Ramblings of a deranged housewife

My life in a chick-lit novel

*Almost all incidences are true but have been exaggerated and timelines blurred for literary (cough, cough) purposes.

It was an incessant, almost annoying buzzing, which woke me up.
I quickly turned my head to seek the source of noise and immediately wished I hadn’t, as my head went into a tail spin.

*Oh I am never drinking again* thoughts.

I switched off the alarm with a thwack and prayed for the room to stop spinning.

I gingerly crawled out of bed. My mind on nothing but taking care of my parched throat. But I had to brush, gargle, floss, rinse and repeat first.

It was times like these I wished I wasn’t so anal about dental health.

“Water, water, water,” I croaked to my unresponsive fridge. After downing a whole bottle, I felt marginally better. I exaggerate. The water just about made it possible for me to open my bleary eyes, to face sunlight almost directly.

**More of I am never ever drinking ever again.

As I waited for the coffee to percolate, I glanced at myself in the mirror and grimaced and wished I hadn’t, looked at myself in the mirror that is.

My always-unmanageable hair was even worse, and was sticking out at ends. I had raccoon eyes from going to sleep without removing my make-up and my skin was already looking weathered and pimply from lack of sleep and ‘possibly’ too much alcohol.
As I fixed my coffee I heard my phone going off somewhere in the distance. A mad scramble around the house and I found it in the laundry hamper.

I am still too befuddled to try and figure out how it got there.

“Hello,” I croaked grumpily. I think it’s rude to call people when they’re asleep or just waking up. And yes 11.00 is too early in the morning.

Some people were just plain inconsiderate.

“Hey,” my husband answered chirpily.

This day was steadily going downhill, I hate happy people in the morning.

“What?” I growled ungraciously.

Small pause, as if he was choosing his next words carefully, which he probably was.

“Sweetie,” he ventured, “I tried waking you up but you wouldn’t get up and I was getting late for a meeting...” Pregnant pause.

He continued courageously, “I just wanted to remind you that you have a meeting in an hour. You have to interview Mr.X, I think at Taj you had mentioned...” he tapered off lamely waiting for the explosion he knew was coming.

“Holy mother of **&^%$#. WTF, why didn’t you wake me up? Why aren’t you here? Why the &^%# did you let me drink so much...?”

He waited patiently, as one who has been through this before would, for me to finish.

“OMG I don’t have time, I don’t have clothes, I have to get my hair done. OMG, OMG, OMG.”

“Okay sweetie, talk to you later. Drink plenty of water.”

I stood still for a second, contemplating what the most resourceful and efficient course of action would be.

Cancelling the appointment was my first option.

Against my better judgment I called Mr.X’s PA.

“Well actually it’s too late to cancel now. Mr. X has cleared the morning (the morning my ass, he was giving me half an hour) just for your interview. And there is no way we can reschedule, if you want the interview it has to be done now...”

Snooty bitch I thought.

“Fine,” I simpered, “just wanted to check. I will reschedule my dental surgery. No worries. Thank you. I will be at the Taj at 11.00.”

“Will see you then. Do be on time, Mr. X doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” And with that the snooty bitch cut the call.

I downed the coffee and jumped into the shower. When I say jumped I mean gently stepped in, as quickly as my throbbing head and roiling stomach would permit.

***Oh if I ever see alcohol again it will be too soon.

Shampoo-lather-condition-rinse and repeat.

Yeah okay so I am anal about my hair follicles as well.

I was getting out of the shower, when the bell rang.

“Oh you gotta be friggin’ kidding me,” I mumbled to myself as it continued tolling incessantly. I grabbed the crumpled T-shirt from off the bed, dragged on a pair of boxers and ran to the door, my hair soaking wet.

I was praying it wasn’t one of the neighbours complaining about the excessive noise last night.

Should I deny it or grovel and apologise. My mind was still wrestling with the options when I opened the door to find my house owner waiting, smilingly.

I stood smiling at her, fake and nervous. She looked on expectantly.

Should I just apologise for last night?

“Sorry about...”

She cut me off, “Is the rent cheque ready?”

Oh!

Shit. I remember my husband had given me the cheque two days ago to pass it on her. He had dropped it off last month, so this month it was my turn.

Dammit. Where had I put it?

“Please come in...”

Shit why did I invite her in? There were empty beer bottles piled pyramid-high and cigarette butts on the floor and the smell of stale take-away food hung in the air.
Oooh nausea again, don’t think about it.

“Please have a seat. The cheque is right here...I was meaning to drop it off yesterday, but...”

I stopped myself quickly. Didn’t want her to focus about yesterday and then I noticed a big fat brown stain on the wall.

