Things I Miss about Home

Driving myself somewhere just ‘cause.

The many flavors of Ben and Jerry’s.

The many, many varieties of fast food available to me at the drop of a craving.

Access to a bookstore that carries books that I might actually want to purchase.

A place to have to go when I wake up each day.

Supermarkets. ‘Nuff said.

The ability (should I choose to exercise it) to walk outside without getting bitten to death by mosquitoes.

A police force that looks like it might do more than take a nap when things happen.

Seeing “Must See TV” without a five-year lag.

A world where Becker has been cancelled and replaced by good fare like Alias and… Hell, anything is better than Becker.

Two words: Mexican food!

A stove and oven so that I can cook actual food for my husband’s dinner. (I cook occasionally thank you very much!)

Being able to order and eat veggies anywhere I go.

Being able to use tap water to brush my teeth.

Earning money that I can call my own.

All of our friends!! (That’s you guys! No! Not you in the green, the rest of them. Sheesh!)

The New ‘Zicco

When Hubby and lived in DC my favorite restaurant was this divine Italian place called Il Pizzico. Whenever we were going out to dinner, Hubby would ask where I wanted to go and I would always respond, “’Zicco!!!” (With all of the extra exclamation points.) The last time we ate there before we moved they called us regulars. It was one of the greatest moments of my life. A regular a ‘Zicco; it doesn’t get any better than that!

When we lived in the Midwest my heavenly place of choice was called Radio Maria. Radio was an eclectic fusion place that never had an off night. The menu was full of hits from top to bottom. The service was always on point and as a bonus their wine selection was always well priced.

Since arriving in Delhi I have been looking for a new favorite restaurant: a place for hubby to take me when the days got tough and I was sick of delivery food. Hubby’s old boss F introduced us to a surprisingly good, semi-Italian restaurant called Moshe Oliva. Hubby found his favorites immediately and after a few return trips so did I. Of note is the goat cheese appetizer that melts in your mouth. It was good but it still wasn’t a ‘Zicco.

Last night we kept the driver on late and had him drive us to MG Road in Gurgaun. Which is to say that we went quite far out of our way. We drove for what seemed like an hour until we finally happened upon our destination: Tonino. A rather pricey Italian restaurant of some repute my only hope was that it would be good enough to warrant the trek out to Gurgaun.

As we walked in we were greeted by the sound of a live string duet (violin and cello) that played everything from “Swan Lake” to “America the Beautiful.” After ordering drinks we were presented with a menu that boasted options from lamb stuffed ravioli to chicken scaloppini with mushrooms.

We started with bruchetta that melted my senses. I followed that by a rather risky choice: Cesar salad. This was a risky choice because one should never ever have salad in Delhi unless you want to become sick several hours later. It was worth the risk. From there we moved on to a lamb bolognaise for me and a woodfire pizza for Hubby. Again the chef had achieved the impossible: I forgot I was in Delhi and merely wanted to continue my sublime decent into culinary bliss. Dessert was nothing less than a dream of dark and white chocolate.

Pink is the new black. Vodka is the new cider. Delhi is the new DC. And Tonino is the new ‘Zicco!

Baby Corn is Stupid

Yeah, I said it! Its stupid and serves no real purpose. Corn should be big. I should want to slather butter and salt on it and munch away. I should require little pointy things (also shaped like corn) to stick in the sides because its too hot and yummy to eat properly with my hands. It should not come in mini form!

Can you tell I’ve been holding this in for a while?

Here’s the thing; everything here comes with baby corn. Lest you think I’m exaggerating I have perused some menus for proof: pizza with baby corn, veggie pad thai with baby corn, paneer pizza (a gross thought in and of itself) with baby corn, peas pulau rice with baby corn. It’s freaking everywhere!

Hubby keeps saying he’s going to order a bc pizza one of these days just go get my goat. That will be the same night that tall, blonde and cute sleeps on the couch. (The guest room is for people I *like*.)

So join me, loyal readers, in boycotting baby corn. Unite with me and eradicate this blight upon humanity known as baby corn.

The Joys of Delivery

You may or may not have heard that Hubby and I still have no gas with which to cook. Part of that same rumor is that we’ve been eating out more than any two people on a fixed income should. I am neither confirming nor denying these rumors. Instead I am going to tell you about my newest friends: the delivery boys.

The Dominos guy is really nice and always arrives within 30 minutes of my phone call to his bosses. He brings me yummy pizza and sometimes throws in a free 500ml of coke to make me happy. (OK there was a deal for that at the time, but he handed them over and that makes him my Hero.)

