I forgot about my sea wee- sigh- so it goes.

Today is some sort of Ganesh festival- what that means to me=

The temple started blasting the puja at 7:15 this morning.

There are what appear to be Christmas lights strung up all over the place (I only say they appear to be Christmas lights because there are little outlines of pine trees on the ones down my street.)

There are newly erected palm leaf and plastic sheeting huts all over the neighborhood housing statues of Ganesh (the mostly elephant- some human shaped god.)

When I got home from church, the music emanating from the hut at the end of my street (ally) was so loud, Buzz was hiding in the corner of the bathroom looking like he had just received a visit from the dog eating boogie man.

And I had been looking forward to a nice nap.

Not happening. I felt a little guilty leaving Buzz alone with the noise again, but I couldn't take it. Indian music as low levels is something I can bearly tolerate in small doses.

Indian music blaring and reverbrating off the concrete walls throughout the street and all around my apartment- too much.

I closed Buzz in the quietest place I could find and left.

I hope this is not an all night celebration.

Microsoft insisted that I put up a bio on their silly website nobody reads except us- and we already know each other!

Here's mine:

"Shannon started working at Microsoft in June of 2006. She graduated from the University of Texas at Arlington in December of 2005. Shannon likes reading and writing but abhors arithmetic. She also likes dachshunds, turtles, mermaids and although she’s a vegetarian, slim jims."

It was furious battle for the sea wees, but in the end I was not willing to spend $45.00 for 8 20something year old mermaid dolls with ratty hair, chewed fins and chipped paint.

But I'm not discouraged because I've found one pristine sea wee of my liking complete with accessories! I'm sure this one doll will cost almost as much as that lot of 8, but I'm going to watch it carefully . . .

signed- sea-wee fanatic

http://i24.ebayimg.com/01/i/08/13/8a/7b_1_b.JPG

I don't remember ever pretending to be a princess when I was a little girl.

I told pk this and she said her nieces weren't allowed to pretend to be princesses on account of the princesses killing their mothers.

I protested, I never heard of a princess killing her mother!

She pointed out that they always have dead mothers and/or (evil) step mothers. What is a good and alive mother to conclude?

Let’s think about this:

Cinderella’s mother- dead
Snow White’s mother- dead
Beauty (of the & the Beast)’s mother- dead
Did the little Mermaid have a mother? I don’t remember her.
What’s her face of Aladdin’s mother- no where to be found.

It does appear to be a trend . . .
I said, “Sleeping Beauty had a mother.”
She said, “I never heard of her- she must not have ever done anything great.”
True- in fact she let her daughter get cursed by an evil (fairy?)

This is a digression from my intent because- in fact, I didn’t really want to talk about princesses; because I didn’t want to be one when I was a kid.

Except for WonderWoman- she was a princess, but she was a kick-butt princess. I didn’t want to be her because she was a princess, but because she 1. she had a cool outfit 2. she had a golden lasso of truth and 3. she had an invisible jet.

And her mother- ALIVE!

Any way . . .

Since I didn’t ever pretend to be a princess I was thinking about what I did pretend to be when I was a kid.

My cousin and I had these mermaid dolls. They were called “Sea-Wees.” I loved my Sea-Wee. She had red hair and a turquoise body. She was a tub toy. She came with accessories: she had a baby, a comb, and a lilly-pad shaped sponge she and the baby could float around on.

My cousin’s Sea-Wee had blonde hair and a pink body. The past few days I’ve been obsessed thinking about these silly dolls we had when we were about 5.

So I looked on E-bay to get a picture of a Sea-Wee and I hit a bonanza of Sea-Wees! If all goes well I will have a bunch of Sea-Wees to do with what I may!

(A fool and her money are soon parted when she looks up childhood toys of E-bay.)

All that to say: when I was a kid, I pretended to be a mermaid, not a princess. (Unless it was WonderWoman, who is a princess, but not a mermaid.)

When My cousin and I went swimming we would take our Sea-Wees and have great adventures with them. Then we would take our hair out of the pony tails and the braids and swish it around in the water and tell each other how beautiful our mermaid hair was in the water.

