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Dissonance and Heartbreak

Dissonance..is being the brown-skinned girl at the airport with the red bulbous nose and puffy, tear-spilt eyes, failing miserably at leaving her palm-filled homeland with any measure of grace – and being comforted by a blonde man while she clutches at her Norwegian passport.

Heartbreak..is watching your children rush back to the pane of glass that separates them from their grandparents and uncle (post security check) only to smush their mouths, noses and whole damn faces against the glass to kiss them one last time; watching them put palm to palm on the cold glassy surface – and seeing your toddler turn his head repeatedly to blow gleeful kisses, unaware of the imminent separation.

Its never getting easier, is it?

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Maid For Me

“Ewwwwaaarrgh”. My anguish reverberates through the room.

The Viking, our resident Yuckfighter, is immune to my drama, but his curiousity drags him to the kitchen.

“What?” he enquires casually, coming to peer into the refrigerator with me.

“Unless thats a dead kitten in our fridge, dear, then its broccoli thats been there so long that it has inhaled CFC’s, grown itself some fluffy fur and become the latest new life form on planet Earth.”

The Viking, being brave and the sort who is undeterred by The Grossest Levels of Gross, reaches in.

“Ewww. For heavens sake, put some gloves on!” I scream.

“Why? We’re not exactly going to do a forensic report.” he replies dryly.

Offending object is quickly removed, thought I couldn’t say with total certainty since my eyes were tightly shut and I had also ceased to breathe through my nose. As you can guess, I’m a total trooper.

“There!” says the Viking once done and I venture to view the world again.

“While we’re at it,” he says, “you might want to know that we have a couple of potatoes in there that are breeding…err.. grandchild potatoes off their hip.”

Egads! “Get rid of it. Please! Live up to the intrepid Viking stereotype and wipe them clean off the face of the earth!”

“We wouldn’t be in this mess to begin with if you’d lived up to your Good Indian Wife stereotype, would we?” comes the tart rejoinder.

Officially too pissed to say touché. But guess who’s disinfecting the fridge? You guessed it. The Good Indian Wife. Gah!

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Epilogue to Mother

Dear Mother, This is an exaggerated version of events. This is a fictional account. I am a wonderful wife and housekeeper and our home is a temple. We worship at the altar of Jif. Please don’t call me about this unless we suddenly collapse, having been inflicted with a biblical pestilence. And yes, we should clean the fridge more often. But that would leave less time for the kids.

And T.V.

And sex.

And not necessarily in the order mentioned above.

You didn’t fail. This is all me. Good night.

Dedicated to MiM. You’ll never walk alone:-)

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