I've been out of the writing mood- things I have thought about writing about but never got around to it:
1. How annoying it is for my electricity to be out for hours at a time every day this week
2. My missing mystery tooth
3. What I've learned about "Hair nest" boils
4. http://whatnottocrochet.wordpress.com/ and http://whatnottoknit.wordpress.com/
5. My new Gucci rip off rhinestone studded glasses
6. My selfmade diagnosis of "dyscalculia"
7. How dandruff effects my sight
8. Mr. Dangley 2.0
9. The frightening aspects of Buzz on the prowl
10. The ugliest scarf I ever made and what I must do to atone for this grievous lack of
judgement.

The long lost stories of Christmas 2006 . . . Heck I still haven't written about all the things I did Christmas 2005 . . .

We took an “indicar” from George’s to Munnar. Munnar is a tourist trap. It’s nestled up in the “Southern Himalayas.” Likely story- those peeks were barely foot hills in comparison, but they were beautiful nevertheless. There were miles and miles of tea plantations. Tea plantations must be the most orderly things in India. There are hillsides blanketed with perfectly trimmed, carefully placed and brilliantly colored shrubs.

There are men and woman sheathed in plastic aprons, brandishing clippers with attached bellows. Well, that’s what they looked like, really they were the collecting bags for the tea tips snipped at their peek of tastiness. I guess. I heard a nasty little rumor that all the best tea is sent to Europe or kept in country and the dredges were sent to the US- historically we are not looked well upon on account of the little “Boston Tea Party” incident- and they all figure our buds aren’t so discerning after all. The best part of the tea leaf is the tip. That’s why all the tea shrubs are perfectly trimmed.

The drive to Munnar was interesting enough- we went out of the back waters, out of the rubber plantations, out of the heat and into the cool-cool hills. Those hills were not nearly as cool as I’d heard tell, but any cool is nice when you’ve spent Christmas Day in a hammock swatting mosquitoes and gazing out at a rice patty surrounded by banana trees and palms.

About 20 kilometers out of Munnar our driver got the idea of a commission into his wee-little head and we stopped at every fancy resort he could find before we got into the “city” of Munnar. After picking us up from George’s I don’t know what would have possessed him to think we were going to pay for a resort hotel.

Being that is was peak travel time, all the nicer places were filled up. I wasn’t interested in staying out in the boonies again any way. I wanted to be able to walk to my choice of restaurant and shop for and assortment of useless shiny objects in a market. I urged him onward toward Munnar.

Once in Munnar I spotted a place mentioned in Lonely Planet as cheap but clean enough accommodation. I told the driver to go there. Suddenly everything was clandestine and he didn’t know English. He motioned us to role up the heavily tinted windows pointing at the police on the road. I told him to turn down the street toward the “Brothers Hotel.” He said it was a private car. I said “So what?” He said private cars couldn’t go down that street, and surely he would have to take us further on out of town to find a resort hotel for us. I told him to stop the car and we would walk our butts down to the Brothers and see if they had a room.

After a very little negotiation and a look at the room, we decided to stay with the Brothers. They’d been there since 1955. The rooms seemed to have the things we wanted: a bed with seemingly clean sheets, a bathroom with a shower and hot and cold taps, not to mention a hot water heater (!) Then we just had to convince the driver to drive his private car down the public street so we could unload.

Although they were adorable, we decided against eating with the Brothers. The older Brother wore an ancient looking, stretched out “monkey cap” (aka ski mask) the whole time we were there. The Brothers boasted of only one dish on their menu. It was the same dish which has been on the menu since 1955. Fish curry. I wouldn’t have doubted if was actually the very same fish curry they had been serving since 1955. I can’t believe we didn’t get a picture of the Brothers.

In Munnar I greatly enjoyed antagonizing all the salesmen at the tiny shops up and down the main road. I would go to one, unfold everything they had, try it on, debate about colors and prices and then leave. A few hours later, I’d go back and start again. I ended up buying one hot pink and gold shawl, one “luxury” bath mat (Which was, I might add a fine upgrade to our room at the Brothers.) and any number of tiny change purses with shiny elephants on them. I bought several shalwar sets, had them made up, and they turned out too small- I swear it really is beyond the tailors here that I am quite as large as I am.

We took a day tour to see things like “The Honey Bee Tree.” It was a tree with a lot of honey bees- go figure. We also saw “Echo Point” where, try as you might you would never- ever hear an echo- I’m not sure how that bit got ruined. We saw some dams and some lakes and a pretty little elephant giving rides. We went to “Top Station” which according to the brochure is the “Toppest Most Station” in the area. Good to know.

Oh the things you can see in Munnar . . .

Next time I'll tell about the way out of Munnar.

I have issues with...

anxiety food excess immortality walls

Take Word Association Test

I think Buzz is having somekind of nervous break down. He doesn't want to live on the balcony any more and acts like he will be attacked if he dares show his pointy little face out there. I wonder if a bird of prey has threatened his dog-hood.