So- I didn't grow up to be a mermaid- but I am a princess . . . I should have known to practice!

Buzz wants a job

Are those dachshunds dancing near the back waters of Africa behind David Hasselhoff?

My job . . . it's something like this . . .

send me an emu

Bangalored

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Bangalored is a neologism and used as a verb. Bangalored is used to indicate a layoff, often systemic, and usually due to corporate outsourcing of the business function to lower wage economies. The word is derived from Bangalore, India, which houses outsourcing centers for Western economies.

It refers to people who have been laid off from a multinational company because their job has been moved to India (outsourced — a business practice designed to save money that is arousing passions in some countries, especially Britain and the United States). Bangalore is cited in particular because of its reputation in the USA as a high-tech city, and widely regarded as the Silicon Valley of India that has benefited significantly from such outsourcing.

Them is meeting words: my favorite words and phrases from this week's staff meeting.

“a giant sucking sound”
“so you don’t have to peer”
“a cascading level of detail”
“a warm hand off”
“They are quite happy, but they want to be more happy.”
“I’m listening to what I see.”
“It’s good, but not what it needs to be, or should be, or could be.”
“short sharp options”
“tighten and righten”
“align your offerings”

Also used the words:

Tertiary
Linkages (three times)
Lingering
Jargon
Extrapolate
Howfar
Stymied
Cannibalize

Driven (nine times)

Meetings are so much more fun when I have fun games to play.

The national sport of India is . . . . HOCKEY!

FYI

http://www.theholidayspot.com/indian_independence_day/national_symbols.htm

The end of the sari story:

This sari business is far, far more complicated than I at first expected. I mean, it just looks like a few yards of cloth strategically wrapped around a girl.

I bought this pretty blue sari with a gold and copper boarder. I went to the tailor to check out the scene. I decided to give him an easy project before we got into a sari blouse. I had him make a kamese- one of those knee length loose fitting tunic-type shirts. He took my measurements, being overly cautious to not touch the ample goods. That was fine by me. I figured, he was the tailor, he knew how to take measurements and make clothes according to his own measurements.

After what seemed like forever (Wal-Mart has instilled instant gratification into my very heart and soul) I went back, picked up my new clothes, and went home to shimmy into them. To my (great) dismay my boobies were pressed flat like pancakes. I’m not even talking sports bra flat. I’m saying it was like I was getting a mammogram inside my shirt . . . it was disturbing to say the least.

I knew that this tailor was not my choice for a form fitting sari blouse. I had to find a lady tailor who would understand the delicate nature of the female form.

I wandered around the neighborhood until I looked into a dark little shop and found a lady sitting behind an ancient sewing machine. I told her I needed a blouse for my first sari. She measured EVERYTHING. Honestly- there was a lot of measuring going on to make a half shirt, but I’m down with thoroughness.

Again I waited less than patiently to go back to pick up the newest addition to my wardrobe of the world. When I got there she wanted me to try the blouse on before I left.

Okay- so I had to put it on over my T-shirt (remember that sari blouses are generally tight little numbers.)

So I tried to get it on, but it was too small. The tailor lady said, “No, it’s not small, it’s only because of your T-shirt and your ‘vest,’ it will fit.”

My ‘vest’ what the . . . I guess she meant my bra- so am I not supposed to wear a bra with a sari blouse? Who should I ask? Is there like a “Dear Aleezahtasha” in the news paper that I can pose all my embarrassing questions to?

As I pondered these questions the tailor lady came to “help.” But, as it had been true only moments before, it was still true at that point, the blouse was too small- so two more ladies came to “help.” Now there were three women trying their best to push my girls into a too small blouse.

Finally they were convinced it wasn’t going to happen. –whew- there was almost a riot!

I have come to the conclusion that these people take my measurements; write them down then, when they go to make the item, they look at what they wrote and think, “That can’t be right- that’s HUGE! I’ll make it smaller and it will be perfect.”

Crazy little-tiny-brown people!

Anyway- she made it bigger- well, big enough to get it on my body but barely. Eh- I need to lose a few pounds anyway.

