ashland follies

To celebrate (and I use the term loosely) my 40th birthday weekend, James and I are in Ashland, Oregon for four days. We are staying in a lovely B&B called the McCall house. One of the many period details left preserved for our enjoyment is the remote controlled fireplace:


The fireplace quite conveniently also serves as a white noise generator. And when I say "also," I mean in addition to...um...nothing at all useful. Except for the ambience, of course. Because nothing says "romance" like a projection of flames from a rolling tube onto a sheet of frosted glass, plus some glowy log and ember things.

That makes it sound like I don't like the place, which is actually not true. The house is awesome. Here is James examining a stereoscope that was in the parlor (note actual fireplace).


There is an ornate tub and cute wallpaper with pretty birds.

I totally would use this wallpaper, if I had the ambition or talent required to hang wallpaper.

On the way up we drove past Mt. Shasta:


Its snowiness was our first clue that maybe our plans to visit Crater Lake today were misguided. Somehow, back in India when I was first planning this excursion, I failed to realize that mid-April is still the height of winter at Crater Lake; yesterday we discovered via the park web site that there is still over 10 feet of snow on the ground in the park, and several of the roads are closed for the season. That put a major damper on our ideas for a brisk 10-mile hike, especially considering that I was planning to do it in trail running shoes.

So today we are going to go to the bookstore and pick up a book with local, snow-free hikes. I will assign James to plan an itinerary while I shop for cute clothes, shoes, and yarn, of which there is an abundance in this town.

kitchen: now with accoutrements

This message is for anyone out there who thought I was done posting pictures of my kitchen: I wasn't.



Also, after much toilsome effort searching for the perfect dishes, I completely accidentally stumbled upon the perfect dishes: "Chirp" from Lenox.


Soon I will be able to invite as many as three additional people over for dinner and they all will be able to eat off matching dishes that aren't even from IKEA. God damn I'm getting fancy.

A special shout-out to James for magically installing the kitchen cabinets and pot shelf while I was at work. I'll say it again--it rocks to have a personal engineer.

living in color

Today we got all ambitious and painted the kitchen and entryway. I have learned several things today:

1. If No One Will Ever See It, You Do Not Need To Paint It.

2. Do not tell yourself, "Oh, I don't need to mask that bit; I will just be very careful." Because you do, and you won't.

3. Do not assume that mango will easily cover sage green.

4. The time you save by loading a little extra paint on your brush will always be canceled out by the time it will take you to clean up the paint splatters on your baseboards or floor.

Kitchen before:

Kitchen after:
Very green entryway:

And also I rearranged my cookbooks again. Because I am super dorky.

golden gate...into old age and decrepitude

So, I thought I'd be all hot shit and racewalk a half marathon the week before I turned forty just to show the world that India has not totally kicked my ass and turned me into a lame, out-of-shape, depressed middle-aged lady. So I went this morning to the Golden Gate Headlands half marathon, only to discover that India has totally kicked my ass and turned me into a lame, out-of-shape, depressed middle-aged lady.

Here is the event-name-appropriate view on the way to the race:


Did I mention that maybe I should have paid attention to the fact that this was not an ordinary, flat-streets-of-a-city type race, but rather a steep, rocky trail run with 2,200 ft of elevation change?



The vistas were admittedly lovely, when you could see them through the tears of pain and despair:


I did finish and all, but it took 3 1/2 freakin' hours (about an hour longer than it took me to do the Seattle Half Marathon just four months ago).

Anyhoo. Not my finest moment, but I did use it to justify eating a burrito afterwards. Speaking of food, someone please tell me why I thought paying $10 for three pints of gorgeous organic strawberries at the farmer's market on Thursday was a good idea.
Because it turns out that when you pay $10 for three pints of strawberries, you later realize that OHMYGOD I HAVE TO COME UP WITH A WAY TO USE UP THREE PINTS OF STRAWBERRIES WITHIN TWO DAYS OR ELSE I HAVE WASTED $10 AND I HAVE A MORTGAGE NOW FOR CHRISSAKE WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING? So, I am in the process of making vegan strawberry ice cream and a strawberry banana cake based on this vegan muffin recipe. Because eating a boatload of ice cream and baked goods is sure to assist me on the road to an improved self-image.

