How To Be A Morning Person - A Personal Experiment

Image Source: Thought Catalog

I am not a morning person. I wake up at about 7.45 am on a weekday and on weekends, well, let’s just say I don’t get to exchange morning greetings. Here’s why I am not a morning person. ‘Cos I usually wake up to a racing heart. Like I've already missed my morning bus. (Not that I have a bus to catch.) In my ideal world, the first fifteen minutes of the day would involve a sun salutation and morning kisses and a dramatic “It’s a new dawn” kind of curtain-sweep. This is what I tell myself every night when I resolve to reform my morning routine. In my actual world, I am swiping snooze about three times on my alarm and then addressing more alarming emergencies of my mind.

On a weekday, I wake up groggy with my left eye. That eye scrolls through social media while the right eye is deciding how to overpower the other with the ruse for a few more winks. A cursory look in the mirror. As expected, washed out.

And then my mind starts running.

“You know one of these days you should buy a night cream that elevates your morning look from toilet to passably regular. What are those funny kinks in your hair? Anyway, gotta get Saanvi to school. Yea, yea, she’s just in pre-school but school’s important. Must pack her a healthy snack. No, not another cheese sandwich. First, I need a strong brew of tea. But there’s no time for tea. And whatever happened to oil-pulling? Can I oil-pull at night? [Googles that.] Focus. You’re running late. Why hasn't the house-help showed up yet? Of course she’s not coming. What does she care? Only if you were more organized….Can I go back to sleep? Where are the bloody socks? One day, I'm going to have a meltdown cos of the damn socks! Sleep-deprived mum loses shit over a pair of socks. It’s possible. Why does she have to wear them anyway? Look at your cracked feet! You should wear socks at bed-time. Ooh you could get those cute kitty ones. Unlike her, YOU DO need socks. [Googles cat-print socks] Woman! You can do this later. We’re late. But why are you breathing so heavily? Is this a heart attack? [Types “Signs that you’re having…] Fuck no! You don’t have time for a heart attack!

And my mind goes on…

Some day, if I ever make it to the papers, they’re going to ask me for some wise morning routine advice. Sista, let me tell you now. I don’t have any. I still can’t tell when I should oil-pull or do stretches or take my vitamins. From the moment my day starts, all I deal with is fire-fighting level emergencies. Tiny details and chores that if missed, threaten to pull my day under.

And I realize that all I'm doing is getting through a normal day of a stay-at-home mum with some bits and scraps of writing jobs here and there. It’s not like I am managing multiple charities or feeding a million people, or saving dolphins or umm…fire-fighting. I talk fast. I eat faster. I don’t stop and chat thereby offending my neighbours. I am on the move even when I am at rest cos my mind’s either racing to the worst possible “What-ifs” or happy day-time fantasies that are entirely illusionary and have nothing to do with the present.

So you see the inside of my head is a confused battle-zone that doesn't quite know which side it’s on. As a close friend of mine once told me, “I'm my own worst enemy.”

When it gets too much, I escape to this fantasy involving a month long stay-cation. One fine day, I’ll hit the mountains alone in an idyllic cottage with just the right amount of people in the neighbourhood (I cannot handle being secluded) with enough money to survive, three changes of clothing, books and multiple bottles of shampoo and conditioner. There will be no wi-fi, no day commitments, no errands to run for others… I’ll write if I want. I’ll eat when I want. I’ll listen to music and go for long walks. I may even climb trees. I’ll clear my day of its mundaneness and reclaim whatever it is that is essential to being happy and in the moment.

But here’s the downer. I have no fuckin’ clue what makes me happy. I can pray for it all I want but I cannot define it.

I do know what makes me unhappy though. I guess it’s more or less the same things with everybody else.

• I don’t like being told what to do or how to feel. I like making my own mistakes and drawing up my own judgements and revoking them if needed.
• I don’t like nitty fault-pickings. Not just with me but with anybody.
• I don’t like worrying about everyday things like what to eat or drink or what to wear or how to impress someone.
• I don’t like feeling like I'm the only one going through the shit I go through. Cos I know for a fact that there are people who have it much worse.
• I don’t want to race to the top. I’d like the freedom to take my own time to get there. If at all.

So with that bit of wisdom unravelled, I thought I’d make some amends to my existing lifestyle. At best, it’s a personal experiment bordering on being a social one.