I was walking through my neighborhood when suddenly I was confronted with a herd of goats. Not just 1 or 4 goats as that could be considered “normal” in my neighborhood, a HERD of goats- like 29 goats (or something like that.)

As I considered the oddity of that sight- something caught my eye and I turned my head and saw a sheep . . . on a bicycle.

Think about that. I want you to picture it in your mind’s eye. Let me help you. It was a black sheep, curly wool. It was a big sheep. It was an old fashioned bicycle, with a heavy frame and large wheels. The bell was ringing, (because if any form of transportation is moving, the bell or the horn is also sounding.)

So- big black sheep on old fashioned bicycle –BRRRRIIIIIIIIG! BRIIIIIIING!

Okay so what you just pictured, it wasn’t like that at all. How could it be? But it was fun to think about right?

It was more like this- two teen aged boys, a big black sheep and an old fashioned bicycle.
One boy was driving, and BRIIIIIIING! ringing the bell. The other boy was holding the big black sheep on his lap. The sheep was hanging over on both sides of the boy’s knees. The sheep didn’t seem to think anything out of the ordinary was happening.

click on the funny to read . . . about my life

Someone asked me how Pakistan and Bangladesh were related. To my great surprise I had a really informed answer off the top of my head.

Sometimes I'm amazed at the amount of useless information I retain.

Bangladesh used to be "East Pakistan" FYI

I was wandering around looking for a Persian restaurant, (someone had told me about it, I wasn’t just looking for some random Persian restaurant.) I didn’t find it, but I did find a cave-like structure on Airport Road and people were lining up to go into it and I thought- ‘I bet there’s something good in there.’ So I got in line too.

The security guy checked my bags (I’d been shopping, to console myself on not finding the Persian restaurant.) He determined that my children’s book and my stuffed turtle weren’t going to kill anyone, so he let me in.

I walked down the steps through the entrance of the fake cave-thing- big as you please; as though I knew exactly what I was doing and where I was going. I walked through a long hallway which very much reminded me of a subway station, but no tracks, no trains. I briefly wondered if there was going to be a way to get out, or if I’d be forced to take a train somewhere I didn’t want to go . . .

I came to a little man sitting at a little desk. He said, “One rupee.” So I gave him a rupee. Then the world opened up to a huge court yard with a GI-NORMOUS statue of (I didn’t know at the time, but now I do) Shiva, sitting lotus style. He was four stories high easy- sitting! There was water spurting out of his head.



I went through a turnstile and a lady said, “Shoes.” Actually, she said it in Hindi, but I don’t remember the word, so I said, “Oh, you want my shoes?” She said, “Yes, shoes.” (In English.) So I gave her my shoes, thinking at the time that I was glad I was wearing $2.00 flipflops.

I walked up the side of the courtyard taking note of the signs along the way. The more I read, the more they made me giggle. I went back to the beginning and took some pictures. When I got closer to Shiva, another little man at a little desk said, “Ten rupees.” So, not asking any stilly questions, I gave him ten rupees.

(see bucket for sign photos)

He pointed to another “cave” entrance. He said, “No pictures.” I put my camera away with great regret; I just knew I was going to encounter something fantastic in that fake cave.

I was not disappointed.

If you’ve ever been to Disney World and gone on the “Small World” ride, you will have some small clue as to what I’m about to describe. There were all these miniture scenes of locations of where holy “lings” could be found, and descriptions of their power and greatness. The scenes were all animated in some bizarre and/or disturbing way.

There were gods ascending and descending near the first ling, sometimes they got stuck half way to heaven. There was this crazy-haired-crusty-eyed ‘guru’ in the corner chanting and blinking and trying to raise his hands in a creepy animatronic-jerky representation of something holy.

There were bells chiming around the bend, but as I proceeded I was so taken with the lings and my realization that they were all phallic symbols to find out what that was all about. There were more animatronic gurus blinking and moaning in the shadows. There was an ice ling from the Himalayas. The sign invited me to touch it for good luck. I decided against it.

I am not willing to touch a frozen penis for good luck. You can quote me on that.

