Shoes are made for walking...and that's what they should do!

Don’t let your love for shoes take over your life. I wouldn’t say this if it weren’t true.

If you are friend or foe of mine then you will know how much I love shoes. I have been in a dysfunctional relationship with them from the very beginning. I think it started when I went to college. I no longer had to wear the brown canvas shoes my school had forced me to wear for 10 years. I was free to wear shoes that had high heels, shoes that allowed my toes to peek, and most of all shoes that didn’t have to endure rain, sun and weather.

I binged. I bought shoes like I was born to walk. Stilettos, pumps, ballets, slingbacks, slip ons, flip-flops – I had all of it and even knew the difference between them.

Nothing comes free. I injured my Achilles tendon balancing on high heels. I cracked my ankle when I slipped and fell down a flight of stairs all because my new shoes didn’t have enough traction. I have lost my balance and grabbed unsuspecting people. I have fallen flat on my face. I have landed on my behind. But I never regretted it. I loved my footwear no matter how badly it treated me.

I have spent plenty of time and dime on this footwear fetish. Whenever I walk by a shoe store my shoe sense starts to tingle. The shoes send out a signal only a few women can pick up. Like a possessed human I walk into the store just to hear all my minions scream “Pick me! Pick me!”

I carefully pick the ones I like. I have to be fair. They are all good. But only one will make the cut. (Ok – I lied – many will make the cut if there is a sale).

Sometimes I shoe shop for a reason. For example - I buy a dress or a watch or a pair of earrings, they need a companion to go with. So I buy shoes. So I bought more and more shoes. Soon my shoe rack couldn’t take it anymore and it crumbled under its weight.

I had a custom shoe closet made. It’s a closet just for shoes. It had enough capacity to house my greed. I was generous enough to give husband and children some space to throw in their footwear too.

Husband is a shoe bummer. He hates shopping for shoes. He will walk into a store and pick a pair (that looks exactly like the one he is wearing), pay for it and leave happily. This whole experience is fun for the salesman too.

When I shop for shoes, husband spends his time surfing the net. He promises me that he has read everything on the internet twice in one shopping expedition.

I have given him my insights into shoe shopping yet he will pick-pay-leave. He just doesn’t know to how to use my resourses.

Then one day, a horrible thing happened. A thief entered my neighbourhood and stole everybody’s shoes. Well only the good stuff. He snuck into the well guarded gated community and took what will fetch him a pretty penny in the black market. He took husband's leather shoes, suede shoes, his countless basketball, tennis, football and other athletic shoes. He even took off with my daughter light-up shoes. I lost thousands of rupees worth of shoes in one night.

What he didn’t take was my baby’s sandals, slippers and any of my shoes.

Now I should be happy. I was, except that I wasn’t.

You see, I have spent so much time and money on these shoes and the thief, nasty as he is, failed to see how great they were. My years and years of hardwork is not worth a dime in the black market.

The only thing he took that belonged to me was my aerobics shoes – and I don’t even like them. They were comfortable and didn’t send me to ER with a broken ankle. But come on – did he really want that bucket of sweat??

So I have concluded. Shoes are here to serve us. We are not here to serve them. Even now I shop for shoes but I don’t let them take over my life. Just kidding!

The day my washing machine broke

I haven’t hand-washed clothes since 1979. Yes, it’s true. During yesteryears my mother had a trusty maid who washed all my clothes. When technology took a head start we had a lovely washing machine – loud yet it got the job done. Kind of like my mother’s maid. Then I got married and moved to California. There we had a washing machine that washed and dried – I mean bone dried all my clothes. And after I moved to Bangalore I got another state of the art washing machine. It was the best thing Samsung invented and LG envied.

My maid refused to operate it because she thought it will launch her into space or something absurd like that. So I sorted the clothes and loaded the mean beast. My clothes came out bright and white smelling like dancing rain. My maid would fold and sort the load for the ironwalla to do his magic.

It was picture perfect. All our closets decked with clean awesome smelling clothes. Never was there a day when we were rummaging the inner labyrinths of the closet for ridiculous clothes that have been forgotten with time and trends. Everything worth wearing was within reach. Perfect perfect perfect.

