I went to this little fabric store in my neighborhood this weekend. I walk past it everyday, but I haven’t stopped in because either Buzz was yanking on his leash, or it was closed when I walked by without him.
I went in because I was in a spending mood. I went in and asked for cloth the make clothes. (As opposed cloth to make saris.) She showed me some, but nothing I was really impressed by. So, I told her to show me the sari cloth. I found one I liked. It’s dark blue with a gold thread weave boarder. It’s synthetic, nothing fancy.
I really didn’t have any business buying a sari at all. I don’t even know how to put one on. But being that I was already in the process, I forged ahead. I got the sari and I said, “So, I’ve never bought a sari before, what else do I need to wear it?”
She just gave me this “Her idiot question has left me speechless” look.
So I said, “Well, do I need a petticoat?” (widely known to Americans as a slip, but fortunately I knew to say “petticoat” because I had negotiated this point about sari wearing with someone before.)
She said, “Yes. Of course you need a petticoat.” (Like, DUH!)
I said, “What about the blouse?”
She said, “The blouse is included in the sari.”
(That meant the material was longer than the actual sari.)
I said, “Oh, so I need to take it to the tailor?”
She said, “Yes, yes of course you must take it to the tailor.”
I said, “Okay.”
She said, “Do you know how to tie a sari?”
I said, “No.”
She asked, “How are you going to wear it?”
I said, “I don’t know. I guess I’ll have to ask someone.” And I smiled.
I was thinking about that interaction later and trying to imagine an equivalent situation in the US so that you could understand just how strange the interaction was for this poor woman.
I guess it would be like buying some clothing very common in the US. Let’s say jeans.
If you worked in a store and some foreign person came in to buy some jeans and she bought them and said, “So, I’ve never bought jeans before, what else do I need to wear them?” You would give her the “Her idiot question has left me speechless” look.
If she then said, “Do I need underwear?”
You would say, “Yes. Of course you need underwear.” (DUH)
If she said, “What about a T-shirt?”
You would say, “The T-shirts are in the next section.”
She would say, “So, I need to buy one?”
You would say, “Yes, of course you need to buy one!”
You would say, “Do you know how to put this outfit on?”
She would say, “No.” and smile and leave.
And you would think—that was a loony-bird!
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Monday, July 03, 2006
My grandmother used to always say could tell when somebody had been in her house when she wasn’t home. She said it felt different. I used to say, “Sure Gram.” I was thinking, “Coo-Coo!” Like the air vibrates differently if someone had been in the house while you were out.
I was out most of the day today. I went to “City Market.” What that means, I learned, is that there is a place where people do gather to buy and sell veggies and flowers like a farmer’s market. I figured there had to be a place, but I couldn’t find it. All around City Market are streets and streets of stores of every description. Some streets sell clothes, other streets, hardware, others books, computer stuff, cooking utensils, etc. See pictures in the bucket.
I went with the intention of buying some clothes (ready made) on account of my washing machine not working. (That’s a whole other story.) But, I was with two men, and well, I didn’t want to bore them with my indecisions about colors and fabrics and prices. I tried not to be too distracted by the shiny things; it wasn’t easy on the jewelry street.
I ended up not buying any clothes at City Market. Instead I bought a skirt, shirt and scarf at a really posh shop in the expensive mall near my place. It wasn’t as expensive as I thought it would be. I bought everything for about $25, and I like it and will defiantly wear it outside of India. Besides, I figured I could take the blouse to the tailor and have him make me another one (using that one as a pattern) to defray the cost of paying full price for that one. J
Anyway, on the way back to my grandmother and her “feelings.” I got home and I felt suspicious. Like, something was wrong. I kept looking in drawers and thinking, “Is this all I put in here?” I was looking at the table and counters and thinking, “Is that where I left that?”
I don’t know why but I went to look at the washing machine, (like I do) and I noticed that the light on the switch was on. So I turned the washer on to check it, and it worked.
Well, heck!
I guess the apartment maintenance guy had finally come to fix it! (Whoo-Hoo! I can wash clothes!) And, I realized, I had inherited my grandmother’s “feelings.” That’s where she comes back into the story.
I washed a load of clothes and went into my spare room to hang them up. I flipped all the switches because there are seriously like 15 in there and I don’t know which one turns on the light. I went and gathered up the rest of the dirty clothes and went out to the washer, and the little light was out. Heck-Heck! What had I done?
The only thing I could think of was I had flipped all the switches in the spare room. So, I went back in the spare room and flipped them all back. Then the washer worked again, but I had to figure out which switch inside the apartment controlled the switch outside the apartment where the washer lives. (It has its own mini-balcony off the side of the kitchen.)
One by one I eliminated switches . . . flip a switch, walk out to check the washer, no. Flip a switch, walk out and check the washer, no. Flip a switch, go out and check the washer . . . what a pain.
I was out most of the day today. I went to “City Market.” What that means, I learned, is that there is a place where people do gather to buy and sell veggies and flowers like a farmer’s market. I figured there had to be a place, but I couldn’t find it. All around City Market are streets and streets of stores of every description. Some streets sell clothes, other streets, hardware, others books, computer stuff, cooking utensils, etc. See pictures in the bucket.
I went with the intention of buying some clothes (ready made) on account of my washing machine not working. (That’s a whole other story.) But, I was with two men, and well, I didn’t want to bore them with my indecisions about colors and fabrics and prices. I tried not to be too distracted by the shiny things; it wasn’t easy on the jewelry street.
I ended up not buying any clothes at City Market. Instead I bought a skirt, shirt and scarf at a really posh shop in the expensive mall near my place. It wasn’t as expensive as I thought it would be. I bought everything for about $25, and I like it and will defiantly wear it outside of India. Besides, I figured I could take the blouse to the tailor and have him make me another one (using that one as a pattern) to defray the cost of paying full price for that one. J
Anyway, on the way back to my grandmother and her “feelings.” I got home and I felt suspicious. Like, something was wrong. I kept looking in drawers and thinking, “Is this all I put in here?” I was looking at the table and counters and thinking, “Is that where I left that?”
I don’t know why but I went to look at the washing machine, (like I do) and I noticed that the light on the switch was on. So I turned the washer on to check it, and it worked.
Well, heck!
I guess the apartment maintenance guy had finally come to fix it! (Whoo-Hoo! I can wash clothes!) And, I realized, I had inherited my grandmother’s “feelings.” That’s where she comes back into the story.
I washed a load of clothes and went into my spare room to hang them up. I flipped all the switches because there are seriously like 15 in there and I don’t know which one turns on the light. I went and gathered up the rest of the dirty clothes and went out to the washer, and the little light was out. Heck-Heck! What had I done?
The only thing I could think of was I had flipped all the switches in the spare room. So, I went back in the spare room and flipped them all back. Then the washer worked again, but I had to figure out which switch inside the apartment controlled the switch outside the apartment where the washer lives. (It has its own mini-balcony off the side of the kitchen.)
One by one I eliminated switches . . . flip a switch, walk out to check the washer, no. Flip a switch, walk out and check the washer, no. Flip a switch, go out and check the washer . . . what a pain.
There are lots of choices here. If I want something, say a kilo of potatoes, I can 1. Go to the store and get them.2. Call a store and have them deliver them. 3. Wait for them to come to me.
You see, there are these guys who go around selling things; all kinds of things, not just potatoes. I don’t know what to call them, they aren’t exactly street venders (I don’t think), but let’s call them that.
I haven’t bought anything from these venders, mostly because I try to ignore them when I hear them outside my window yelling their heads off. Secondly, I only happen to see them when I’m out walking Buzz, and it’s just too much to try to hold on to Buzz’s leash, (he’s ten pounds of “let’s go!”) carry the “warning stick” (other dogs back off) and usually a book. (I’ve found a nice little park-type-thing that’s like our own private dog park. It’s always empty and enclosed with a fence, so I can let Buzz free range for a few minutes each day while I read.) Point being, my hands are too full to carry money or random street vegetables.
One thing I noticed and wondered about was explained to me the other day. There are different guys for different things. The mango-man, he’s seasonal as is the jack-fruit lady. Then there’s the regular veggies guy, the plastics guy, the trinkets guy, and the occasional blankets or fabric guys and the paper guy (who, make note, is not selling paper, but buying it, or collecting it, don’t know which.) I didn’t wonder about any of these guys as they pushed their carts around the neighborhood yelling about their wares.
They all yell different things (obviously, it would be nonsense for the mango man to go around yelling “paper!”) But aside from the paper guy, they yell in another language, so I don’t know what they are saying, I only assume it is something about stuff on their carts.
Some of them have the tone of “Bring out your dead!” And that image makes me happy. When I hear the “Bring out your dead!” guy I don’t look to see who he is, because I like to imagine a muddy English man pushing a cart of dead people. Some of them sound like, (tone/melody mind you, not words) “Peanuts! Get your fresh roasted peanuts!” Some of them sound like auctioneers and others just sound really annoying, especially when I’ve gotten home from work at 3am and they are outside yelling at 9am.
“Blast you veggies man!”
I’ve diverted. What I wondered about was why is there a veggies man and a separate onion and garlic man? Why don’t they join forces? (And make one mega cart?)
Well, from what I understand some people here don’t eat onions or garlic; on religious purposes and/or because onions and garlic are considered aphrodisiacs. I never knew that about onions and garlic. I mean, generally Americans try to avoid the person who had onions and garlic for lunch, not because they don’t want to be entrapped by lust, but because they stink!
You see, there are these guys who go around selling things; all kinds of things, not just potatoes. I don’t know what to call them, they aren’t exactly street venders (I don’t think), but let’s call them that.
I haven’t bought anything from these venders, mostly because I try to ignore them when I hear them outside my window yelling their heads off. Secondly, I only happen to see them when I’m out walking Buzz, and it’s just too much to try to hold on to Buzz’s leash, (he’s ten pounds of “let’s go!”) carry the “warning stick” (other dogs back off) and usually a book. (I’ve found a nice little park-type-thing that’s like our own private dog park. It’s always empty and enclosed with a fence, so I can let Buzz free range for a few minutes each day while I read.) Point being, my hands are too full to carry money or random street vegetables.
One thing I noticed and wondered about was explained to me the other day. There are different guys for different things. The mango-man, he’s seasonal as is the jack-fruit lady. Then there’s the regular veggies guy, the plastics guy, the trinkets guy, and the occasional blankets or fabric guys and the paper guy (who, make note, is not selling paper, but buying it, or collecting it, don’t know which.) I didn’t wonder about any of these guys as they pushed their carts around the neighborhood yelling about their wares.
They all yell different things (obviously, it would be nonsense for the mango man to go around yelling “paper!”) But aside from the paper guy, they yell in another language, so I don’t know what they are saying, I only assume it is something about stuff on their carts.
Some of them have the tone of “Bring out your dead!” And that image makes me happy. When I hear the “Bring out your dead!” guy I don’t look to see who he is, because I like to imagine a muddy English man pushing a cart of dead people. Some of them sound like, (tone/melody mind you, not words) “Peanuts! Get your fresh roasted peanuts!” Some of them sound like auctioneers and others just sound really annoying, especially when I’ve gotten home from work at 3am and they are outside yelling at 9am.
“Blast you veggies man!”
I’ve diverted. What I wondered about was why is there a veggies man and a separate onion and garlic man? Why don’t they join forces? (And make one mega cart?)
Well, from what I understand some people here don’t eat onions or garlic; on religious purposes and/or because onions and garlic are considered aphrodisiacs. I never knew that about onions and garlic. I mean, generally Americans try to avoid the person who had onions and garlic for lunch, not because they don’t want to be entrapped by lust, but because they stink!
I find things here to be one the small side of conservative. While in the US things tend to be “Super Sized” “Economy Size” and “Family Size.” Things here are just a hint above “travel size.”
Everything (by everything I mean packages of food, towels, bath mats, pillows, pretty much everything except cooking ware which is HUGE, but all the containers to put things away are again tiny) is small and individually wrapped which makes me feel like a GIANT! (And not in a good way.)
Everything (by everything I mean packages of food, towels, bath mats, pillows, pretty much everything except cooking ware which is HUGE, but all the containers to put things away are again tiny) is small and individually wrapped which makes me feel like a GIANT! (And not in a good way.)
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Monday, June 26, 2006
I met some of my SEs today. I went to their meeting and every once in a while someone would use a Hindi word and they would turn to me and translate.
One time someone said, “Tikay” which is “Okay.” I said, “I knew that one, I know two words in Hindi, “Tikay” and “Bus.””
“Oh- Haha- ha-ha-ha” they laughed like that was a great joke.
Maybe it is funny that the only two words I know to say in Hindi are “okay” and “stop.”
So I have a washing machine. (I’ve only ever has access to my own washer when I’ve lived in third world countries. I like to think of it as a perk.)
I sorted and loaded up my clothes the other day and turned it on and . . . nothing happened. Many of the electrical sockets have on/off switches here, so I switched the socket switch and turned the washer on and . . . nothing happened.
That sucks!
I called my “in the event of any issue” contact guy and he said, “Sure, I’ll send an electrician tomorrow.” It’s been over a week. I guess I should call him back. He also mentioned something about telling the guard. (My apt building has a “chokidar” a “gate man” if you will. He just kind of hangs out all day and watches people walk in and punch the code in to open the door. I guess he opens and closes the gates for people with vehicles.)
I told him my problem and he said, “Yes, yes, okay.”
I don’t think he had any idea what I told him.
In any event I went to check on the situation again yesterday. In case, you know, for no reason at all something had suddenly changed and it was going to work. I opened the washer and there was a big fat RAT! Just sitting there happy-as-you-please on my new blue shirt!
I, of course, reacted immediately by 1. Screaming, and 2. Hysterically slamming the lid shut and running away. I noticed that the rat squeezed his way out of the barrel and into the casing of the machine before I slammed the lid.
I know I shouldn’t really be shocked. There are rats, (and dogs and cows) everywhere. I saw one (rat, not cow) in the drain outside the other day. The rats are in the Microsoft building, big time. They aren’t shy either. They run across the ceiling and they have colonized the cafeteria. Lots of LSs (Language Specialists, this place is full of acronyms) refuse to eat there because of the rats.
But it’s no use, they are everywhere. If they are here, they are in every restaurant.
I would have to go to the bother of cooking all my own food, and that’s just not going to happen.
I have, on the other hand gone to the bother of buying new clothes (just one outfit so far, I have hand washed a thing or two as well) until I figure out how to get somebody to fix my outlet.
I sorted and loaded up my clothes the other day and turned it on and . . . nothing happened. Many of the electrical sockets have on/off switches here, so I switched the socket switch and turned the washer on and . . . nothing happened.
That sucks!
I called my “in the event of any issue” contact guy and he said, “Sure, I’ll send an electrician tomorrow.” It’s been over a week. I guess I should call him back. He also mentioned something about telling the guard. (My apt building has a “chokidar” a “gate man” if you will. He just kind of hangs out all day and watches people walk in and punch the code in to open the door. I guess he opens and closes the gates for people with vehicles.)
I told him my problem and he said, “Yes, yes, okay.”
I don’t think he had any idea what I told him.
In any event I went to check on the situation again yesterday. In case, you know, for no reason at all something had suddenly changed and it was going to work. I opened the washer and there was a big fat RAT! Just sitting there happy-as-you-please on my new blue shirt!
I, of course, reacted immediately by 1. Screaming, and 2. Hysterically slamming the lid shut and running away. I noticed that the rat squeezed his way out of the barrel and into the casing of the machine before I slammed the lid.