In better news, I was uninvited to a meeting Monday morning that would have required arriving at work at 7:30 a.m. on a day where I have calls scheduled until 10:45 at night. Sometimes it's good not to be a big shot.

furnished

This here is an update for readers who are following the Saga of the Espresso Machine and the Adventures in Procuring a Teak Credenza (hi, you two!).

First, Silvia has arrived:


Second, here is an actual photo of my actual credenza in my actual apartment (as opposed to the actual photo of not my actual credenza on eBay):


So, there has been a little progress around here. Stay tuned for the Debate About What Color to Paint My Hallway, the Conundrum of How the Hell I am Going to Fit All My Crap in the Closets, and the Fairy Tale of the Dishdrawer That I Want to Force to Fit into My Stupid Non-Standard Kitchen Cabinetry.

And yes, I am quite aware that I could make much faster progress on all of those things if I would actually get out to the home supply store instead of parking my ass on a chair and knitting Ariann.

more from the geekytown files

OK, if you have not yet had a chance to experience Blu-ray Disc, you have not lived. I don't care if you have summited K-2, fought off Brazilian piranhas with your bare hands while simultaneously wrestling a jaguar, or sat through an entire half hour of Rachel Ray. You. Have. Not. Lived. Tonight I got to see a couple of episodes of the BBC series Planet Earth on Blu-ray disc, and it BLEW MY MIND. For serious, people. Not that photos can adequately capture the fabulousness, but here are a couple:



Those of you who are familiar with my Crazy Shark Phobia will understand how incredible it is that I insisted on having that last sequence played back numerous times. Seriously, this shit makes you gasp things like "OH NO WAY!!" and "THAT IS NOT EVEN REAL!" and "HOW DID THEY DO THAT?!" at approximately four-second intervals. Every water droplet, every striation in the snow on the side of a mountain, every feather on a lunatic bird from New Guinea...it is all there up in your grille like real life on steroids.

And my amazement was not even dampened by half a bottle of Rubicon Estate Captain's Reserve 2004 Chardonnay followed by a lychee martini.


(Which, after this photo, I am going to start calling a "fetus martini.")

The Planet Earth series has the added bonus of being narrated by David Attenborough. Having watched approximately 94 million hours of his earlier series such as Blue Planet, Life of Mammals, Life of Birds, Life in the Freezer, etc., I was able to shout out things such as "Say GLASS-yer! Say GLASS-yer!" when the topic turned to glaciers, and so on. Endless entertainment.

how to tell you are visiting a geek

I decided to come down to Casa de James in Los Angeles this weekend and I must say I'd forgotten just how geeky this man is.

Exhibit A:
Telescope that is bigger than 18 people's heads.

Exhibit B:
Room-cleaning robot.

Exhibit C:
Computer monitor that is bigger than 18 people's heads.

Exhibit D:
Espresso machine that is bigger than 18 people's heads.

Exhibit E:
Stacks of back issues of Science and Nature that are bigger than 18 people's heads.

Exhibit F:
Space jammies.

Also, here is a conversation that just happened:

Me: How many computers are in this house?
James: Um, let me go downstairs and check.
(Pause)
(Heard being mumbled from downstairs: Seven, eight...)
(James comes back to main floor, continues counting)
(James heads upstairs, more mumbled counting is heard)
(James comes back to main floor)
James: Looks like right now there are 18. But that's not counting specialty hardware for work and various...antique collectibles. Eighteen regular ones.
Me: Thank you.

Edited to add:
Not that there's anything wrong with all that. Now please excuse me while I enjoy my borosilicate mug of perfectly brewed soy cappuccino along with my lightning-fast, hacker-impenetrable wifi access.

mad knitting skillz

The MEOW fest was a big success, which is to say that many snacks were eaten, much booze was drunk, and much knitting took place. We also went to a rad yarn store in Portland called knit/purl, where I got some very pretty sock yarn with which I decided to make these mittens:


The pattern, such as it is, is "Lingonberry" from The Mitten Book by Gottfridsson & Gottfridsson, which is my kind of knitting book because it assumes you know what the hell you're doing and just gives you vague guidelines and some charts.