Then one day the storm came. The sky turned an angry grey. Lightning bolted and thunder clapped. The whole atmosphere looked like an angry parent staring at a report card. The wind howled in fear. A scared electric pole succumbed to the stampede of the wind and the power lines went down. It tried to come back up. But nature was furious. The power kept fluctuating leaving Bangalore homes in a semi discotheque ambience. With one last wail all the power lines finally went down plunging IT city into darkness. I looked outside my window only to see my entire neighbourhood lit by a few cell phones and laptops.

The whole night nature gave a dramatic display of wind and rain. In the morning everything cleared up. People were back to work, children were back to school and roads were still a mess.

I went about my day. I turned on the washing machine and it wouldn’t respond. I tried CPR – wait its not what you think, CPR to machines is mostly turning the machine on and off a few times, kicking it and then crying. Oh yes, that’s how things work.

I finally gave up and called the customer service department. They made me go through the same drill, “did you try turning it on and off” – duh!! After a few minutes of fake formalities I registered a complaint. They told the guy will be there tomorrow.

Having just returned from a beach holiday we as a family had carried half the sand from the coast of the Bay of Bengal in our clothes. I had over three loads of laundry. I knew if I wait for this guy to show up my kids will not have school uniforms for the rest of the week and my husband will run out of laundry and will resort to the Hawaiian shirt he bought 7 years ago during a moment of fashion insanity!

I asked my maid to wash the clothes. If you have read my other blog you will know what a queen my maid is. I use the word ‘queen’ because calling her a ‘princess’ is slumming her. She refused to wash the clothes because when she joined work the deal was that she will only hang the clothes to dry and fold them, washing is madam’s job. To be fair I did agree to those terms 5 years back so why break it now. Besides how hard is washing clothes going to be? The beautiful mom in the detergent commercial is so cool about washing clothes. She had such beautiful hands it looked like an ad for manicure products. Apparently she dunks the clothes in the bucket with just a handful of detergent. 30 minutes later she rinses the clothes and voila – the clothes look like they were scrubbed by ten hands.

So I thought I’ll take the plunge. I mean come on – we cant rely on machines all the time now, can we? (long story short – we need machines).

I did what the lady in the commercial did. The clothes looked hideous. Whites looked brown, brown looked black and black looked, well I don’t know if the black clothes got cleaned at all. I scrubbed and scrubbed. I even looked deep into the detergent packet because my packet didn’t come with ten hands.

Finally when I was done I realised I had to squeeze the clothes with my hands and hang them out of the dry. This happened because my maid – the queen, saw how hard it was for me to do these chores. She thought it was in her best interest to take a few days off till this laundry fiasco sorts itself out.

So here I was sorting, dunking, scrubbing, washing, rinsing and repeating this process for every shirt and skirt! Finally I was done. I cleared all the laundry. It took me 4 hours but I did it. I felt like Rocky Balboa after a match. Bruised, battered yet victorious.

Then it happened. My kids dragged in muddy evening clothes, clothes that have seen sandpits and armpits. Husband comes home and drops his gym bag – it does not smell like a springtime meadow. The next load of laundry was piling, fast.

It dawned on me that as a family we are not laundry sensitive. We have abused the machine over the years. Every item of clothing that comes in contact with us is tossed in the laundry basket when its job is done. Our clothes are taken good care of by a machine that doesn’t whine or gets expensive manicures. At the push of a button it treats all clothes the same – with gentleness and care.

As expected the washing machine repair guy didn’t turn up the next day. I sat with baited breath for this guy to show up. But it was an empty promise. I cancelled coffee with my girlfriends waiting for this guy.

The next day came and it was washing day again. But this day was better. The technician turned up and found out what was wrong. The power outage fried the circuits of my favorite machine. He took down some info and has promised to come tomorrow and fix it. Until then I have to assume my superhero avatar – Laundry Lady. I know it doesn’t have a nice to ring to it but what can I do the roles and duties are worse than the name.

If the technician doesn't come tomorrow I may have to resort to what this lovely lady did. 

Jumbo goes to school

Like any other morning I dragged my sleepy kids and put them in the school bus at 7 am. Today I felt different. Instead of making mental task notes for the day, I felt this odd sensation in the pit of my stomach to hold them back. Normally I wouldn’t do that because I am the kind of mom who puts her kids in the bus and goes about her way.

I come home and read the paper. Everything looks the same except the little new item in the corner. “Tusker tramples four to death.” Even though this is not a sensational news for someone in Karnataka, I would still classify it as newsworthy.

