Sunday, October 21, 2012

I Am Everyday People

In my last entry, I talked about the awesomeness of the “two-mouse house” and how I enjoy living with a friend.  However, I did not mention the plethora of visitors that grace the door of Suncliffe on a weekly basis.  These visitors include, but are not limited to:

 
-COOLIES (men whose job it is to tote items… groceries, washing machines, you name it... up the mountainside and deliver it to weaklings like myself)
-BREADMAN (he makes bread)
-VEGGIE BOYS (they sell vegetables)
-THE DHOBI (he washes clothing)
-SEEMA (she gives massages)
 
Each of these visitors is an essential part of my life in India… except for the dhobi, since I now have a washing machine.  So I shall start with him.
Washing machines are a luxury in India.  This is good news for dhobis, who make a living by collecting people’s clothing and cleaning it themselves.  Before Laura moved in, I was using the same dhobi as my neighbors, who speak Hindi and were able to come up with an arrangement for me:  Rs. 400 a month—approximately $8—for the washing, ironing, and folding of all my laundry.  He collected my clothes from my house on Saturday and dropped them back off when he was finished… sometimes within a few days, or, because I hired him during monsoon season, sometimes not until the following Saturday. 
The finished laundry was always wrapped in a white sheet, so it looked like I got a weekly visit from the stork.  And, just like a baby, the clothing inside usually smelled a little… questionable.  I don’t know exactly what the dhobi’s washing/drying procedures were, and in case I ever have to go without a washer/dryer again while I’m here, I prefer to remain ignorant.
I have two doors leading into my apartment.  The first door is unlocked during the day, but the second one is always locked when I’m gone.  This came in handy when I had a dhobi, because he could leave the finished clothing in the entryway whether I was at home or not.  One time, though, I was home when he made the delivery. 
Except he didn’t ring the doorbell, as he usually did, to let me know he was there.
Instead, he just walked in and left my clothing in the living room.  I must have been in the kitchen during this process.  When I entered the kitchen, there was no bag of clothing; when I left the kitchen, I immediately noticed the foreign item.  I felt like I was in a scary movie… but in a scene just near the beginning, when a mysterious object appears out of nowhere and the lead actor is mildly concerned but doesn’t want to overreact.  You know, the type of scene where the camera would be down where the clothing sack was, aimed up toward my bewildered, yet stoic, face. 
Like that character in a scary movie, I saw the clothing and then went about my normal daily business.  After all, this wasn’t the first time I had entertained a quasi-intruder.
Enter: Breadman.  Literally.
Breadman and I have a complicated relationship.  It’s one that started out quite enthusiastically.  I was immediately smitten with Breadman when he came to my door—like a true gentleman—and tantalized me with the promise of a weekly loaf of whole wheat bread.  The man of my dreams!  I put in my order and looked forward to the next week with the giddiness of a schoolgirl.  A schoolgirl who really likes whole wheat bread.  But then, when our “first date” came, it was… just okay.  I guess you could say that the bread didn’t rise to my expectations.  I’m sorry, that was a crumby joke.  Hahaha.  Hehe.  Hm. K
So now, I still buy the bread because I don’t want to be a heartbreaker, especially when the bread is edible and the supply is reliable.  When he says he’s going to come on Monday morning, he always comes… but the goods aren't always delivered to my liking.
And that’s as far as I’m going to take that analogy.
I very seriously considered a Breadman breakup when, one morning, I didn’t feel like answering the door.  When I first moved here, the doorbell rang about ten times a day because various ayahs (housekeepers) around the area were keen to pounce on fresh staff members.  I didn’t feel like dealing with such shenanigans this particular morning because I was grumpy and not appropriately dressed, so I ignored the bell as I got ready for school.  Except, the bell didn’t stop ringing.  I became vaguely annoyed and considered opening the door to stop the madness, but I felt that would encourage the behavior.  Plus, the bell had already been rung so many times that I wouldn’t be able to open up without providing some kind of awkward explanation.  So I continued to pretend I was not home.  I was upstairs getting changed, when suddenly…
I heard the door open.
Remember earlier, when I said I had two sets of doors and that both are usually unlocked when I’m at home?  Someone had obviously broken past the first barrier.  I was back in that scary movie, but this time toward the middle of it, when the lead actor is definitely aware that she is being stalked by something undesirable.  Then I heard someone yelling, “Hello!  Hello?”
Breadman.
I was not about to drag my half-naked body down the stairs to buy some half-decent bread from a man who had already halfway entered my apartment.  So instead, I remained sandwiched (teehee) between amusement and terror as I heard the second set of doors open and someone come inside. 
“Hello!  Hello?!”
I was somewhat amused by the blatant disregard for personal boundaries, but also terrified by the possibility of sneezing or otherwise being caught… ironically, in my own apartment.  But he didn’t loaf around (bahaha) for long, and I was able to remain incognito.  I finished dressing, went downstairs, and found this:
 