The Chinese and Indian delivery food guys are always very fast. They also bring food that gives Hubby the trots. For some reason we keep calling them. We’re not normal. Or sane or that matter.

The new delivery guy in our lives is the McDonald’s boy. We had McD’s delivered last night for the first time. I had an American style McChicken that was quite yummy. The French fries weren’t hot any more but were still really good and tasted like home. Hubby had a McAloo burger - plain. McAloo is basically a potato samosa and tastes surprisingly good. I should note that for our two burger-like sandwiches, two large fries and 2 500ml cokes we paid $4.50 including tip for the delivery guy.

We can’t order Big Macs here but they have some weird chicken thing that looks like a Mac. I’m too scared to try but you’re welcome to it when you visit. There’s also this super freaky chicken curry in a puff pastry that looks NASTY! No, seriously it looks super freak nasty. Just say no.

McDonald’s delivery guy will soon be part of our delivery boy family that visits every week. Now if only there was a liqueur delivery boy life then would be good…

Happy BDay, A!!

Happy Birthday to my big brother!!

You’re old. I’m not.

Have a great one!

Battle of the Blog

I woke up rather early this morning due to the evilly itchy swarm of mosquito bites on my feet and ankles. I plodded downstairs to sit in the living room with Hubby and watch Monday Night Football on ESPN. He sipped his Tim Horton’s coffee and I nursed my Tim Horton’s hot chocolate. If the ads on TV hadn’t been in Hindi (and the fact that it was Tuesday) we could have been in any city in the US. That’s when it happened.

Hubby was reading his email and noted that our friend C from Illinois had written. I happen to love C and was eager to hear what he had to say. Turns out that our *former* friend thought that I had competition in the India blog department. To that end he provided a link to a Washington Post journalist’s diary about her current trip to India.

I’ve read the blog: it sucks. I encourage you to read this woman’s insanity and come to the same conclusion as I did. Or you can just trust my opinion and decide that she’s a raving lunatic because I said so. I personally recommend the latter option.

This woman’s insanity began with her very first entry, which mentioned that there are no microwaves to be had here and that you can’t get Pringles in any of the shops. An odd assertion since Hubby’s tube of regular flavor Pringles are sitting atop our microwave.

In another entry she observes how expensive Delhi is. Is she in Delhi, Ontario? She recounts an experience buying a shirt in a Delhi mall for $30. Why the devil is she paying that much when she could go down to Connaught Place and get the exact same shirt for under $10. Assuming she can bargain even slightly she should pay half that.

Loco Lady also discusses how she felt bad for the beggars and gave them money and food. She gave a cookie and fifty cents to the people at one traffic light. If I gave even that little to every beggar who scraped at my window as I drove each day I would easily spend over $100 each month. Easily.

She wrote about the demise of people getting together at a person’s house for drinks before going out. To this assertion I can only apologize to the people at the Duke’s house who got together for one (or four) drinks on Saturday night before the football party.

Also mentioned was how she paid an incredibly high cover charge to drink imported beer at a local club. First off there are so very many bars and clubs in Delhi that don’t charge a cover that to pay one is fairly ridiculous. Then we have paying $7 to drink Corona. Why would anybody drink Corona? That’s really the biggest issue at stake. Not to mention that my frou-frou drinks don’t cost anywhere near that and they taste good - unlike the Corona.

After evaluating Crazy Lady’s blog I have been forced to forgive C in Illinois. He obviously thought that her ramblings were comedy and was merely encouraging me to add more humor to my own daily thoughts. I'll work on it just for you, C. =)

It’s Update Time Again

Number of orders I have placed on Amazon to be shipped here: 1

Approximate number of days until the Amazon order arrives: 35

Mosquito update: Can’t update this right now: too busy itching my legs, ankles, feet, toes and fingers. I loathe mosquitoes.

Maid count: We’re still on number three and she’s amazing!

Driver count: Due to several issues including drinking on the job and failing to show up for work we just had to let #3 go. Hopefully we can hire number four soon.

Brave moments in Typ0 history: I not only took a tuk-tuk all by my self I even socialized with women I didn’t know and was vaguely pleasant to them.

Favorite Beverage: Hubby invented Fantica for my alcoholic pleasure. It is 1 part vodka to 3 parts orange Fanta. Yummm! (Please did you think I’d actually list a drink not containing alcohol?!)