Then I get an email from the principal of my daughters’ school that wild elephants were outside the school and every precaution is being taken to ensure the safety of our children. I immediately tuned into the local Kannada news channel and was shocked to see a herd of elephants barrelling down the road my kids take to school. I may have underestimated the odd feeling I got this morning - I call it Maternal Awareness. 

These tuskers are frequent visitors to many farms and villages along the Tamil Nadu – Karnataka border. They are mostly harmless unless they see a threat to themselves or their calves. My biggest fear was not the elephants’ visit to the city, I feared the city dwellers reaction to them and their lack of experience with wild animals. Yes, I agree we take up their space and resources and do irreparable damage to our ecosystem. But my fear was people underestimating the herd mentality of these herbivores. After all you cant be at the top of the food chain if the elephant puts its foot down – on your head.

But this is Bangalore. My fellow Bangaloreans have joined hands and have made it their responsibility to gently coax the animals into Bannerghatta National Park – a great place for wild animals that crave the city life.

My children came home safe and sound with many exaggerated stories about a herd of elephants that ate 10 people, trampled a hundred students, ate the cafeteria food and left the school campus ravished  long before school got over! I am just thankful that the elephants are making their way back to the forest and that all the children returned home cheerful and happy.

Here is a glimpse of the elephants passing through a school

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=diBC2Dos_6Q

Bangalore Barracuda: Auto Frantic

Bangalore Barracuda: Auto Frantic: "When I lived in Mumbai I loved using an auto as my primary mode of transportation. I would walk out of my building and simply raise my hand..."

Auto Frantic

When I lived in Mumbai I loved using an auto as my primary mode of transportation. I would walk out of my building and simply raise my hand a there will be an auto waiting at my feet.

Those were good times when all I had to do was tell the name of my destination and the autowalla without making eye contact or speaking a word would roll the meter with a sweet ‘ding’. Once inside I used love the ambience. A canopy of cloth and plastic will give me a false sense of safety. Most autos will have tricked up interiors with lights, agarbathi and mirrors. Some will even have racy pictures of Bollywood’s most provocative bimbos. Using an ancient technique of pulling up a sticklike thing the autowalla will awaken the beast. The auto will roar and send out smoke signals to herald my journey. The wind will play with my hair as I would listen to tacky Hindi songs about love, lust and life. When my destination arrives I make my first and final conversation with the autowalla. I ask “Kitna?” and he will casually look behind into the meter, spit out his paan with the precision of an archer just missing my clothes. His spittle will land on the ground like a microscopic diver – one straight stream of beetle leaves, saliva and a whole lot of germs will form a pool of evidence that he was here. “Ten.” He says wiping his mouth as if some of the liquid had a chance to break free from its trajectory. And there ends my journey from point A to point B.

Cut to Bangalore. Autowallas, well where do I start. They make my insides turn – literally. Thanks to the cheap construction and perennial monsoon conditions, Bangalore roads have more potholes than road. The zero suspension and lack of shock absorbers with rattle your core enough to realign your spine even if you didn’t ask for it.

But this is a problem if you get into an auto. You see the attitude of these autowallas is to make money without working. All they do is sleep in their autos or just stand around drinking tea. If you ask him to take you anywhere, ten autowallas will swarm around you as if they want to offer you a ride. Then before agreeing to take you they will quote an impossible amount. For example - for a ride that costs Rs.30 he will ask for Rs.75. hearing this your face will twist and turn as you do the math. You may think that the other autowallas will take you for less than that. No! You are mistaken. They are there to see your expressions to this guy’s unrealistic demands. There is no way in hell these guys will give you ride unless you pay their quoted amount. You either swallow your pride and cough up the money and take the ride or you just take the bus.

India is prone to inflation. And no one knows it better than our autowallas. In the middle of the journey they decide to charge you more. They will threaten to make you get off in the middle of the road if you don’t agree to pay the amount they ask. I once had a situation where I was asked to pay Rs.50 more than the agreed amount. When I refused to pay I was made to get off the auto in the middle of a big busy road. This autowalla stopped his vehicle and made sure no auto stops for me. He rattled away in Kannada at any autowalla trying to earning his living. It sounded like “Kannada kannada Auto Union, Kannada Kannada madam Rs.50 Kannada, damage auto, kannada!”  . Luckily for me I was on my way to pick up my kid from school and her friend’s mom was passing by in her car and she gave me ride.