So, to reiterate my main point, Breadman and I have a complicated relationship, full of ups and downs and breaking and entering.  Let’s just say that we are star-crossed.  Or hot-crossed… get it?
I might come back and explain the veggie boys and coolies in a later post, but I seema to be worn out from all of those puns… get it?
Maybe not that last one.  I spoke of Seema in an earlier post, in which I wrote all about my first awkward and painful massage.  I need to make a clarification about that post, in order to restore Seema’s professional reputation and my own blogging integrity.  Because there was some confusion, I want to make it clear that it was my twisted ankle that caused the pain, not Seema’s massage itself.  If I had not been temporarily handicapped at the time, the massage wouldn’t have hurt at all. 
It still would have been awkward.
But, since that post, I have become really comfortable with this whole massaging business.  Maybe a little too comfortable; I get a massage every Tuesday night!  I appropriately prepared myself for the first massage—shower, shaved legs, the whole shebang—but since then, I have decided that I should not have to work so hard to enjoy something that is meant to be relaxing.
And I haven’t looked back since:
Don't act like you're not impressed...
 
When it became apparent that the little stalks on my legs were growing into a full-fledged forest, I apologized to Seema.  In response, she pulled up her own pant leg and showed me her hairy legs, with a smile.  “Me too, ma’am.”
Have I mentioned how much I like Seema? 
A few weeks ago, I was cooking dinner right before she came over. I bought an Indian cookbook and tried my hand at rajma (kidney bean) curry.  I was quite proud of myself—it didn’t taste half bad!  When Seema arrived, she was attracted to the smells emanating from the kitchen, and I proudly announced that I had tried an Indian dish.  The minute I said it, I regretted it.  I knew that she would ask to taste it, and I knew that she would hate it.  It’s like on Top Chef Australia, where I recently watched the competitors make traditional dishes for Italian taste testers who used fancy and deliberately confusing words like “toothy” to describe their pasta.  Attempting to cook ethnic dishes and pass them off as authentic never works.  And, because America doesn’t really have a food culture to call its own, I won’t ever get a chance to be that snobby. 
 
Unless you shamelessly count McDonald’s as America’s most important culinary contribution to the world, in which case…
 I like India’s McDonald’s better.  Vegetarian sandwich options!  Hmm.  Point disproven.
 
As expected, Seema took a sip of my curry broth and made a face like she had just sipped the blood of a 4-year-old boy.  Then she managed a polite half-smile, as if to say, “Well, at least I wasn’t related to him?”  I was somewhat discurryaged.  But superwoman Seema, who wears many hats throughout the day, immediately put on her chef cap and started rummaging through the fridge, scouring the shelves.  After a flurry of chopping and pouring and stirring, Seema looked pleased with the resulting concoction and left it to pressure cook during the massage.  Afterward, I had one of the best meals of my life; she completely resurrected my curry when I didn’t even realize it needed to be saved.  I don’t understand the trickery that is Indian cooking.  I only know that my taste buds approve.
I was honored to be formally invited to a dinner at Seema’s house on Saturday night, along with Melanie/Chris, Kelly, and Amy.  Her husband was out participating in a religious ceremony of some sort, but I got to meet her three adorable children (ages 10, 8, and 6) and see where she lived.  It was a very humbling experience.  Though her husband is employed through Woodstock and she has some impressive entrepreneurial skills, all 5 family members sleep in the same small room—the only room aside from the kitchen area.  It makes me wonder about the living arrangements of so many Indians who don’t have such lucrative employment.
It was a fantastic night.  The food was delicious.  Amy (who grew up here and returned as Academic Dean) served as translator.  Seema showed us her wedding pictures.  Then, her daughter started showing us her older brother’s baby pictures.  When asked where her pictures were, it appeared she didn’t have many.  I took out my camera and took a few photos, which she seemed to like, but what she loved was when I gave her the camera to take her own photos!  I’ve been meaning to find a place in the bazaar to develop pictures, and now I have extra impetus to search out such an establishment.
 