I have nothing else to report.

oh, meOW

I am in Troutdale, Oregon at my MEOW knitting retreat. Not everyone has arrived yet, but eventually we'll have 9 (out of 14) members here. As you can see, several of the attendees brought along their mascot kitties, so that we have an evil MEOW army to watch over us.

For some reason I thought it would be a good idea to check my work email at 7:00 a.m. while on vacation. Because I am a retard. And now I have a big fat headache and am extremely irritated. Is it cocktail hour yet? (At a MEOW retreat, this is the same as asking "Is it 10:00 a.m. yet?")

Every year we seem to end up with a MEOWfest catchword or phrase. This year it is "tent." Last year it was "Tom Wopat" (don't ask, because I can't tell). The first year it was "giant woofie." One year it was "I'm just a girl from a trailer park with a dream." And of course we can't forget the year of "Randy Beaver."

teak freak

Tonight James helped me put together the Danish teak 60's coffee table and chair I got from my parents. And when I say he helped me, I mean that I watched while he put them together, and I occasionally handed him a screwdriver (the tool kind, not the beverage kind, although I am sure he would have appreciated either).


I also have a couch that is just like the chair, except three seats wide and needing cushions to be made for it, which is why it seemed less urgent to get it set up for now.

Tomorrow I head out of town for the Fifth Annual MEOW Kitty Knitting Retreat. There will be much wine consumed and much catty gossip slung about. Oh, and there will also be knitting. Stay tuned for exciting yarn-filled updates.

color theory

Just in case any of you out there thought I wasn't dorky enough to color coordinate my cookbook shelf, I would like to prove you wrong:



My apartment is slowly coming together a bit. Here is the dining area. I'd originally planned to get a Saarinen pedestal table, but ended up getting this square thing at IKEA and saving...wait for it...$1369. Because that sucker was on sale for $39.99, people. THIRTY NINE NINETY NINE. And I can spill stuff on it without freaking out, because did I mention it cost THIRTY NINE NINETY NINE?


That red box is my microwave, by the way.

And now you should go out and buy the ingredients to make Caramelized Tofu, because damn that's good eatin'.

vegan sushi!

Tonight I made vegan sushi for dinner. That's all I have to report.

progress reportage

I actually got some work done in the home improvement department this weekend, despite being jet lagged off my ass. I've painted my dining area:


And I've set up my Reading Area of Clashing Animal Prints:


However, most of the apartment still looks a little something like this:

Today I also went to a Danish antiques place in Emeryville and bought myself a rad teak credenza. I don't have a photo of the one I bought, but this one is almost identical:


It will go perfectly with the Danish teak couch, chair, and coffee table my parents bought in 1964 and which I've recently charmed them out of.

Tonight I made Heidi Swanson's Tasty Asparagus and Brown Rice, except with quinoa instead of rice. It was veganlicious. I guess that doesn't really count as home improvement. But it's a vast improvement over what I get to eat in India, so there you go--I just made this post on topic, did you see how I did that?

Oh, and also I am now a brunette:


It's exactly like being a blond, except with brown hair.

denied!

The only voice mail waiting for me when I got back to the U.S. was a message from Aabree Coffee saying that my light blue Francis Francis X5 was unavailable AND discontinued, and did I want to maybe order a different machine?

I think this is all because I dimed out Francis Ford Coppola. Maybe tomorrow I am going to wake up with a group head on the pillow next to me.

But it all works out in the end, because James admitted that he's been thinking about upgrading to the Quick Mill Andreja Premium, and so I self-sacrificingly offered to take his Rancilio Silvia off his hands at no extra charge so that he wouldn't have to feel guilty about abandoning it. I am just that nice, you see. Plus I'd been kind of feeling lame for preferring the slightly more expensive and obviously technically inferior Francis Francis to the Silvia on the basis of aesthetics alone.

Silvia, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

it's a boy!