I
Skip the morning alarm (and snooze):

From tomorrow, which is a holiday here, and a perfect day to wake up to make-believe coffee from the hills of South America and smell the fuckin’ roses, I'm going to start my morning without being assisted by an alarm clock. Yea. You don’t need a godforsaken blaring alarm to remind you that you have a day ahead of you. Your body is enough for that. How does that make things better? Well, for one there’ll be no snoozing the alarm so you’re up the moment you open your eyes. Of course, I can’t go back to sleep, no matter what. I don’t know how this will pan out but we’ll see.

II
Find A Sleep Schedule

Which obviously means that at some point during the week, I’ll also figure that I need a somewhat consistently boring sleep schedule. I'm kind of a night owl cos my me-time begins after my daughter is safely lodged in her slumber land. So I won’t be forcing myself to go to bed early. But I won’t be stifling yawns to watch late night TV. Instead, I’ll read a slow-moving classic at bed-time cos I don’t want a gripping one to ambush my sleep-centre.

III
Stop With The Micro-Managing

My nerves may be jumpier than usual. So we need something for the nerves. The good ol’ letting the controls run loose. For the first few days, I’ll have no fixed human/super-human goals or food menu to achieve or errands to run. I’ll conquer the day as it comes. That can’t be good for the nerves you’d say? But I think there is a natural way to finding your rhythm and the first step to doing that is assuming you don’t have one. It can’t be from following the habits of most productive people cos well, everybody’s mind and body work differently. Sure, maybe I’ll figure that some things are not working or worlds are falling apart or I need more caffeine than usual.

IV
Control Caffeine Intake

Which brings me to the fourth part. There’ll be controlled caffeine consumption. What! I might as well give up on this whole bizarre Namaslay mumbo-jumbo, right? See with this death sentence right here, I don’t quite know if I'm going to make it through the week. But all I'm basing this on is some tenets of good living. I cannot, as a matter of habit, give up tea/coffee altogether. But I can get it down to two cups a day. The first cup of the day can be any time I choose but the second one will have to be before 6 pm. I could however flirt with other hot, sugarless pseudo-tea imposters in between meals like say cinnamon tea or lemon-grass tea or spearmint tea. (When I say tea, I mean hot water here.) I am more of a hot-beverage person so this may actually bail me out.

V
Eat And Hydrate

What will we be eating for the day? Anything at all we feel like along with the recommended eight-ten glasses of water. We’re more or less on the track of healthy eating already. We try to eat a balance of everything, including fruits. I don’t eat fried food. I don’t eat processed foods much. Serious. I don’t even like mayo or ketchup. I make my own dips and salad dressings and pasta sauces. Sometimes, I cheat with Maggi noodles but that is once in a blue moon when I don’t feel like cooking. I'm down to two small squares of chocolate in a day from wolfing down an entire bar. So I am leaving the pantry open for the sake of my sanity and with the blind faith that I don’t have an eating disorder... For the first few days, we won’t follow a set meal-schedule. I have a feeling we will arrive at the most optimal one in time.

VI.
Amp Up Exercises

Now, I'm assuming with all that, I should be able to gain back lost time to binge-watch the shows I've missed on Netflix or go on spontaneous dates with the hubby. Wishful thinking that. So what are we doing with the extra time? I'm going to try and amp up my exercise routine. Right now it’s about twenty minutes of yoga. So to that, there will be an added routine of moderate cardio and skipping. I’ll go slow and see if it makes me super-human any time soon — I’d settle for a smiler version of me. And I hope that the extra endorphins translate to more quality human interactions.

VII
No Gossip, no slander:

But socializing comes with its own cautionary levels of slandering and mean gossip and ill-founded comparing and spiralling into negatives. I have noticed that most of my conversations of late have revolved around that. As a result, my poetry is grim. So I'm introducing a curb. Whatever is going on in the head rarely translates into reality. Your worst fears have not yet happened. Your empty head is just killing time by drawing irrational conclusions. Unfortunately, I have no control over what happens in my head, only my words. So for this week, there will be no gossip or slander. No “He did what?” or “What was she wearing?” Unless it’s really gnawing at me from the inside and occupying all of my mind. I'm going to try and channel my free mind-space into creating something or discussing ideas or writing more poetry. I'm also going to try and explore the much-fussed about “good in everyone”.

