Monday, March 27, 2006

I think it's perfectly clear, we're in the wrong band

Hey moms!

Remember when you and dad were on a tear about the arranged marriage dealio? Okay, maybe not a tear. Maybe more furtive suggestions. Anyway, those were some good times, weren't they? Remember how all the mamas kept harassing you about their poor, spinstress niece? I felt kind of badly for you, until you inevitably took it out on me in the form of lectures about getting my act together.

Sorry, I am rambling, taking this stroll down nostalgia avenue. It's just that- remember that one time you called and complained about all the uncles and aunties lecturing you about getting your daughter married off? And remember how I told you I just didn't think the whole arranged marriage thingamajob was for me? Remember what you said next? Remember, you said, "Honestly, I would not even try it. Because what man looking for an arranged marriage would want to marry someone like you?"

Yeah. Well, I am writing you the words you thought you would never read coming from your daughter. I am writing to inform you that, mom, you were absolutely, 100% right. I know you never thought you would live to see the day that your daughter ever admitted she was in the wrong. Then again, I didn't disagree with you then, so technically, I am not admitting I am wrong, just that you are right. But even that is progress, isn't it?

You are probably wondering how I reached this revelation. I did not crack my head on the sidewalk, or go on a vision quest after taking peyote, so there is no cause for alarm, mom. No, I just had to square with the reality this weekend that I would make the sh*ttiest housewife on this continent and possibly on all others as well. Yes, I know that was bad language, but I think it might be the best adjective to really capture how bad of a housewife I would make, mom.

I know that your curiosity is piqued. You are still wondering how I knew with such certainty. After all, I am pretty headstrong, a know-it-all, and I do tend to think I can do whatever I want. But I have evidence. First, I went to my friend Oodles' house to watch a movie with some friends. And, since I tried to be a good Indian daughter for a change, I thought I should bring something. That something was a chocolate meringue pie. At least, it was a meringue pie, until I walked to oodles' place and took off the pretty part of the meringue topping, and it became a congealed goop pie with chocolate goop underneath.

That was bad, but it was not the worst. You could pass it off as an experimental error. Everyone at oodles' party was so polite that they actually ate a slice even. But I forgot to tell you about the light bulbs. Let me back up.

Mom, the light bulb in my bathroom blew out over two weeks ago. And two light bulbs in my living room blew out as well over a month ago. I replaced one of the light bulbs in the living room, but then I thought I was going to fall off the step stool because I was doing some strange pilates-type stretch to screw in the bulb. So, for all this time, the living room light fixture has been on the floor, and my apartment looks like something owned by a crack ho. Um, I'll explain the crack ho thing to you another time. And also, I've been taking showers in the dark.

So, oodles and her roommates, who are sort of all fantastically awesome, lent me their ladder on Saturday. And since I am a helpless idiot, S drove me home with the ladder. On Sunday, I finally replaced all the bulbs. Mom, it had been so long since I had light in my bathroom that I kept forgetting to turn the light on whenever I went in there.

I told myself that I was going to be really domestic this weekend, clean the apartment, and make it somewhat habitable. Mom, I opted to study and do homework for much of the day on Sunday in order to avoid doing housework. I do not even like the class I am taking, but I still preferred that to cleaning out the refrigerator.

Now it is Monday and there is still laundry to be done, piles of crap in the living room that never seem to get any smaller no matter how hard I try, and there are still lint balls underneath my bed. Mind you, this is all for the sake of a tiny one-bedroom apartment that only houses one person. And I still could not manage to clean it.

I think we can all agree that it was a good idea not to hoodwink some poor, unsuspecting bachelor into thinking that this slob daughter of yours could have been a good match. Anyway, thanks for not making a big deal out of it.

Lurve,
me

p.s. Maybe we can shop around for a husband who has housewife skills? I could really use one of those, but if that's not available, I'll take a housewife too.

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