I also need to print out a copy of this photo, as per the merchant’s request:

Blog post to follow!

Friday, October 12, 2012

A two-mouse house

When the Dalai Lama visited last month, he told a story about two sick mice.  One was given treatment in isolation, while the other was treated in the company of fellow mice.  As you could probably guess, the mouse that was socialized throughout the duration of its illness recovered faster and more fully than the other mouse.  His Holiness used this anecdote to illustrate the importance of friendship and social support, especially during difficult patches when one might be somewhat reluctant to seek out the help of others.  Being around people is a comfort, even if they can’t fully relate to your situation, and even if you don’t verbally communicate.
 
I almost laughed when I heard this story, for two reasons:  1) This “scientific study” was in absolutely no way cited, and no one but the freaking Dalai Lama could get away with that kind of randomness, and 2) The story totally reminded me of my dog at home.  My parents’ dog, I should really say.
My parents’ dog, Sophie, is a little bitch.
Because I blog with the utmost grace and integrity, I obviously mean that in the literal, scientific, “female dog” way, definitely not in the cruder, “I’m going to bite your face off if you get too close,” way.  Definitely not.  Sophie is a unique dog in the sense that she likes to be around people, but she doesn’t like to be with people.  She will follow you around the house, sit at the very edge of the couch you’re sitting on, and even initiate a round of fetch… but she won’t get close enough for you to actually take the toy.  And so, the traditional, relaxing game of “fetch” quickly turns into a more tiring and frustrating game that I like to call, “come here, you little bitch, and let me play with you.” 
Sophie is not a normal dog.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
So, why am I talking about mice and bitchy dogs?  Like Sophie, I’m a bit antisocial.  I do try my best not to bite people on a regular basis, but I understand her need for space.  I also completely agree with the D.L. about the necessity and healing power of companionship.  I lived in a single apartment for the past two years in Kentucky and, while I loved the apartment itself, I wasn’t a huge fan of the solitude.  So, I was excited to hear, over the summer, that I would be living with another female staff member during my two years in India… until I got here, and realized that said female staff member did not end up signing a contract with the school.  I haven’t written at all about my housing here in India, mostly because it’s been in a weird state of flux.  I was unsure if someone else was going to be hired, and if that potential new hire would be a single female, and if that potential new single female hire would end up moving in.  Difficult to make a house a home when you aren’t sure about its occupancy.  But guess what?
I now have a housemate!
Laura moved in a few weeks ago.  I sat with Laura on the initial flight to India, from Chicago to New Delhi.  Had I known, prior to arriving, that I would be living with someone around my parents’ age, I probably wouldn’t have been too enthused, and she would have felt equally hesitant about living with a 24-year-old.  And yet, it works out quite well!  She moved mainly because my house, "Suncliffe," is way better than her old one… newer, less moldy, nicer view, on a generator, etc.  An all-around upgrade.  (I've seen "Suncliffe" spelled both with the "e" at the end and without, but I choose to use the "e" because I'm classy like that.)  I think she’s a lot happier here, and I know I’m a lot happier with her here.  Having someone to talk to and laugh with and just sit by is so comforting… as is the thought that, if a monkey should happen to break through my skylight and mercilessly feast upon my flesh, she will probably find my dead body before it becomes unidentifiable. 
Oh, so comforting.
But not all monkeys are evil.  Take this langur, for example:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
He’s not leashed because he’s particularly dangerous; he’s leashed because he’s Woodstock’s secret weapon.  A heroic traitor to his own species, he chases off the pesky rhesus monkeys and keeps them from preying on students, staff, and snackage.  I shall call him:  Supermonkey.  Except, that’s really lame and cliché.  Supermankey?  Luke Cageless?  Banandiana Jones?
Regardless, in morning assembly a few weeks ago, the students planned a “game” that involved this guy.  They called up a representative from each grade, and then a man walked in with the leashed beast.  In response to a sea of confused/amused faces, they announced, “Langur chicken!”  Yes.  The extraordinarily well-thought-out plan was to see how close the class reps could get to the monkey before they got too scared.  Or, you know, before they lost an appendage.  I just sat there in astonishment.  I have witnessed some utter craziness since my arrival here, but this had to be a joke.  Right?  Right??  It was not a joke, but it was also not carried through.  The principal stepped in immediately and put an end to the ridiculousness, like a Superman saving the Supermankey.
I, myself, have a newly-acquired superpower of sorts.  A little something I like to call cable television.
It’s a convenient byproduct of Laura’s move.  We were an appliance match made in heaven; I had a microwave/oven and food processor, and she had a washer, dryer, and television.  So basically, our house is awesome.  You can see a segment of the awesomeness below, and additional awesomeness will be posted and elaborated upon at a later date. 
 