I know I shouldn’t really be shocked. There are rats, (and dogs and cows) everywhere. I saw one (rat, not cow) in the drain outside the other day. The rats are in the Microsoft building, big time. They aren’t shy either. They run across the ceiling and they have colonized the cafeteria. Lots of LSs (Language Specialists, this place is full of acronyms) refuse to eat there because of the rats.
But it’s no use, they are everywhere. If they are here, they are in every restaurant.
I would have to go to the bother of cooking all my own food, and that’s just not going to happen.
I have, on the other hand gone to the bother of buying new clothes (just one outfit so far, I have hand washed a thing or two as well) until I figure out how to get somebody to fix my outlet.
I’m taking a break. This is my first day at work “on my own.” I have accomplished next to nothing. I have attempted to accomplish at least two or three things.
I did my first report and after sweating over it for over an HOUR (that’s a long time for me to do any one thing) I got a ‘server error.’
I’m in a freaking room full of software engineers, but I had to call the “global helpdesk” (in the US) so that they could route me to-- you guessed it-- an Indian SE (software engineer, remember that so I don’t have to type it out each time) so that he could transfer me to another one so that he could tell me I had contacted the wrong department.
My job is to help the communication process between Indian SEs and North American customers and I didn’t understand what my guy was saying. That was on account of his accent as much as I didn’t even know what I was asking him to do. I only knew that my computer wasn’t doing what I wanted it to do and nobody on my team knew how to deal with it.
It still doesn’t work.
Drat.
I did my first report and after sweating over it for over an HOUR (that’s a long time for me to do any one thing) I got a ‘server error.’
I’m in a freaking room full of software engineers, but I had to call the “global helpdesk” (in the US) so that they could route me to-- you guessed it-- an Indian SE (software engineer, remember that so I don’t have to type it out each time) so that he could transfer me to another one so that he could tell me I had contacted the wrong department.
My job is to help the communication process between Indian SEs and North American customers and I didn’t understand what my guy was saying. That was on account of his accent as much as I didn’t even know what I was asking him to do. I only knew that my computer wasn’t doing what I wanted it to do and nobody on my team knew how to deal with it.
It still doesn’t work.
Drat.
I started mah perpetratin' yesterday. I was Ballin' Benjamin . Yippie yo, you can't see my flow. He?s mah second degree of separizzles from Killa . Bounce wit me. They worked bitch briefly in Moscow . Boom bam as I step in the jam, God damn.
Sound in the least bit familiar? this is the "Gizoogle" "translation." I added it to my side bar list.
www.gizoogle.com
Do it now!
Sound in the least bit familiar? this is the "Gizoogle" "translation." I added it to my side bar list.
www.gizoogle.com
Do it now!
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
I started my training yesterday. I was “Shadowing” Benjamin. He’s my second degree of separation from Summer. They worked together briefly in Moscow.
The line of newbies at work goes like this newest: Me- Sergio- Benjamin- Leslie.
Leslie, Benjamin and I sat down to eat dinner before we started training. It was like the Spanish Inquisition. It started out with general questions, “Where you from?” “Where you been?” “What were you doin’ there?”
When we got to “What did you study in college?” I knew the Inquisition was about to go into full swing.”
“Tell me, tell me Don Miguel . . .”
I said, “Bible.”
They both looked at me as though I’d said a fancy French word.
Leslie said “Bible? You mean like Theology or Bible” (an extended southern glide /ay/ working here Bible as in isle.)
I said, “I studied Theology, comparative religions and Biblical Literature, but yeah, we just called it Bible.”
Later we spoke about the idols . . . how I’m a bit weirded out by the idols. It’s not that I fear them, because although I believe they are representative of power in the spiritual world, they only have the power that people give them through fear, worship and prayer. I think it’s defiantly a spiritual warfare issue. I don’t want them at my desk, in my apartment, in my space. I’m not inviting idols in. (As a matter of fact I put a big JESUS poster at my desk, kind of as a counter measure. I’m sure that won’t win friends or influence people there, but whatever.)
I don’t even like how these idols look. They have scary faces and distorted colors and shapes. Some are fearsome, some are meant to be beautiful. Some are impressive in stature, if only known as art they are amazing.
They asked if I would go to the temples. I said yes. I would like to see the historic places, the temples and to see the places of the monolithic statues, I just don’t want them in my space . . . I mean, maybe if they could keep the mosquitoes away . . . . no just kidding! I would rather live with mosquitoes than evil statues looking at me all the time.
The line of newbies at work goes like this newest: Me- Sergio- Benjamin- Leslie.
Leslie, Benjamin and I sat down to eat dinner before we started training. It was like the Spanish Inquisition. It started out with general questions, “Where you from?” “Where you been?” “What were you doin’ there?”
When we got to “What did you study in college?” I knew the Inquisition was about to go into full swing.”
“Tell me, tell me Don Miguel . . .”
I said, “Bible.”
They both looked at me as though I’d said a fancy French word.
Leslie said “Bible? You mean like Theology or Bible” (an extended southern glide /ay/ working here Bible as in isle.)
I said, “I studied Theology, comparative religions and Biblical Literature, but yeah, we just called it Bible.”
Later we spoke about the idols . . . how I’m a bit weirded out by the idols. It’s not that I fear them, because although I believe they are representative of power in the spiritual world, they only have the power that people give them through fear, worship and prayer. I think it’s defiantly a spiritual warfare issue. I don’t want them at my desk, in my apartment, in my space. I’m not inviting idols in. (As a matter of fact I put a big JESUS poster at my desk, kind of as a counter measure. I’m sure that won’t win friends or influence people there, but whatever.)
I don’t even like how these idols look. They have scary faces and distorted colors and shapes. Some are fearsome, some are meant to be beautiful. Some are impressive in stature, if only known as art they are amazing.
They asked if I would go to the temples. I said yes. I would like to see the historic places, the temples and to see the places of the monolithic statues, I just don’t want them in my space . . . I mean, maybe if they could keep the mosquitoes away . . . . no just kidding! I would rather live with mosquitoes than evil statues looking at me all the time.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Yes, it's long and no you probably won't care. Skim!
This corporate life isn’t what I thought it would be. My experience has always been with Christians and expats outside of the business arena. I’ve always been around people who were excited about a new person joining the group, who were eager to help, who wanted to know the stories of the new person. They gave gifts and suggestions and love for no reason aside from the fact that they knew what it was to be the new person and welcoming was part of the call.
In the business world I was just plopped down. I was given some things I needed and I was told who to call if I had a problem. But I wasn’t given any personal or social guidance. I wasn’t given many helpful hints; I wasn’t automatically welcomed into the group. I was just here. I was (am really) alone and lonely. It’s like being the new kid in school. It takes time to see where to fit in. I’ve always been shy (shut up! it’s true!) so it takes me longer.
I’ve decided to be a church person again. I went to a national, Methodist church last week. I wanted to find an international group. My boss is the only one I’ve found at work (so far) who is a church goer, and he told me about the church he goes to. He said he wouldn’t be there this week because he was traveling, but he was sure I could go with his wife, that she could pick me up and we could go together.
That sounded easy and safe so with all confidence I called his wife, whom I had never met. I asked her about the church and she sounded totally distracted and frazzled by her motherhood duties. She told me she wouldn’t be going to church this week because it was too difficult to get out alone with two children. She had a slight accent, so when she told me where the church met I was unsure of what she really said. It sounded like, “They meet at the Posh Regency Hotel, or Gateway Hotel.”
I said, “The Regency Hotel?”
She said, “Posh Regency”
I said, “Okay.”
I thought it sounded kind of uppity to put the word “posh” in the name of a hotel, but whatever.
She said, “You can find all the information in a book called In and Out of Bangalore.”
I thought I had seen that book and I knew I could also find it on the internet so I said, “Okay,” without asking any more questions.
I went to the bookstore, looked for the book to no avail.
I got on line, but forgot to look up the church.
I got up Sunday morning and wondered if I should try to find this place with such sketchy details.
Inventory:
I knew what time they meet.
I kind of knew the name of the meeting place.
I had no idea where that place was in relation to where I was.
I decided to press on. If I didn’t find the church I would at least find something.
I flagged down my first auto-rickshaw. I was trying to explain and at the same time figure out where I wanted to go according to the map. (Not so easy when the driver doesn’t speak English and I don’t even know what language he speaks.) Some friendly neighbors came along to help me out. They asked where I wanted to go, I told them. They told me I shouldn’t stay at that hotel, it was too expensive. I told them I was just visiting there, not staying. They talked to the driver, and whatever they said made him mad, I thought there was going to be a fist fight.
The driver got in his rickshaw and drove away and my friendly neighbors said, “You didn’t want him for a driver, he wanted to charge too much.”
They told me what to say to the next driver.
Okay.
I walked for a while before I found another empty auto-rick and that driver said, “Yes, yes madam.” I got in, he went one block and stopped. I guess he needed gas, which I noticed interestingly enough, comes in cylinders or tanks, like propane. It’s probably not propane, I have leery thoughts about riding around in an auto powered the same way a grill is, but that’s all together another issue.
He then told me that I needed to find another auto-rick because he wasn’t ready to take me after all.
So . . . I got in another one and he started driving. I noticed his meter didn’t work, but by that point I didn’t care. He drove me to the main street that I had said the hotel was on, but then he stopped so that I could ask directions. (He wasn’t asking because I’m sure he was driving illegally and it was the police that were standing on the corner dispensing information.)
The police officer said, “Don’t let him drive you, just walk; its three minutes down this street.” So, I over paid the driver who didn’t have a meter and started walking.
Having not been out of my neighborhood alone I started feeling like a tourist, walking around a strange city alone and clueless. At the intersection I asked, “Where is the Park (not Posh) Regency Hotel?” As, after consulting a map, this was my best guess about the name of the place I was headed toward.
He pointed it out to me. Well, that was a good sign, at least there actually was such a place as the “Park Regency Hotel.” I walked in and asked the desk man if there was a church there. He gave me a “ you crazy white women” look and said there is a church called St. (Somebody) down the street.
I said “Okay” and smiled and left. That was a bust. I had the wrong place after all.
I decided since I didn’t find the church to walk on down the street to see what else was around. Some shady little salesman tried to get me to go to a “Good store, open, open! Good prices for you!” I said, “no, no, No, NO!” And kept walking. I know that scam already. These guys on the street get commission to get people to go to certain stores. The commission comes from the hiked price the store owner sells the merchandise to the customer for. (I feel a little guilty about ending that sentence with “for” but we will all have to deal.)
As I walked on I saw a sign that said, “Taj Park Residency Gateway Hotel.” Well, wasn’t that at least part of what I scribbled on that paper when the boss’s wife had told me the name of the meeting place? I dug the paper out, I had forgotten all about that “Gateway” bit. I crossed the street to investigate. As I approached I could hear some Christians singing. I followed the singing and opened the door and I saw white people (It’s like the Sixth Sense, “I see white people.”)
I walked in and sat in the back. It was a smallish gathering maybe 35-40ish people. There were some Indians, more whities. They had new people introduce themselves. There were a lot of newbies maybe 1/3 of the group. I said, “Microsoft” and people looked at me like I had said a magic word. I wanted to tell them it wasn’t like that . . . I just quality control.
I saw a guy in the front of the group who looked vaguely familiar. I wondered if I knew him from somewhere, then forgetting how small some circles are, I dismissed the idea thinking, ‘He just looks like someone I used to know.’ Sitting next to Vaguely-familiar- guy was New-guy who introduced himself as new to “The Company” and very excited to be here. I knew what that meant, but wasn’t sure why it was being communicated in that way. I thought India was open.
After the service several people approached me, there seemed to be an unusual number of Texans in the room. I should have been suspicious, but I was thrown off by the Texas Instruments people.
Vaguely-familiar-guy came up and said, “Hey, do you remember me from Golden Gate?” That was it! I did remember! He and I had never really be friends or hung out, but I had seen him around and knew his name. Well, isn’t that funny? Six years later, around the world I wander into random church “A” and see someone I met in CA! He talked to me in low tones about “The Company” and his work.
I told him I knew “The Company” was in town on account of the Hospital, but I didn’t know how many there were and I couldn’t figure out how to find them. He said, “Let me introduce you to my co-worker!”
When he said her name, I thought, ‘I’ve heard that name before, I think, but maybe not.’
(Why do I doubt?!)
She was Friendly and Funny and suggested we all go to lunch (VF-guy and New- guy, she and I.)
We went to a Chinese place and I wondered if VF-guy’s coworker had ever worked in The Ivory Coast. Strange thing to wonder of someone you just met perhaps, but once, way back when . . . I had traveled far and long from Ft. Myers, FL to San Antonio, TX to a conference where someone quite like this lady had worn red suspenders and ridden a unicycle into a conference center full of screaming teenaged girls. That Unicycle rider had worked in Ivory Coast. I had to ask.
She said, “That was me! I can’t believe it!” She told the story of the unicycle and the conference and the suspenders . . . how funny, I think she drew a palm tree on my program one night back in 1990.
We talked the rest of the day about security and The Company and my company and why Microsoft was a magic word. We went to a prayer service for a community center for children with unstable family lives. (Those babies were so precious.) I’m sure I’ll be back there. She introduced me to more Company people and when we spoke the other magic word “Journeyman” I was at once included in the group story.
And after years of thinking I couldn’t be involved in that group ever again, I thought, ‘Maybe I could, maybe in a different way from last time.’
This is a time for healing after all.
God is good. I have a broken past but a healing future.
This corporate life isn’t what I thought it would be. My experience has always been with Christians and expats outside of the business arena. I’ve always been around people who were excited about a new person joining the group, who were eager to help, who wanted to know the stories of the new person. They gave gifts and suggestions and love for no reason aside from the fact that they knew what it was to be the new person and welcoming was part of the call.
In the business world I was just plopped down. I was given some things I needed and I was told who to call if I had a problem. But I wasn’t given any personal or social guidance. I wasn’t given many helpful hints; I wasn’t automatically welcomed into the group. I was just here. I was (am really) alone and lonely. It’s like being the new kid in school. It takes time to see where to fit in. I’ve always been shy (shut up! it’s true!) so it takes me longer.
I’ve decided to be a church person again. I went to a national, Methodist church last week. I wanted to find an international group. My boss is the only one I’ve found at work (so far) who is a church goer, and he told me about the church he goes to. He said he wouldn’t be there this week because he was traveling, but he was sure I could go with his wife, that she could pick me up and we could go together.
That sounded easy and safe so with all confidence I called his wife, whom I had never met. I asked her about the church and she sounded totally distracted and frazzled by her motherhood duties. She told me she wouldn’t be going to church this week because it was too difficult to get out alone with two children. She had a slight accent, so when she told me where the church met I was unsure of what she really said. It sounded like, “They meet at the Posh Regency Hotel, or Gateway Hotel.”
I said, “The Regency Hotel?”
She said, “Posh Regency”
I said, “Okay.”
I thought it sounded kind of uppity to put the word “posh” in the name of a hotel, but whatever.
She said, “You can find all the information in a book called In and Out of Bangalore.”
I thought I had seen that book and I knew I could also find it on the internet so I said, “Okay,” without asking any more questions.
I went to the bookstore, looked for the book to no avail.
I got on line, but forgot to look up the church.
I got up Sunday morning and wondered if I should try to find this place with such sketchy details.
Inventory:
I knew what time they meet.
I kind of knew the name of the meeting place.
I had no idea where that place was in relation to where I was.
I decided to press on. If I didn’t find the church I would at least find something.
I flagged down my first auto-rickshaw. I was trying to explain and at the same time figure out where I wanted to go according to the map. (Not so easy when the driver doesn’t speak English and I don’t even know what language he speaks.) Some friendly neighbors came along to help me out. They asked where I wanted to go, I told them. They told me I shouldn’t stay at that hotel, it was too expensive. I told them I was just visiting there, not staying. They talked to the driver, and whatever they said made him mad, I thought there was going to be a fist fight.