I'm drinking my second cup of tea as I write this down. In between laying the table for breakfast and getting off the phone with an old friend. My mind is surprisingly still cos I have this seemingly genius plan to reset my mornings and my lifestyle. Everything seems perfect.

And yet, there’s a new dawn to dread, when it all really begins.

Stay with me to know how I made it through this week. And if at all, at the end of the road, I'm going to find a morning person :).

If you enjoyed reading this, please slam some motivational hearts back at me :).

XOXO
Shalini

We're Not Moving...Yet Again (And Why I Think I May Be A Cat)

The month of May is especially a promising one for my family. It's one that hurls in a lot of changes in our vanilla existence, in terms of vacations, family bonding, foreign travels, exotic soirees, you know the works of social media prosperity. But there's one seemingly annoying upheaval that we find ourselves dealing with as we approach May. No, I'm not hinting at wedding anniversaries or the idea of being an old-er married couple. Anniversaries packaged in a travel diary are indeed one of my favourite things. To be able to see each other without gunky pores and crazy hair, in a brand new context, in a cleaner aura, is probably why marriage takes an exciting turn for us this time of year (well, at least for me).

May, as it happens, is also moving time, the biggest and baddest of beasts. The year-long lease for our apartment in Mumbai expires in May. We get an awkward yearly visit from our landlady who probably, for the life of her, cannot understand why we choose to stay on year after year in an apartment, which has been slowly crumbling into a shamble. It all started when my stiff-lipped, compact, two-bedroom house also added to its repertoire, inartistic clouds of seepage on the ceiling in various places. The grim clouds of peeling cement loomed over us as if hissing "It's time to let go." And in case I forgot to look up and cringe at the horror of it all, I was showered with some rather ill-timed concrete droppings on my freshly-shampooed hair every now and then. So, except for the lovely cross-ventilation that makes you feel you're standing on top of a cliff, there's no reason to continue living in this house really.

Nevertheless, we sort of developed a pattern of moving away from house-moving in five easy steps.

I. First was a step towards a new house, a fresh start. We start by loathing everything about our current situation - the damp patches, the over-crowded rooms, the lack of storage spaces... Add to that a visit from Liz the lizard every now and then and I was ready to move in with my neighbours that very moment.

II. The second step was proactive measures to look for a house. Telling brokers, friends, gatekeepers, Saanvi's four-year old friends, the lady with cats who looked like she could swing a knife at us, to intimate us about a "prosperous" house that we can potentially move into.

III. The third step was making it official. Telling everyone we know, including our house help (you know, to save her from the inconvenience of turning up one day and figuring out that we've moved to a new location) that we are indeed moving out. Soonish.

IV. The fourth step was the first giant step back. It was like a sudden infatuation  - you know the temporal state of falling irrevocably in love with someone and realizing no other person, however well he/she orders his/her wine, is good enough. So either the other prospective houses were not high-rise enough or the direction wasn't right or they came with their own set of baggages or absurd statutes.

V. The fifth one, the one that got us to renew our lease with the "I couldn't give a shit either way"  landlady, was a combination of nostalgia and well, the fact that moving is a huge pain in the you-know-what.

And so we renewed the lease to our apartment yet again. 

And as wise and insightful that decision may have been, it also woke me up to an alarming discovery.

Oh my god, there's a teeny-tiny possibility that I'm a freakin' cat! Sidenote: I hate cats.

OK, I realize this is going a bit off-track. I don't mean it like "Hey I'm a cat trapped in a human body and I'm going to get fake whiskers and oh, I'm also going to start meowing and purring." You see, staying away from home for almost a month made me really think about why I may have strong feline traits. Even though I still strongly maintain that cats are manipulative jerks. (And I think I'm still miles away from level 'pure evil'.)

Here's the thing. I hate moving. Sure I could be lazy. But I'm pretty territorial. So even in my house, I have my very own Sheldon spot. It's this corner with floor cushions that gets fresh monsoon breeze and has got a lil side-rest and a wide view of Saanvi's playroom positioned in such an angle that I can see what she's up to from an askance glance while watching TV.

And here are a couple of other reasons why I may be a cat (If you're still reading):

 A. I have mood swings (Like really dopey ones)

Yea, one minute I'm in so much love with you that I'm following you around everywhere, even on Instagram...The other minute, I want to literally tear you apart (or shave your head). I can't explain it. And from what I gather (from Garfield and friends with cat pets), you don't want to rub 'em the wrong way. Unless, you want some voodoo glances thrown your way with under-the-breath chants, "Die...just die!"