Being bored and annoyed has given me a headache all weekend.

Things I've done today:

• Woke up to the neighbor's laundry woman slapping away at her laundry
• 
  Heard a chipmunk in heat chirping at the top of its tiny little lungs for a mate.
• 
  Found the chipmunk in heat chirping at the top of its tiny little lungs for a mate sitting on a window overhang on the next building.
• 
  Got annoyed by the incredibly loud sound of the chipmunk chirping at the top of its tiny little lungs in the corridor between two cement buildings and echoing off every other cement building for miles around just to setting in my ear and bounce around in the most annoying manner
• 
  Looked for something to throw at the chipmunk
• 
  Highly enjoyed throwing 6 cups of water (one at a time) at the chipmunk until it shut up and ran away
  
  I’ve been reading a book called Games Indians Play. It’s not about Cricket and Soccer if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s supposedly about why Indians throw trash on the street, pee on the sidewalks and always cheat. (Among other things.)
  So far the author (Indian) has made the point that although Indians are smartest people in the world, it’s their huge brains that keep them from doing the right thing. Apparently it just doesn’t make any sense to do the right thing, especially in India where nobody is doing the right thing. Now, if, let’s say you were somewhere else, where everyone does the right thing (because they are after all not so smart as Indians) doing the right thing would be smart. But even when Indians go to a place where doing the right thing would be smart, they don’t do it because they are greedy.
  Wow, right?
  No wonder I have a headache.
  
  I’ve also watched about 5 episodes of “House, MD” and knitted a tiny pink and purple sweater for my mp3 player. It’s adorable. I somewhat organized my junk, and even started packing up a few things. I’m thinking about having popcorn for dinner and watching the rest of season one of House while I knit a Christmas stocking or a sweater or a scarf or something else utterly useless at this moment in time.

If, let’s say, you wanted to go shopping in Bangalore on any given Saturday or Sunday you would feel like you were trying to wade your way through the last minutes shoppers in the mall on the day before Christmas Eve. There are humans as far as the eye can see in all directions; sifting through dupatttas and saris, bending over “imitation jewelry,” and examining all manner of sequined and gold studded sandals. They are used to each other. They bump into each other and ricochet off in all directions. They push through and push past, and they tell you to get out of the way for the V-V-VIPs.

I was looking for some elusive place to sit down and plug my ears with music and mind my own business. I wandered all around Bangalore looking for this place. Sometimes I can find these places- the corner of the book store, (crowded) the back of a café, (crowded) the outside courtyard of a fancy hotel (score!) I searched and searched and finally ended up in my own neighborhood. I walked all around the mall and hotel and located a little table on the edge of the terrace-facing the garden in the Leela Palace Hotel.

I had just plugged in the music and turned on my computer. I was settling into my fabulous new spot when a hotel employee came to me and said, “Would you mind moving into the lobby for just five minutes? We are getting a V-V-VIP.” And he didn’t have a stutter.

I’ve been spending most of my free time (which is all my time) today being annoyed about stupid crap, and this rubbed me the wrong way. I guess I don’t look good enough in my jeans and T-shirt to be sitting on the terrace when the V-V-VIP comes in. Or maybe it’s a security issue. I don’t see how that can be the case since now I’m sitting in the lobby where if I wanted to murder the Very-Very-Very Important Person I’d have an even better shot at it.

Now it’s been 30 minutes and no V-V-VIP so far.
30 minutes after that: The V-V-VIP has arrived- it’s nobody I want to murder. I bet these police with sticks are relieved that they don’t have to beat me into submission for my crime of annoyance.

Everyone (all three of you who read this) has been clamoring for MORE!

Well- here is some more.

I skipped out of work early on Friday. Real early. Like, before I usually show up. I went in for a few hours, did my work and left with my dog, who came to work with me.

We went to a Shabbat meal. I was going to crochet him a tiny a yamaka, but I knew he wouldn't wear it and I think making a dachshund wear a skull cap borders on sacrilegious.

Our host, the resident semi-practicing vegetarian gay Jew welcomed the small dog with much excitement. The party included one Canadian Hindu convert (there is debate as to if one can actually convert to Hinduism) married to an Indian, one Indian who I think was the boyfriend of the host, (but what do I know I have no gay-dar,) one American non-practicing Jew from Georgia, one American woman (whom I’m not sure what she practices, but she did say the prayer in Hebrew, suggested I read a book called –Jesus Lived in India and asked if anyone would be up for a séance,) one Canadian raised in by Hindu/Atheist parents, Buzz and me.

It was a night of many questions. “Why did your dog pee on my bed?” “Why didn’t Moses go into the Promised Land?” “Why is Easter and Passover always at the same time?” “How many more Shabbats will there be before it’s over?” And other interesting things that could have made my head explode.

It was fun.

Obviously I couldn't go back to work- you can't work once you've done Sabbath prayers with Hindus, Atheists and a dog!