My Diary Pages

I fumed over my cup of coffee. It was a beautiful sunny day outside but my day had not started on a happy note. To start with, I had a big fight with a man over a silly towel he kept on the bed. The plumber was taking his time to fix the broken faucet in the kitchen. I had to rework on the files sent to my boss yesterday and I was already running late for work. A nagging headache was the cherry on top. So, here I was staring at the ceiling, listening to the seconds ticking by, and holding a hot cup of coffee. The coffee was the only good thing in this morning, or so I thought. "This too shall pass," I consoled myself.  After a grumpy day, I was back in my kitchen, making dinner. My favorite songs were playing on the laptop. I had decided to give a cold shoulder to the man in question. After all, he and his silly towel were the reason for my bad morning. The elephant in the room was a five letter word: SORRY. Neither of us wanted to budge and say sorry. Saying sorry m...

Even though my mother and mother-in law are both successful homemakers and I have immense respect for homemakers who are unsung superwomen, I still find the tag of a 'housewife' as my identity pretty insulting. Blame it to the spirit of feminism that arises from time to time to attack my poor husband or the fact that I had worked for five years at a stretch before marriage and had led a very independent life, I never thought that I could be labelled as a housewife. Alas! God had some different plans.  Early this year, moving to the U.S. on a dependent spouse visa made me the quintessential housewife. I bawled, shouted, and argued with my dear husband whom I held responsible for my plight. As if my feminist rants were not enough to torture him, I decided to exhibit my limited culinary skills to feed him, making good use of all the free time I had.  The Birthday Cake August came and I started planning for my husband's birthday. When we were in a long dist...