B. I am lazy (Du-uhh)

I mean sure, I am managing to run a house and stopping my baby from jumping out of my high-rise apartment and feeding my family four-square meals. And let's not forget, I am still writing. But I need naps to get through my day. Ask me to sacrifice one and you know, you're headed back to dealing with A. Yea, at least five days of the week are about hitting the snooze button and curling up in a ball with my tail between my legs. Figuratively. 

C. I like being pampered and doted over unnecessarily

Yea, sure I find the "beholden to nobody.", "I can get the door myself, thank you" ideal very inspiring and I am still striving to be that kind of woman in real life. (Must learn driving.) But I like it when someone offers to carry heavy things for me. I live for breakfasts in bed. I love people washing my hair for me or getting a back rub from my man. And from what I hear, cats need a lifetime of belly rubs and vain fussing-over and even then they'd look like you had the entire slice of chocolate mud cake in front of them without offering them a bite.

D. I am a wallflower

I am a cat married to a dog. My husband lights up at having company (even though he has obnoxiously high/weird standards.) Dogs are sociable, right? I mean if you throw them a ball, they'd throw it right back at you and nudge you to go on. They'd stick their tongues out in roaring laughter. They'd circulate at parties, sharing tried-and-tested dog humor and cool one-liner comebacks that gets everyone cheering them wildly. Cats? Not so much. You'd find them sitting in a corner at a party with someone safe...probably another cat. When cats like you and they wanna say they miss you when you're gone, they'd probably pretend nothing's changed when you get back. Or show you an awful temper. What they're not likely to do is throw you a surprise party.

And I totally get that.

So, to conclude, we're not moving. And from my self-psychiatric analysis, it looks like while I call myself a dog person, I am a cat. A self-loathing one moreover.

I have to say it is not looking very promising.

Image Source:

Gemma Correll Illustrations

Andertoons

Love, Blossoms And Butterflies - In a Bowl of Pasta

If shoes, romance and opera weren't the first things that came to your mind when you heard the word Italian, it's fair to presume you were thinking straight from the gut. (Football lovers...no offense.) The thing that came to my mind (before pizza and Italian hotties) was pasta.

Sure, I may be reading the room wrong here but maybe it's time to profess my love out loud. I LOVE pasta! In a million ways. I love it to every chunk of tomato, every velvety string of mozzarella, every crumble of pesto and to every splash of wine! Let's face it. There's something in it for everyone. Kids love it for cheese. Adults love it for healthier versions of flavor-bursting sauces (and cheese). And cooks... May I speak for all cooks when I say there's no greater joy in cooking a memorable pasta? There's not a single cook I know who doesn't have a go-to pasta recipe. I can cook Arrabbiata on auto-pilot. I can cook a Jain version of it with pantry basics and fresh tomatoes and it'll just taste as great.

Of late, however, I have this inexplicable wanderlust which is leading me to kitchen experiments like never before. So, in an attempt to take my bowl of pasta around the world, I thought of playing a little cupid and getting a bit of Moroccan 'swag' to my red sauce. I mean, it should be a marriage made in pasta heaven. Italy and Morocco are both Mediterranean in essence, right?

So how did I bring a twist to my pasta sauce to tone down that fiery rouge and give it that rosy 'first love' kind of blush instead?
I may have given the answer away, you know.

Farfalle in creamy rose-harissa sauce with pine nuts, sun-dried tomatoes and feta cheese.

This sauce combines the flavors of grilled smoked chillies, ripe tomatoes and rose petals to give you a wonderfully balanced, unusually refreshing flavor. The thing is I make harissa regularly, the lazy cook that I am. Harissa happens to be this inventive North African dip that goes with everything - bakes, grilled veggies, pan-fried fish. And this lovely rose petal harissa, inspired by a Jamie Oliver recipe, is one that elevates even your plain-jane grilled something-something to a smoky, swanky delight.

So I thought, you know, what's the worst that can happen if I swirl it into a bowl of pasta?

And it blew our minds! Butterfly-shaped pasta immersed in a sauce blended with ripe, juice tomatoes and fresh fragrant blossoms of rose petals with spicy, smoky hints of chilli. I reinvented it with cream and feta cheese for a pinker-looking sauce. Besides, the creaminess of Feta mellows down the fiery temper of chilli. Add to that the earthy crunch of toasted pine nuts and the playful, tangy notes of sun-dried tomatoes and you have yourself an irresistible recipe. There's butterflies, there's blossoms and there's cheese. Coupled with a glass of sparkling wine, this one's sure to make your hearts flutter.