The driver got in his rickshaw and drove away and my friendly neighbors said, “You didn’t want him for a driver, he wanted to charge too much.”
They told me what to say to the next driver.
Okay.
I walked for a while before I found another empty auto-rick and that driver said, “Yes, yes madam.” I got in, he went one block and stopped. I guess he needed gas, which I noticed interestingly enough, comes in cylinders or tanks, like propane. It’s probably not propane, I have leery thoughts about riding around in an auto powered the same way a grill is, but that’s all together another issue.
He then told me that I needed to find another auto-rick because he wasn’t ready to take me after all.
So . . . I got in another one and he started driving. I noticed his meter didn’t work, but by that point I didn’t care. He drove me to the main street that I had said the hotel was on, but then he stopped so that I could ask directions. (He wasn’t asking because I’m sure he was driving illegally and it was the police that were standing on the corner dispensing information.)
The police officer said, “Don’t let him drive you, just walk; its three minutes down this street.” So, I over paid the driver who didn’t have a meter and started walking.
Having not been out of my neighborhood alone I started feeling like a tourist, walking around a strange city alone and clueless. At the intersection I asked, “Where is the Park (not Posh) Regency Hotel?” As, after consulting a map, this was my best guess about the name of the place I was headed toward.
He pointed it out to me. Well, that was a good sign, at least there actually was such a place as the “Park Regency Hotel.” I walked in and asked the desk man if there was a church there. He gave me a “ you crazy white women” look and said there is a church called St. (Somebody) down the street.
I said “Okay” and smiled and left. That was a bust. I had the wrong place after all.
I decided since I didn’t find the church to walk on down the street to see what else was around. Some shady little salesman tried to get me to go to a “Good store, open, open! Good prices for you!” I said, “no, no, No, NO!” And kept walking. I know that scam already. These guys on the street get commission to get people to go to certain stores. The commission comes from the hiked price the store owner sells the merchandise to the customer for. (I feel a little guilty about ending that sentence with “for” but we will all have to deal.)
As I walked on I saw a sign that said, “Taj Park Residency Gateway Hotel.” Well, wasn’t that at least part of what I scribbled on that paper when the boss’s wife had told me the name of the meeting place? I dug the paper out, I had forgotten all about that “Gateway” bit. I crossed the street to investigate. As I approached I could hear some Christians singing. I followed the singing and opened the door and I saw white people (It’s like the Sixth Sense, “I see white people.”)
I walked in and sat in the back. It was a smallish gathering maybe 35-40ish people. There were some Indians, more whities. They had new people introduce themselves. There were a lot of newbies maybe 1/3 of the group. I said, “Microsoft” and people looked at me like I had said a magic word. I wanted to tell them it wasn’t like that . . . I just quality control.
I saw a guy in the front of the group who looked vaguely familiar. I wondered if I knew him from somewhere, then forgetting how small some circles are, I dismissed the idea thinking, ‘He just looks like someone I used to know.’ Sitting next to Vaguely-familiar- guy was New-guy who introduced himself as new to “The Company” and very excited to be here. I knew what that meant, but wasn’t sure why it was being communicated in that way. I thought India was open.
After the service several people approached me, there seemed to be an unusual number of Texans in the room. I should have been suspicious, but I was thrown off by the Texas Instruments people.
Vaguely-familiar-guy came up and said, “Hey, do you remember me from Golden Gate?” That was it! I did remember! He and I had never really be friends or hung out, but I had seen him around and knew his name. Well, isn’t that funny? Six years later, around the world I wander into random church “A” and see someone I met in CA! He talked to me in low tones about “The Company” and his work.
I told him I knew “The Company” was in town on account of the Hospital, but I didn’t know how many there were and I couldn’t figure out how to find them. He said, “Let me introduce you to my co-worker!”
When he said her name, I thought, ‘I’ve heard that name before, I think, but maybe not.’
(Why do I doubt?!)
She was Friendly and Funny and suggested we all go to lunch (VF-guy and New- guy, she and I.)
We went to a Chinese place and I wondered if VF-guy’s coworker had ever worked in The Ivory Coast. Strange thing to wonder of someone you just met perhaps, but once, way back when . . . I had traveled far and long from Ft. Myers, FL to San Antonio, TX to a conference where someone quite like this lady had worn red suspenders and ridden a unicycle into a conference center full of screaming teenaged girls. That Unicycle rider had worked in Ivory Coast. I had to ask.
She said, “That was me! I can’t believe it!” She told the story of the unicycle and the conference and the suspenders . . . how funny, I think she drew a palm tree on my program one night back in 1990.
We talked the rest of the day about security and The Company and my company and why Microsoft was a magic word. We went to a prayer service for a community center for children with unstable family lives. (Those babies were so precious.) I’m sure I’ll be back there. She introduced me to more Company people and when we spoke the other magic word “Journeyman” I was at once included in the group story.
And after years of thinking I couldn’t be involved in that group ever again, I thought, ‘Maybe I could, maybe in a different way from last time.’
This is a time for healing after all.
God is good. I have a broken past but a healing future.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
1. Cow hanging outside the "Authentic Service" repair center on the corner.
2. One of the many growling threats we must pass on our walks.
There are stray dogs and cows around every corner, (a cow tried to sniff Buzz today, he was not happy about that.)
Speaking of stray dogs, I bought a monopod for my camera before I left, it’s a collapsible stick to keep my camera steady . . . I think it was my best “going to India” investment of all. I take it with me for every walk Buzz and I take around the ‘hood. I wave it at the stray dogs and yell, “Stay back!”
Sometimes people on the street help me out by yelling at the strays or throwing rocks at them for me :0). They are mean dogs! They always growl at Buzz! They are big dogs too, if they bit him they could puncture his lung!
I took my camera for a walk again today. (BTW- I tried to upload some videos, but they were too long, they need to be edited—seems like a project for tomorrow.) Where my camera goes, small children will follow. I’m like the pide-piper! Consider:I pulled my camera out to take a picture of my neighborhood temple.
Children appeared before the camera was fully out of my pocket.
After one picture, they had multiplied.
After two pictures again they were more. I think this only illustrates my theory on Indians taking over the world. There’s two, you blink there’s now three, you blink now there are five . . . I’m telling you they are like tribbles . . . larger, less fluffy tribbles, who aren’t from outer space.
the temple, which was the intended target in the first place
Friday, June 16, 2006
God is good, all the time. So we Christians say.
I found my phone, rather it was found . . . somewhere by someone seeking good vibes join me now in good vibing that person, repeat after me, "yeah, yeah!"
I once had an agreement with a friend that whenever we were happy about something, we would interject "yeah, yeah!" into the telling of the happy story as a show of enthusiasm. Either speaker or listener could interject. Conversely we could interject "whoa-whoa" into sad stories.
FYI
In other news. I hope to get some nitty-gritty stuff done this weekend, get some comfy furniture, get some matching curtains, or at least not-clashing curtains. I want to go to the supermarket to get basic kitchen supplies and baskets to put my supplies in. I need to buy some dog food for the beastie because he's been (happily) eating eggs and rice and bread, but there is no way I am going to cook eggs for my silly little dog every night! And on a more exciting note, get some fabric to get some clothes made.
I could buy clothes, but there is a tailor just on my street and he is such an interesting looking man I want to have an excuse to talk to him. He looks like the stereo-typical guru on the mountain. But he's not a guru (there are several of those in the neighborhood too) he's a tailor and he's not on a mountain, he's sitting in a little shop behind an ancient sewing machine on my street. He's ascetically thin, he has wild wavy black-grey hair. He doesn't wear western clothes, he wears the traditional short length wrap skirts.
He's wrinkled and worn, but when he smiles his face lights up in honest contentment. He always smiles at me when I walk by, not just a "Oh there's an Angrezi" smile, but "Hi! Welcome to the neighborhood, you want me to make you shirt?" smile. I like him.
I'm going to ask to take his picture when I go there.
I found my phone, rather it was found . . . somewhere by someone seeking good vibes join me now in good vibing that person, repeat after me, "yeah, yeah!"
I once had an agreement with a friend that whenever we were happy about something, we would interject "yeah, yeah!" into the telling of the happy story as a show of enthusiasm. Either speaker or listener could interject. Conversely we could interject "whoa-whoa" into sad stories.
FYI
In other news. I hope to get some nitty-gritty stuff done this weekend, get some comfy furniture, get some matching curtains, or at least not-clashing curtains. I want to go to the supermarket to get basic kitchen supplies and baskets to put my supplies in. I need to buy some dog food for the beastie because he's been (happily) eating eggs and rice and bread, but there is no way I am going to cook eggs for my silly little dog every night! And on a more exciting note, get some fabric to get some clothes made.
I could buy clothes, but there is a tailor just on my street and he is such an interesting looking man I want to have an excuse to talk to him. He looks like the stereo-typical guru on the mountain. But he's not a guru (there are several of those in the neighborhood too) he's a tailor and he's not on a mountain, he's sitting in a little shop behind an ancient sewing machine on my street. He's ascetically thin, he has wild wavy black-grey hair. He doesn't wear western clothes, he wears the traditional short length wrap skirts.
He's wrinkled and worn, but when he smiles his face lights up in honest contentment. He always smiles at me when I walk by, not just a "Oh there's an Angrezi" smile, but "Hi! Welcome to the neighborhood, you want me to make you shirt?" smile. I like him.
I'm going to ask to take his picture when I go there.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
I’m frustrated today.
I managed to lose my cell phone already. (That took about 4 days.) I’m less concerned about the money (although it was a bit expensive) than I am about all the information lost and the inconvenience of not having a way to contact people or be contacted.
I’m currently in optimistic mode that some kind soul who is seeking good karma will turn it into lost and found.
Saturday, if no good karma is shown me, I fear I will have to go buy a new phone. The first time around I got lucky enough to inherit Kate’s (someone who left just a week or so before I came) SIM card (and her apartment and her furniture.) It already had the entire list of important phone numbers programmed. More importantly, it was already activated, so I didn’t have to wait to get connected.
I’m told that since it’s still ringing that it’s most likely only misplaced, not stolen . . . and turned off . . . and SIM card switched . . . and being pressed against someone else’s little brown ear.
I managed to lose my cell phone already. (That took about 4 days.) I’m less concerned about the money (although it was a bit expensive) than I am about all the information lost and the inconvenience of not having a way to contact people or be contacted.
I’m currently in optimistic mode that some kind soul who is seeking good karma will turn it into lost and found.
Saturday, if no good karma is shown me, I fear I will have to go buy a new phone. The first time around I got lucky enough to inherit Kate’s (someone who left just a week or so before I came) SIM card (and her apartment and her furniture.) It already had the entire list of important phone numbers programmed. More importantly, it was already activated, so I didn’t have to wait to get connected.
I’m told that since it’s still ringing that it’s most likely only misplaced, not stolen . . . and turned off . . . and SIM card switched . . . and being pressed against someone else’s little brown ear.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Jackfruit is the largest tree-borne fruit in the world, reaching 80 pounds in weight and up to 36 inches long and 20 inches in diameter. The exterior of the compound fruit is green or yellow when ripe. The interior consists of large edible bulbs of yellow, banana-flavored flesh (lies! they are all lies! it tastes quite terrible, I would say indescribably bad, but that's not true, I could probably describe it but that would require me eating it again, and I'm going to try to avoid that) that encloses a smooth, oval, light-brown seed.
The seed is 3/4 to 1-1/2 inches long and 1/2 to 3/4 inches thick and is white and crisp within. There may be 100 or up to 500 seeds in a single fruit, which are viable for no more than three or four days. When fully ripe, the unopened jackfruit emits a strong disagreeable odor, (this is true) resembling that of decayed onions (decaying onions sitting on top of a pile of dung), while the pulp of the opened fruit smells of pineapple and banana. (Pineapple and banana that have been left to suffer and rot in fields of decaying chipmunk bodies.)
There are two main varieties. In one, the fruits have small, fibrous, soft, mushy, but very sweet carpals with a texture somewhat akin to a raw oysters. The other variety is crisp and almost crunchy though not quite as sweet. This form is the more important commercially and is more palatable to western tastes. (I think I had this kind, it was not palatable to my western taste.)
Bangalore has a certain odiferous quality.
The city smells of exhaust fumes, human body odor, garbage, feces, urine, burning and jackfruit.
Generally all these scents work together, so that no one is overpowering and the effect is unpleasant, but not overwhelming.
Occasionally one may walk into an area of a high concentration of one scent and want to gag, but she doesn't because that may be perceived as rude.
Don't get me wrong, there are small pockets of delicious smells. Many of the women wear jasmine or other fragrant flowers in their hair. In the morning and evening the smell of frying onions all over my neighborhood is wonderful. I walked through the fancy hotel garden last night, it was lovely with the scents of fresh flowers, clean water falling from the fountains, newly laid sod . . . those are nice things . . . Jackfruit is not.
Avoid Jackfruit.
The seed is 3/4 to 1-1/2 inches long and 1/2 to 3/4 inches thick and is white and crisp within. There may be 100 or up to 500 seeds in a single fruit, which are viable for no more than three or four days. When fully ripe, the unopened jackfruit emits a strong disagreeable odor, (this is true) resembling that of decayed onions (decaying onions sitting on top of a pile of dung), while the pulp of the opened fruit smells of pineapple and banana. (Pineapple and banana that have been left to suffer and rot in fields of decaying chipmunk bodies.)
There are two main varieties. In one, the fruits have small, fibrous, soft, mushy, but very sweet carpals with a texture somewhat akin to a raw oysters. The other variety is crisp and almost crunchy though not quite as sweet. This form is the more important commercially and is more palatable to western tastes. (I think I had this kind, it was not palatable to my western taste.)
Bangalore has a certain odiferous quality.
The city smells of exhaust fumes, human body odor, garbage, feces, urine, burning and jackfruit.
Generally all these scents work together, so that no one is overpowering and the effect is unpleasant, but not overwhelming.
Occasionally one may walk into an area of a high concentration of one scent and want to gag, but she doesn't because that may be perceived as rude.
Don't get me wrong, there are small pockets of delicious smells. Many of the women wear jasmine or other fragrant flowers in their hair. In the morning and evening the smell of frying onions all over my neighborhood is wonderful. I walked through the fancy hotel garden last night, it was lovely with the scents of fresh flowers, clean water falling from the fountains, newly laid sod . . . those are nice things . . . Jackfruit is not.
Avoid Jackfruit.
Monday, June 12, 2006
I took my camera out for a walk yesterday, got some very jiggly video of my neighborhood and a few stills.
These little girls (and about 12 other kids) saw my camera and ran after me shouting "Auntie! Auntie! Camera!" I got some video, they seemed please with the whole thing.
I've got a website ready to download videos for the world to watch, just need time to get it up and running. I'll let you know when that happens.
I went in for my first day of orientation at Microsoft today. I got the tour of the complex. There are 5 or 6 buildings in the "IT park" and Microsoft has two buildings. Really one and a half, as they share one with IBM.
It all makes perfect sense, IBM has floors 2 and 4, MS has 1,3,5. That must have been a brilliant idea at one point in time. Right now it comes across as odd since you can't use the elevators to get to all the floors, nor can you use the stairs to get to some of the floors from certain other floors, so you just have to know whether to take elevator or stairs to which floor according to which floor you are currently on. My desk is on the third floor, I don't really know exactly how to get there.
I got registared as a foreign (devil) today. This gives me all the rights of a national. Now I can go to the zoo and pay in rupees instead of dollars. (Yeah me!)