Number of times we’ve cooked in our lovely kitchen: Next question please!

Amount of time spent at Jelabi store: They put something addictive in them. It’s totally not my fault!

A word to the wise: If you see a pink elephant in a room. Don’t mention it. No seriously, have more couth than your favorite blogger (moi!) and don’t mention the elephant in the room! I’m sorry, Buddy. =(

I thought the Geneva Convention prohibited this: “Becker” is on TV tonight.

The Break In

Yesterday I had a bit of a fright. I also had a bit of a break in here at the apartment while I was at home. Before you start freaking out and calling, I’m Ok and it may not have been quite as bad as I first feared.

I was sitting on the couch watching an all-new “Smallville” from season two. All of a sudden I heard the big, heavy main door downstairs slam shut. The door cannot be closed quietly and always slams. Normally it’s a nice happy noise that tells me that Hubby is home. But it was ten in the morning and Hubby was at a conference downtown. This was not a happy noise.

I inched toward the first floor door to see if had imaged the sound. Nope, not my imagination or a hangover: I heard voices on the other side of what now seemed like a rather flimsy wooden door. I heard them pass my door and head toward the second floor. Since our apartment is on both floors and we’re the only ones who live beyond the big, heavy door my worry factor started to rise.

I bravely (read: stupidly) threw the door open and called out, “Who are you and what are you doing here?” They held up some tools and talked to me in Hindi. “I don’t understand you. English! What are you doing here?”

I did need some work done upstairs but hadn’t yet called the landlord to advise him. I knew that Hubby hadn’t called Sharma, which meant that Sharma hadn’t sent these two men. Worse than that, they had keys to my apartment and could get in again whenever they chose.

I pressed into the hallway and repeated my questions, “Who are you? How did you get in here?” They pointed down the stairs at the front door and repeated something in Hindi again. “I don’t understand you. Please, how did you get in? You didn’t ring the doorbell!”

I think I must have been more intimidating to them than I thought because as they continued to blather on in Hindi they scampered down the hall and left. The fact that they knew how to maneuver our complicated lock mechanism downstairs was telling in and of itself. But at least they were gone.

I immediately called Sharma, the landlord’s Guy Friday, and told him what happened. “Who else has keys to my apartment?” I questioned in a vaguely hysterical voice.

Sharma is a stand up guy: he told me to sit tight and he was at my door in nothing flat. Like a police investigator, he had me walk him through what happened pausing only to have me clarify certain points. He asked me to describe the two men which actually led to the first funny moment of the ordeal when I tried to describe their age and build by comparing them to Sharma and his assistant. Luckily they were amused by my attempts not to offend and played along. It was really rather amusing.

Having summed up the salient points, Sharma turned to his assistant and declared that a new lock would be installed right away. He also arranged for temporary security measures while we waited for the new lock to be installed.

Before he left, Sharma also took care of the smaller issues I had around the house. He gently berated me for not bringing a few of them to his attention stating that whenever we needed help we were to ring him immediately. Handing me a schedule of when the maintenance issues would be handled he left promising that he would do everything in his power to make sure that we never had a “break in” again.

A few hours later, the bell rang again. I looked out the window to confirm who was there. Seeing Sharma wave at me I padded down the stairs to let him in. Like the detective I had mentally accused him of being, he flipped open a small notebook and smiled. “I found out what happened.”

It turns out that they were former servants who were scheduled to come in and change the filters every few months. Sharma then handed over the keys that these alleged former servants had used to get in the apartment. He assured me that the situation had been dealt with and that the gentlemen would never, ever be back.

So as you see, I only *kind* of had a break in.

Almost Like Real Adults

Hubby and I now have curtains in our apartment. (Pause for gasps and cheers.) This has been a rather momentous occasion on several fronts. First of all we haven’t had any blinds, curtains or window coverings at all since we moved in over two months ago. Oops! Secondly, it’s the first time we’ve ever had to buy curtains.

Being apartment dwellers, our previous homes always came equipped with ugly plastic blind things for all the windows. We could have bought curtains to cover the ugly blinds but that would have taken way too much effort. (And I think that we all know that Mr. and Mrs. Typ0 are *not8 into effort.) So when we finally plopped ourselves down here in Delhi and realized that our home away from civilization had no curtains we panicked. Quite a bit.

After two months of dithering, Hubby and I set out for GK1 M block two weeks ago. We quickly discovered that the store we had been recommended to was not in M block and not within walking distance. D’oh!