If there is one thing that will never change in Bangalore is the change situation. Most people don’t have change or don’t like to do the math and give change. The first words I learned in Kannada was “Change Beku.” Which means I want change. Our autowallas use this to their advantage. They will negotiate amounts like Rs.170, Rs.160 etc. now these are amount that you reluctantly agree to pay. When you get off and give him a Rs.200 note, he takes off.

The worst of the situations is when you are driving behind these autos. Highly underpowered, noisy and the king of pollutants, these autos will sever from left to right and right to left, break as they please and wont make way for a high powered vehicle. Never make the mistake of honking at these guys requesting them to make way for your car. They will purposely get in your way and make you wish you were driving a road roller and flatten the auto, fold it and hang it on your mirror as a reminder to all autowallas in Bangalore.

Maybe I sound bitter because Mumbai had spoiled me. But I sure hope these guys mend their ways for their own good.

Mommy News

Good evening and welcome to Mom’s news at 10.

In today’s news –

Major cussing on Highway 101.

Search for missing solemate of my favorite sandals continues

Surviving the economy – a mother’s guide

Major catastrophe averted once again by the Invisible Mother.

All this, the weather, sports, entertainment and more…

Hello everybody this is Mom and welcome to my edition of the news.

Today was another day just like yesterday and more like the day before that.

I read in the newspaper that the economy is tanking, people are losing jobs, house prices are dipping and there is a BOGO sale in my favorite shoe shop.

I dropped the kids in school, picked up the drying cleaning, folded piles and piles of laundry and threw out a moldy ‘I don’t know what the hell this is’ I found under my kid’s bed.

While running errands I was almost rear ended by a guy in truck on highway 101. I told him I don’t care for his attitude or the needlework on his arm. I didn’t quiet use such civil words but damn it felt good.

Later that day I clipped coupons, looked for in-store sales and saved $10. I spent $100 and it was just a milk run. But hey did you read – I saved $10!

In public relations news

During the rush hour commute I spoke with some of my closest friends while on hands free. I laughed at the joke one friend made about her waistline. Hung up. Looked at my waistline sighed and pulled into Starbucks for a ‘pick me up’.

I also spoke to my friend who makes me sad, a friend who makes me glad, a friend who makes me feel bad and emailed my dad.

 A major catastrophe was averted today when the little one almost spilled a cup of milk on the brand new coffee table. The brave mother that I am I used my catlike reflexes to grab the cup before it hit the table. Among the things that were saved were Dad’s laptop, his active card, his cell phone, my magazines and I think something that looked like a Lego construction! If I hadn’t acted so quickly the rug would have been at the cleaners as we speak. As usual no one noticed the Invisible Mother and everyone went about their day.

Another problem I solved today!

In weather

Looks like there is going to be a lot of changes in weather this week. Plenty of sunshine and happiness tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. Tomorrow’s sunshine will come from the BOGO sale. The day after that I am meeting my dear friend who studied with me in high school. Starting Monday it will be windy and stormy and lots of dark clouds. Aunt Judgmental is visiting us . Hopefully after she leaves the gloomy weather will change.

In health news –

Today was also a bad day for my diet. At 9.00 am I ate leftover cheerios from my kids bowl. At 11, I was feeling light headed and I inhaled a large snikers bar. At 2.00 pm I ate half a hot dog and 2 olives. At 4 I ate left over mac and cheese. I kept myself hydrated with ¾ of  a pouch of fruit punch, 2 cans of soda and 6 cups of coffee.

In sports

It was a long day at soccer. The little one spilled yogurt on my clothes as I was getting her out of her car seat. I didn’t have time to run a comb through my hair and I looked like a mess. But I did get a lot of worthless information about General Hospital, Desperate Housewives and some woman in my neighborhood who is almost sleeping with the coach’s brother! (even I don’t know what ‘almost’ means)!

In other sporting activity, I made a sprint to the doctor’s office with the baby, diaper bag and a large umbrella. I reached only three minutes late and the greatest victory was when the doctor said the baby doesn’t have an ear infection.

I dodged a bullet when I hid from the annoying lady in my neighborhood who gossips about people I don’t know…if I knew who she was talking about then it’s a different story.

In entertainment

I think I saw Michael Cain at the grocery store bending over and smelling a cantaloupe. I am not sure if it was him because I wonder what would a British actor do in my neighborhood unless he decided to become an IT professional.