Double shit. Some drunk friend had spilled rum and coke on the walls. I remember now.

He was doing this dance, hilarious actually, when he had tripped, fallen on this other girl and the contents from his glass had spewed everywhere.

Funny...I thought smiling to myself. I love drunken Fridays.

“Errr, N? The cheque,” she asked looking concerned.

“Oh sorry, I have a tooth ache,” I said feeling rather ingenious, remembering what I had told snooty bitch earlier.

I went to my bag. Dug out my wallet and removed a crumpled cheque from inside. I tried my best to smoothen it out and then handed it to her with an extra sweet smile as if a cheque looking like used tissue was normal.

I was still dripping wet when she left...in a hurry.

A quick blow dry and I slipped into comfortable jeans and a white shirt.

My work clothes are a no brainer-I have to wear my jeans, I live in them-and a white shirt is the only thing that helps maintain a modicum of professionalism.

I now had 15 minutes to be at the Taj and I was online trying to find my subject’s last name.

So I am disorganised. Also I hate my job, so I try and put in as little effort as possible. The only reason I agree to do it, is the money, which is actually pretty good, considering I only have to work for a couple of weeks a month and I get to work from home.

Which basically means I get to spend the whole day sleeping, watching bad TV and catching up with friends and get paid for the last-minute, late night scrambles in front of the computer.

It’s a sweet enough deal, but just not on weekends.

On this fine Saturday, when I should be uncomfortably nursing a bad hangover, I was stuffing my water bottle into my bag, along with a packet of cookies (breakfast on the go), searching the house for a pen that would work.

I finally got Mr.X’s last name, and little bit of his background –oh he plays the guitar-and putting the finishing touches on my face, to make it look a little less...hung over.

I stuffed everything into my already bulging bag, grabbed my phone and made my way to the auto stand, all the while slurping water noisily.

Obviously there were no autos at the auto stand...but of course.
I waited impatiently.

Soon one enterprising auto fellow rode by in his trusty vehicle.

“Taj? Nungambakkam? Rs.150.”

“Whaaaaaaaaaaat. Only Rs.60.”

“What madam? To Gemini itself Rs.100.”

“Po ya,” I replied confidently and walked on.

I had better luck with the next one.

The ol’ chap agreed to take me there for Rs.70.

Sucker

Me, not him.

I had 5 minutes to be there and the ol’ chap was driving so carefully, arthritic old ladies and drunk cyclists were overtaking us.

I sighed resignedly and drank more water.

The jostling was making me queasy. I stuffed a few cookies down my throat.

The rocking motion was also making me sleepy. I had slept for a mere three hours.

****Oh Lord. No more parties, and never in my entire life will I ever drink again.
Let lightning strike me dead otherwise. (I crossed my fingers the last second...just in case).

I reached Taj a good twenty minutes later.

I paid the auto fellow, Murugan, gave him an extra fifty bucks. His wife was in hospital. Seriously.

I was not looking forward to meeting Snooty bitch to explain my tardiness.

I patted my hair down and put on the brightest smile a hangover could muster and walked forward to meet Snooty Bitch. She was impeccably dressed, her hair clipped neatly at the back, no hint of flyways and lips tightly compressed in a state of perpetual annoyance.

Snooty bitch-her parents had named her rather aptly.

At least she wasn’t sunshiny. Angry, frustrated people I can deal with.

After introductions, in which she didn’t even attempt to crack a smile, she made me sit in the waiting area. A cup of coffee and biscuits found its way in front of me, which I overenthusiastically accepted and started working on.

I should ideally be working on my questions, or at least get out my pen and paper and emulate professional behaviour.

But I was too hung-over to care and the biscuits were delicious.

After waiting for forty minutes, there was still no sign of the punctual Mr.X.
After another 15-minute wait I was feeling decidedly sick...too many biscuits, now marinating in alcohol, too little sleep and excessive fluid intake, which was making me rather uncomfortable.

As I was just about to beat a hasty retreat, Snooty bitch called me in. Mr.X had arrived after all. Of course.

“Could you just give me a second to freshen up?” I ventured rather boldly.

“I was hoping you would interview him first. I guess I could get the other reporter to go in first...”

“NO,” I shouted. I could not wait around any longer. By bladder would have to. Oh well.

The room was rather plush. Mr.X himself was by the window, talking furtively on the phone, promising to discuss things with his caller in person...in London...next week.
He said all this rather wearily.

(I am extremely jealous/envious/hateful of people who travel the world so much that going to London for a meeting was actually taxing.)

I decided I hated Mr.X.