OK, maybe I'm overselling it a tad. But if I've piqued our curiosity enough, here is the recipe. Feel free to control the heat level to your delight.

(Note: You can stock up on the Harissa and store it in the refrigerator to be used later. It stores well for up to two weeks.)

Farfalle in Creamy Rose-Harissa Sauce with Pine Nuts, Sun-dried Tomatoes and Feta Cheese
Serves: 3 (Preparation Time: 1 hr 30 minutes.)

What You Need:
300 gms Del Monte Farfalle pasta
Feta Cheese - 1/4 cup grated
Fresh Cream - 1/4 cup
Sun-dried tomatoes  - 1/2 tablespoon
1/4 cup Pine Nuts - toasted till fragrant (You may also substitute with walnuts)

For the Harissa Sauce:
4 ripe tomatoes, quartered
6-7 fresh red chillies (broken)
4 cloves garlic (unpeeled)
Olive Oil - 5-6 tablespoons
Sea Salt
Coarsely ground pepper
2 teaspoons cumin
1 teaspoon coriander seeds
1 teaspoon paprika
A handful of rose petals, washed
4 tablespoons rose water
2 tablespoons caster sugar
A splash of red wine vinegar
Extra Virgin Olive Oil

For Garnishing:
Rose Petals
Parmesan Cheese - slivered
Parsley - chopped

Method:
I. Harissa Sauce Preparation
1. First, make the harissa sauce. Preheat the oven to 160 degrees C. On a baking tray, spread the tomatoes, cut side up, along with fresh red chillies and unpeeled cloves of garlic. Drizzle generously with olive oil and sea salt. Roast in the oven for an hour.

2. After an hour, remove from the baking tray and set aside to cool. De-seed the chillies and peel the garlic. I already de-seeded mine before putting them in the oven to control the heat.(You can also place them under water to get the seeds out.)

3. Blend together cloves of garlic and chillies until roughly chopped. Now toss in coriander seeds, cumin seeds, paprika, salt and pepper. Blend until smooth.

4. Then, add the tomatoes, rose petals, rose water and sugar. Pulse briefly so you get specks of tomatoes and rose petals in your sauce.
Note: Roses are in plenty, no doubt. But you want to make sure your roses are chemical-free. I got mine from an aunt's flower pot. Opt for edible dried rose petals otherwise.

5. Transfer to a bowl and mix in a splash of red wine vinegar and extra virgin olive oil. Your harissa is now ready.

Special Tip: For more fragrant, deeper flavors, make it the night before using it for your pasta.

II. Pasta Preparation:
1. Bring a large pan of water seasoned with a generous amount of salt and two tablespoons of olive oil to boil. When the water reaches boiling point, drop Farfalle pasta into it. Cook according to the pack instructions until al dente.

Note: Al dente really means you want to have a soft texture when you bite into it but it has to meet with an ever-so-slight resistance when you chew. (As opposed to just melting away.)

2. Drain onto a colander and refresh immediately with cold water. The reason you do that is when your pasta gets to this immaculate state, you don't want the heat to cook it any further. Drizzle with olive oil and leave aside for five minutes.

3. In a wok, heat some olive oil. On a moderately high flame, add the harissa sauce. Stir in cream until it turns a lovely coral orange. Blend well.

4. Now toss in farfalle with sundried tomatoes and toasted pine nuts and grated feta cheese. Toss vigorously on high flame for 2-3 minutes until the cheese starts to melt and the sauce is well-infused.

5. To serve, finish with a drizzle of extra virgin olive oil and a garnish with parsley. Decorate with rose petals and slivers of parmesan.

If you like this recipe, you're going to love a host of innovative, lip-smacking pasta recipes as offered by Del Monte on:

https://www.facebook.com/DelMonteIndia

Bon Appetit!