Tomorrow I start my evening schedule, next week (I guess) I'll start my night schedule. I hope that goes well, because right now there is some sort of construction going on in the next lot and radomly spaced through out the day since I got here there is an ungodly-loud rumbling machine just outside my bedroom window starting and stoping any time between 6am and 11pm.
Tune in next time for "Scary Fruit Bats of Bangalore," and "The Smell of Jackfruit."
Saturday, June 10, 2006
I'm so sitting in a hip trendy (British?) bookstore/coffee shop/internet cafe. I've just eaten my fill of quiche, fries and strawberry lassi (yogurt drink). I expect my total to be about $5.00.
Not counting food, I've noticed plenty of things in this city are a bit pricey.
I just tormented some carpet dealers for about 45 minutes. They showed me about 2 dozen carpets and half a dozen bed covers, I had no intention of buying anything, but they sure were doing their best to get some "good luck" from me.
The carpets were Kashmir wool 5'x7' 400 knots per inch for the "special price" of 17,000 rupees also known as $377.78. Actually that doesn't sound so bad. I'm going to check around for better. What I'd really like to do is go to Kashmir to look, but that will have to wait, and I want a carpet soon.
After consulting an Indian map it seems I have (unbeknownst to me) been to India before. Pakistan says it's theirs, and everybody else in the world calls it a "disputed area" but according to India, I've been to India! Gilgit on the Indian map.
Not counting food, I've noticed plenty of things in this city are a bit pricey.
I just tormented some carpet dealers for about 45 minutes. They showed me about 2 dozen carpets and half a dozen bed covers, I had no intention of buying anything, but they sure were doing their best to get some "good luck" from me.
The carpets were Kashmir wool 5'x7' 400 knots per inch for the "special price" of 17,000 rupees also known as $377.78. Actually that doesn't sound so bad. I'm going to check around for better. What I'd really like to do is go to Kashmir to look, but that will have to wait, and I want a carpet soon.
After consulting an Indian map it seems I have (unbeknownst to me) been to India before. Pakistan says it's theirs, and everybody else in the world calls it a "disputed area" but according to India, I've been to India! Gilgit on the Indian map.
When Uday picked me up from the airport he asked if I had ever been to India before. I said “No.” He asked where I had been. I said I had been to Cypress, UAE and Pakistan. He said, “India is same like Pakistan, only different culture” which made me smile.
A Pakistani would never say such a thing.
Culture includes a lot of stuff!
Saying, “India is like Pakistan, just a different culture.” is NOT like saying “The USA is like England, just a different culture.” It’s more like saying “The USA is like Russia, (during the Cold War) just a different culture.”
Let me compare:
Culture- different
subcategories:
Food- different, all things come in veg and non-veg. This makes me happy. Eating methods are similar though, I went out to eat yesterday with some Indian folks from the company and the whole eating without silverware and not using my left hand was tricky, very tricky.
Clothes- different, in Islamabad if you saw someone wearing anything aside from a shawar kamis you were probably hallucinating. Here, western clothes, shawar kamis, saris, other things I don’t know the names of, everything seems okay by them. I was informed to avoid sleeveless, but I’ve seen plenty of Indian and Westerners wearing sleeveless, but not halter tops, tank tops or any short skirts or shorts.
Transportation- same, the traffic here is well, Asian. Hard to describe- there are lines on the road, but they seem to be there more for decoration. More than half the traffic is motorcycles, motor scooters, auto rickshaws or bikes. You then move up to tiny hatch backs, micro vans, standard sedans, SUVs, work trucks and busses. The streets are narrow, and half torn up and partially covered in garbage.
Driving standards- Honking for any and every reason!
Examples: you may sound your horn for any of the below reason, list not exhaustive.
“Here I come!”
“You’re in my way!”
“I’m going to get in your way!”
“I will soon be crossing an intersection!”
“Hi friend!”
“I like the sound of my horn, don’t you?”
“Get off the sidewalk, I need it!”
“You need a ride?”
“I’m done with this space now.”
“I know the light has changed, but I am going anyway, so watch out.”
Etc.
Stopping for pedestrians is not “the thing.”
The average driving speed is probably about 30mph max, it would be impossible to go faster on account of there are 8 million people also trying to get where ever you are.
(Curious) nationals- different, I have been warned twice now that Indians are very curious and that they stare and will ask any sort of questions, just because they want to know. Okay, so I was ready—the people who gave me these warnings are either extra sensitive or they have never been to places where men have the ability to stare at women as though they were transferring semen directly from their eyes (nearly everywhere else I’ve ever been, including my old neighborhood in Arlington, TX.) Sure, the Indians look at me, but it’s more like “Huh, there’s a white girl.” Not, “I will rape you with my eyes and you will have 10,000 of my babies!”
City animals- different, here I’ve seen cows and dogs. Islamabad was more concerned with sheep, goats and an occasional monkey or toothless bear.
Western Influence- different, I’ve found every kind of book, clothes, TV, movies, music, food etc. I’m surprised at the variety, but what is the same is the randomness of it all. Here’s an Usher CD and a New York Times Best Seller, but that’s it. You might find some other choices in another store on the other side of town, but you never know.
I’ve been told there is still some censoring of Western movies, but not to the same extent as what I saw in Pakistan.
Here the West is very popular, nearly as popular as the East is in the US.
I went into an “American Dollar Store” yesterday. Strangely everything costs the equivalent of $2.00. I bought a few things anyway. Some of the products were labeled both in English and Spanish. Now that is a little bit of home!
I haven’t ordered it yet, but I have a brochure for pizza. I can order a “Mexican” pizza which has jalapenos and an “exotic Mexican herb.” Fancy!
Popular Hollywood movies come out in world wide release here, for example, “The Da Vinci Code” and “X-3” are already showing. Less popular movies make it in their own time, “Endless Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” I was told, just showed a few months ago. Movies are very popular and I’ve been told you should make reservations days or weeks in advance.
The Black Eyed Peas will come here in concert soon. Random, like I said.
There are a few Amazing malls here- like what you would expect in the US or in UAE. There is one called the Galleria, which puts the Galleria in Dallas to shame. The Galleria here is much smaller, but it is opulent. Everything from the rose petals in the fountains to the hall of polished marble pillars, everything sparkles and shines, it’s elegant and exotic and outrageously expensive, but maybe that adds to the allure.
Toilets- same, the guest apartment I’m staying in has two bedrooms, two bathrooms. One has a western toilet; the other has a squatty potty. Toilet paper is a partial mystery here. They have it, but I get the feeling they think the whole idea is kind of gross. They wash after every time, hose and/or bucket to be found in every restroom/bathroom. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to flush what I use or not. The showers are the same, not actually a shower, per say, more of a shower head sticking out of the wall and a drain in the floor. I kind of like it better, you don’t have to worry about scrubbing the shower, just squirt everything with the hose and move on.
All that to day, I’m going with everything is pretty dang different here than anywhere else I’ve been.
A Pakistani would never say such a thing.
Culture includes a lot of stuff!
Saying, “India is like Pakistan, just a different culture.” is NOT like saying “The USA is like England, just a different culture.” It’s more like saying “The USA is like Russia, (during the Cold War) just a different culture.”
Let me compare:
Culture- different
subcategories:
Language- different, nearly all of them. Urdu and Hindi are really the same, but you wouldn't know to look at it, and since I don't know how to read either or how to speak any of it, it makes no difference to me.
Religion- different, I’ve seen a few Muslims, heard the call to prayer last night, saw a one Methodist church and a few Catholic churches/schools and one van that said, “Jesus Lives!” otherwise lots of Temples, Idols, cows, vegetarians and Hindus.Food- different, all things come in veg and non-veg. This makes me happy. Eating methods are similar though, I went out to eat yesterday with some Indian folks from the company and the whole eating without silverware and not using my left hand was tricky, very tricky.
Clothes- different, in Islamabad if you saw someone wearing anything aside from a shawar kamis you were probably hallucinating. Here, western clothes, shawar kamis, saris, other things I don’t know the names of, everything seems okay by them. I was informed to avoid sleeveless, but I’ve seen plenty of Indian and Westerners wearing sleeveless, but not halter tops, tank tops or any short skirts or shorts.
Transportation- same, the traffic here is well, Asian. Hard to describe- there are lines on the road, but they seem to be there more for decoration. More than half the traffic is motorcycles, motor scooters, auto rickshaws or bikes. You then move up to tiny hatch backs, micro vans, standard sedans, SUVs, work trucks and busses. The streets are narrow, and half torn up and partially covered in garbage.
Driving standards- Honking for any and every reason!
Examples: you may sound your horn for any of the below reason, list not exhaustive.
“Here I come!”
“You’re in my way!”
“I’m going to get in your way!”
“I will soon be crossing an intersection!”
“Hi friend!”
“I like the sound of my horn, don’t you?”
“Get off the sidewalk, I need it!”
“You need a ride?”
“I’m done with this space now.”
“I know the light has changed, but I am going anyway, so watch out.”
Etc.
Stopping for pedestrians is not “the thing.”
The average driving speed is probably about 30mph max, it would be impossible to go faster on account of there are 8 million people also trying to get where ever you are.
(Curious) nationals- different, I have been warned twice now that Indians are very curious and that they stare and will ask any sort of questions, just because they want to know. Okay, so I was ready—the people who gave me these warnings are either extra sensitive or they have never been to places where men have the ability to stare at women as though they were transferring semen directly from their eyes (nearly everywhere else I’ve ever been, including my old neighborhood in Arlington, TX.) Sure, the Indians look at me, but it’s more like “Huh, there’s a white girl.” Not, “I will rape you with my eyes and you will have 10,000 of my babies!”
City animals- different, here I’ve seen cows and dogs. Islamabad was more concerned with sheep, goats and an occasional monkey or toothless bear.
Western Influence- different, I’ve found every kind of book, clothes, TV, movies, music, food etc. I’m surprised at the variety, but what is the same is the randomness of it all. Here’s an Usher CD and a New York Times Best Seller, but that’s it. You might find some other choices in another store on the other side of town, but you never know.
I’ve been told there is still some censoring of Western movies, but not to the same extent as what I saw in Pakistan.
Here the West is very popular, nearly as popular as the East is in the US.
I went into an “American Dollar Store” yesterday. Strangely everything costs the equivalent of $2.00. I bought a few things anyway. Some of the products were labeled both in English and Spanish. Now that is a little bit of home!
I haven’t ordered it yet, but I have a brochure for pizza. I can order a “Mexican” pizza which has jalapenos and an “exotic Mexican herb.” Fancy!
Popular Hollywood movies come out in world wide release here, for example, “The Da Vinci Code” and “X-3” are already showing. Less popular movies make it in their own time, “Endless Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” I was told, just showed a few months ago. Movies are very popular and I’ve been told you should make reservations days or weeks in advance.
The Black Eyed Peas will come here in concert soon. Random, like I said.
There are a few Amazing malls here- like what you would expect in the US or in UAE. There is one called the Galleria, which puts the Galleria in Dallas to shame. The Galleria here is much smaller, but it is opulent. Everything from the rose petals in the fountains to the hall of polished marble pillars, everything sparkles and shines, it’s elegant and exotic and outrageously expensive, but maybe that adds to the allure.
Toilets- same, the guest apartment I’m staying in has two bedrooms, two bathrooms. One has a western toilet; the other has a squatty potty. Toilet paper is a partial mystery here. They have it, but I get the feeling they think the whole idea is kind of gross. They wash after every time, hose and/or bucket to be found in every restroom/bathroom. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to flush what I use or not. The showers are the same, not actually a shower, per say, more of a shower head sticking out of the wall and a drain in the floor. I kind of like it better, you don’t have to worry about scrubbing the shower, just squirt everything with the hose and move on.
All that to day, I’m going with everything is pretty dang different here than anywhere else I’ve been.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
I had a panic attack (not literally) the other day. I have packed everything into storage and I realized that I had no idea where my passport was.
NO FREAKING IDEA!
First I thought: It's with my contract and all the stuff I took down to Houston.
Then I found the contract and the stuff I went to Houston with and it wasn't there.
Then I thought: It's with my shot records.
Then I found my shot records and it wasn't with them.
Then I freaked out considering the possibilities that I packed it into storage, I threw it away, that I'd never find it, that I'd have to face all the consequences of breaking the contract . . .
I fretted about it for about 5 hours when suddenly it came to me in a flash!
It was (of course) in my scanner. I had scanned a copy of the visa to send to India. I had never taken it out!
I'm a freaking genius!
(she said tongue in cheek)
NO FREAKING IDEA!
First I thought: It's with my contract and all the stuff I took down to Houston.
Then I found the contract and the stuff I went to Houston with and it wasn't there.
Then I thought: It's with my shot records.
Then I found my shot records and it wasn't with them.
Then I freaked out considering the possibilities that I packed it into storage, I threw it away, that I'd never find it, that I'd have to face all the consequences of breaking the contract . . .
I fretted about it for about 5 hours when suddenly it came to me in a flash!
It was (of course) in my scanner. I had scanned a copy of the visa to send to India. I had never taken it out!
I'm a freaking genius!
(she said tongue in cheek)
I figured it would take a few weeks to get the cash in my little paws, but the check is waiting for me at my aunt's house right now!
Yeah! I had been concerned about my depleted bank account. I hadn't paid my rent, my last bills, and I still don't know how much I'll have to fork over to get Buzz to India.
I went to my apartment manager to confess my delinquency in the rent (for May) because apparently she hadn't noticed that I never paid. (Kinda flakey) I told her I was moving out and that I hadn't paid the rent, but I would pay it in July when I got my first pay check. She said, "Oh, you're leaving today? Well, I guess I don't have to evict you then."
Living in the ghetto is so quorky.
Later as I was moving out more things she said, "Listen, so you don't get in trouble, and I don't get in trouble, let's just say you moved out on the 1st, and forfited your deposit."
I said, "FINE BY ME!"
I mean, the dog ate the bathroom carpet, I figured the deposit was gone anyway.
Yeah! I had been concerned about my depleted bank account. I hadn't paid my rent, my last bills, and I still don't know how much I'll have to fork over to get Buzz to India.
I went to my apartment manager to confess my delinquency in the rent (for May) because apparently she hadn't noticed that I never paid. (Kinda flakey) I told her I was moving out and that I hadn't paid the rent, but I would pay it in July when I got my first pay check. She said, "Oh, you're leaving today? Well, I guess I don't have to evict you then."
Living in the ghetto is so quorky.
Later as I was moving out more things she said, "Listen, so you don't get in trouble, and I don't get in trouble, let's just say you moved out on the 1st, and forfited your deposit."
I said, "FINE BY ME!"
I mean, the dog ate the bathroom carpet, I figured the deposit was gone anyway.
In other news:
The insurance company called and all is well with the car. They came out and did an inspection of the damage. It was kind of funny. The guy looked at the car with all the dents and dings and missing pieces. It was dirty and packed full of stuff to take to storage, there may have been ketchup on the front left fender . . .
He made notes of everything, I showed him the damage. He said, "Is this part of it?"
I said, "No, that's where I ran into a fence, it starts here and goes to here."
He said, "Oh . . ." and wrote down some more stuff.
I figured he was going to give me some rediculously low estimate because of how bad the car looks in general and because it's old etc. But he came up with a sum greater than that which I paid for the car origionally.
Heck yeah! And that just for minor damage. I mean if I had a new car I would want it fixed, but for a old car that's already banged up in the first place . . . I took the cash!
It worked out well for all concerned. I had already agreed to sell the car to my aunt, so I told her about the damage, dropped the price in half and now we are both happy that I got hit by a granny.