One of the reasons I chose not have children is that I knew I would feel so very, very guilty when pillaging their college funds to buy items like this:


This is the Illy Francis Francis X5, the latest in a string of luxurious purchases that I justify to myself by pointing out, "Self? Did you know that you will be 40 in six weeks?" and/or "Self? Don't you think that you deserve something special as a reward for living in a godforsaken developing country for months on end?" And so on. And there's nothing like being half a gazillion dollars in debt (please refer to Exhibit A: New Apartment) to make the purchase of a state-of-the-art Italian espresso machine feel positively trivial. (A year from now, when you find me living on the sidewalk outside my erstwhile apartment, please take pity on me.)

Incidentally, I am planning to paint my kitchen the color of a clementine, or perhaps a cantaloupe (um, the inside of a cantaloupe), so the machine should look fan-effing-tastic in there after that. Note the little indicator lights are orange, and look so very pretty against the pale blue.

Here is another interesting tidbit. Alright, another tidbit. Recently there was a piece in the NY Times about Francis Ford Coppola and his love for the soon-to-be-released Illy Francis Francis X7 espresso machine (which is not named after him, nor him after it). Now prepare to be freaked out. The Francis Francis X5 (see above) was designed by someone named Luca Trazzi. And who sleeps with the fishes? Luca Brasi. And who directed the Godfather movies? Uh huh. That's right, my friends: Francis Ford Coppola killed the guy who designed my new espresso machine.

P.S. Today's post title serves double duty as a salute to my littlest new buddy, Alex Michael, who decided to come out and join the world a few days ago. Go Alex!

thematic analysis

Tonight I was poking around in the iTunes online store and discovered that they have over 300 albums in their My Groove section, which is basically a bunch of themed albums such as 70's Dance Party and Dinner Jazz {::shudder::}. I began noticing that some of these album themes were kind of, I dunno, stretching it a bit. For example, Boxing. Is there really someone out there whose consumer needs can be partially satisfied by purchasing an entire album of songs somehow related to men beating each other up for money? Although anything that will potentially introduce musically-inclined pugilists to Bob Dylan's Hurricane can't be all bad. Incidentally, that one segues right into You Knock Me Out by R. Kelly; I mean, Bob's a tough act to follow under any circumstances, but that just seems unfair.

A few other themed albums of note are:

Cajun Cookout (including Who Stole the Hot Sauce? by Chubby Carrier)

Labor Day (predictably including Take This Job and Shove It and Working For A Living)

Saturday Errands (Seriously? You can't get through those without a professionally produced soundtrack? I wonder what song goes with "picking up kitty litter." Shit Iz Real by Black Moon? I Smell Pussy by G-Unit?)

Black Frat Party (There was an interesting self-referential theme going on in this one. It had Brick House, and also an artist or group called Brick performing a song called Dazz, and then also a song called Back That Azz Up.)

Recovery Songs (including Wine Into Water [see what they did there?], Nobody Drinks Alone [um, yes they do, and that's part of the problem], and Don't Stop by Fleetwood Mac [now, I'm no heroin junkie--yet!--no, seriously, I totally have it under control--but that seems like the opposite of good counsel])

Indie Wedding (OK, I'm sorry, but would any self-respecting Indie couple really turn to a pre-fab album from the good folks at iTunes to decide on the music for their Big Day? Plus, from what I observed there's nothing iTunes can do for them that they couldn't achieve by throwing random darts at a list of Decemberists, Bright Eyes, and Cat Power album tracks.)

And my personal favorite...

SOCCER MOM CHILLOUT (which had a strange sub-theme represented by selections such as Fallen, Upside Down, and As I Lay Me Down. What exactly are these album compilation people implying?)

Which leads me to my next question: This is really someone's job? To sit and think up song collections very loosely held together by some nebulous theme? Because I am starting to think I want this job. In fact I've already got a few ideas brewing:

Stalking Your Ex (including Hey Jealousy by the Gin Blossoms, Please Call Me, Baby by Tom Waits, I Just Can't Stop Loving You by Michael Jackson, and My First Restraining Order by Drowningman)

Things That Itch (including Heat Rash by Infamouz, Allergic to the Medication by The Hypertonics, and Poison Oak by Bright Eyes)

So You've Decided to Get a Sex Change (including Man! I Feel Like a Woman! by Shania Twain, Goodbye Earl by the Dixie Chicks, and That Dress Looks Nice On You by Sufjan Stevens)

encyclopedia of indian proverbs

Proverbs of Haiko Supermarket

Of a truth many shelves shall be desolate, without inhabitant.

