blue.

7: 00 AM Am brushing my teeth, I notice the Goddamned geyser ain't coming to life. Side observation : I'm already having a Bad-hair Day. My little girl is attacking a stray lipstick on the dresser. rattles non-stop when I brush her teeth. She loves those bubbles.Chooses to become Tom ( yes, like all toddlers she's quite taken by Tom n Jerry ) while I am chasing her into her stockings, which means a struggle on all fours, pretending to be jerry, and graciously accepting an overslurpy, dramatised lick from her. I smile.

Her egg gets hard-boiled because I am busy trying to bring her and her Elmo-bag together. she promptly refuses it. Can't find my car-keys ( that's a first! ). Drop her to school in her pram, my legs buckling under me. Her teacher stares. The Ayah glares. A random mom sniggers. I stumble back home, today's doze of work-out done. Put a kettle of tea on the stove. Car needs fuel. I find keys in my purse, also confirm purse is devoid of money. Rush rush rush to the ATM hoping the car would take me to a fuel station. I hate Murphy. He makes me forget my pin-code. Numbers mumble jumble in my head. What's in my head? What's in my head? Zombie. . . . .Zombie......Cranberries. awesome purple, mauve Cranberry-juice. Stomach kicks at the thought. Forgot my breakfast. Holy mother of F%&* !!! I've left the tea boiling back home !

I want to yank my card out but its disappeared inside this buzzing screwed-up contraption. I wreck havoc. The guard steps in. He looks scared. Works his hesitant magic, one eye, wary on me. I rush back assess damage in kitchen. the kettle my aunt had generously gifted is a goner. I chuck it trying to tell myself some fengshui-crap about throwing away old things to make space for new. I try and recall what I was doing before this crisis. Search for the scrap on which I wrote all those pin-codes. Roll back to the ATM, grab the cash, silently scream MURDER at the guard. What the hell, I am having a bad day. My car flames out in the parking. I slump over the steering and blink.That freak guard smirks. I blink again. jackass, I'll break his face now.

11:00 AM Instead I walk back home. Frantically search for house-keys, knowing Murphy's riding my back. thank you, God, Thank you, ANGELS, they are in my jeans. I want to catch the gardener and send him with a jerry-can. The maid judiously informs me that the gardener has had a fainting-spell. He puked into the rose-bushes, she says. Needless to mention here, but I seriously seriously cringe. He drinks too much, didi, she adds. Bahut Daaru-Danga kartaa hai. Then she holds her palms out to display a gross mehendi design. Wierdo. Am squinting. My finer senses are offended beyond redemption. She wants the day off for a cousin's wedding. I just write-off my refueling troubles for tomarrow. It shall be another @#$# day.

1:00 PM My princess comes back bawling all the way from school...sigh ! school-rows. Samuel pulled her pigtails, it seems.Pat pat pat, feed her chagrined soul, pat pat her to sleep. I down cough-syrup down my throat. Conk-off nod-off.

6:00 PM Why does this garden look brown? The roses are feeling violated. Damn, an encounter with the nasty neighbour. Evil, evil woman. Her jealous heart makes me feeble. I crawl back in. A call from the big boss's wife. More crap to work through. A painful party is in store for the weekend. This entire week is a dead-end.

9:00 PM Maggie for dinner. With peas in it. I used to love this.

10:00 PM I can hear my servants quibbling in their quarters. Grunt. that's the bad thingy about winters in november. No fans to drown out whispers that have lost their way in the dark.

11:00 PM Nothing remotely decent on TV.......why in the raving hell am I reading this useless book? Arundhati Roy sucks, man.

Lights off.

ps: I am just disgusted.