 
Now all we need is a dog.  Preferably one that can play fetch...
 
 

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Just "Monk"eying around...

Today, I met my new hero.  He goes by the name…


Lama.
Dalai Lama.
 
Despite the common introduction, this man is waaaay cooler than James Bond.  Granted, I’ve never seen any James Bond movies (add that to Rocky and The Terminator –I’m un-American, I know) but I do know that Mr. Bond is reputed to be quite the womanizer.
What are His Holiness’ views on women?  Well, he advised the young men in the audience to marry based on inner beauty because outer beauty is fleeting.  I realize that’s not a completely original message, but I strongly believe that it cannot be repeated often enough… for the sake of the male and female populations alike.  I wonder if my 7th graders picked up on it; we’re reading Holes, a novel in which the main character’s great-great-grandfather is warned that his beautiful love interest has a “head as empty as a flowerpot” (yeah, similes) and that anyone who chooses her will be committing matrimonial suicide.
Yeah, it was probably just me who made that connection.  Sigh.
As with most educators, my mind is never fully switched out of “teacher mode.”  Therefore, when the Dalai Lama’s speech began, I started jotting down general observations so that I could rehash the speech with my 9th graders; we just started Animal Farm and are studying the format, rhetoric, and other elements essential to effective persuasive speeches.  However, the brief outline for my students quickly turned into a collection of copious notes for my own personal use.  The speech was not at all what I expected it to be, nor was the man who gave it. 
When you think about the Dalai Lama, what adjectives first come to your mind?  Before I heard that he would be making an appearance at Woodstock, my list would be embarrassingly vague, like:  religion, peace, Asia… old… important?  Pathetic, I realize.  I am now slightly more knowledgeable, thanks to conversations with colleagues, a presentation during assembly from a couple students, and, let’s be honest, Wikipedia.  Pathetic, I realize… but informative!  During his 1959 flight into exile, the 14th (and current) Dalai Lama took refuge in Mussoorie.  He lives elsewhere in northern India now. 
Now, if I were to make a new list of associative adjectives for the Dalai Lama, it would include progressive, open-minded, and accepting.  These words aren’t usually representative of older people—His Holiness is 77—and they also aren’t usually representative of extremely religious people, not to mention iconic religious mastheads.  The fact that he contradicts such conventional classification should be applauded.  Which it was, at the end of the speech.
Prior to the speech, though, you could literally hear a pin drop.  A few minutes before His Holiness was scheduled to appear, an eerie hush blanketed the entire gymnasium.  There were so many people—so many children—in the gym that this silence demonstrated the most deeply rooted, intense respect that I have ever seen paid to another human being.  Still, he addressed us as “brothers and sisters,” and proceeded to explain that he chose this address because we all share a common humanity, regardless of race, religion, nationality, etc…
Yeah, yeah, yeah… totally expected. 
But then, after this introductory phase, he had to ask his assistant to remind him about the topic of the speech that he had already started giving.
Uhh… totally unexpected.
And that’s when I realized that this was not your average sermon.  He was occasionally very quiet and difficult to understand, he sometimes went off on random anecdotal flourishes, and at one point he had to ask if Woodstock was a university.  Still, his speech was ultimately about compassion, and the quirky delivery actually compounded the idea that we are all imperfect people.  He said that seeking out perfection only leads to stress, anxiety, and unhappiness, which in turn detracts from internal peace.  I am plagued by perfectionistic tendencies, so this was a much-needed reminder.  Even though he spoke in pretty broad generalities, the majority of his talk hit close to home.  Here were the main points:
 