Sales clerks are fruitful, and multiply, and creepeth amongst the aisles offering unbidden assistance in the purchase of simple wares, but woe to him that desires a hurried checkout, for shoppers shall be placed alone in the midst of unmanned registers.

For every item upon the shelves shall have a bar code, and no bar code shall be refused its scan, not even when thou buyest fourteen of the exact same item.

Woe unto him that expecteth unsweetened vanilla Almond Breeze to still be there next week.

Let your moderation be known unto all men. He that desires a reliable supply of broccoli or mushrooms is but greedy and foolish.

Are not two bags of dried chickpeas sold for a farthing? Yet good luck unto him who wishes to purchase canned beans.

For every receipt shall be viewed with hatred, and not allowed to pass through the gates to freedom, before it is sanctified by the word DELIVERED impressed upon it in blue ink, for to do otherwise would be to upset nature's order.

What shall a man give in exchange for a reasonably priced box of soy milk?


Proverbs of the apartment

The water of the faucets drips as honey, and its temperature is cooler than ice; But in the end it is as bitter as wormwood, and you'd better remember your antibiotics.

Thus saith the Lord of hosts, Build ye houses, and dwell in them, but do not expect the electricity to work.

Happy the man who finds wisdom, the man who gains understanding, the man who can get the hot water to last more than 45 seconds!

Who payeth for an internet connection, yet eateth not the fruit thereof? I have news for thee: get used to it.

For yourselves know perfectly that the day of the Lord so cometh as a thief in the night, not unlike the occasional large cockroach.


Proverbs of life in general

A righteous man regardeth the life of his beast, and yet the sacred cattle shall be seen to eat the garbage of the sewers.

Woe be unto them that wish to cross the street unharmed, for the tender mercies of the drivers are cruel. Shun it, cross it not, turn aside from it and pass on.

How long shall the land mourn, and the herbs of every field wither, for the wickedness of them that defecate right there along the side of the road?

He that ploweth should plow in hope, and after that should find a different path than to walk his wooden cart amidst the thoroughfares, for I need to get home to watch Nigella for fuck's sake.

Ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, and also because the answer in India is always No.

And he said also to the people, When ye see a cloud rise out of the west, straightway ye say, There cometh some seriously nasty air pollution.

Consider the elephants of the field. And yet I say unto you, then why the hell are they wandering in traffic?

Woe to him that coveteth an evil covetousness of paneer tikka to his house, for him the Lord shall smite with ten extra pounds before he even knows what hit him.

They that trust in their wealth, and boast themselves in the multitude of their riches, will still have to drive through slums to get anywhere.

For it is the blood that maketh an atonement for the soul, and also that which congeals underneath a dead chicken covered in flies that can be yours for rupees 40 only.

For the Lord will be your confidence, and will keep your foot from the snare; but still you must watch where you step, for reasons I prefer not to describe in detail just now.

Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image, unless it's that adorable elephant god with the extra arms.

How beautiful are the feet of them that preach the gospel of peace, and bring glad tidings of good things! The feet of the rickshaw drivers...not so much.

snack attack

I am not a fussy eater. I mean, yes, I try to stay vegan, which means there are a lot of things (namely, any and all animal-derived products) I don’t eat, but it’s not because I am fussy about eating-- it’s because I have made a choice about not eating those things, and the choice has nothing to do with taste, texture, Germanic childhood memories of tongue sausage with gleaming white chunks of fat floating amidst the blood pudding filler (I’m not making this up), etc. That is why it makes me crazy like a drunken David Hasselhoff whenever I see, for the eleventy-gazillionth time, hostile comments from trolls on vegan/vegetarian sites asking why we think it’s perfectly OK to eat mock meat when we are supposed to be all, like, you know, anti-meat and stuff, and isn’t that totally hypocritical or beside the point or whatever? Dear troll: I do not eschew bacon because I think it tastes bad. Everyone knows that bacon is the crispy nectar of the gods, but unfortunately it also involves the extremely unpleasant life and death of a pig, and that is something I am not willing to condone just so I can have a cracklin’ good breakfast. Your ethical mileage may vary, but stop giving me shit about my own choices, and judging me for enjoying tempeh bacon or seitan chicken--because much like that unfortunate pig, you do not have a leg to stand on.