Then last Tuesday we had the driver take us to GK1 N block. FabIndia has not one, not two but FOUR shops located on N block. (One of which was the former home of my good deed outfit from last week’s blog.)

We headed into the storefront closest to the car and had our first, temporary Eureka moment: they had curtains! They had really nice, prefab curtains even. Unfortunately, we have really weirdly shaped windows and needed custom blinds. We bought a few curtains for the bedroom and asked about getting some custom-made; we were told that they didn’t do that. Damn, that means that our friends all lied to us! *sob*

We decided to continue shopping and eventually found the third FabIndia, which was devoted to custom-made blinds. (We love you friends who told us about FI!) ARRGH! They couldn’t have told us about #3 when we were at the last place?! We eventually found this really nice fabric that is either cotton or silk (we thought the former, the latter was written on the bill) and were off to the races.

The guy in charge stopped by the apartment the next day for measurements and to convince us that we didn’t want curtains but rather deeply desired roman blinds. Less than a week after I paid for the material I had them installed!

On the downside the installation guys are so messy it would have taken me forever to clean up. Every workman we’ve ever had in here has been messy. And they *never* clean up after themselves. However, I decided to finally grow a spine and insisted that they clean up before they left. Go me!

The roman blinds look really good and are all fully lined so they hang quite nicely. And as an added bonus nobody can peek in our windows anymore. =)

Here’s the thing though: Since arriving in Delhi we’ve arranged for and purchased custom furniture and blinds. We even have people who rely on us for their own well-being and livelihood. It’s almost like we’re mature adults. Almost, but not quite! =p

The UC Davis of South Asia

Special Guest Blogger: Hubby

Well, I’m being forced to guest blog. Not a bad thing, really, though I’m not sure I’ll bring the same wit to this page. Let’s see what I can conjure up …

So I spent five days in Pakistan this past week. I wasn’t there on earthquake relief. In fact, I might have been the only person at my hotel that wasn’t involved with the relief effort. As an aside, I do encourage everyone to contribute to those efforts – it’s a real tough situation right now for such a wonderful, if often misunderstood, place.

There aren’t that many signs of the quake in Islamabad, other than the tower that collapsed and all of the relief workers there. Oh, and the really big ol’ crack in the wall of my hotel room. Yikes.

Pakistan definitely gets a bum rap in the press. Now, granted, I saw two places (Islamabad and Lahore) and was there for only a few days, but what I saw I really liked. Islamabad is extremely nice. And when I say nice, I sincerely mean that it is a really pleasant place. Islamabad is a planned capital (think Canberra if you’ve ever been to Australia, in terms of the layout of the government buildings) and the diplomatic/government areas (and surrounding suburbs) could be right out of the Central Valley of Northern California, assuming of course you took away the signs in Urdu and the dudes in long robes walking around. The biggest contrast to Delhi is how ordered it is. Traffic generally stays in its lane (!!), roads are large and spacious, parking lots organized and paved, no livestock on the roads, etc. etc. It’s almost like a university campus, like UC Davis or UC Riverside, and is simply more livable than Delhi. Even Rawalpindi, the twin city adjacent to Islamabad that is much less modern, is still better organized and cleaner than comparable parts of Delhi.

Now, I’m not sure how much there is to do for nightlife compared to Delhi, but that aside I liked it. A lot.

Lahore is bigger and crazier and there are definitely elements of Delhi there. The three-wheelers (go back to the traffic blog and see the pictures) are even dumpier than those in Delhi and appear as though they could fall apart at any minute. But the nice parts of Lahore look like Modesto – trees, order, malls … you really could be in California. And the traffic police there do NOT mess around. I was at a stoplight in a taxi and some guy on a motorcycle was weaving in and out of traffic to get to the front of the line. Well, the traffic cop had a word with him and seemed to tell him to queue up with the rest of the motorcycles in the left lane. But, I guess there was some polite disagreement to which the cop pulled him aside and proceeded to give him a ticket. Messing with police in Pakistan: bad idea

The people are quite friendly as well, extremely hospitable and generous with their time. I can’t really explain it, but I just get a different vibe there than I do here. That’s probably something to delve into for another time once we’ve been here longer.