-anxiety/stressàfrustration/angeràselfishnessàjealousy/mistrustàlonelinessà depression
-The health of one’s mind and body are interrelated. 
-Personal happiness is achieved primarily through a positive attitude.
-Ethics are essential to the survival and happiness of our species.  Religions—all of them—promote universally sound ethics, so all religions are valuable.
-Secular ethics are equally valuable.  You do not have to be a religious person to be a good person.
-Good ethics necessitate a concern for future generations and the environment in which they will live, especially as we interact on an increasingly global scope.
-A smile is a comforting global language.
-Once we gain personal happiness, it becomes outwardly obvious (through that whole smiling business) and can then be harnessed for the common good.
 

There was then a question/answer session with representatives—nominated by the teachers—from grades 7-12, who each composed a well-crafted question to pose to HH.  Some more nuggets of wisdom emerged during this Q&A portion:
 

-Technology is wonderful—almost a miracle—but sensory experiences alone will not bring inner peace.
-The purpose of education is to bridge the gap between appearance and reality… education should make people more realistic about differences and capable of engaging in dialogue with those who are different.
-Religious diversity is not something to be tolerated; it should be actively supported.  He has been called a “good Christian” and is not offended, because Buddhism and Christianity share the same aims.
-People should accept religion based on thorough exploration, not blind faith.
-We should be grateful for hardship; if life is too easy, the good times are spoiled.
 

Then, HH probably gave our principal a heart attack when he welcomed questions from random audience members.  This was my favorite part of the event.  The questions were unscripted and off-the-cuff, and the answers were similarly blunt.
There were a few requests from the audience.  A woman in a wheelchair asked to be healed, or to know how she could be healed, and another staff member asked for a blessing.  In both cases, HH humbly declined.  He referred to himself as a skeptical person who does not believe in mind-reading, future-telling, the ability of a mere mortal to heal or bless.  How different from the minister of the church I attended in Ghana, who “blessed” water for people to take home with them and who “blessed” me before I flew back! 
But my favorite question was something along the lines of, “What is the experience that has given you the greatest hope?”  It took him awhile to speak, but the answer was so poetic it was well worth the wait.  He said he once saw someone giving a speech and, while she was talking, the wind blew up her skirt.  He explained that the wind is independent and does not care about formality, and that formality separates us from reality. 
I find it interesting that he said formality separates us from reality, and also that (as previously mentioned) education is supposed to make us more realistic.  The best education, then, is informal?  It should not be about students (or teachers, for that matter) jumping through a series of meaningless hoops?  I like it.  I see what you did there, Mr. Lama.  The pieces are falling into place…
As HH recounted the story about the windblown speaker, he was giggling like a little schoolgirl.  He displayed quite the arsenal of various types of laughter, some of which involved snorting; occasionally, he even broke out the evil chuckle.  Everyone immediately started laughing when he laughed, which was often—it was so contagious!  He explained that most situations in life do not require seriousness. 
This ability to laugh at others—and himself—is what I think keeps HH so young and vibrant.  But what about his answer, when asked about the key to his boyish charm and dashing good looks?

“TOP SECRET!”

Hmm… perhaps these two are more similar than I thought… : )

I took pictures of my own, but this one (taken from Woodstock's FB page) captures the experience best!

Saturday, September 15, 2012

kickin' it in Kimoi

I know I said in my previous post that I would be writing multiple entries last week to make up for my blogging absence of late.

… did you really believe me?
Silly readers, you should know better by now.
I have a relatively free Saturday at my disposal, which I’ve come to find is a rare and precious resource, so I’m excited to have the chance to recap more of the last month.
Most Saturdays are filled by some planned social, physical, or academic activity.  A few Saturdays ago, for instance, I went on a staff hike.  About 15 of us met at the school’s gate, meandered down to the bazaar, and then just kept walking down, down, down…
Through the mist…
 

 
 
 
 
 
 

beyond the clouds…

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
and over the slippery moss-covered pathways…















until we arrived, one chai break and five hours later, at Rajpur, a quaint area just outside of the larger city of Dehradun.  We stopped into a few shops, most notably the Dehradun Guitar Company.  While the men perused musical paraphernalia, we ladies got our style on with a woman from JOYN, an organization that supplies Indian handicrafts to stores in the U.S.  We were given some pretty fantastic free purses.   Afterward, we ate lunch at the Chaaya café, where I ordered some pretty fantastic (not-free) pizza.