The insurance company called and all is well with the car. They came out and did an inspection of the damage. It was kind of funny. The guy looked at the car with all the dents and dings and missing pieces. It was dirty and packed full of stuff to take to storage, there may have been ketchup on the front left fender . . .
He made notes of everything, I showed him the damage. He said, "Is this part of it?"
I said, "No, that's where I ran into a fence, it starts here and goes to here."
He said, "Oh . . ." and wrote down some more stuff.
I figured he was going to give me some rediculously low estimate because of how bad the car looks in general and because it's old etc. But he came up with a sum greater than that which I paid for the car origionally.
Heck yeah! And that just for minor damage. I mean if I had a new car I would want it fixed, but for a old car that's already banged up in the first place . . . I took the cash!
It worked out well for all concerned. I had already agreed to sell the car to my aunt, so I told her about the damage, dropped the price in half and now we are both happy that I got hit by a granny.
Sunday, May 14, 2006
I got about 50 miles from Houston when some 74 year old granny decided to run me off the road with her newer and better Buick.
She wanted to be exactly where I was. She bumped me off into the median. I was having flashes of my last accident, going through the median, going into oncoming traffic . . . then I saw the retaining wall and I thought, “Great, now I’m going to run into that wall and smash my car into tiny bits.”
It’s amazing how many thoughts you can have in just a few seconds.
I (praise God) was able to stop before I smashed my car into the retaining wall and/or tiny bits.
The offending Buick kept going!
I had enough presence of mind to write down the license plate number.
Then she stopped on the other side of the road.
I sat there and recuperated for a minute. No airbag had come out, I looked at the car, just a cracked fender, dented door and messed up paint.
I got back on the road and drove over to where the other Buick had stopped.
I wondered as I got out of the car why the other driver wasn’t getting out the car.
Then I saw a handicap tag hanging on the mirror.
As I got closer I saw that it was an old lady with peachy-white hair.
She was very upset.
She kept apologizing and crying and I almost said, “Its okay.” Then I thought, ‘It’s not okay! She just ran me off the road!’ So I said, “Well, it was an accident.”
Almost immediately there was a police officer there.
Just behind her was a tow truck.
The officer took our information while the tow truck driver looked at our cars.
The officer gave the old woman a ticket, the tow truck driver said our cars were both okay to drive.
That whole incidet just added to my bad day.
I got back in the car, and started driving.
After that I saw a police car at least once every mile for the next 20 miles. I was definitely going the speed limit by that time, so I was again shocked when the officer turned his lights on and came after me.
He was a cute little guy, and he said, “I pulled you over because you are not displaying a front license plate.”
My day was getting badder and badder.
I’ve been driving that car for four years; I’ve never had a front license plate.
As a matter of fact I had been misinformed about this law. I had been told it had been changed. But it hasn’t changed; the bill didn’t go through . . . I got a warning. I told him I didn’t have a drill to put it on (True) that the bracket I bought didn’t fit the exiting holes (True) and that the plate was in my trunk. (Nearly true) I think the plate it actually between the trunk and the back seat.
What I wanted to say was, “I don’t care! I’m selling the car and leaving the country in a matter of weeks!”
I said, “Yes, thank you officer, I’ll remember to put it on.”
Amazingly enough I made it home with out being yelled at, run off the road or stopped by the police again.
She wanted to be exactly where I was. She bumped me off into the median. I was having flashes of my last accident, going through the median, going into oncoming traffic . . . then I saw the retaining wall and I thought, “Great, now I’m going to run into that wall and smash my car into tiny bits.”
It’s amazing how many thoughts you can have in just a few seconds.
I (praise God) was able to stop before I smashed my car into the retaining wall and/or tiny bits.
The offending Buick kept going!
I had enough presence of mind to write down the license plate number.
Then she stopped on the other side of the road.
I sat there and recuperated for a minute. No airbag had come out, I looked at the car, just a cracked fender, dented door and messed up paint.
I got back on the road and drove over to where the other Buick had stopped.
I wondered as I got out of the car why the other driver wasn’t getting out the car.
Then I saw a handicap tag hanging on the mirror.
As I got closer I saw that it was an old lady with peachy-white hair.
She was very upset.
She kept apologizing and crying and I almost said, “Its okay.” Then I thought, ‘It’s not okay! She just ran me off the road!’ So I said, “Well, it was an accident.”
Almost immediately there was a police officer there.
Just behind her was a tow truck.
The officer took our information while the tow truck driver looked at our cars.
The officer gave the old woman a ticket, the tow truck driver said our cars were both okay to drive.
That whole incidet just added to my bad day.
I got back in the car, and started driving.
After that I saw a police car at least once every mile for the next 20 miles. I was definitely going the speed limit by that time, so I was again shocked when the officer turned his lights on and came after me.
He was a cute little guy, and he said, “I pulled you over because you are not displaying a front license plate.”
My day was getting badder and badder.
I’ve been driving that car for four years; I’ve never had a front license plate.
As a matter of fact I had been misinformed about this law. I had been told it had been changed. But it hasn’t changed; the bill didn’t go through . . . I got a warning. I told him I didn’t have a drill to put it on (True) that the bracket I bought didn’t fit the exiting holes (True) and that the plate was in my trunk. (Nearly true) I think the plate it actually between the trunk and the back seat.
What I wanted to say was, “I don’t care! I’m selling the car and leaving the country in a matter of weeks!”
I said, “Yes, thank you officer, I’ll remember to put it on.”
Amazingly enough I made it home with out being yelled at, run off the road or stopped by the police again.
In other news:
I was driving through Boyd, TX (population 1,281) a few days ago and I got pulled over for going 57 in a 45 zone. I was literally 100 feet from the 60mph sign when the officer put his lights on. I was already past the sign by the time he pulled me over. He gave me a warning.
So, with that warning in mind I drove to Houston the next day to get my visa from the Indian Consulate. I set my cruise control and kept to the speed limit all the way there. I only nearly ran into a semi once on account of playing with the radio.
I got to the consulate without any major issues. (Except that they had changed the name of the road the Consulate was on, but I figured that out.) I got there, took some time to find the right building, the right floor, the right suite. I found the door and I read a sign that said, “Hours: 9:00 am to 12:30pm and 4:00 pm to 5:00 pm.” The time according to Mickey was approximately 2:15pm.
I walked around a little more and found the receptionist, who informed me that they only take visa applications in the morning. It’s a long drive to Houston, and I wanted my trip to have a purpose so I made my case known. She said if I was willing to pay an additional fee of $35 I could get it that day.
Fine, I was willing. So I waited until 4:00 when the office was supposed to open again.
I was still waiting, along with about 100 Indians at 4:40. Finally the window opened and it got to my turn, they told me to sit down and wait until everyone else had gone through.
(Houston traffic is a known horror this was my thought at rush hour.)
Finally, my turn again. I gave the woman my passport, my contract, my application. She said, “You must pay an extra $35 for this.”
I said, “OK”
She said, “You can only have a one year visa.”
I said, “I only want a one year visa.”
She said, “This contract only says one year.”
I said, “Okay.”
She said, “You marked five years on your application.”
I said, “No, I didn’t”
She looked at it again and said, “Oh.”
She said, “You want a business visa.”
I said, “Employment.”
She said, “You marked business.”
I said, “I wrote ‘employment’ in the blank.”
She said, “You marked business.”
I said, “I want employment, I didn’t know there was a difference and there’s not a place to mark ‘Employment’.”
She left. 10 minutes later she came back and gave me my visa. It said, “B” as in “Business.” I took it back and said, “I wanted “E.”
She said, “I asked you and asked you! You said Business!”
Someone came up behind her and asked her what was wrong (Since she was yelling at me.)
She said, “I asked her and asked her! She said Business, now she wants Employment!”
I was shocked!
Honestly I know I may have marked business, but I also wrote employment, I said, employment, the contract said employment. And maybe I’ve lived a very sheltered life, but I have never come across an Indian national as rude as this woman! (Maybe she was American who knows?)
So she took the visa back and 10 minutes later she handed me another one.
I looked at it and said, “You have the wrong dates on here.”
She said, “No, we don’t.”
I said, but the contract starts June 1. This is dated for tomorrow.
She said, “WE decided the dates.”
Then she left.
She was unhappy, I was unhappy. Good job mean Indian woman!
I was driving through Boyd, TX (population 1,281) a few days ago and I got pulled over for going 57 in a 45 zone. I was literally 100 feet from the 60mph sign when the officer put his lights on. I was already past the sign by the time he pulled me over. He gave me a warning.
So, with that warning in mind I drove to Houston the next day to get my visa from the Indian Consulate. I set my cruise control and kept to the speed limit all the way there. I only nearly ran into a semi once on account of playing with the radio.
I got to the consulate without any major issues. (Except that they had changed the name of the road the Consulate was on, but I figured that out.) I got there, took some time to find the right building, the right floor, the right suite. I found the door and I read a sign that said, “Hours: 9:00 am to 12:30pm and 4:00 pm to 5:00 pm.” The time according to Mickey was approximately 2:15pm.
I walked around a little more and found the receptionist, who informed me that they only take visa applications in the morning. It’s a long drive to Houston, and I wanted my trip to have a purpose so I made my case known. She said if I was willing to pay an additional fee of $35 I could get it that day.
Fine, I was willing. So I waited until 4:00 when the office was supposed to open again.
I was still waiting, along with about 100 Indians at 4:40. Finally the window opened and it got to my turn, they told me to sit down and wait until everyone else had gone through.
(Houston traffic is a known horror this was my thought at rush hour.)
Finally, my turn again. I gave the woman my passport, my contract, my application. She said, “You must pay an extra $35 for this.”
I said, “OK”
She said, “You can only have a one year visa.”
I said, “I only want a one year visa.”
She said, “This contract only says one year.”
I said, “Okay.”
She said, “You marked five years on your application.”
I said, “No, I didn’t”
She looked at it again and said, “Oh.”
She said, “You want a business visa.”
I said, “Employment.”
She said, “You marked business.”
I said, “I wrote ‘employment’ in the blank.”
She said, “You marked business.”
I said, “I want employment, I didn’t know there was a difference and there’s not a place to mark ‘Employment’.”
She left. 10 minutes later she came back and gave me my visa. It said, “B” as in “Business.” I took it back and said, “I wanted “E.”
She said, “I asked you and asked you! You said Business!”
Someone came up behind her and asked her what was wrong (Since she was yelling at me.)
She said, “I asked her and asked her! She said Business, now she wants Employment!”
I was shocked!
Honestly I know I may have marked business, but I also wrote employment, I said, employment, the contract said employment. And maybe I’ve lived a very sheltered life, but I have never come across an Indian national as rude as this woman! (Maybe she was American who knows?)
So she took the visa back and 10 minutes later she handed me another one.
I looked at it and said, “You have the wrong dates on here.”
She said, “No, we don’t.”
I said, but the contract starts June 1. This is dated for tomorrow.
She said, “WE decided the dates.”
Then she left.
She was unhappy, I was unhappy. Good job mean Indian woman!
Official announcement:
I’ve taken a job in Bangalore, India. I will be leaving at the end of May. I have a one year contract. I will be working for a placement company which will place me at Microsoft as a Language/Culture Trainer. I will work with Indian Microsoft Software Engineers to help them better relate to American customers.
I chose this job over an offer from Korea because I figured that although I will make less money than I would have in Korea, this was a good opportunity to live and work in India, to work in the business sector of the ESL profession, and I like the food and the millions of sparkly, shinny things that I know I can find in India.
I’ve taken a job in Bangalore, India. I will be leaving at the end of May. I have a one year contract. I will be working for a placement company which will place me at Microsoft as a Language/Culture Trainer. I will work with Indian Microsoft Software Engineers to help them better relate to American customers.
I chose this job over an offer from Korea because I figured that although I will make less money than I would have in Korea, this was a good opportunity to live and work in India, to work in the business sector of the ESL profession, and I like the food and the millions of sparkly, shinny things that I know I can find in India.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Monday, April 10, 2006
I went to the auto show with DEB.
It seems that Honda is coming out with a new hatchback called a “Fit” in 2007.
Even stranger than me going to an auto show, or a car being named “Fit” is the fact that as part of the promotional literature for the Fit, Honda produced a small flip book. If you flip the pages one way you see the outside of the Fit, and a llama. If you flip it the other way you see the inside of the fit, sans llama.
So, I was flipping through the book, and at first glance the llama looked like a large (very large) dog with its head hanging out the back window (like they do.) But suddenly I realized it was not a dog and I said, “Hey, that’s a llama!”
The guy at the counter said, “Sure, you win a prize if you can tell me why the llama is in the Fit.”
I said, “Oh, well,” (in a matter of fact kind of tone) “I know.”
He said, “You do?” (I’m thinking he didn’t actually know himself.)
I said, “Sure, They are taking him to get sacrificed.”
(The guy looked mortified.)
He said, “Oh!” and “well!” and “Oh! I didn’t expect that.”
Heck, I don’t expect half the things that come out of my mouth. But to be honest I didn’t even say it for the (high) shock value that it generated. I’m sure this Fit guy and I were on two totally different wave lengths.
I was thinking the only time I’ve ever seen livestock in the back of a hatchback (what the . . .) was in Pakistan when the people were buying goats and sheep to fatten up before they sacrificed them in memory of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son.
It took me a moment to figure out why he was so appalled by what I said.
Sacrifice.
It’s kind of a dirty word in these parts.
We don’t sacrifice. We don’t really know sacrifice. We know animal rights, but not spilt blood, sticky fur – warm freshly butchered flesh to offer in atonement or remembrance.
The word “sacrifice” for Christian America does not conjure up images of the very core of our religion, but instead dirty defiled imagery of satanic rites done in secret and in darkness.
It’s unfortunate, unfortunate that we are too lackadaisical a people to keep our sacred ideas and words out of the dark.
I got a Honda bracelet as my prize. Both bracelet and llama book will arrive in Japan in approximately 6-8 weeks. To PK with love.
It seems that Honda is coming out with a new hatchback called a “Fit” in 2007.
Even stranger than me going to an auto show, or a car being named “Fit” is the fact that as part of the promotional literature for the Fit, Honda produced a small flip book. If you flip the pages one way you see the outside of the Fit, and a llama. If you flip it the other way you see the inside of the fit, sans llama.
So, I was flipping through the book, and at first glance the llama looked like a large (very large) dog with its head hanging out the back window (like they do.) But suddenly I realized it was not a dog and I said, “Hey, that’s a llama!”
The guy at the counter said, “Sure, you win a prize if you can tell me why the llama is in the Fit.”
I said, “Oh, well,” (in a matter of fact kind of tone) “I know.”
He said, “You do?” (I’m thinking he didn’t actually know himself.)
I said, “Sure, They are taking him to get sacrificed.”
(The guy looked mortified.)
He said, “Oh!” and “well!” and “Oh! I didn’t expect that.”
Heck, I don’t expect half the things that come out of my mouth. But to be honest I didn’t even say it for the (high) shock value that it generated. I’m sure this Fit guy and I were on two totally different wave lengths.
I was thinking the only time I’ve ever seen livestock in the back of a hatchback (what the . . .) was in Pakistan when the people were buying goats and sheep to fatten up before they sacrificed them in memory of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son.
It took me a moment to figure out why he was so appalled by what I said.
Sacrifice.
It’s kind of a dirty word in these parts.
We don’t sacrifice. We don’t really know sacrifice. We know animal rights, but not spilt blood, sticky fur – warm freshly butchered flesh to offer in atonement or remembrance.
The word “sacrifice” for Christian America does not conjure up images of the very core of our religion, but instead dirty defiled imagery of satanic rites done in secret and in darkness.