Anyway, so when I say I am not fussy, I mean that if something’s vegan, I will eat it. No “Eww, not green bell peppers!” or “Mushrooms are gross!” and so on. But this country is trying my patience, despite its large vegetarian population. Allow me to introduce to you the four Indian vegetarian food groups:

Plain yogurt
Mysterious green vegetables swimming in oil and spices
Yellow legumes swimming in oil and spices
White rice

Oh, and flour mixed with water and fried, sometimes also referred to as bread. So, five.

Since I can’t take this anymore, and because our kitchen equipment both sucks and blows (what’s that dark fleck? Oh, part of the “non-stick” coating! I guess I shouldn’t actually stir my stir-fry), my daily food intake for the past few weeks has consisted almost exclusively of some combination of the following:

Apples
Toast
Tofu
Peanut Butter
Bananas
Cereal with almond or soy milk
Vodka

There are two kinds of vodka here, by the way: locally produced versions of bottom shelf name brands (Smirnoff, e.g.), and Out of Your Price Range (a.k.a. Drinkable). Misti and I bought a bottle of local citrus Smirnoff last month and put it in the freezer. You know how vodka gets sludgy but not frozen, because of the alcohol content? Well, Indian vodka freezes. Solid. And to make up for the almost nonexistent alcohol content, it tastes like shit.

OK, I haven’t actually been drinking vodka for dinner, mainly for the reasons noted directly above (because otherwise I’d be totally on it). But it added a little pizzazz to the list, didn’t it?

Home in 8 days.

what i did on my sunday vacation

I don't even bother leaving the house anymore. This was a ball of yarn this morning.

nigella, i wish i could quit you

One of the three or so tolerable TV stations we get here at the apartment is Discovery Travel & Living, and all I have to say is that if I hear this woman say "juice" or "juicy" ONE MORE TIME I think I may have to go on a murderous rampage:



I'd heard of Ms. Lawson before, of course, but I'd never seen her show till the other night when Misti and I caught the tail end of an episode that was all about craving sweet carbs at midnight and whipping yourself up a quick pan of Doughnut French Toast. At first we thought she meant she was making French toast OUT OF DOUGHNUTS, which made us shout at the TV, "Why don't you just EAT THE DAMN DOUGHNUT IF YOU'VE ALREADY GOT IT?!" But then it turned out the point was you were craving a doughnut, but it was midnight, so you had to make due with doughnuty-tasting French toast. Or something like that.

Anyway, now I am on Nigella like white on rice, except in that trainwrecky "don't make me look no wait don't make me not look!!" sort of way. I love her voluptuous bod, but I hate her vocal mannerisms. I don't care for the decidedly vegan-unfriendly nature of the show (for example, a few minutes ago I had to endure the sight of her stuffing bacon into the cavity of a chicken), but it's not like here in India I have the ingredients or equipment to do any real cooking anyway (granola bars for dinner again?). Perhaps I should just hit the mute button and enjoy her silently delicious hips.

things that well and truly suck

Last night, having reached my annual limit on the amount of information I require about the functioning of the Panama Canal, I switched away from the National Geographic channel, and an advertisement I surfed by caught my eye. It showed a little pink knitted baby bootie, which then started coming unraveled, with ominous, pounding music in the background. I thought to myself, WTF? Then three women's hands entered the shot and piled up on top of the unraveling bootie, stacked in "go team" style. The bootie re-emerged, fully knitted again. It was in Hindi, so I couldn't tell what it was about until the final frame came up and it said in English:

FEMALE FOETICIDE IS A CRIME

Here is an article that goes into depressing detail, including this:

In Salem district, for instance, signs posted in towns reinforce the societal message: "Pay 500 rupees and save 50,000 rupees later," a suggestion that aborting a female fetus now could save a fortune in wedding expenses in the future.

arrested developments

So, we're having a bit of political unrest here in Bombay this week. I don't pretend to understand all of it, but I believe it boils down to this: Raj Thackeray, a local politician who is the nephew of another, very famous politician, Bal Thackeray (aka the Hindu nationalist, Marathi ethnocentric would-be dictator who changed the official name of this city to Mumbai, even though good luck finding anyone here who calls it that), has today been arrested on charges of violating the Indian penal code to the tune of dividing people along ethnic lines and inciting riots. This move has divided people along ethnic lines and incited riots.