I took another hike on the last day of August, a Friday.  Rather than following the regular school schedule, all Woodstock students and staff participated in some sort of “service learning” activity.  I accompanied a group of 10th graders to Kimoi Village.
 


We played with younger students and helped the older students practice a bit of English, mostly by way of basic games like “Simon Says” and “I Spy.”  Their school day ended at noon, at which time we all met as a group and engaged in an impromptu talent show of sorts!  Some of the village students had prepared songs and dances to share with us, and some brave Woodstockians stepped up and shared some of their own skills, ranging from back handsprings to the infamous Cha-Cha Slide.

 
 Then we cha-cha’d our way out on out of there.  I was relieved, in a sense, because I was actually beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic.  Think about that for a second…  it wasn’t an elevator, or a bedroom, or even a house that made me feel uncomfortably closed in; it was an entire village.  There was nowhere to go, nothing to do, no detectable roads that connected the village to civilization as I know it.  It boggled my mind.  These people don’t know the sheer joy of smuggling a Wendy’s frosty into the midnight premiere of Sex and the City, rocking to Michael Jackson just a bit too hard on the ride back home and getting pulled over by the cops, and then ordering a triple-cheese pickle pizza to top off the night.

Seriously, how do they survive without such opportunities for entertainment?

Then I saw this sly little girl on the path home:

 
Touché, Kimoi… touché.

The hike to and from the village was somewhat challenging, but stunningly beautiful.  Some of the students were complaining about the walk—“We had better get hiking points for this!”—which, again, boggled my mind.  I just kept thinking, “Do you know how many people would pay to literally be in your shoes right now?!”  While I love the students here, and while I think they’re very hardworking and polite, it bothers me how extrinsically motivated many of them are.  I can understand why getting good grades and securing admission at prestigious universities is important, and I also understand that they’re under a lot of pressure to succeed, but it seems like this focus eclipses everything else and blinds them to the beauty of their surroundings and the inherent imperfection of life.  Every announcement about a new club, new opportunity, or new weekend activity is annotated with the assurance that their participation will look good on their transcripts.  But certain things are just fun or important in their own right. 

After Service Learning Day, the next special school event that derailed us from the regular schedule was the Interhouse Cross Country meet.  In true Harry Potter fashion, the students and staff of Woodstock are split into three different houses.  I am a proud EAGLE; there are also condors and merlins.  Caw.  While eagles may look the most intimidating, we apparently aren’t the competitive of runners.  We came in last place, performance-wise (what can I say, we’re born to fly), but raked in quite a few participation points.  Teachers were encouraged to run alongside the students, which I did!
^ This is a merlin. ^

Confession time.
Since we’re talking cross country, I feel the need to lift a weight off my chest, to slough a callus of guilt from my soul. 
Once upon a time ago, my sister was an amazing high school cross country runner in high school and, as an elementary/middle-schooler, I would attend many of her races.  My dad and I would cheer and watch her pass at one point in the course, then immediately run to the next location.  At one meet, I was following my dad and, though I swear I looked to see if any runners were coming, I accidentally ran out directly in front of a male runner from another team, who had to physically push me out of his way.  I was so embarrassed that I hid myself in a slide at a playground that was part of the park.  I thought that I was going to get Jaclyn’s team disqualified if I happened to be caught, and I was so paranoid that I thought the random people passing by were part of a special search team commissioned to bring my blatant irresponsibility to justice.  This was a serious source of stress for me during the remainder of that cross country season, as I thought it was possible that the runner would recognize me and publicly exact his revenge.   
Phew.  I feel much better now.  Male runner, if you’re reading, I’m sorry if I added a few seconds to your race time on that fateful fall day.  Please forgive me.
This is something for which I shall never apologize:
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Domino's pizza, baby.  No 2 AM delivery, and not really at all the same, but still a reminder of home!

Monday, September 3, 2012

"I never realize how much I like being home unless I've been somewhere really different for awhile."


