Fifty Things I Do In A Day.

Someone recently asked me what I do all day. The stress was on the letter “what”, like what (on earth) do you do all day? I didn’t think he was worthy of an answer.

Here it is though. For you guys, who stop by and read me! Here are the fifty things I do in one typical day. If you can’t relate to them, that’s OK. At another time, I probably would not have either. This is for those who decided to lean out!

Here goes..

1. Wakeup, get the kids ready, shove food down their reluctant mouths, drop them to the bus stop/school.
2. Come back home. Have a cup of tea. Try and read the morning paper while thinking of a plausible excuse to not have lunch with your husband’s Taiji (aunt)
3. Cleaning lady saunters in. Attempt to get the house cleaned. Disapprove of her cleaning techniques. Pull around the furniture to prove your point. Dust the foot mat (because no one else will)
4. Attend to the doorbell. Sign for a courier. Put the magazine in the will-read-soon pile.
5. Come back in. Door bell again. It’s the garbage collector. The trash has not yet been tied up. Now it’s time to give the maid a sermon on the merits of preparedness.
6. Come back to read the paper. No better luck, door bell again. Take the milk man’s bill. Tell him to return for the money. You can’t give a definite time.
7. Think about lunch. What, possibly, could the kids eat without a fuss? It’s summer, there’s not much. Sigh. Wish you were in some office, doing some real work, talking to some real people. Miss the vacuous office banter that can be so uplifting.
8. Somehow work out a lunch menu that leaves out the spineless summer veggies like ghiya, tinda, kaddu, karela, parmal and tori (beats any analyst report, I can tell you that). Inform the maid of your brainwave (egg curry). Try and be calm when she tells you that you’re out of oil.
9. Rush to pick up the phone. It’s the tele-sales lady. Be firm in your refusal. You don’t want the magical Mutual Fund that will put you on the path to financial freedom.
10. Call the electrician. The AC has been gone for three days. Inquire about its whereabouts. Call him eight more times before he picks up and you explode.
11. No you can’t be calm. It’s freaking 42 degrees (107 degrees Fahrenheit)
12. Taiji (aunt) is calling. You don’t have a plan. Panic. Don’t take the call.
13. Think of something. Call her back and express deep dismay for missing the lunch. Yes, you don’t work, sure you could’ve come. Next time. Pucca promise.
14. It’s noon. You haven’t had a bath, the op-ed is lying open, the maid is hollering for oil, the driver has not turned up, the cleaning lady is sulking and it’s hot as hell.
15. You shut your eyes and take a deep breath
16. You give the maid money for the oil. And, oh, while you’re on the topic, the rice, butter, chocolate spread and cheese is almost finished as well. So are the organic eggs that are sold at the far-away grocery store. You hand her a wad of notes. She can walk to the market and get regular eggs, you’ll survive.
17. Now you can’t go for a bath because the maid is out and no one will be able to attend to the door. Some eight more couriers will arrive by the end of the day. Cash on delivery is a good idea when you’re ordering something, no so great when you are in the bath and the guy arrives wielding your precious packet.
18. While you wait for the maid, you read the paper. The cleaning lady now wants to clean where you are safely and most comfortably ensconced with the remains of your op-ed. She’s, however, in no mood to hang around. Fruit-fly genetics can wait.
19. You get up with a huff, but not a very irate one. You do want her to show up again tomorrow.
20. You move to another spot, finish off the op-ed.
21. The maid returns. Now you can have a bath. Hop in and hop out.
22. It’s almost time for the school-bus. But you have 15 minutes. Too early to leave, too late to start doing anything substantial. You wonder if you should read the article you abandoned yesterday or answer that e-mail. By the time you locate the paper, you’ve lost eight minutes. Now you can’t read with attention for fear of losing track of time and getting late for the bus stop. So you leave seven minutes early. Then you twiddle your thumb at the bus stop and wonder why you didn’t carry the paper with you.
23. Bus arrives, kids are home. What remains of the day can now be written off.
24. There’s some pressing issue with the homework. We need ribbons and stencils. Can’t we do without them? Use something else? Do they have to be ribbons? No, no and yes.
25. Sigh. Wish for frivolous office talk. If only..
26. It’s Tuesday. It’s piano day. She’s not practiced. There’s going to be a scene.
27. Yup. There’s a scene.
28. That out of the way, you can now leave for the piano class. Ok, you promise not to say anything to the teacher. For the last time.
29. Piano over. Homework beckons. Ribbons. Right.
30. Ribbons and veggies bought in one shot. Stencils were bought last week.
31. Everything is under control. We should make bed-time without a shout. Seems too good to be true.
32. It is. Turns out we also need chart paper. And glue. Not the regular glue. The real one. Whatever that is.
33. You explode. Defense is prompt. How was she to know we don’t have chart paper and real glue?
34. Back to the market.
35. Dinner will now be rushed. Not very conducive to overall peace.
36. Somehow the project is done. Dinner is wolfed down. Beds are made. Stories are read. Two are ready to sleep, one is not.
37. Negotiations and (no, not love songs. You wish) more negotiations.
38. Sigh.
39. So you put the others to bed. She stays up. Day is not over. You wish.
40. You emerge, half-asleep, from the dark room. You put up your feet and try to read. She wants to talk about school. So you do.
41. You put down your book. She tells you stories. This part you love.
42. Husband returns, tired, from work
43. Should we eat? She’s not asleep?
44. You eat. She sits with you, fighting sleep. The other two asleep in their beds.
45. Why can’t she sleep in time?
46. You don’t have an answer. You’re tired.
47. Dinner over. Now she wants to sleep. You don’t wan to go back in to put her to bed.
48. There’s a scene.
49. You hold your ground. You need your downtime.
50. What exactly is that?