It seems Raj T. feels that the North Indians are polluting! our! local! culture! here in the state of Maharashtra, and thus they shouldn't be welcome in Mumbai. Never you mind that they comprise something like 30% of the population here, many of them in the form of taxi drivers. They need to be driven out by force, and if you can burn their businesses and throw rocks at them while you're at it, more's the better, because in Maharashtra that is how we roll.

The Indian Mr. T has also been on the case of Bollywood mega-actor Amitabh Bachchan, who is from the northern state of Uttar Pradesh but has made his fortune here in Bombay. Raj T. thinks Amitabh should be, you know, like, more grateful and stuff and never support any causes in his home state but rather funnel all his cash into this, the most prosperous city in India.

While doing some research on the guy just now I discovered he is exactly two months younger than I am, to the day. This creeps me out a bit. I just have never really thought of myself as possibly being within the same cohort as, howyousay, totally batshit crazy right wing populist leaders.

By the way did I mention this guy is also a big fan of Hitler? People, I think we can all agree it just doesn't get any more awesome than that.

HAWKING, now with photos

Once again this country has made me feel like I need to provide photographic evidence of something and insist, "Seriously, we don't make this shit up."

Edited to add: Oh dear, I only just realized that it is the hawking MENANCE we are worried about, not the hawking MENACE!

HAWKING WILL DESTROY OUR LIVES

Recently Dan and Misti were out on a walk and they passed by a school that had a piece of letter-sized paper taped up on its gates that said "SAVE US FROM HAWKING MENACE."

Hawking menace? What in sweet holy hell could this possibly mean, they asked themselves, and, later, me. There are sometimes raptor birds in the neighborhood, so perhaps they had been attacking the children? Pooping in the schoolyard? Bullying the kids for their milk money?



And then a day or two later we all walked by the school together and on a different gate was a different sign that proclaimed "HAWKING WILL DESTROY OUR LIVES." Excuse me to please?? Further speculation ensued. Were they possibly talking about Stephen Hawking? Had there been some sort of mutant astrophysicist rampage that escaped our notice, buried in the New York Times among the Britney Spears meltdown coverage?



WHAT WAS THIS HAWKING AND IN WHAT WAY WOULD IT DESTROY THE SCHOOL CHILDREN'S LIVES?????

The next day Dan consulted Google and figured out they were almost certainly referring to street hawkers. (And yet still...DESTROY OUR LIVES?)

The article at the above link mentions that street hawking in Mumbai has been illegal since 1985. To put this in perspective, this is like claiming that fog has been illegal in San Francisco since 1985, or that killer whales have been illegal at Sea World since 1985, or that bad hair has been illegal at the Trump Tower since 1985. IT MAKES NO SENSE, PEOPLE.

more from the supermarket files

WANTED

Yesterday at our usual supermarket, Haiko, they suddenly did not have any flavored yogurt. India is notable in the yogurt department in that they have approximately 8.3 million brands and types and container sizes of plain yogurt, whereas flavored yogurt (a) is only available in 100g single serving size and (2) only comes in mango or strawberry. And then apparently sometimes you just can't have it at all, suckah! Like yesterday.

So today in pursuit of yogurt I decided to walk down to D Mart, which is the slightly closer but way more suckier supermarket. First of all, they take your purse at the door and make you zip it up inside a (dirty, gross) canvas bag that gets "locked" with a plastic garbage tie type thingy. I assume this is intended to be some kind of security measure, because lord knows there is a wealth of paper goods and laundry detergent you could squirrel away in your little purse if they didn't put the smackdown on you before you even entered the building. And then the cashiers have scissors in order to liberate your money just in time for you to hand it over and get herded the hell out. I find this completely annoying as well as insulting, so I just take whatever payment options can fit in my pocket and except for the usual suspicious glares the guards leave me alone.

