With the exception of the apple pie I just made and the Brownie Sizzlers I am going to have later tonight, I may be becoming one of those people I dislike even more than the people who yell “Woooooo” really loudly all the time. There is a chance that if I remain unchecked, I may become a “crunchie”, “granola”, “raw food”, “can’t eat gluten”, “Namaste” type of girl. Just the thought of it gives me hives. Even up until last week, I would have bet two pounds of caramel popcorn that it wouldn’t happen, that it couldn’t happen to me, and now, it’s all looking a bit uncertain. Read the rest of this entry »
The boys are making me a birthday cake and because they are boys, wire cutters, banging, the Internet, and homemade candles are involved. I think you can get candles in India judging by all of the shrines I’ve seen but, well, that would be easy.
Taj is taking a cooking class in school and thinks he is a chef. Every time I turn around he’s throwing something into an already cooking pan. He keeps coming home with nasty things and he tries to make me eat them while he watches.
This whole birthday is an excuse to eat sugar and play with matches. He has done both tonight and I’m trying to figure out how I’m going to put an end to this phase before something goes up in flames.
I am running out of options and he seems to have gotten me this time because they all stare while I eat a big slice of the birthday cookie/cake. In addition to being disgusting, it’s raw.
My cousin “Little Bill” is coming in next week from Dubai where he lives and works and when I see him I’m going to break rules eight and nine in the Indian Customs Rule Book.
Rule Eight – No loud screaming and squealing like a banshee unless it’s for the sake of religious worship. I’m sure that I’m going to shriek and squeal to finally be in this place with him after so many setbacks, so many phone calls, so many false starts.
For the past month, I have been on the “Bad Wife” list at Robin’s job. Never mind that I moved my whole family across the world for him. I closed up a life of 20 years in Los Angeles, helped to rent our house, sold three cars, and arranged dental and medical care for the whole family in a foreign country. The thing that makes me a disgrace in the eyes of the Indians Robin works with, supervises, and is supervised by, is that he doesn’t bring his lunch to work, packed at home, in stackable containers called Tiffin Boxes, like most of the Indians at his job do. Inside these containers should be three different dishes, some sauces, homemade pickle. Maybe, and fresh, still warm, chapattis.