They rightly saved the best for last. At the last display was a story about a ling that had brought a dead cow to life. There was a freaking taxidermied cow head in the display mooing and rising and falling rhythmically. It even had blood on it!

I didn’t know what it all meant, but as I left I found myself in a temple market. I bought a little glass turtle with a ling on his back. The guy told me it was “good luck.” It seems pretty much anything with a penis in India can potentially be good luck. No wonder they have a population problem!

If anyone wants a lucky ling- I’m willing to go back for more. Just let me know.


http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lingam

PS The water from his head is the symbolization of the beginning of some important river.

ao
I was sitting in my friend’s car. He was acting silly, singing songs in funny voices and telling me stories I didn’t believe. I asked him, “Do you act like this with all your friends?” He was quiet for a few seconds, and then he said, “No,” in a thoughtful tone. Still smiling, I asked him why I was the lucky one who got to see his silly side. I’ll never forget his answer. He said, “Because I love you best.”

The passenger side door of his car didn’t open from the inside. He told me he didn’t bother fixing it since it was a “chick door” anyway. He would get out and walk around to open the door, and the old ladies would smile and comment to one another what a nice young man he was. He would flash his pretty smile and I would try not to roll my eyes.

We used to go out to the lake; night swimming or for a walk on the dam. Sometimes we drove out there at night and went out to the edge of the lake and he would shine his headlights at all the parked cars. He explained the first time out that they weren’t just empty cars, but that the college kids came to the lake to “watching submarines” at that location. He drove an old black and white Chevy- which through steamed up windows might have been mistaken for a police car.

Once as we sat by the lake he told me that ever since he became a Christian he had tried to become perfect, but he was so disappointed because he didn’t think he would become perfect, even though he really wanted to. I remember telling him he couldn’t be perfect in this world because this world isn’t perfect; it’s corrupt and we can’t change that. I wish I could have told him what I’ve only recently come to understand myself.

He was right . . . men are made with eternity in their hearts. This life is only the beginning. When we become Christians, it marks the beginning of our perfection. Perfection, however, is hard work. I still believe that here, in this world, we cannot become perfect, but this world is not all. God is working with us and in us to complete our perfection. Our striving here will be rewarded in the next world. Our perfection will become complete and for that we can rejoice even now.

I believe now that the problem with Christians today is that we work to be ‘good’ when really we need to struggle for perfect. “You thought you were going to be made in to a decent little cottage; but He is building a palace. He intends to come and live in it Himself.” (CS Lewis, Mere Christianity)

“Be perfect, therefore, as your heavenly father is perfect.” Matthew 5:48
“Keep working on that palace.” That’s what I’d tell him if we had that discussion again.

And if we were to walk on the dam in a storm I would carry the umbrella. And if you were working on the roof all morning and you were thirsty, I’d bring you some water.
And if we were to go to church and I saw Abraham Lincoln, I wouldn’t mention it. Because after all this time, I’d like to think I helped add something nice to that palace.
You added something nice to mine because you loved me best.

Your IQ Is 110

Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Above Average Your General Knowledge is Exceptional

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

This is a funny result since, if it had numbers I guessed. It it required thinking, (Logic) I also guessed, but I'm thinking that shows.

You Are Tofu

Okay, so you aren't exactly meat. And that's fine with you. Even if people think you're a bit bland.There's a good chance you're veg - and even if you aren't, you secretly think meat is gross.

What Kind of Meat Are You?

YOU ARE 80% GROSS

YOU ARE 80% GROSS You Are 80% Gross

You're pretty dirty, and there's a good change you're living in a total dump.And your body? Not too clean either. Watch out for killer bacteria, Pig Pen!

How Gross Are You?

okay, just one more

Reeses Peanut Butter Cups

Very popular, one of you is not enough.

What Kind of Candy Are You?

YOU ARE LIKELY A THIRD BORN You Are Likely a Third Born

At your darkest moments, you feel vulnerable.At work and school, you do best when you're comparing things.When you love someone, you tend to like to please them. In friendship, you are loyal to one person.Your ideal careers are: sales, police officer, newspaper reporter, inventor, poet, and animal trainer.You will leave your mark on the world with inventions, poetry, and inspiration.