Words of wisdom: if you take Pakistan International Airlines and are over 6 feet tall, ASK FOR A SEAT WITH LEGROOM. For whatever reason, the seats do not have the same amount of space between them. In the four flights I was on (2 there, 2 back), I sat in rows 25 (first row of economy – they start the rows at 21 in business. Why that is, I don’t know), 26, 27, and 41 (41 coming after 27… why that is, again beats me). Row 41 is an exit row… a good thing. Likewise, row 25 is the first row of economy and a bulkhead row. Rows 26 and 27 in theory should be standard economy rows. But they aren’t – row 26 is reasonable and like most economy seats, but in row 27, my knees were actually touching the tray in front of me. Not cool.

Other benefits of Pakistan: better cable (Sky News, Fox News), the availability of beef (!!), even cheaper than India…

Weird things: getting beer at the hotel. Pakistan is a Muslim country so naturally there are sensitivities there. I’m down with that. Now, you can get beer at the hotel I stayed at, but you had to dial a special number and order from a list that they had in the hotel room. On Saturday, I decided to give it a try. I thought it would be some really seedy speakeasy type ordeal, but basically, you call and they come in 5 minutes to bring your beer. Only before you get your beer, you have to fill out a 15-line form (!!) that asks for your personal information, father’s name (??), religion, etc. It was somewhat anticlimactic but had to be experienced. And the beer, brewed in Pakistan (!!), wasn’t half bad.

A Memory of Home

I’m sitting in the living room of our apartment. Framed photos that L, Hubby’s father, took adorn a wall to my right. The shelves in front of me are filled with photos, books and DVDs that tell the tales of our married life. The couch on which I am strewn is covered with the blanket I gave Hubby as a gift for our first Christmas.

All around me there are mementos. An interesting word that: mementos. Items, photos, books and the like that mark those special moments in our lives that we want to remember. Moments we want to savor again and again.

A photo of a look passed between two souls finally united in marriage. A teddy bear that brings a feeling of home and security no matter where in the world you find yourself. A cookbook that opens to a favorite recipe without any coaching.

I wander through our new apartment seeking comfort from the familiar in this alien environment. The smell of fresh Jelabi from Khan wafts teasingly through the air as I approach the kitchen. I move the clock on the shelf an inch to the left: my own personal Oscar Award. I straighten the framed needlepoint cat that my grandmother made. I climb the stairs and notice the gifts that Hubby gave me last night: new memories to enjoy on future cold nights.

I realize suddenly why I am no longer homesick.

DC. The Midwest. New Delhi. An apartment in a random city doesn’t make a home. The memories do. Welcome home, Typ0.

Where is my Fairy Godmother?!

I’m sorry but Cinderella had it easy. Spend the entire day of the ball working your fingers to the bone? No problem! With a wave of her magical wand and you instantly have great hair, an awesome dress and look like million bucks. That is so not realistic.

Ball preparation number one: smooth skin. Not as easy as it sounds since despite having $50 worth of Venus blades I had no razor. Yup, you read it right: my razor went missing. There I was looking… Well, I won’t describe how I looked since some of you may be eating and I don’t want to put you off your food. Suffice it to say that I needed a razor; badly. I was also not going to settle for a non-Venus razor since I had a 10 year supply of Venus blades sitting in the bathroom.

Except that nobody around here seems to need razors! Every store I went into sold only men’s razors. Do I look a man?! I have breasts dammit! (Sorry, Mum.) Then inspiration hit: the people who make my razor also make the Mock Three. There is no way that they would bother with making the connector thing for the two razors different… I hoped. So I picked up a Boy Razor and headed home.

It’s red, wicked heavy compared to my Girly Razor and doesn’t fit snugly into its holder. But, my Girl Blades fit!!! Yay! I now had the means to start looking like a girl again.

Ball preparation number two: people are supposed to have two eyebrows. I used to do this myself with an at-home kit but last year during one of Hubby’s many business trips I realized that I wanted to pamper myself. Pamper myself by paying somebody to cause me pain and rip out my eyebrow and lip hair by the root using hot wax. Damn but we women are crazy!

Professionals, despite the cost, do a way better job than I ever did. So here is the cost break down for those of you who are curious (those who aren’t can pretend to, after all it’s my blog): in the Midwest I paid $12 plus a $5 tip. In DC I paid anywhere from $34-$50 plus tip. I should note that the more expensive the place the better job they did. No, seriously, it was worth it!

So needing to have two eyebrows, I decided to stop into a place I noticed in Khan Market a few weeks ago. (Khan Market, of course, is Hindi for Gouge the Expat.) The nice store lady said they didn't do it but recommended me to a place a few shops down.