So, it’s been over a week since my last update.  Over two weeks, even?  Oops.  Forgive me, friends and followers, for I have sinned.

I’ve got quite the lineup of topics I’d like to discuss on this-here blog, so I’ll try to write a mini-update multiple times this week to get caught up.  Here we go.

*PREVIOUSLY ON JULINDIA…*

Kathak dancer.  Motherhood.  Mehndi.  Playing a harp.  Thank you.

Moving on.
After all of the hype leading up to Independence Day, the holiday itself was fairly uneventful!  Taking time to get beautified in the morning was a nice change of pace.  I actually put on makeup for the first time since I’ve been here and donned my new salwar kameez, which is the most comfortable garment known to womankind.  So comfortable that, when I go back home, I know that it will be recycled into a favorite pair of jammies. 
I love it when I accidently match my clothes to my moss.
 
The Indian women have it good in the fashion department.  In the U.S., I imagine there to be some sort of annual roundtable where designers secretly discuss, “Okay, how can we make this special event as physically painful as possible for women?  How can we more effectively restrict their breathing?  How can we make them dread the simple acts of sitting down and/or standing up?  How can we make it so they can’t eat anything but crackers without busting a zipper?  And, if they rebel and dare to eat something else, how can we make it as expensive as possible to clean the stains?” 


I didn’t have to worry about any of those questions.  Independence Day consisted of a schoolwide assembly in the morning, followed by a lot of picture-taking, followed by a lot of food-eating.  And I mean a lot of food.  Luckily, my super-comfy pants had a drawstring; I could’ve gained 80 pounds in one day and they still would have fit! 
 
Afterward, some fellow staff members and I went to Ashlea and Owen’s for snacks, drinks, and games.  After graduating from college and pretty much not having anyone my own age to hang out with for two years, all of the opportunities for socialization that I have here are both exciting and a little scary… I’m out of practice talking to people and feel more socially awkward than usual, which I didn’t think was even possible.  I love that there are fellow teachers and dorm parents that I can legitimately call “friends” and that it’s normal and expected to spend time together outside of the school setting.  Last weekend, there was a fun girls’ dinner at Sabrina’s.  It was a true girls’ night in the sense that there was more dessert than main course, which was a happy accident that none of us much minded!  I wanted to bake something to share because I AM THE PROUD NEW OWNER OF AN OVEN, but, at that point in time, I was not the proud new owner of any baking pans. 
I think the topic of my new oven deserves its own paragraph.  All oven options are of the countertop variety, but I had to make a decision about whether I wanted a just an oven/grill, just a microwave, or a microwave/oven/grill combo.  I went with the combo and it’s made me very happy.  I can have my favorite baked oatmeal in the morning, nuke leftovers for dinner, and roast chickpeas in the middle of the night just because it’s fun to roast things.  Its surface area is small, but the exponential increase in menu options is liberating… and important, since I took myself off the school meal plan starting today.
There is only one major setback to my new appliance.
Sometimes it doesn’t turn off unless I unplug it.
Now, this is no longer a big issue because, as with the previously-narrated massage scenario, it was the element of surprise that really got to me.  But there I was, innocently manning my microwave for the first time, when I decided to open the door and check my food’s progress.  My hand was fully encased in the microwave when all of the sudden I realized that said microwave was still operating.  Freaking out, I slammed the door and ran to the sink, because, you know, furiously scrubbing your hands is proven to eliminate microwave radiation.  It’s science. 
I know it’s dangerous but I don’t know exactly why, so my mind started racing with presupposed side effects, all of them imagined and only potentially real.  Cancer?  Blindness?  Elephantiasis? 
I thought about how, as a kid, my mom always told me not to get too close to the microwave when watching popcorn being popped.
Then I thought about Juno and how I was probably harming my unborn (and not-yet-conceived, just to be clear) future children.
"She won't even let me stand in front of the microwave or eat red M&Ms."
 
