Balancing Act Hit by a Bout of Vertigo

I've felt this building up for months. A point where all understanding, comprehension and the will to think clearly get sucked into some huge black hole, which for some inexplicable reason - instead of sucking you in - keeps you teetering on the edge with a dramatic view of the inferno within.

My body is a reflection of what has happened to me - I am bloated, inert not just physically, but in the mind too. I can feel the mindscape closing in on all sides, shrinking sometimes to the point where the only left is a cry for a miracle. The pressure yields a pain that is all too physical to ignore and extends to those around me because it contaminates anything - a vibe, a word, a raised eyebrow - that escapes out of me.

The offspring and the spouse are out - will be for a couple of hours - and I feel marginally better. Was it this solitude that I wanted? Solitude without the accompanying list of chores that must be completedby a working mom who spends 11 hours away from home five days a week. There's something not right there - you are neglecting your duties, says a sudden blip from somewhere near my liver. My nostrils flare in response - right, like you don't know that doing those duties to the best of my abilities is what got us here in the first place. What about ME? I try talking to the spouse and I'm loudly reminded of sins of ommissions and commissions past. Try saying it applies to us both so can't we start afresh and all I get is "I'm too tired for all this." I'm tired, too. "You do it because you can." - the legend of the supermom is alive and kicking.

...So there I was, the supermom who spent a fair fortune on a beach resort vacation 8 months back, only to return horrendously dissatisfied because the spouse and offspring spent the day either at the beach or at the pool and the evenings eating or in front of the TV. And I was left - like a useless appendage, albeit one with the credit card to pay for everything - to go and explore the world that existed outside the resort. I was keen because I had lived there for a few years, gone to school there and wanted to take the offspring for a quick stroll down memory lane.

We've never been the drinking types - one drink in three months, sometimes a year - but the spouse has now given it all up, so there was no question of sitting at the open air bar in that expensive resort and listen to the lounge singers. No, it was the usual in-front-of-the-tv evening - made worse by the fact that there was no other room to escape to, and my bid to read and ignore my depressing surroundings was constantly interrupted by the offspring's senseless jabbering (sometimes cute, but not always) and the spouse's constant"So what should we order? Will...be enough?" The two refused to go out and try the real cuisine of the wonderful place we were in - so much tastier than the 'internatinalized' (read: bland) fare at the resort, and cheaper, of course.

The spa seemed too expensive to try out and having never been on a holiday of this sort before, I didn't know how to plan it out right. So I just went with the flow. Which was frustrating and depressing together.

One night, we were having dinner at one of the restaurants and I saw some folks at other tables - talking about things other than food and 'this is a nice, place'!! My brain floated out to those tables, yearning to meet new people, talk to them about something I could take away - just talk to someone else. My heart was completely untethered, disgustingly salivating at the men and women around us, smiling and talking, completely relaxed. I took a few deep breaths, told myself to accept the situation and make the best of it - like I do with everything else in life. Three-quarters of me listened to that plea, breathed in some resolve and crushed the one-quarter that was still rebelling...

...Enough of the dreaming says that blip, now moved from near my liver to the pit of my stomach. You have to make lunch - it's past 12.30. You already gave the spouse an ultimatum to give you a menu and he has.

It's for next week, idiot.

So what - get off your fat behind and cook...you've been lazy all morning.

Do the apple-cinnamon muffins I baked in the morning look like nothing to you? And the mashed potatoes

The offspring won't eat it and you know that - why couldn't you put chocolate in the cake.

Right, like that would have guaranteed that it would have been gobbled up. He has more than enough chocolate anyway.

The mashed potatoes - what are they supposed to eat it with?

I don't know any more!! I don't know anything about anything related to food and their preferences. It's not preferences anyway - it's all about what they f****** FEEL like eating at any given point in time.

You need help. The blip has now moved to my throat and is threatening to strangle me.

I gulp ineffectively. As usual, the argument is going nowhere. Time to dig out that old prescription and see if I can't ring for back-up.

Sometimes, not caring is important

No, there isn't any great moral story or philosophy encrypted in the title. It's just that I've had enough. Really. Just stopped caring about the 101 things that used to get me worked up. I'm ill, exhausted and not in any condition to take any more crap from anyone. This probably sounds evil but it was great to watch DH struggling with heating his dinner in the microwave.

It's 9 pm and my son hasn't done his homework yet. He's got plenty pending from last week when he couldn't attend school because he was ill. But every time I've asked him to do it, he starts to whine and cry and whatnot. So I told him that he was 6 years old now and getting the homework done before he went to sleep was his responsibility.

Here's one thing I do care about. I know that if I don't cook something tomorrow, my husband is not going to pack himself a sandwich. His boss is in town, so they'll either go to some swanky place for lunch or he'll order something from some shady joint. Problem is, there's gastro-enteritis epidemic in the area where is office is. So I'll rustle up something in the morning. It's not going to satisfy him, but I honestly do not have the patience or the energy to roll out any more rotis. Health over happiness. This is a man whose life revolves around eating well and sleeping well (I have it straight from the horse's mouth - in black & white, too.) So a little discomfort will do him well. A little rest will do me a lot of good. And frankly, I need to reclaim my sanity.

I haven't done one thing from that list I posted a couple of days back. Also forgot to buy my lens solution today. So I'm going to be squinting at the monitor at work tomorrow unless I can buy a bottle on the way to office.

More evil thoughts later. There's a sandwich I need to enjoy.

On strike in the kitchen

I knew I would do something like this sooner or later! And I've done it today. As of tomorrow morning, I'm not cooking. I'll probably put together the Poppet's milk (mix Bournvita with hot milk and sugar) but that's about it, I think. I need a break from the whole good-wife routine in the mornings. I can't stress myself out like this every morning trying to think of what to make and having to make 12 rotis even though my back is killing me from standing up.

Either we all need to sleep at least an hour early (oh Munchkin, when will you start to sleep by 10.30 at least?) or my DH needs to GROW UP and fend for himself. True, he's better around the house than a lot of other Indian husbands, but seriously, not being able to pack his own lunch box after I've done all the cooking is just plain dumb. No more spoonfeeding. And he needs to NOT switch on the computer first thing in the morning. Damn you Orkut and Cricinfo!

The worst part is that he still brags - yes, openly brags - about how he can cook for himself. Really? Well, I'd like him to survive on his own cooking for a week at a stretch (no ordering-in allowed) and see him keep his sanity. He hasn't cooked anything more than an egg in years. So this is going to be worth watching. Seriously. How many vegetable sandwiches is he going to eat?

For the past 3 years, I've listened to him rant about how his doc says he shouldn't eat out and done my best to ensure that there is something home-made to eat at home. I've been taunted and insulted and riled for my pains and I've had enough! He's just gone back to work now, so let him get his own food, too. That may sound nasty but really, he needs to learn to cook what he expects me to cook all the time. Or he needs to grow up and ADMIT he's a lousy cook. Hey, he doesn't even have to please the kid with his cooking. My mother is only too happy to take care of all the brat's meals. And the brat will be just as happy too.

So now, DH, let the challenge begin!