So I got to the new place, which was up these unlit, dingy stairs. I didn't feel too many warm and fuzzies as I walked in and saw that the lighting and dinginess didn't get much better inside. I decided to buck up and go through with it anyways because of the ball.

She did my lip and actually followed my instructions on my eyebrows and didn't Spock them. The cost: 56 Indian Rupees. That's about a dollar and a half. Oh yeah baby! It would be more expensive for me to do it at home than to go to this lady. India occasionally rocks!

Ball preparation number three: picking the shoes. Obviously, the comfy and practical pair were the first to be discarded. Now it’s between super cute but uncomfy shoes; summery and questionable comfy shoes; and semi practical and semi cute. Who am I kidding?! Obviously the super hot/super uncomfy ones are going to win… Probably…

Ball preparation number zillion: I still need to figure out how I want my hair. I need to steam out my dress. Pack my going out purse. Find one pair of damn stockings that don’t have a run in them! (Would fishnets be inappropriate?) Finish my face moisturizing steps (I’m on number three right now). Change my mind about my shoes for the fifth time. There is so much to do!!

I should note that Prince Hubby Charming won’t be my escort tonight. =( Duke Charming as kindly stepped in as a favour. Thank you, Duke!

Oh my god! What am I doing writing this when I should be getting ready and changing my mind about shoes again! I need a fairy godmother!!!

Typ0 the Humanitarian

Remember yesterday’s blog where I vehemently denied being a shopaholic? I recounted my love of window-shopping over spending actual money. I won’t recap the whole thing, you can scroll down and read it yourself, if you so choose.

Well, Here’s the problem: whenever Hubby goes out of town I get bored. I like to see real people and maybe accidentally hand over my credit card a few times. Accidentally against my will.

Here’s the scenario: I had to go and pay for the material to make our curtains. After not having any for two months this was an important outlay of cash. Here’s where the accidental stuff started happening.

Next to the curtain shop was a path that lead across the street. That lead to a walk way filled with stores with shiny things in their windows. The walkway eventually lead me to a shop with really cute outfits. Jostled to one side by a passerby I stumbled up the four steps, past the security guard and through the glass doors of this shop. Once there I knew that I had to be polite and look around and what they were selling. It is the polite thing to do, you know!

That’s when I saw this really cute full-length skirt and matching scarf just sitting there on shelves nowhere near each other. The skirt and scarf were family that had been separated by the cruel shopkeeper and wanted to be brought together again. So picking those up was really a humanitarian issue. The UNHCR (or some such group) would have been proud of my selflessness.

I tried on the really cute skirt, which flowed so nicely as I twirled in front of the full-length mirror. That’s when I saw this yellow silk top sitting on a table looking all forlorn and unloved. Somebody had discarded it as if it were less than nothing. *sniff* The fact that the shirt matched the skirt perfectly and actually fit me was merely an added bonus. I just wanted to give the well-priced shirt a good home and a family to love. I wasn’t shopping I was doing good deeds.

You can see how this totally wasn’t my fault, can’t you? Because I may need help defending myself later when Hubby reads this blog or comes home and notices clothes in the wardrobe he doesn’t recognize. So please remember to tell him about the value of a good deed should he ask your opinion about the most effective way to hurt my credit cards with scissors.

The Best Movie Ever

Here's an ode to that slut Fiona:

Hey!!!!!!

Scotty doesn't know,
That Fionna and me,
Do it in my van every Sunday.

She tells him shes in church,
But she doesn't go,
Still shes on her knees, and...

Scotty doens't know, oh.
Scotty doesn't know-oh.
So don't tell Scotty!
Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know.
SO DON'T TELL SCOTTY!

Fionna says shes out shopping,
But shes under me and I'm not stopping.

Cuz Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know.
So don't tell Scotty.
Scotty doesn't knoooooow....
DON'T TELL SCOTTY!

I can't believe he's so trusting,
While I'm right behind you thrusting.

Fionna's got him on the phone,
and she's trying not to moan.
It's a three way call,
and he knows nothing.
NOTHING!!!

Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know,
Don't tell Scotty.
Cuz Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't knoooooow....
SO DON'T TELL SCOTTY!

We'll put on a show, everyone will go.
Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't knoooooow....

The, parking lot, why not?
It's so cool when you're on top.
His front lawn, in the snow.
Laughing so hard, cuz...

Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know.

I did her on his birthday.

Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know,
Scotty doesn't know,
Don't tell Scotty.
Scotty doesn't knoooooow....