Then I calmed down, ate my food, and returned to life as I once knew it.  One week later, I still have 10 digits and a full head of hair.  And quite the hankering for red M&Ms.
A word about M&Ms… you know how in "The Wedding Planner", Matthew McCantspellhisname only eats brown M&Ms because he figures they have less artificial coloring because chocolate is already brown?  That scene pisses me off for so many reasons.  Well, two:
1)      HE’S WASTING THE M&Ms.  I’m pretty sure Jennifer Lopez was sitting right next to him when he just started tossing the chocolate onto the grass.  That should be a deal breaker, J-Lo.  He’s being wasteful and practically calling you fat.  And endangering dogs.  He should have first offered them to you.  If you declined, then he should've found a little kid or someone to give them to… you're in a park, after all.  Wait.  On second thought, that would be a creepy deal breaker, too.  He should’ve put them in his pocket to give to give to his niece and nephew.  Case closed. 

2)      HE STOLE THAT IDEA FROM ME!  I, too, used to favor the brown M&Ms… but not because of the artificial coloring.  I always thought they tasted extra-chocolatey because chocolate was already brown.  Where are the thought police when you need them?  I should be raking in some royalties right about now.
So, I just read through what I have written so far, and I think I’m starting to venture into Negative Nancy territory.  First a scary microwave story, then a vengeful M&M anecdote.  Time to balance out this blog with another funny sign that I found in the bathroom of one of the nicest restaurants in Mussoorie:
 
“You better pay for that pee-stick when you're done with it. Don't think it's yours just because you marked it with your urine!”
 
I’ll wait while you laugh, reread, and laugh again… I don’t even know where to begin with this gem.
Gentlemen:  I would like to point out the poetic (though probably unintentional) parallelism between “our aim” and “your aim.”  It’s less clear whether the hilarious double entendre was intentional or not.  What, exactly, isshorter than you think”?  The distance to the toilet, or… : )
Ladies: First, I understand that if the gentlemen are getting lectured, then the ladies should get a stern talking-to as well… perhaps about those infamous “red bin” issues?  What I don’t understand is why they had to call it a frickin “performance.”  It really freaked me out.  I scoured the ceiling and floor for a hidden camera; for whom was I performing?  And is standing up during the act really that common of an issue?  What would possess one to do such a thing?  It’s not like going to the movies, people.  There is no intermission.  As mom and dad would say… “either poop OR get off the pot.”  Literally. 
I ordered a paneer and veggie wrap at the restaurant where I found that bathroom sign.  The conversation with the waiter went something like this:
“I’d like a paneer and veggie wrap, please.”
“It has Indian spices, ma’am.”
“…Okay.”
“Would you like less spice?”
“No, full spice.”
*waits for food*
*food arrives*
“I put in half spice, ma’am.”
*takes bite*
*realizes it’s not spicy at all*

Indian food, in general, is not nearly as spicy as I expected it to be.  Spicy food reminds me of pregnancy, which brings me full circle back to Juno.  I have a sudden urge to watch the movie, which I luckily brought with me!  I could be a really excellent teacher and show it to my students tomorrow instead of, you know, planning a lesson.  It’s completely educational and I can prove it. 

It introduces literary terms…
“Yeah, I'm a legend. You know, they call me the cautionary whale.”
alludes to canonical literature…
“You should try talking to it. 'Cause, like, supposedly they can hear you even though it's all, like, ten-thousand leagues under the sea.”
shows cause and effect…
“I'm just gonna go ahead and nip this thing in the bud. Cuz you know, they say pregnancy often leads to, you know... an infant.”
includes advanced vocabulary…
“Hi, I'm calling to procure a hasty abortion.”
uses simile and metaphor…
“You think you're really going to do this?”
“Yea, if I could just have the thing and give it to you now, I totally would. But I'm guessing it looks probably like a sea monkey right now and we should let it get a little cuter.”
“That's great.”
“Keep it in the oven.”
incorporates foreign language...
"Silencio, old man!"
demonstrates rhetorical question and subject/verb disagreement…
“Why don't you go back to night school in Manteno and learn a real trade?”
Bren, you's a dick! I love it!”
includes irony (maybe. I still have the darndest time identifying this)…
“So how far along are you? “
I'm a junior.”
covers geography…
And this, of course, is Juno.”
Like the city in Alaska?”
No.”
and even provides opportunities for mathematical conversions…
“Come on, let me carry your bag.”
Oh, what's another ten pounds?”

I’m slightly embarrassed by how long it took me to find those quotations.  Blogging is dangerous business.  Time to get back to real life and plan a real lesson.