The Birth Order Predictor

The links don't work, but here's the site I got the quizes from:

http://www.blogthings.com/quizzes/

It takes 15 minutes to get from my place to work. Today I saw ten free-range city cows and three water-buffalo.

That's right this place simply exudes every one of the romantic and exotic images you bring to mind when you consider India.

It makes me want to write a haiku:

Cows in the streets
Trash burning near by stinks, stains
Indian romance

Thank you

I am a language monkey.

Whenever I’m not reading text books (which has been a very small portion of my life it seems.) I find myself reading many books at the same time, starting many projects and always thinking of more stuff to keep me entertained.

Currently I am reading The Purpose Driven Life, A Year with CS Lewis, The Mammoth Hunters, More Than Love, Eats Leaves and Shoots, and Watercolor for the Absolute Beginner. (that’s me) I’ve just finished Genesis and have started John. I would like to go back to Genesis to do a study. I think it is my favorite book of the Bible. It has so many interesting stories and implications.

I am knitting a Christmas Stocking and cover for my MP3 player, I have a counted cross stitch in the works from last Christmas, and I considered trying to crochet a teddy bear last night. (I got stuck on the stocking pattern, I can K1 and P1 but I don’t know what Sl1 means-- gotta look that up.) I’m trying to teach myself how to watercolor (hence the book.) I have paints and brushes and pencils and paper and books . . . I’m not so good at it. I wish I could post my latest painting. It’s a church . . . it’s purple and yellow and pink . . . When the maintenance man came to fix my cable he tried not to laugh at it.

Ah- it takes me back to the Alamo . . . I would like to point out I think it is much better than my Alamo. What makes it funny (aside from the fact that it’s pink and purple and yellow) is that it’s all crooked. If I had any sense I’d try to find somebody to give me drawing lessons before I try to paint stuff. I know I don’t have a natural talent for this stuff, but it entertains me for cheap so I continue.

I think I started this post to talk about CS Lewis and the Purpose Driven Life . . . but I’ve lost that thread. I’ll think about it for tomorrow. I think I’ll try to paint a tulip now.

I was so confused!

look at the address at this site, you'll understand my problem

knit titties

The account of the Red beans

It came to pass in those days that a decree went out from Princess Shannon that all the beans should be cooked. (And this cooking was first done when Shannon was new to India.) And all the beans were cooked, and the beans were divided into portions of two; that they should be consumed at various times.

This is the account of the first portion of beans. Verily, the beans were added together with savory spices from many lands; including The United States of America and Mexico (in the New World); Kenya (on the Dark Continent) and India, which is known to many as the very land of spices and savoriness. Also added together with the beans and the savory spices was Sweet Yellow American corn, healthy tomato puree, water which had spurt forth from the tap, a smallish red onion-chopped and garlic-crushed.

This combination was indeed to become most delicious, and the scent of its cooking was pleasing to the nostrils of the LORD- the God of the Nations, as to His humble servant, Princess Shannon. Surely this pleasant and acceptable dish did cook upon a gas fire, as is right in the land of India.

As time passed Princess Shannon did take note with her senses that there was an odor which verily did not please her nostrils, (nor the nostrils of the LORD.) She did dismiss this scent saying unto herself: “India doth muchly have a foul order like unto burning.”

As more time passed Princess Shannon did go forth unto the kitchen and sadly she did see that her red beans were red no more, nor was her Sweet Yellow American corn any longer sweet or yellow (perhaps not even American) for it had all been sacrificed on the fire known as “The Gas Stovetop” to the demon god known as “Charcoal.”

Sorrowfully, Princess Shannon did mourn this tragic loss of savory goodness.

Verily I say unto thee: cooking doth require much hardship in this exotic land known as India. Two days did the beans soak, far had the spices traveled, and the corn, the Sweet Yellow American corn surely had been cut off the very core by hand!

Thus ends the account of the first portion of red beans.

*********************************************************************************
I burned the second portion too!

Thus ends the account of the second portion of red beans.