Scotty will know,
Scotty has to know,
Scotty's gotta know,
Gonna tell Scotty,
Gonna tell him myself.

Scotty has to know,
Scotty has to know,
Scotty has to,
Scotty has to,
Scotty has to go!

Scotty doesn't know,
(Don't tell Scotty)
Scotty doesn't know,
(Don't tell Scotty)
Scotty doesn't know...
Scotty's gotta go!

The Fun of Not Shopping

As you all know one of my favourite hobbies is shopping. Despite what Hubby may have told you I do not spend all time at the mall. Nor do I “spend the GDP of a small developing nation” on those occasions when the mall and I run into each other. I happen to enjoy the challenge of shopping: finding the perfect top (then the skirt, shoes and accessories to match it) at a good price.

I still remember the day I was introduced to the concept of Internet shopping: specifically Amazon.com shopping. A place to find hard to find books and have them dropped off on my doorstep. What could be better? My favourite use of it was as a book rating system. I would go to the bookstore and call my friend E; I would peruse the shelves in person and she would peruse the reviews online. A perfect symbiosis of technology and manpower if I do say so myself.

India, which we all know means evil-Typ0-hater, makes being literate more difficult. All the bookstores here have books for boring people like Hubby: there is not a single good trashy romance to be found anywhere. I have railed at the Literacy Gods several times about this lack. “Why teach me to read if you were going to remove my access to good literature?” (Please no comments from the Peanut Gallery about my choice of reading material and the word literature. You’re not funny and you’re probably already told it to me in person. It wasn’t funny then and it isn’t funny now.)

Which brings us back to Amazon. Shipping costs are such that Hubby will only let me place an order every two months or so. To my way of thinking that means that I need to find two months worth of books each time I order.

Welcome to my new favourite hobby: window-shopping on Amazon. I spend hours each day reading reviews and looking up authors and DVDs. When I find a really good one (the new Sherrilyn Kenyon or Titanic DVD) I drop it into my “Wish List” for consideration at a later date. Ok, it also gives Hubby a chance to go through and delete choices he thinks are stupid: which is to say 90% of what I put into there.

It makes Hubby happy because I’m not spending money, I’m just day dreaming about spending money. *happy sigh*

I’m not actually shopping: I’m pre-shopping. This Internet gizmo sure is cool!

It's not that bad

Life sucks.
Hubby is out of town.
I didn’t get quiche for dinner.
"Becker" is on.
Life sucks.

Life is getting better.
Fantica is a yummy beverage.
Microwave popcorn is also yummy.
“Becker" will be over soon.
Life is getting better.

Canadian Thanksgiving?

Several people have asked me over the years why Canucks celebrate Thanksgiving. Turkey Day, I realized once I moved south of 49, is a uniquely American tradition devoted to family, turkey and football (not necessarily in that order). Any traditions I had prior to moving to the States must have misplaced because they weren't American. After all, Canadians are weird creatures who arranged for a long weekend rather than a day off in the middle of the darned week. (Sorry, I had to get that out.)

I should note here that I will be attending the Canadian High Commission's Annual Thanksgiving Day Ball this coming Saturday. Nyeh! Nyeh!

One of the brilliant ladies from my bulletin board, Gina, posted this information and permitted me to copy it for your enjoyment. What is Canadian Thanksgiving? Read and learn:

Actually, Canadians have been celebrating Thanksgiving longer than the people of the United States...

Canadian Thanksgiving is celebrated on the 2nd Monday of October. This year Thanksgiving fell on Monday, October 10, 2005.

Thanksgiving in Canada has generally thought to come from three traditions.

European farmers in Europe held celebrations at harvest time to give thanks for their good fortune of a good harvest and abundance of food. They would often fill a curved goat's horn with fruits and grains. This was known as a cornucopia or horn of good plenty. When Europeans came to Canada it is thought to have become an influence on the Canadian Thanksgiving tradition.

Around 1578 English navigator Martin Frobisher held a ceremony, in what is now called the province of Newfoundland to give thanks for surviving his journey there, thus celebrating the first Thanksgiving in North America. Other settlers later arrived and continued these "thankful" ceremonies. This was also thought to be an influence on the Canadian Thanksgiving tradition.

The third influence happened in 1621 in what was to become the United States. Pilgrims celebrated their first harvest in the "New World". Around 1750 this celebration of harvest was brought to Nova Scotia by American settlers from the south. At the same time, French settlers arriving were also holding feasts of "thanksgiving". These celebrations and offerings of "Thanks" influenced the Canadian Thanksgiving.