The Karmic Kaam-wali Bai Connection

I woke up earlier than usual today. With a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. Not sure what the day's promising but I know for one that there'll be a bigger to-do list of things to accomplish. One that may run into a second page, actually. The first place I go to when I wake up every day, like every other woman immersed in housewifery I suppose, is the kitchen. Whoops! Am I in the wrong house? Did the elves not show up last night? You know the ones who magically scurry through my kitchen at night, clean the dishes and conspicuously tuck them away out of plain sight, organize all the cookware in the order it is to be used, perfume my squeaky-clean kitchen in lavender (with a hint of fresh lime), and in general assured me that they're on top all the gory grossness that can multiply like rabbits if left unsupervised. Oh, that's right! My maid's on leave today and that's why I'm here. To manage the ugly mess before getting into the domestic goddess groove and doing everything else that I love.

Deeply lamenting the absence of my personal God-sent Jeanie, I slowly inch forward, in an ascending order of disgust levels, to absorb the astonishing exhibits of the remains of the previous night's exotic fare (not looking quite as sharp now). Every now and then, I am introduced to this revelationary sight, only to be followed by meticulous planning on how I can get my kitchen more organized and welcoming, especially the next morning. That said, I'm not a very organized person and I don't really plan ahead and I wish, to all the harmless neuroses that I have, I could also add OCD. Atleast that way, I could elevate the out-of-bed morning look of my kitchen from toilet to passable attractiveness. Of course, for the next few days, I'll have fits of absurd cleanliness expectations and I'll do everything in my power to have no more pucker-faced broccoli florets staring at me from under the cooking range in the morning. But then it just doesn't stick. I do try to reclaim every little shred of normalcy in the way my house appears, but then everything seems to go out the window the moment we get new things for Saanvi. I may constantly shuffle and dislodge and buy new crap to hold my old crap all I want, but my compact 2-bedroom house, maintaining its stiff upper lip, isn't very hospitable to new additions. So, after exhausting all my laundry bags, under-the-bed and over-the-wardrobe spaces, I reach a point when I don't know where anything goes and resort to tuning off the out-of-control chaos that has now become the order of the day. 

I may be one of the moms who make religious efforts to look like they didn't pop out a baby yesterday, who're constantly experimenting in the kitchen to dish out chef-like culinary treats, who take up arts and crafts projects once in a while, like maybe making holiday cards, who spend a good deal of time grooming and accessorizing their babies and ensuring they're well-behaved but unfortunately, I'm not the mom who dwells for long on cleaning.

However, I do make it a point to put things out of the way if:

• they're actually in my way 
• pose a threat to Saanvi (My house in that sense is fairly babyproof)
• they're books (cos I can't stand seeing books disorganized) 

 But things that will have to try harder to get my attention are: 

• Clothes - if they're out of the wardrobe, either somebody wears them, or they go get washed, or they're stashed away in one of the many bags that I'm collecting to be given to charity, or they just sulk on the makeshift laundry table like a bunch of homeless outcasts until they get the sympathy vote.
• Dishes - I like to make it look festive while I'm cooking so there'll be loads of colorful dishes posing as buffers, tasting spoons and measuring cups. But the minute I'm done cooking, I tend to forget all about them. Working on it!

Well, as you know, that is enough to breed epic chaos, not to mention dust bunnies and indecipherable clutters of functional stuff neglected for too long. 

Which is where my awesome, wonderful, giving, WHIZ of a maid comes in. I adore her to bits, mostly  because of the infectious smile and energy she carries that magically turns everything around, sort of like in cartoons. Apart from her usual chores of giving my house a much-needed facsimile of order and serenity, she does a little bit of everything else from pacifying baby Saanvi in the peak of her high-pitched tantrums to altering my old clothes (Read widening). Next, and also awesome is the fact that she makes these super-soft, fluffy chapatis that I can never get my hands on exactly the same way. She's a freaking steal and God am I grateful! She's not even close to the stereotypical "Itne paise mein itna ich milega" Mumbai kaamwali bai and I know how intimidating and mean they can be through previous experience. Life can be cruel when you have an unreliable, calculating maid. In fact, it can revolve around them.  I even know of people who have their vacations based on when their maids go on an unwarranted, extended leave. So I guess I really lucked out. (Knock on wood!)

Over time, we've developed a somewhat symbiotic relationship with each other. Well  you see, I can't do without her and she absolutely adores my daughter and in a way, we've also become friends. So, until my guilt catches up and I feel like I'm lagging far behind the exalted supermom image lurking somewhere in my social consciousness, let me say a prayer. God almighty, while every other department in my life may need some improvement or reassessment and while I continue to work on my laid-back attitude, mood swings and inattention to details, in the maid department, may nothing ever change...God, no!