I waved to Julia this morning when I was getting the paper. Her husband’s name is Richard. Every time I see them I think of the all time great American screen couple – Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. 

After a long evening of homework, reading, blowing bubbles, playing hopscotch, hide and seek while fixing dinner and loading the laundry I  made the kids eat their dinner have their bath and clean the mess they made. It’s finally time to tuck them in.

Now the time is 10 pm. My kids are asleep and I am watching the 10 o clock news. A lot happened in the world. Stock markets rose and fell, some people made it through their day others did not. My world is small but a lot happens in it too. I have some thing that gets me through the day – my family.

Maid In India

Great passion comes from great love. Hearts are won and lost, wars are won and lost, championships are won and lost – all in the name of passion. In the end everyone is a winner because those who compete have passion.

Here is an NRIs story of great passion. I have always been a very calm and unassuming person. ‘Cool Cat’ was what my mother always called me. Cool because I would never do anything that would make me sweat. Cat was a nickname I can most relate with. I like keeping myself clean and tidy, I don’t venture out of my territory and I love stretching, sleeping and curling on the sofa.

Marriage took me to California. To many it is the land of big movie stars and vintage wines – to me it was the land of no maids. The first week I spent in the cute apartment we rented I got a full dose of jetlag, the Bold and the Beautiful and CNN. The following week I got a dose of reality. The clothes were piled up in the laundry, the unopened pile of mail crashed on me almost crushing me, the carpets were dusty and not to mention the trash can that was now growing multicolored life forms.

So how did I get out of it? I tried tidying up the place myself, but my lack of experience eventually caught up with me. I was a mess – I dropped stuff on the floor, made bigger messes and regretted the attempt. In my effort to be a great homemaker and impress my husband I tried, tried and tried until I cried.

Unlike the stereotyped Indian housewife most of our American friends envisioned me to be, I was a hurricane when it came to doing chores around the house. Weekends became a time of learning. My husband who by the way comes from a family where they have more staff in the household than family members became my go-to guy for doing chores. He taught me easy ways to do things. Solutions to problems like ironing clothes – don’t iron them , buy only wrinkle resistant clothes. Cleaning bathrooms – use only one bathroom, clean the others on a need to clean basis. Cook once in three days that way clean up happens once in three days. He was my life support.

Soon I got used to doing things efficiently. I was surprised to see the chauffeur, chef and chief in me. In seven years I turned my life around. I could paint a wall, fix a flat tire and have plenty of houseguests for months. I managed all this without a maid and with just a smile on my face.

Then it happened. For the life of me – I moved to India. Bangalore was so much like California but yet so different. The weather matches with California, I am surrounded by potbellied techies and Japan and Germany are crushing the local automobile industry – so the difference isn’t too much.

When I moved into my home, I started cleaning up the place. My startled carpenter asked me what I was doing when he saw me with a broom. I wanted to tell him I am going to take off in this to get a toad’s eyeball and put a hex on you that’s what. Fearing the fact that he make take it seriously I told him the truth that I was cleaning up the pile of sawdust he generated in his attempt to make what he calls a closet!

Why not hire some help he suggested. I took his advise (because that is the only good thing that came from him) and hired a maid. She was the best thing that could happen to me. By 10.00 am my house is spotless. I am no longer suffering from LegoLeg , the unfortunate condition most parents of three year olds suffer. Those darn Legos have a way of getting between your foot and the floor when you least expect it. My maid washes my clothes, dries them and even takes it to the ironwalla (another essential service provider). Just like a stage changing in a broadway show my clothes do their trip from the laundry basket, to the washing machine, the clothes line, the hot steam iron and sit beautifully piled up in my closet.

I was as happy as I can be. I read books that was not about parenting or by Dr.Suess, caught up with friends and relatives who once buried me in oblivion, listened to music that was not for 4 year olds and drank coffee without the din of the microwave, cooker whistle and dishwasher. Peace had returned and the Cool Cat was back.

One day while my maid was doing the chores and I was painting my nails, when my intercom buzzed. I knew I wasn’t expecting anyone at that hour. I answered the phone to a huffing voice. The rush in the breathing made me nervous. The voice at the other end asked me if the maid had come. ‘Thanks for asking. She is here. Now goodbye!” should have been my response.