Then he noticed me. Apologised for his delay. “The charity walk started late...” Was super charming and insisted I have a cup of coffee and asked me about my background.
I hate it when people do that. Not that I don’t like talking about myself, because I do. Because they seem to be judging whether I am worthy of interviewing them.

Could just be my bias.

Rich, travels, does a background check and does charity work...

More hating!

(#@$%)

Was feeling decidedly discomfited.

I stumbled through the interview.

I asked some penetrating questions. “What is your favourite food? Our readers would love to know.”

After more such insightful queries, (which now touched on his favourite songs and most memorable childhood moment) and a number of speed bumps, where I tried to not focus on my now full-blown, throbbing headache, I got through the interview in a about 20 minutes. I usually try and stretch it to about an hour at least although five minutes is usually all I need, but today it was not physically (literally) possible.

As I hurried out, with no gracious platitudes to Snooty Bitch I checked my phone and saw three missed calls from the husband and a text to call him ASAP.

But first things first...ladies room.

When I finally called the husband back he was sounding worried, which he never does, unless it has something to do with his car.

It seems ‘we’ had forgotten about the lunch in a relative’s place.

So he had to either back out of a promised family lunch or coax a sleepy, hung over, cranky me (bad combination) into sitting through a family lunch.

I cursed and then cried...he promised to make it up to me.

I am such a pushover.

I agreed to meet him at said relative’s place in 15 minutes.

It’s not that I didn’t want to have lunch with family, it’s just that I wasn’t sure I could manage to do so. The decibel levels were already quite high when I entered.
I endured various forms of “Any good news” kind of questions. One relative was quick and happy to point out that my biological clock was ticking.

I smiled through it all.

Then the table got filled with tons of food and food smells.

I excused myself, threw up as quietly as possible in the loo and hurried out.

So much better. Ate tons of food. Kept going for a refill.

No one said anything. But between the throwing up incident, which I thought no one was aware of, and the generous portions I was heaping on my plate, everyone looked delighted and knowing at my impending “good news”.

I was too tired to kick up a fuss. They just added my mellow, non-protesting, not- fighting-for-the-principle -of- things self to their slightly slanted perceptions.
If only they knew.

As the lunch wore down, I was looking decidedly sleepy and grumpy, when the suddenly-perceptive husband decided it was time to say goodbye.

I was only looking forward to my bed, nothing more.

But the car stalled half-way, when we stopped to grab a Red-bull for me. I ended up pushing the damn thing...middle of the friggin’ road...feeling headachy and sick. If only instead of hung over I was ‘good newsed’ I wouldn’t be pushing the damn car.
I gave it a kick for good measure, the not-perceptive-anymore husband didn’t notice my token protest at the exploitation.

It was close to 4 when we reached home. I was dreaming of a warm bath, and a long, luxurious, mind blowing nap. My bed, I could see in my mind’s eye, with its cool, crisp sheets and soft mattress, never looked more inviting. I was just a few more steps from heaven.

Then the phone rang. My mother. Wanting to know if I was on the way to pick her up yet. We had to be at my cousin’s birthday in half hour.

I am not embarrassed to say I screamed. We turned the car around, picked up my mother, and went for the birthday party.

More high-decibel squeals.

Lots of people...and kids...
And food and chocolate cake.

“Any good news?” a well-meaning guest asked pointedly.

Here are the options that ran through my still slightly-buzzed mind.

“I am infertile.”

“Because of my excessive drinking doctors have advised me against populating the earth.”

“No.”

“Take me to your leader...”

I smiled and laughed coyly yet dismissively.

Damn convent school manners! Schools should teach us how to flip people effectively in social settings not how to act like Cotillion debutantes.

Bleh!

The earlier regurgitation and the subsequent and consistent intake of food, topped by decadent chocolate cake had completely obliterated all side-effects and presence of alcohol.

My vision was no more blurred, sounds were clearer, colours brighter...the world...well it still sucked, but now I had the stomach to handle it.

Sobriety lent itself to handling sleep deprivation better, when someone innocently suggested a game (charades I think) I did not tear them apart, just gently chewed them out.

Aah my peace and good humour was restored.
When we finally headed out, it was close to midnight.

“Where you going?” I asked chirpily, well okay not chirpily, but without a snarl, which is kinda the same thing.

“Err...home,” he said, with a tinge of query/confusion in his voice, not knowing if it was a trick question.

“It’s a Saturday night,” I pointed out, with a “duh” for effect.

“I thought you were tired.”

“Yeah, I’m tired not a 102.”

Pause.

“Besides it’s a Saturday night.”

“Beer?” he asked sportingly.

Another night, another drink.

Another hangover?

Well tomorrow is another day after all.

(Chapter two will be out [almost] soon.)