It’s unfortunate, unfortunate that we are too lackadaisical a people to keep our sacred ideas and words out of the dark.
I got a Honda bracelet as my prize. Both bracelet and llama book will arrive in Japan in approximately 6-8 weeks. To PK with love.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Miniature Pinscher,Dachshund Mix
Size: SmallAge: AdultSex: MaleID: SSMPR #000025
Notes: Look at that face! Doesn't it just speak to you? Tag is one of the sweetest fosters we've had the pleasure of caring for. He's truly a lovebug, always happy, enjoys his favorites like sleeping under the covers, naps, or lying in someone's lap. His tail never stops wagging. Also, he acts like a puppy even though he's an adult. No one knows what caused his teeth to be larger than average or a bit of an under bite, but it causes no problems for him. All his vaccinations are current and he is neutered. Tag is HW positive and must complete his treatment before going to his forever home. Please consider this little one. He's only about 9 lbs and very short at about 8 inches.
http://search.petfinder.com/petnote/displaypet.cgi?petid=5569060
I would name him "Count" and he would be Buzz's
bestest friend . . .
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Speaking of nervous subconsciously, I had a dream a while back that I'm thinking was a anxiety dream.
I never get the normal anxiety dreams, teeth falling out, or showing up to school or work naked . . . No I get this business:
I was riding my motorcycle down I-30 (In northern Pakistan of course) when I noticed that the road was getting worse and worse. There was some sort of construction happening. Suddenly the road ended in a corn field. There were construction workers around so I asked one of them:
"How can I get to the other side of the road?"
He said, "You can go through the field." (Duh!) "or you can go around through the village."
I decided to go through the village. Once I got to the village I realized that it was getting dark, so I decided to stop for the night. I got a hotel room (with the help of the same guy who helped me at the end of the road.). I went to my room and looked in the mirror.
I saw that my gums were swollen, very swollen. It looked like I had a golf ball or something in my mouth!
I went back down to the lobby and told (the same) guy that I needed to see a pharmacist!
He said, "Spit that thing out!"
I said, "I can't! It's my gums!"
But then I gagged because the swollen part was so big.
I turned my head and spit out a huge hunk of my swollen gums.
It was gross! But I spit two more times emitting liquid pink gums.
I was freaked out and I thought I had lost all my teeth, but when I felt for them, they were (strangely) still there.
What does it mean?
I'm a freak, that's what.
I never get the normal anxiety dreams, teeth falling out, or showing up to school or work naked . . . No I get this business:
I was riding my motorcycle down I-30 (In northern Pakistan of course) when I noticed that the road was getting worse and worse. There was some sort of construction happening. Suddenly the road ended in a corn field. There were construction workers around so I asked one of them:
"How can I get to the other side of the road?"
He said, "You can go through the field." (Duh!) "or you can go around through the village."
I decided to go through the village. Once I got to the village I realized that it was getting dark, so I decided to stop for the night. I got a hotel room (with the help of the same guy who helped me at the end of the road.). I went to my room and looked in the mirror.
I saw that my gums were swollen, very swollen. It looked like I had a golf ball or something in my mouth!
I went back down to the lobby and told (the same) guy that I needed to see a pharmacist!
He said, "Spit that thing out!"
I said, "I can't! It's my gums!"
But then I gagged because the swollen part was so big.
I turned my head and spit out a huge hunk of my swollen gums.
It was gross! But I spit two more times emitting liquid pink gums.
I was freaked out and I thought I had lost all my teeth, but when I felt for them, they were (strangely) still there.
What does it mean?
I'm a freak, that's what.
To dream that you are gagging, denotes that you are not able to express yourself in how you really feel about a situation. Alternatively, this dream may forewarn that you need to keep quiet before you put your foot in your mouth.
can't find gumms.
I was itchy last week. I just woke up on Sunday morning and everything from my lips to my toes was itchy. The more it itched, the worse it got. First I was just itchy. Then I was itchy with red bumps, then I was itchy with red bumps and scratches all over myself.
I went to the drug store and talked to the pharmacist. She told me I was having an allergic reaction. "What did you eat?" "Did you change your laundry detergent?" "Did you go outside?"
I ate asparagus and used pink shower soap.
I would have gladly blamed it all on the soap, but I didn't use it again and I was still itchy 6 days later.
Damn.
My coworker suggested I have a nervous subconscious.
Quite possible.
I went to the drug store and talked to the pharmacist. She told me I was having an allergic reaction. "What did you eat?" "Did you change your laundry detergent?" "Did you go outside?"
I ate asparagus and used pink shower soap.
I would have gladly blamed it all on the soap, but I didn't use it again and I was still itchy 6 days later.
Damn.
My coworker suggested I have a nervous subconscious.
Quite possible.
A humorous aphorism attributed to E.B. White summarizes these distinctions:
To foreigners, a Yankee is an American.
To Americans, a Yankee is a Northerner.
To Easterners, a Yankee is a New Englander.
To New Englanders, a Yankee is a Vermonter.
And in Vermont, a Yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast.
In Japan the term yank? is used to refer to a youth subculture of bleached blondes who are generally regarded as delinquents by older generations; general slang for American is amek?.
see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yankee
To foreigners, a Yankee is an American.
To Americans, a Yankee is a Northerner.
To Easterners, a Yankee is a New Englander.
To New Englanders, a Yankee is a Vermonter.
And in Vermont, a Yankee is somebody who eats pie for breakfast.
In Japan the term yank? is used to refer to a youth subculture of bleached blondes who are generally regarded as delinquents by older generations; general slang for American is amek?.
see: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yankee
Friday, March 17, 2006
You're a Wavy BBQ Potato Chip
Which Potato Chip Are You?
Brought to you by Tickle
I thought I'd be more of a sour cream and onion kind of gal.
My coworker is Boisterous (let’s say) and high tempered (let’s say.) Some unknown (to me) incident was being discussed when I came in this morning. Apparently some faux pas was made by McDonald’s. (I’m sure she’ll never go back until tomorrow.)
Co-worker B was making suggestions about what McD’s could have done to ameliorate the situation.
Co-worker A was fuming and refusing any consolation on the matter.
CWA turned to me and said, “She had some problems with McDonald’s this morning …”
CWB turned into an angry harpy and said, “Don’t talk about me! Don’t talk about me behind my back! I hate it when people talk about me behind my back when I can hear them.”
(Okay, so in a literal sense we were talking behind her back, but in a broader sense of the phrase, can you really talk about someone “behind their back” when they can hear you?)
CWA: “Don’t be angry! I’m just saying what happened!”
CWB: “I’ll be angry if I want to be!”
CWA: “You don’t have to be so loud and angry, this is an office, and everyone can hear you.”
CWB: “I’ll be angry! I’ll be angry in this little space right here! I’ll be angry if I want to!”
This was the scene that greets me after a long and (I suspect unsuccessful) interview last night, after a disagreement with my KF, knowing that today I am the one who has to deal with all the angry customers calling to demand to know why we at this analytical lab are not in charge of the US postal service. Not to mention all the mistakes in the world that actually have anything to at all to do with us.
I couldn’t take it any more.
So I said, “OKAY!!, Nobody else wants you to be angry in this little space so stop it!”
CWB: “I am angry.”
Me: “Fine! Be angry quietly!”
CWB: “I Will!”
Me: “Good!”
So I’ve been sitting here doing lots of nothing ever since.
CWB been looking for other people to answer her questions, but I’m the only one who knows the answers, so after a few hours she gave in and asked me something.
I’m over it. She’s not.
Co-worker B was making suggestions about what McD’s could have done to ameliorate the situation.
Co-worker A was fuming and refusing any consolation on the matter.
CWA turned to me and said, “She had some problems with McDonald’s this morning …”
CWB turned into an angry harpy and said, “Don’t talk about me! Don’t talk about me behind my back! I hate it when people talk about me behind my back when I can hear them.”
(Okay, so in a literal sense we were talking behind her back, but in a broader sense of the phrase, can you really talk about someone “behind their back” when they can hear you?)
CWA: “Don’t be angry! I’m just saying what happened!”
CWB: “I’ll be angry if I want to be!”
CWA: “You don’t have to be so loud and angry, this is an office, and everyone can hear you.”
CWB: “I’ll be angry! I’ll be angry in this little space right here! I’ll be angry if I want to!”
This was the scene that greets me after a long and (I suspect unsuccessful) interview last night, after a disagreement with my KF, knowing that today I am the one who has to deal with all the angry customers calling to demand to know why we at this analytical lab are not in charge of the US postal service. Not to mention all the mistakes in the world that actually have anything to at all to do with us.
I couldn’t take it any more.
So I said, “OKAY!!, Nobody else wants you to be angry in this little space so stop it!”
CWB: “I am angry.”
Me: “Fine! Be angry quietly!”
CWB: “I Will!”
Me: “Good!”
So I’ve been sitting here doing lots of nothing ever since.
CWB been looking for other people to answer her questions, but I’m the only one who knows the answers, so after a few hours she gave in and asked me something.
I’m over it. She’s not.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I found out (suddenly) last week that I am a GREAT aunt. Not just aunt, but GREAT. I would like to remind World Wide Web users that it is unseemly to poke fun at old people such as GREAT aunts, especially concerning their ages. With that in mind, I respectfully submit a photo of my GREAT nephew.
okay maybe later, I can't get it to down load
okay maybe later, I can't get it to down load
As a follow up, I wrote but didn't publish that post a few days ago. I had my second interview with MS India last night and I'm scheduled for my third interview tomorrow.
Some awkward moments in the second interview:
He says: "Okay, we're going to role play now."
I'm thinking: "Role Play?! I was not anticipating this! This is not happening! This is not happening!"
I say: "Oh, okay!"
He says: "Pretend I'm a student and if I say anything wrong, you just correct me."
"When I should call you?"
Me: "Uhhhh . . . ummm . . . Well . . . "
Him: "Should it be not be inverted?"
(That just confused me . . . Was it inverted?! No! What's happening?!)
I'm thinking: Pass! Pass! Next question!
By the end of the role playing I was getting better at it, but I pretty much sucked it up on that part of the interview.
(Imagining role plays in other interview situations . . . Okay, you're a veterinarian, and I'm a sick kitty, I come in and say "Meow, Meeeee-ow Me-ooooo!" "What do you do?"
Focus!
He asked me where I was. I said, "Arlington, TX. It's between Dallas and Ft. Worth."
He said, "Oh, sure. Go Rangers."
Me: "yeah."
He asked, "Have you heard anything about Microsoft in the news lately?"
I'm thinking: "Like I watch the news."
I say: "No, not lately."
I wonder if anyone in India is reading this right now.
Hi! I love your country!
I want a job there!
Can Buzz come?
Some awkward moments in the second interview:
He says: "Okay, we're going to role play now."
I'm thinking: "Role Play?! I was not anticipating this! This is not happening! This is not happening!"
I say: "Oh, okay!"
He says: "Pretend I'm a student and if I say anything wrong, you just correct me."
"When I should call you?"
Me: "Uhhhh . . . ummm . . . Well . . . "
Him: "Should it be not be inverted?"
(That just confused me . . . Was it inverted?! No! What's happening?!)
I'm thinking: Pass! Pass! Next question!
By the end of the role playing I was getting better at it, but I pretty much sucked it up on that part of the interview.
(Imagining role plays in other interview situations . . . Okay, you're a veterinarian, and I'm a sick kitty, I come in and say "Meow, Meeeee-ow Me-ooooo!" "What do you do?"
Focus!
He asked me where I was. I said, "Arlington, TX. It's between Dallas and Ft. Worth."
He said, "Oh, sure. Go Rangers."
Me: "yeah."
He asked, "Have you heard anything about Microsoft in the news lately?"
I'm thinking: "Like I watch the news."
I say: "No, not lately."
I wonder if anyone in India is reading this right now.
Hi! I love your country!
I want a job there!
Can Buzz come?
I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier.
I have an interview tomorrow night. This is my second interview with this company. To be honest I didn’t even know what I was interviewing for at the beginning of my first interview. I found this cool sounding job in India . . . Bangalore. I thought I’d feel it out. That was weeks ago. I got an email last week saying they wanted to call me for an interview.
Cool, I’m chatting with a nice sounding lady, when it finally dawns on me what I’m interviewing for. Microsoft India wants American language trainers to help their Indian (fluent in English) engineers “talk American.”
Awesome.
I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier.
The Killers
I have an interview tomorrow night. This is my second interview with this company. To be honest I didn’t even know what I was interviewing for at the beginning of my first interview. I found this cool sounding job in India . . . Bangalore. I thought I’d feel it out. That was weeks ago. I got an email last week saying they wanted to call me for an interview.
Cool, I’m chatting with a nice sounding lady, when it finally dawns on me what I’m interviewing for. Microsoft India wants American language trainers to help their Indian (fluent in English) engineers “talk American.”
Awesome.
I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier. I got soul, but I’m not a soldier.
The Killers
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Saturday, February 25, 2006
Travel story alert! (eventually I'll get all this out of my system)
My first goal in Paris was to find the office of tourism. I thought that was a good place to start and there it was, plain as day on my map on the corner of the on the Champs Elysées and the Arc de Triomphe. So . . . I left the hotel, walked up to the bus/metro stop and took a look around . . . "Surely I can find my way back to the hotel from here" thought I, and I went on the bus to the Arc de Triomphe on the Champs Elysees (and the tourist office which was just across the street.)
That was one of the most hair raising bus rides I've ever been on . . . and that's saying something because I've been in some interesting places. The bus driver took an accordion style (double long) bus down an alley with a moving truck on one side and a delivery truck on the other side. I wouldn't have even tried to get my car through that little space. But this just goes to prove my point, "There is always room for a bus."
I got to the Charles de Gaulle-Etoile and pointed myself toward the Arc de Triomphe.
"Yeah!Napoleonn!" it seemed to say.
I gave it a look or two and said to myself, "Self, first the office of tourism." Myself agreed and we turned down the Champs Elysees. I looked left, I looked right, I looked high and low, I looked way down the street, several blocks but I couldn't find it. I know those tourist maps aren't drawn to scale, but it was obviously right there on the corner!
No biggie, I thought, it's okay to spend an hour or so walking along one of the most famous streets in the world. As I went along, I saw a funny sign and took a picture (like I do.) Some brown man gave me a funny look. I thought to myself, "I'm in Paris, I'll never see this guy again." I gave him a funny look back.
I went in a few stores, wandered around a few more minutes and hmmmm . . . there he was again. He said, "Do you speak English?"
I said, "Yes."
We went through the "What's your name, where are you from, I'm from . . . do you like it here blah, blah."
Finally he said, "What are you doing?"
I said, "I'm looking for the tourism office.
He said, "I will show you." So he pointed me back toward the corner of the Arc de Triomphe. Well, maybe I missed it. I went back.
I could not find it! Eventually I just gave up and asked someone in the bank where it seemed the tourism office should be.
She said, "It has, uh, move."
She gave me the address and the Metro line. Time to tackle the Metro.
I found the Metro, I went down and remembered that I wanted to buy an orange card. I found a machine, I bought a card it was a tiny 1" by 3" orange card, but then I was confused. Did I need a picture (as the tour book said) or did I just go through the turn style? Would it give me my ticket back? What if I lost it? Why was it so tiny? How did these Frenchies do it?
I stood there looking confused for a few minutes (just for good measure) when here comes the same guy from the sign incident. "Did you find the tourism office?" I explained it had moved, I had a ticket but I didn't know what to do next. He took charge of the situation. He took me to the counter, got me a little plastic holder for my ticket, a few maps and then he gave me his card, with his phone number. He told me he was Pakistani, he owned an Indian restaurantt (I'm guessing it's really hard to sell people on the idea that Pakistani and Indian food are pretty much the same.) He told me I should come by for a meal. (Chalk one more up for Shannon and the brown men.)