She told me she was in a tearing hurry to get somewhere for her kids and needed my maid ASAP. Being a mother and mostly a dumb woman I let my maid go. She didn’t return that day. I was sitting in a pile of vessels not knowing what how to cook or clean. The next day I learned from my maid that that woman was a notorious maid kidnapper. She has done this to several of her friends in whose house my maid works.

Now I had a problem. My cat like instinct begged me to save my maid and protect what could be rightfully called my territory. Every day my maid would come later in the morning. This would delay my other activities. I was beginning to get more and more annoyed.

The maidnapper would call and ask for the maid and I wouldn’t let her talk to her. Everyday it was a new story. One day it was her back pain – a pain very familiar to me, the other day it was her sick child – I am a mother raising two toddlers who make the doctor’s office their second home. Every request would be heart wrenching. Soon I was doing more work than my maid. That was when I decided to find another service provider. When my maid got wind of this she panicked. She had to choose between maidnapper and me – a tough choice given the fact that we are both lazier than the other.
She finally decided to stay with me. A decision that officially declared the cold war between the Maidnapper and me to be over and the real war began.

She spited my very existence. Why? Why did you leave America? Just to come here to steal her maid and make her life miserable. While that was hardly my intention, I promise you I really didn’t care too much for her. Maids are a dime a dozen in India. She can find one before her house collects a speck of dust.

My maid was good. She was honest, hardworking and cheerful. She was ahead of me in whatever chore I assigned for her. My house was spotless, my kitchen sink didn’t look like the wreckage of the Titanic and clothes were there for me when I needed them. This phase lasted for a week and what a week it was. Then reality bit me.

Soon my maid developed a taste for the finer things in life. She wanted a piece of every pie in my place. Whether it was the fancy salwar kameez I bought on a whim in Mumbai and never ever wore it or the delicate size 6 shoes I bought in Metro before pregnancy gave me clown feet. Her eyes grew bigger and bigger as I grew more and more irritated.

She was always in hurry. With the extra time at hand she could moonlight in many homes. Whenever a maid somewhere was giving some lazy housewife a run for her money, there she was - my maid in shining armor to the rescue. It seemed like if there was some tiff in a world far far away, I was the one weeping over a pile of dishes.

 My neighbors were my friends. They were my close confidants with whom I shared all my woes. We had each other to swap quirky mother-in-law stories, ‘my kids are so adorable’ stories and ‘my husband is jerk’ stories. We were quick to help their sick children, allow their guests to park their car in our driveway and even allowed them to get drunk till 3 am and have wild parties (well – the latter is only because we were invited and I may have had something to do with the decibel overload!).
However when it came to sharing our maid we were always ready to bare our fangs.

My maid knew this and it made her so happy that I could see a spring in her step. Every once in a while the maidnapper would peek a glance into my house to see if my maid was happy. To protect what belonged to me I would politely and yet rudely draw the drapes on her to let her know that it is soooo over. Ok maybe sometimes I even made her clean the front porch when she walked past my house.

Soon a year went by. My maid wanted a raise. I thought it was about time too. Besides the bonuses, salary advances, free food and countless clothes I thought a 20% increase in her salary was in order.
When she was informed this she was not happy at all. After very poor negotiation on my part I finally have her a 50% bonus. Now she looked happy. She celebrated her raise for a week by not turning up and leaving me on the lurch. I had no idea where she was. I went around asking the security and those around me. I almost put her face on the milk carton when she called me and told me she got a better offer.

I was in shock. What could be a better offer than this? Apparently there was someone new in the neighborhood. My maid was helping them shift. Seeing her meticulous work that woman hired her. Now I had a choice – I could fire her and find another maid or retain her with a 100% raise and adjust my time and life around her schedule.

After a lot of thinking and scouting for a maid I gave in and agreed to her terms. I even gave her some of my barely used handbags and clothes. At the end of it she still quit on me. I didn’t want to know who the new maid-stealing neighbor was but I knew she and I will never be true friends.

One day as I was taking my little one for a walk I peeped into my maid’s new workspace. She was serving tea to my new neighbor and her guest. As I tippy-toed to take a good look at who was with her, the mystery woman rose from her seat. She was none other than the maidnapper. Apparently she had recommended my maid to her best friend who just moved into our neighborhood. And as if the maidnapper knew I was looking, she walked up to the window and politely yet rudely drew the drapes on me.

What goes around comes around. The battle is lost – the war is still on. By the way I am still looking for a maid!