Also, D Mart is a total goddamn zoo at all times, partly because it tries to be all stores to all people--they carry groceries, small appliances, clothing, dishes, cookware, sheets and towels and curtains, bulk grains and flours, toiletries and perfumes, and they have a pharmacy and a bakery and a paneer counter. All this is crammed into a building the size of maybe two standard 7-11 markets. No matter what time of day, you are sure to stand in line for the checkout for at least 10 minutes, being jostled from all directions by screaming children who are demanding whatever toys and tasty treats that are on prominent display in all the spaces where you otherwise would be able to stand comfortably in line.

So I go and get my mango and strawberry yogurts, which of course I have to buy like six or eight of because they only come in individual serving size, and I grab a couple of other items while I'm at it, and then I begin my glacial approach to the cash register. (I remember once in the summer Casey and I were trying to buy ice cream there and finally gave up because we realized the ice cream would melt by the time we checked out.) After 10 minutes I finally get to the counter and put my little basket down. The cashier looks into it and announces, "Five items only." I think, wha? "Five items only, ma'am." I say, "Oh, this is an express lane?" and she nods. I have no idea where this fact was indicated, but it certainly was not on any sign that I noticed, despite having had 10 leisurely minutes to contemplate my immediate surroundings. The cashier indicates that I will have to go through a different line. So I think, "Ugh," and pick up the basket and then realize as I turn around that even if I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to get to the back of any of the other lines without forcing a dozen people out of the way, because it was a total goddamn zoo (see above), and so I look back and say, "You can't just ring this up?" She shakes her head no. I look at her like, are you fuckin' kidding me? You are going to make me stand ANOTHER 10 minutes in line just to buy yogurt? She indicates that I could just step in to the front of the line at the register next to hers. I think, yeah, that is going to go over real well with the 15 people in THAT line. I ask again: "Seriously. You can't ring this up?" She shakes her head, like the register is physically incapable of logging more than five items or something.

So then, in an attempt to further cement my local standing as That Big Old Crazy-Ass American Lady, I plopped my basket down in front of her, threw my hands in the air, said "FINE," and turned around and walked out of the store.

D Mart is officially dead to me.

aural onslaught

I am a quiet person. I also like my surroundings to be quiet. India is not the place for me.

Everything here is at least four times louder than it needs to be for all practical purposes. Our doorbell, for example, is a thoroughly obnoxious, ear-shattering chirping bird sound that makes you jump whenever it goes off (which is often, because have I mentioned that random people show up at our door several times a day?).

They are also fond here of very large, very poor quality sound systems, which they use on holidays and sometimes just on regular days on impromptu stages with emcees screaming into the mic and leading people in stupid games and contests while horrible distorted techno music pulsates in the "background" at decibel levels to rival a 747 taking off in your backyard. Today is Republic Day and such a spectacle is taking place down in the parking lot as I write. We are 22 stories up and have all our windows closed, and I am seriously considering PUTTING IN EARPLUGS because it is SO FUCKING UNBEARABLY UNBELIEVABLY FUCKING LOUD.

marginally better than being called "sir"...I think

Last night I was down on the running path and this older guy held up his hand to stop me, obviously wanting to say something. I took out one ear bud and he exclaimed, in heavily Indian-accented English, "You look like...young Hillary!"

Fantastic. Because that, my friends, is exactly the hip and foxy look I am going for.

roadside robbery

Christ, so today I get home and realize I've done it again: bought totally normal stuff at the supermarket assuming it will be reasonably priced, then doing the math at home and discovering, e.g., that I have just paid $5.72 EACH for two 200g packets of Finn Crisp bread. And a box of soy milk? $3.56. Arrrrgggghhhhhhhh!

I have been to the market twice and I've already shelled out almost $70 on completely normal stuff like the above, plus fruit and muesli and so on. I am not buying filet mignon and caviar here, people. Who says it's cheap to live here? Sure, if you buy all your meals from the guy with an open fire and no running water on the corner, who chops his meat and vegetables on the concrete by his feet. But then you've got those pricey hospital bills and lost productivity to contend with later, so that's no bargain either.