I said, 'Thank you" outloud and "probably not" in my head and started walking through the turn style and down the tunnel toward my train.
He called me, "Excuse me! Miss! You are going the wrong way!"
Dang it! Was I ever going to get away from this guy?!
I waved, "Thanks" and turned around to to go to the next tunnel.
He was a really nice guy. He didn't touch me or ooggle and google me like some brown guys try to do, but it is a little unnerving to be alone in a big, strange city and feel like you are being followed by a stranger.
I found the train, got off at the correct station and couldn't figure out how to get out. Everywhere I looked it seemed to say "Exit" but you had to put your ticket in so it also seemed to say, "Exit to another train" in Shannon language. I didn't want another train! I wanted outside!
I gave in and put my ticket in the turn style to get out. And that's how it's done in Paris. You have to prove you paid to get in and you have to prove it again to get out.
The address was 11 rue de whatever. I found the rue, I found 11 I went in. They said, "No, it is 11, it is down" and pointed. I did that three times. I swear they were all 11s! There must be some secret number code in Paris. The whole city block seemed to be 11!
By the time I found the office of tourism I was all out of the mood. I didn't even care anymore.
I looked around a few minutes found no new information for my trouble and left.
On the map, the Seine River looked close. I decided to walk on down to check it out. It was not as close as it looked on the map. (Naturally, but another day on what happened in the Jardin des Tuileries.)
If you've ever dreamed of seeing soy sause represented as a gay superhero:
http://yoga.at.infoseek.co.jp/flash/kikkomaso_e2.swf
http://yoga.at.infoseek.co.jp/flash/kikkomaso_e2.swf
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
This is selling for $60 on E-bay. I don't know what made me think of it this morning, but I remembered that I had one in Pre-school and it would sing to me in the morning . . . something about getting up and brushing my teeth . . . I think I need this type of encouragement again . . . I'll have to save up for this purchase.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
I'm looking for patterns . . . I don't know of what. Everywhere I look I want to see a rhyme and reason for it. Sometimes when I get an explanation, I reject it.
Every time I teach a lesson, I say, "What is the pattern here? Can you see it?"
I'm looking at my life for patterns. How very Virgo of me.
In my age I think I'm becoming more Virgo all the time. I'm not sure I like that. I always think of the worst traits first (also Virgo of me.)
Here's a possible pattern.
I got an email from Kerrie S. I met Kerrie in 1st grade. I don't actually remember this, I'm not sure she remembers it at this point. Here's my first memory of Kerrie. My brother, Michael, and I were at the community swimming pool. He had found some friends to hang with and I was bobbing up in down in the deep end clinging to the wall after a death-defying jump from the high dive.
Suddenly, there was a strange little girl next to me. "Hi Shannon."
I said, "Hi!" Even at the age of 7, I appearently had no talent for remembering names.
She said, "Remember last year, in Mrs. What's-her-name's class? How, whatever-his-name-was peed in his pants and it got all on the floor?!"
"Yeah." We had a good laugh about that one.
"Remember how Mrs. What's-her-name used to hit people on the head with a marker?"
"Yeah! She never hit me!"
And off we went to play in the shallows and the deeps.
Sometime later Kerrie moved to my neighborhood, and as I was just being phased out by my old best friend she became my new best friend.
How fortuitous. Well it made sense. We were, after all, the only white girls in the neighborhood. (There were these two other white girls in the 1st lot, but they were dumb and nobody liked them--- ever.)
So, we were best friends. And our brothers were best friends (being the only white boys in the neighborhood.) We were all BFF until my mother and I moved to FL.
Kerrie and I wrote for a while, then we didn't . . . like it goes.
About 4 years (or more) ago her brother ran into my oldest brother and somehow my information was exchanged and Kerrie got ahold of me. She wrote and I wrote then we didn't . . . like it goes.
Then, last month I got an email. From non other than Kerrie S!
Lost the pattern?
I went to a dollar store last night because I wanted to buy something, but being on a tight budget I didn't have much to spare. I'd never been to that store because I don't normally go that way, but on the drive home I had missed several turns.
I was walking through when I saw "Dad's" cat food. I thought 'Well, that's a funny name for cat food.' After a moment of considering how that name could have come about, I had a flashback to the year of the field trip (aka 3rd grade) when we had taken a field trip to the "Dad's Dog Food" factory. And the guide had eaten some dog food, and he asked if any of the kids wanted to taste it and they did! (ick! and I was grossed out) And I remembered my brother used to live down wind of "Dad's" and that was not a good place to live.
So, wondering if my memory was correct I picked up the box to find "Dad's manufactured in Meadville, PA." I was correct.
Last night I dreamed of Meadville, and water. It was dark and cloudy and I was standing on the edge of a body of water. It was turbulent and at first I thought it was French Creek (how many times do I have to explain that it's really a river!) but I realized it was far too big for a river and I concluded that it must be Lake Mead. Which sounds like a good conclusion except that Lake Mead is not near Meadville, PA; it is closer to Las Vegas, NV; and not to say the two cities are not similar . . . but . . . they're not!
So, the pattern is Meadville, or childhood, or water, or dog food, or Las Vegas . . . Whatever.
http://www.jessicacalvello.com/media/dads.html
Every time I teach a lesson, I say, "What is the pattern here? Can you see it?"
I'm looking at my life for patterns. How very Virgo of me.
In my age I think I'm becoming more Virgo all the time. I'm not sure I like that. I always think of the worst traits first (also Virgo of me.)
Here's a possible pattern.
I got an email from Kerrie S. I met Kerrie in 1st grade. I don't actually remember this, I'm not sure she remembers it at this point. Here's my first memory of Kerrie. My brother, Michael, and I were at the community swimming pool. He had found some friends to hang with and I was bobbing up in down in the deep end clinging to the wall after a death-defying jump from the high dive.
Suddenly, there was a strange little girl next to me. "Hi Shannon."
I said, "Hi!" Even at the age of 7, I appearently had no talent for remembering names.
She said, "Remember last year, in Mrs. What's-her-name's class? How, whatever-his-name-was peed in his pants and it got all on the floor?!"
"Yeah." We had a good laugh about that one.
"Remember how Mrs. What's-her-name used to hit people on the head with a marker?"
"Yeah! She never hit me!"
And off we went to play in the shallows and the deeps.
Sometime later Kerrie moved to my neighborhood, and as I was just being phased out by my old best friend she became my new best friend.
How fortuitous. Well it made sense. We were, after all, the only white girls in the neighborhood. (There were these two other white girls in the 1st lot, but they were dumb and nobody liked them--- ever.)
So, we were best friends. And our brothers were best friends (being the only white boys in the neighborhood.) We were all BFF until my mother and I moved to FL.
Kerrie and I wrote for a while, then we didn't . . . like it goes.
About 4 years (or more) ago her brother ran into my oldest brother and somehow my information was exchanged and Kerrie got ahold of me. She wrote and I wrote then we didn't . . . like it goes.
Then, last month I got an email. From non other than Kerrie S!
Lost the pattern?
I went to a dollar store last night because I wanted to buy something, but being on a tight budget I didn't have much to spare. I'd never been to that store because I don't normally go that way, but on the drive home I had missed several turns.
I was walking through when I saw "Dad's" cat food. I thought 'Well, that's a funny name for cat food.' After a moment of considering how that name could have come about, I had a flashback to the year of the field trip (aka 3rd grade) when we had taken a field trip to the "Dad's Dog Food" factory. And the guide had eaten some dog food, and he asked if any of the kids wanted to taste it and they did! (ick! and I was grossed out) And I remembered my brother used to live down wind of "Dad's" and that was not a good place to live.
So, wondering if my memory was correct I picked up the box to find "Dad's manufactured in Meadville, PA." I was correct.
Last night I dreamed of Meadville, and water. It was dark and cloudy and I was standing on the edge of a body of water. It was turbulent and at first I thought it was French Creek (how many times do I have to explain that it's really a river!) but I realized it was far too big for a river and I concluded that it must be Lake Mead. Which sounds like a good conclusion except that Lake Mead is not near Meadville, PA; it is closer to Las Vegas, NV; and not to say the two cities are not similar . . . but . . . they're not!
So, the pattern is Meadville, or childhood, or water, or dog food, or Las Vegas . . . Whatever.
http://www.jessicacalvello.com/media/dads.html
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Saturday, February 04, 2006
Travel story alert!
Welcome to Paris.
Here’s my story of Paris. I got off the plane at CDG airport and proceeded to the train stop. I asked some American kids in line behind me if I was in the right line. They said yes. So far so good.
I got on the train, and proceeded to the Gare du Nord (North station.) According to my directions from the hotel, my hotel was “close by” the Gare du Nord. I started walking. I saw signs that directed me toward my destination. It was 11:15pm. I walked, and walked and after about 30 minutes of pulling my wheeley case up the cobble stone walk ways, and around the construction and through the dirt, I decided that although I knew I was going the right way and I knew I must be close, that my hotel was in fact not “close by” Gare du Nord.
It was nearly midnight and I had not found my place. I was beginning to worry that I had taken a wrong turn and I would never find my way in the maze of no straight angles, only radiating circles. I found a cab. I told him my destination. He said, “This is very close.”
I said, “I know.”
He said, “This is very close.”
I threw my bags in the back and said, “I know!”
He said, “D’accord.” (okay)
Exactly two minutes and five euros later I was at my hotel. I would have never found it.
I walked into the lobby and found it dark, the reception locked and no bell, buzzer or phone for me to find someone to talk to.
Fantastic.
Just as I had decided that I would be spending my night in the lobby with the sad little Christmas tree, I heard someone approaching. Lo and hark! It was two Australian girls.
I pounced on them. (not literally) “Do you know how to get a hold of the reception?!”
They said, “No, no, they are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yeah, gone. Gone for the night. Did you just get here?”
I said, “Yeah.”
They said, “The same thing happened to us.”
I just looked at them- all forlorn.
They jumped into their story about being lost in Paris, how there is another street with the same name, how they had finally found the place, but had to spend their fist night in another hotel.
That wasn’t helping.
Then the said, “We’re leaving early in the morning, but you can come stay in our room tonight, we have an extra bed. We are a little drunk and we still have to pack and we are leaving (some really cute little Aussie slang word meaning really) early, but come on, stay with us.”
I said, “Okay.”
I’d been in town less than an hour, I’d met these girls less than 5 minutes ago, and I was going to go share a room with them. I suppose stranger things happen to people on vacation.
We went to their room and they chatted about everything as they packed, they had just graduated from High school. One was going to Uni, the other hadn’t decided what she would do yet. They were on a several weeks long trip, including Germany, Paris, London, and Hong Kong.
They graciously guessed my age at 25. (HA!) They showed me their maps of the city, told me about the Metro, gave me a pharse book and a “fiver” in Aussie money to “remember them.” They were just really too cute. They warned me to be careful with the hotel manager and pointed out the bottle of whisky they would not be packing.
Eventually we turned out the lights and went to sleep.
They left early, hope they made their train. I went down to the reception the next morning and checked in. It was a half English half French conversation/argument about when I was supposed to check in (the day before) and who I was and why I was checking in at that time (a day late.)
Tune in next time for day 1 in Paris (it gets better.)
Welcome to Paris.
Here’s my story of Paris. I got off the plane at CDG airport and proceeded to the train stop. I asked some American kids in line behind me if I was in the right line. They said yes. So far so good.
I got on the train, and proceeded to the Gare du Nord (North station.) According to my directions from the hotel, my hotel was “close by” the Gare du Nord. I started walking. I saw signs that directed me toward my destination. It was 11:15pm. I walked, and walked and after about 30 minutes of pulling my wheeley case up the cobble stone walk ways, and around the construction and through the dirt, I decided that although I knew I was going the right way and I knew I must be close, that my hotel was in fact not “close by” Gare du Nord.
It was nearly midnight and I had not found my place. I was beginning to worry that I had taken a wrong turn and I would never find my way in the maze of no straight angles, only radiating circles. I found a cab. I told him my destination. He said, “This is very close.”
I said, “I know.”
He said, “This is very close.”
I threw my bags in the back and said, “I know!”
He said, “D’accord.” (okay)
Exactly two minutes and five euros later I was at my hotel. I would have never found it.
I walked into the lobby and found it dark, the reception locked and no bell, buzzer or phone for me to find someone to talk to.
Fantastic.
Just as I had decided that I would be spending my night in the lobby with the sad little Christmas tree, I heard someone approaching. Lo and hark! It was two Australian girls.
I pounced on them. (not literally) “Do you know how to get a hold of the reception?!”
They said, “No, no, they are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yeah, gone. Gone for the night. Did you just get here?”
I said, “Yeah.”
They said, “The same thing happened to us.”
I just looked at them- all forlorn.
They jumped into their story about being lost in Paris, how there is another street with the same name, how they had finally found the place, but had to spend their fist night in another hotel.
That wasn’t helping.
Then the said, “We’re leaving early in the morning, but you can come stay in our room tonight, we have an extra bed. We are a little drunk and we still have to pack and we are leaving (some really cute little Aussie slang word meaning really) early, but come on, stay with us.”
I said, “Okay.”
I’d been in town less than an hour, I’d met these girls less than 5 minutes ago, and I was going to go share a room with them. I suppose stranger things happen to people on vacation.
We went to their room and they chatted about everything as they packed, they had just graduated from High school. One was going to Uni, the other hadn’t decided what she would do yet. They were on a several weeks long trip, including Germany, Paris, London, and Hong Kong.
They graciously guessed my age at 25. (HA!) They showed me their maps of the city, told me about the Metro, gave me a pharse book and a “fiver” in Aussie money to “remember them.” They were just really too cute. They warned me to be careful with the hotel manager and pointed out the bottle of whisky they would not be packing.
Eventually we turned out the lights and went to sleep.
They left early, hope they made their train. I went down to the reception the next morning and checked in. It was a half English half French conversation/argument about when I was supposed to check in (the day before) and who I was and why I was checking in at that time (a day late.)
Tune in next time for day 1 in Paris (it gets better.)
Wednesday, February 01, 2006
Since I'm not in school any more, I thought I would have all this "Free Time" (that is an exotic thing I heard about once in my childhood) But this so-called "Free Time" has been eluding me in these past few weeks. I don't know what I'm doing wrong.
I haven't had time to blog, write emails, read my ever so interesting fun books, (okay I do admit I have been watching a little more TV than I had while in school, but I'm not addicted! I'm not over the top!) (I'm not!)
I've been coming into work early, so that I can leave early so that I can prepare for teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (I just leave early on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays because 1. I can and 2. See note above about my dream of "Free Time.")
I'm thinking about selling my plasma for extra money.
That is off topic.
Ummm . . . I've applied for an international job. I have a phone interview Thursday morning.
I wonder if I'll have FT in another country. I sure did last time. I was thinking about that and I concluded that last time I had it made. I "worked" maybe 6 hours a day at the most, probably more like 4 hours a day most of the time. That was in Islamabad, in Dubai I "worked" about 6 hours a week. Maybe 10 hours if you count going to the beach with my students as work.
And I gave that all up why? Because I think the SBC/IMB represents a shameful waste of American and Church resources? What was I thinking?
Anyway I got on here to marvel at the fact that I set my alarm 15 minutes earlier today and somehow managed to get to work 45 minutes earlier than usual.
Weirdness.
I haven't had time to blog, write emails, read my ever so interesting fun books, (okay I do admit I have been watching a little more TV than I had while in school, but I'm not addicted! I'm not over the top!) (I'm not!)