If I were in charge of writing a tourists’ guide for Bangalore, it might have a passage like this:

I went to a restaurant called the Noodle . . . Bowl . . . Noodle . . . House . . . Noodle Something. Who can keep track?

I didn’t know what to expect in the first place, but when the hostess asked if we wanted to sit in the Chinese/Thai section to the left or the Lebanese/Mexican/Italian section to the right I was a little taken aback.

First of all, when did the United Nations get involved in the restaurant business and secondly who ever heard of a Lebanese noodle?

I, for one, had to learn more. I said, “Left.”

The menu was like a freaking magazine; (complete with ads on every page) as you can imagine, there were many choices. I made a bee-line for the Lebanese noodles, but got totally distracted, and stopped in my magazine-menu-page-turning tacks by the “Mexican falafel.”

A Mexican falafel . . . I couldn’t wrap my brain around how a Mexican falafel in India might taste. I had to forgo the Lebanese noodles for the time being and satiate my hunger for a truly multinational falafel* EXTRAVAGANZA!

*Please note that falafels are my favorite-favorite things to eat, and Mexican food is my favorite-favorite kind of food. “How could this possibly go wrong?!” (You may be too smart to be asking yourself.)

And verily I say unto you, a Mexican falafel can only be described as a pita pocket full of weirdness. It was a Mediterranean burrito of sorts. It had cabbage and lettuce and refried beans and crushed tortilla chips and falafel patties and yogurt sauce and chutney (which I’m pretty darn sure isn’t Lebanese OR Mexican, it’s those crazy Indians sneaking the chutney in again.)

It wasn’t bad . . . but I wouldn’t go so far as to say that it was good. It was something I probably will not eat again, ever. (Don’t get me wrong, I’m going back for the Lebanese noodles . . . I won’t let you down in that bit of investigative reporting.)

Yeah, the Noodle place. Check it out when you come to Bangalore.

I went to my first Indian movie theater last night. I saw "Superman Returns." Yeah, I didn't know he left, but cool that he's back!

And he's young and cute (bonus!)

My first crush was on Superman. Christopher Reeve was hot. But so is the new guy . . . maybe it's the little curl that survives even when he dives to the bottom of the ocean or flies to into outer space. Maybe it's the the blue tights . . . Whatever. I dig Superman.

I think he's cooler than other superheros (a Wonder Woman exception here) because he was born Super. He didn't have to get radiated, or bitten or be rich to make lots of toys (there's no Superman-mobile) He's just Superman. He's got his curl and his cape and he's ready to save the world, but mostly Lois Lane. That girl is nothing but trouble.

I liked the movie.

Let's talk about the theater now. It only shows one movie at a time. Superman has been there for the past two weeks. I think "Pirates of the Caribbean" will come next. The theater doesn't look like much from the outside. You have to go up and reserve tickets ahead of time because nearly every show is sold out. You buy specific seats. An usher seats you. (Fancy) There is intermission, but it's called something else . . . I don't remember what they called it. You can buy tiny amounts of popcorn. It was hard to tell how many people were in the theater. I wouldn't have guessed that many, but when the movie ended, and they turned the lights on before the credits had even started, it took a while to get out.

I was starting to get a little freaked. I was having flashes of Mardi Gras in New Orleans . . . seas of people . . . inching along . . . little pushes from behind. If someone had yelled "Fire!" I'd be dead. That many people.

I don't fare well with that many people. India may not have been the ideal choice for me after all. I mean I do live in a small city (of 8 milion!).

Indians, they are everywhere.

I am a A Diamond Dragon!
Hey, I took the http://dragonhame.com online Inner Dragon quiz and found out I am a Diamond Dragon on the inside.
In the war between good and evil, a Diamond Dragon tends to walk the fine line of Neutrality....When it comes to the powers of Chaos vs. those of Law and Order, your inner dragon is a risk taker and answers to no one....As far as magical tendancies, a Diamond Dragon's nature does not lend itself well to the ways of Magic....During combat situations, a true Diamond Dragon prefers to defeat opponents by the use of spells and other tactics....The Diamond Dragon is most at home in Cool, Sunny Regions. They are Multi-Facetted individuals who inspire others to better themselves and the world around them. Unless a Diamond Dragon is the CENTER of attention, they appear to be dulled and yearning for the lime-light.'Though a Diamond Dragon is quite rare to find, if you happen upon one, be sure to be a true friend. Diamond Dragons don't like to be lied to or back stabbed. Lest they turn on you the same way, tenfold. They are Loyal, fun loving, gentle, honest, caring, and extremely wise. They also tend to be introvert ed when hurt by someone close, and their friends or companions are like family. So beware not to anger them. While they look and for all intents and purposes are easy going, when it comes to family and friends, they will defend to the death if need be and you may just find yourself enemy number one.' 'This Dragons favorite elements are: Fire, Diamonds, Deep Caverns
http://Dragonhame.Com

Oh my gosh! This quiz is so long don't do it! (Unless you have lots of time to kill)

Dearest peeps

Here is my mailing address:

Shannon Peterson
Spectrum Placement & Marketing Services Pvt. Ltd.
780, (1st Floor), 12th Main, 1st Cross, HAL 2nd Stage,
Bangalore - 560 008.
INDIA

I'm posting this because this isn't actually where I live. So if you go there expecing to find this place for the purposes of raping and pillaging me- HA! I won't be there!

All you'll get is a skinny little security guard.

However, my birthday is coming (in September) and this is the perfect time to start planning on sending a package. The mail is quite slow. Seriously, a package sent by the end of July would (probably) get here on time.

Yes, this is a shameless plea for love and attention.

Please send a small (or large if you prefer) box of goodies to the above address.
If you do, as the Jews say, "You will have many blessings in your belly button."
I don't know what that means, but blessings just about anywhere are good for me.

A girl could never have too much:
Kettle corn
slim jims (tobasco)
those lipton pasta packets . . . soon I will tell you the sad story of red beans.
kool-aid (no grape)
candy (peanut butter kind is good)
gum
deoderant (serioulsy somebody in this country needs to smell good, it might as well be me)
books
toys
music
movies
crafty thingies
holiday decore (well in advance mind you)
Letters
cards
salutaions

Buzz wants tasty chewy treats and a raw hide or two.

I'm just saying, that's all.

Do as you will. May the Spirit lead you.
Shan and Buzz

Last night I dreamed that Buzz was running with a gang of wild street dachshunds . . . I know . . . “wild street dachshund” isn’t an image that comes to one’s mind easily.

So, eventually, as a result of his bad behavior he got sick and died! (Who knows what kinds of diseases wild street dachshunds carry?) I was so distraught I picked him up and put him in a laundry basket . . . . I know it doesn’t make sense. I couldn’t deal with it at the time. Later on, however, I started thinking about it and I thought, maybe he isn’t dead, maybe he’s just sick. So I went back to the laundry basket, (took the laundry out) and there was Buzz all cold and stiff. But he blinked, so I knew he was still alive. I pulled him out and started off to the vet hoping there was still time to save him.

Then I woke up. I had not been sleeping well, so I decided after a dream like that I should just get up and get going.

Buzz is fine. The worst thing that’s happened to him is that the cleaning lady threw away his chew toys. Lucky for him I brought spares.

HA!
I think I've talked to this guy too! But he's in Bombay, Bangalore is soooo much more upscale!

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!

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.

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!

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.)

Look to the side bar list to see "bucket o photos." I just filled up my "princess pics" site. So, here's the new one. I've posted some not-so-exciting neighborhood photos. I suggests the slide show.

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’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 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!

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.

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.

Georgy-porgy pudding pie, kissed the girl and made her cry.

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

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’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.

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.

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."

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.

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:

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.

Buzz and I have arrived in Bangalore. He barked at the stray dogs in the street and avoided the cow.

More later

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)

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.

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 day after I finally stopped itching from the poison ivy, I got about 30 ant bites from my feet to my waist. Benadryl is my new best friend.

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.

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!

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 Have some kind of bad itchiness!

Poison ivy maybe?

I want to itch my arm and leg off!

sigh *whimper* whine

I love tater tots too!

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.