I've been coming into work early, so that I can leave early so that I can prepare for teaching on Tuesdays and Thursdays. (I just leave early on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays because 1. I can and 2. See note above about my dream of "Free Time.")
I'm thinking about selling my plasma for extra money.
That is off topic.
Ummm . . . I've applied for an international job. I have a phone interview Thursday morning.
I wonder if I'll have FT in another country. I sure did last time. I was thinking about that and I concluded that last time I had it made. I "worked" maybe 6 hours a day at the most, probably more like 4 hours a day most of the time. That was in Islamabad, in Dubai I "worked" about 6 hours a week. Maybe 10 hours if you count going to the beach with my students as work.
And I gave that all up why? Because I think the SBC/IMB represents a shameful waste of American and Church resources? What was I thinking?
Anyway I got on here to marvel at the fact that I set my alarm 15 minutes earlier today and somehow managed to get to work 45 minutes earlier than usual.
Weirdness.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
My passport expires in March, so I went yesterday to get new passport photos. I knew it was going to be bad, but when I saw them . . . . I thought "Good day in the morning! I look FAT and doughy and . . . *sigh* poofy! (and my hair needs to be washed)"
For the next 10 years that will be my badge of all things international and I'm totally poofy!
Well, to be honest there's nothing for it. The reason I look poofy in the picture is because, I am poofy!
With this knowledge concretely in hand I made a decision. Weight Watchers. Yes, I will commit to an organized, advertised diet plan used by millions scorned by many. I don't care, if you are poofy and that's how you like it, more power to you. I don't want to look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy the rest of my days! And I'm going to wash my hair!
So there happened to be a Weight Watchers informational meeting at work this week, so I went.
I wasn't exactly sure where the room was so I walked into this big work area and I was just about to approach the first person I saw to ask if I was in the right place when I noticed she was fat.
I didn't know what to do. I mean, I didn't want her to think I had specifically picked her out to ask her where the Weight Watcher's meeting was! So I turned around and went to the next desk, FAT! Everywhere I looked they were all fat! I was thinking, is this the right place? Shouldn't someone on this diet be skinny?!
I was just about to leave when a modestly plump woman asked if I needed help. I asked about the WW meeting and she pointed me to the correct room down the hall to the left.
I didn't learn anything there really, except the leader's mother-in-law had died and there was a substitute leader coming. She was too late so I left. I think I saw her as I left the building.
I'm leaning toward the online option anyway.
I'll sign up this weekend to start the first of Feb.
Wish me lunch, I mean luck!
For the next 10 years that will be my badge of all things international and I'm totally poofy!
Well, to be honest there's nothing for it. The reason I look poofy in the picture is because, I am poofy!
With this knowledge concretely in hand I made a decision. Weight Watchers. Yes, I will commit to an organized, advertised diet plan used by millions scorned by many. I don't care, if you are poofy and that's how you like it, more power to you. I don't want to look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy the rest of my days! And I'm going to wash my hair!
So there happened to be a Weight Watchers informational meeting at work this week, so I went.
I wasn't exactly sure where the room was so I walked into this big work area and I was just about to approach the first person I saw to ask if I was in the right place when I noticed she was fat.
I didn't know what to do. I mean, I didn't want her to think I had specifically picked her out to ask her where the Weight Watcher's meeting was! So I turned around and went to the next desk, FAT! Everywhere I looked they were all fat! I was thinking, is this the right place? Shouldn't someone on this diet be skinny?!
I was just about to leave when a modestly plump woman asked if I needed help. I asked about the WW meeting and she pointed me to the correct room down the hall to the left.
I didn't learn anything there really, except the leader's mother-in-law had died and there was a substitute leader coming. She was too late so I left. I think I saw her as I left the building.
I'm leaning toward the online option anyway.
I'll sign up this weekend to start the first of Feb.
Wish me lunch, I mean luck!
Saturday, January 21, 2006
Let's go back in time . . . (do-do-do-do-do . . . do-do-do-do-do . . . ) I will now tell the story of Evil Shannon in Rome. (As best as I can remember it)
You may want to harken back to the blog of the Happy Days Hostel and Ivano (aka the Fonze.)
Evil Shannon began to make her appearence the night before I left. Fonzie had made it a point to: 1. complain volumously about the French people not being where they said they would be a the time they said they would be there to exchange keys for security deposits. 2. tell us we needed to be at the hostel at 7pm the night before we were all leaving to get the deposit back.
So, there we all were at 7pm waiting for the Fonze. And at 7:30, 8:00, 9:00, 9:30 (at which time I went to bed irratated, but sure that Fonzie would come in the night (before our 3:30am departure) to take the keys left on the table and leave out 5 Euros each.
When I got up in the wee-wee hours of the morning, the deposit fairy had not come, and our keys were still there.
Fonzie had made the mistake of leaving all the extra sets of keys in the kitchen cabinent. There were three of us leaving at the same time, and we were the only three there in the hostel. Therefore, we each had a set, and there were about 8 more sets in the cabinent. We all pocketed our keys and headed over to Fonzie's place and stood there and rang the door bell for about 15-20 minutes straight (3am.) Fonzie did not respond.
Evil Shannon had forseen this situation and had acted out before we left the hostel.
She took all the extra sets of keys and considered taking them all, but knowing that was not nice, she elected to hide each set in a seperate and inconvenient place.
Places she knew Fonzie would never look. They wouldn't have been so hard to find for anyone who cooked or cleaned (ever) but knowing he didn't (ever,) there was a set in the needs-to-be-defrosted freezer, in the never-been-used-and-therefore-clean oven, behind the kitchen door with the dust bunnies and the hair balls, on top of the dusty cabinent, in the whole in the wall (decoratively covered with a place mat) behind the filthy toilet, under the nasty sink and in the not-hooked-up washing machine.
Ivano if you are reading this I'm still laughing at the thought of how you must have reacted when you went to give the next guest his keys and found and empty box.
While I was throwing keys around willy-nilly the one of the other girls asked what I was doing. I said, "I'm hiding the keys." As though that is what one does when she leaves any hostel of good standing.
She said, "Oh." then "You're my hero!"
It's good to influence young people all around the world. I'm that kind of gal . . . influencial.
You may want to harken back to the blog of the Happy Days Hostel and Ivano (aka the Fonze.)
Evil Shannon began to make her appearence the night before I left. Fonzie had made it a point to: 1. complain volumously about the French people not being where they said they would be a the time they said they would be there to exchange keys for security deposits. 2. tell us we needed to be at the hostel at 7pm the night before we were all leaving to get the deposit back.
So, there we all were at 7pm waiting for the Fonze. And at 7:30, 8:00, 9:00, 9:30 (at which time I went to bed irratated, but sure that Fonzie would come in the night (before our 3:30am departure) to take the keys left on the table and leave out 5 Euros each.
When I got up in the wee-wee hours of the morning, the deposit fairy had not come, and our keys were still there.
Fonzie had made the mistake of leaving all the extra sets of keys in the kitchen cabinent. There were three of us leaving at the same time, and we were the only three there in the hostel. Therefore, we each had a set, and there were about 8 more sets in the cabinent. We all pocketed our keys and headed over to Fonzie's place and stood there and rang the door bell for about 15-20 minutes straight (3am.) Fonzie did not respond.
Evil Shannon had forseen this situation and had acted out before we left the hostel.
She took all the extra sets of keys and considered taking them all, but knowing that was not nice, she elected to hide each set in a seperate and inconvenient place.
Places she knew Fonzie would never look. They wouldn't have been so hard to find for anyone who cooked or cleaned (ever) but knowing he didn't (ever,) there was a set in the needs-to-be-defrosted freezer, in the never-been-used-and-therefore-clean oven, behind the kitchen door with the dust bunnies and the hair balls, on top of the dusty cabinent, in the whole in the wall (decoratively covered with a place mat) behind the filthy toilet, under the nasty sink and in the not-hooked-up washing machine.
Ivano if you are reading this I'm still laughing at the thought of how you must have reacted when you went to give the next guest his keys and found and empty box.
While I was throwing keys around willy-nilly the one of the other girls asked what I was doing. I said, "I'm hiding the keys." As though that is what one does when she leaves any hostel of good standing.
She said, "Oh." then "You're my hero!"
It's good to influence young people all around the world. I'm that kind of gal . . . influencial.
I think my computer may be fixed and coming home with me today or maybe tomorrow . . . we are both excited.
Here is the blog address of a cat:
http://www.myspace.com/rnroscar
I considered letting Buzz have his own address, but honestly he's a dog, he doesn't have much to say. "Woof! I'm a dog! Look I can roll over!" (This is not a skill needed in the wild, he's a freaky little weeny.)
All Buzz fans will have to be content with the pictures and information I provide!
Here is the blog address of a cat:
http://www.myspace.com/rnroscar
I considered letting Buzz have his own address, but honestly he's a dog, he doesn't have much to say. "Woof! I'm a dog! Look I can roll over!" (This is not a skill needed in the wild, he's a freaky little weeny.)
All Buzz fans will have to be content with the pictures and information I provide!
Friday, January 20, 2006
WELCOME!
You have found People Eating Tasty Animals (PETA*)
We are a club that supports and encourages the eating of delicious animal flesh. Whether you are currently a member, or just visiting, feel free to look around. If you would like to become a member of this forum of meat lovers, please request an application for membership by emailing us at peopleeatingtastyanimals@hotmail.com
http://groups.msn.com/PeopleEatingTastyAnimals
I saw a bumper sticker for this group and wondered if it was real. I see that it is. I'm being encouraged to infiltrated the group.
We will see what happens.
it was dumb.
only the bumper sticker was cool
consider this:
The Most Dangerous MeatIn school they teach us that Swift's Modest Proposal is an ironic joke- but it's not. Why do you think there's no good English food? The English REALLY eat Irish babies- and they taste good. Charlton Heston prophesied in 1973 that "Soilent Green" is people. But so is vegimite. Pacific Islanders also eat their dead. Cannibalism isn't a dirty word in these cultures. It shouldn't be in ours!
Swift:
The persona is a concerned Irishman who is very intelligent, sound, and serious. He appears to be a brute and a monster for proposing something evil and immoral very calmly as if it is normal to consume the flesh of another human being. What makes his proposal to be even more depraved is that he proposes to eat the babies.
That whole Austin Power's "Fat Bastard" Baby eater thing is making sense now. . .
You have found People Eating Tasty Animals (PETA*)
We are a club that supports and encourages the eating of delicious animal flesh. Whether you are currently a member, or just visiting, feel free to look around. If you would like to become a member of this forum of meat lovers, please request an application for membership by emailing us at peopleeatingtastyanimals@hotmail.com
http://groups.msn.com/PeopleEatingTastyAnimals
I saw a bumper sticker for this group and wondered if it was real. I see that it is. I'm being encouraged to infiltrated the group.
We will see what happens.
it was dumb.
only the bumper sticker was cool
consider this:
The Most Dangerous MeatIn school they teach us that Swift's Modest Proposal is an ironic joke- but it's not. Why do you think there's no good English food? The English REALLY eat Irish babies- and they taste good. Charlton Heston prophesied in 1973 that "Soilent Green" is people. But so is vegimite. Pacific Islanders also eat their dead. Cannibalism isn't a dirty word in these cultures. It shouldn't be in ours!
Swift:
The persona is a concerned Irishman who is very intelligent, sound, and serious. He appears to be a brute and a monster for proposing something evil and immoral very calmly as if it is normal to consume the flesh of another human being. What makes his proposal to be even more depraved is that he proposes to eat the babies.
That whole Austin Power's "Fat Bastard" Baby eater thing is making sense now. . .
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
A few much needed facts from an email I received recently:
A duck's quack doesn't echo,
and no one knows why.
Dentists have recommended that a toothbrush be kept at least six feet away from a toilet to avoid airborne particles resulting from the flush.
(I keep my toothbrush in the living room now!)
And the best for last.....
Turtles can breathe through their butts.
A duck's quack doesn't echo,
and no one knows why.
Dentists have recommended that a toothbrush be kept at least six feet away from a toilet to avoid airborne particles resulting from the flush.
(I keep my toothbrush in the living room now!)
And the best for last.....
Turtles can breathe through their butts.
Sunday, January 01, 2006
um . . . so well off to Paris where I will while away my days for a week . . . honestly I was thinking I've made my vacation a bit too long.
I need vacation from my vactaion, like to work for an hour or two.
Alas I will suffer my way through the city of Paris. I'm not sure I'll be blogging until I get home.
At that time I will reveal all, well at least some . . . a few. One at least grand story of the life and time of Miss Shannon
I need vacation from my vactaion, like to work for an hour or two.
Alas I will suffer my way through the city of Paris. I'm not sure I'll be blogging until I get home.
At that time I will reveal all, well at least some . . . a few. One at least grand story of the life and time of Miss Shannon
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Leap Year Traditions
2004 is a Leap Year!Leap Year was the traditional time that women could propose marriage. In many of today's cultures, it is ok for a woman to propose marriage to a man. Society doesn't look down on such women. However, that hasn't always been the case. When the rules of courtship were stricter, women were only allowed to pop the question on one day every four years. That day was February 29th.
It is believed this tradition was started in 5th century Ireland when St. Bridget complained to St. Patrick about women having to wait for so long for a man to propose. So, according to legend, St. Patrick said the yearning females could propose on this one day in February during the Leap Year.
According to English law, February 29th was ignored and had no legal status. Folks assumed that traditions would also have no status on that day.
It was also reasoned that since the leap year day existed to fix a problem in the calendar, it could also be used to fix an old and unjust custom that only let men propose marriage.
The first documentation of this practice dates back to 1288, when Scotland passed a law that allowed women to propose marriage to the man of their choice in that year. They also made it law that any man who declined a proposal in a Leap Year must pay a fine. The fine could range from a kiss to payment for a silk dress or a pair of gloves.
In the United States, some people have referred to this date as Sadie Hawkins Day, with women being given the right to run after unmarried men to propose. Sadie Hawkins was a female character in the Al Capp cartoon strip "Li'l Abner." Many communities celebrate Sadie Hawkins Day in November.
There is a Greek superstition that claims couples have bad luck if they marry during a leap year. Apparently one in five engaged couples in Greece will avoid planning their wedding during a leap year.
2004 is a Leap Year!Leap Year was the traditional time that women could propose marriage. In many of today's cultures, it is ok for a woman to propose marriage to a man. Society doesn't look down on such women. However, that hasn't always been the case. When the rules of courtship were stricter, women were only allowed to pop the question on one day every four years. That day was February 29th.
It is believed this tradition was started in 5th century Ireland when St. Bridget complained to St. Patrick about women having to wait for so long for a man to propose. So, according to legend, St. Patrick said the yearning females could propose on this one day in February during the Leap Year.
According to English law, February 29th was ignored and had no legal status. Folks assumed that traditions would also have no status on that day.
It was also reasoned that since the leap year day existed to fix a problem in the calendar, it could also be used to fix an old and unjust custom that only let men propose marriage.
The first documentation of this practice dates back to 1288, when Scotland passed a law that allowed women to propose marriage to the man of their choice in that year. They also made it law that any man who declined a proposal in a Leap Year must pay a fine. The fine could range from a kiss to payment for a silk dress or a pair of gloves.
In the United States, some people have referred to this date as Sadie Hawkins Day, with women being given the right to run after unmarried men to propose. Sadie Hawkins was a female character in the Al Capp cartoon strip "Li'l Abner." Many communities celebrate Sadie Hawkins Day in November.
There is a Greek superstition that claims couples have bad luck if they marry during a leap year. Apparently one in five engaged couples in Greece will avoid planning their wedding during a leap year.
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