In 1879 Canadian Parliament declared November 6th a day of Thanksgiving and a national holiday. Over the years the date of Thanksgiving changed several times until on January 31st, 1957 Parliament proclaimed "that the 2nd Monday in October… be a Day of General Thanksgiving to Almighty God for the bountiful harvest with which Canada has been blessed.”

In the United States, Thanksgiving is celebrated on the 4th Thursday of November according to a declaration by President Abraham Lincoln in 1863. If you think about it this does make sense - since in Canada we have a shorter growing season and our harvest is sooner then in the US - our Thanksgiving celebrations should be earlier to celebrate the harvest time.

Happy Canuckian Thanksgiving

I hope that you all had an enjoyable Canadian Turkey Day! Hubby spent this important holiday at work preparing for his business trip. I spent the day attempting to find the end of the internet. (I'm almost there!)

It Wasn't a Hangover After All

When I awoke Saturday morning the warm sun was shining overly bright through patio doors in my bedroom. The duvet was pulled up over my shoulders as I snuggled back into my pillows. The small part of my brain that was awake noticed that Hubby forgot to turn the AC off when he woke up and that the fan was on too high. That’s when I noticed that the bed was shaking.

Don’t get me wrong; we’re not talking about Lake Ontario during a squall shaking. It rather reminiscent of what I imagined a waterbed would feel like. I wasn’t terribly impressed with the motion of my temporary ocean.

My first thought was that I was more hung-over from the night before than would be normally expected. I dismissed this thought quickly as I realized that as my father’s daughter it would take far more than 4 drinks to do me in. (I’m sure my parents must be so proud… Or something.) My next thought was that the Indian mover-guys who reconstructed my bed did a slightly less than impressive job. As soon as I confirmed that the bed really was wobbly, I buzzed for Hubby.

I heard him mumble something from downstairs and waited for him to bound up the stairs to my rescue. And waited. And waited. And waited. Frustrated by my impending seasickness I buzzed him again. (Yup, an actual buzzer is built in next to the bed in order to beckon people located on the main floor. Convenient for lazy but extremely cute Typ0s like myself.) I heard more mumbling from the living room and continued to wait.

The shaking stopped as suddenly as it had begun. A moment later, Hubby appeared in the doorway and informed me that I had just lived through my first earthquake. I quickly realized that meant that the gentle shaking I felt wasn’t a hangover or shoddy Indian workmanship. I digested these facts for a few moments, snuggling Fuzz tightly while Hubby looked on from the doorway.

All of a sudden I shot up straight, a fearful look on my face, “Is the crystal OK?”

I knew that you were all worried about Hubby and I. (Just nod and pretend, OK?!) Yes, I survived my first earthquake in India. And more importantly, so did the Waterford.

Honk! Honk!

India is a fairly busy place as you may or may not have heard. The easiest way to get around Delhi; I'm afraid, is to drive on the scary, scary streets. To drive (or even to be a passenger) is to take your life in your own hands and hope for the best.


Shortly after arriving I made the comment that driving in Delhi was proof of Darwin's theory: survival of the fittest. My cousin's husband corrected me and pointed out that it was really "survival of the craziest." He is a very wise man. It is no small coincidence that the only person in the Blogger Bitch family who has been crazy enough to drive is Hubby. I'm strictly a backseat kind of gal. Hmmm that didn't sound quite the way I intended. Oh well.

If you only had to battle other cars it wouldn't be (much) of a problem to drive. Unfortunately the car to everything else ratio is frightening. Here is a mental picture for you: one car, one bus that knows it owns the road, 4 tuk-tuks that move more slowly than the 8 bikes and finally 15 motorbikes. These vehicles aren't spread out over a mile or two, but rather the square foot that makes up your half a lane of space.


A unique safety device here in India the car horn. On a good day, the driver will sound his horn about three times every five minutes. (For those of you in Delhi thinking, "Only three!?" please remember that I said it was a good day.) Many people's side view mirrors are broken or completely missing but their car horns work perfectly. If the light just turned green and you're 5th in line to move, no problem: honk your horn! Want to change lanes and know that an indicator will be ignored, no problem: honk your horn!

Driving in Delhi is an adventure for the ages... or something.

Blog India: The Update Edition

Current Number of Mosquito Bites: Let’s see, we have a grouping of 3 or 4 on my left foot and one each on the ankle and 2nd toe of the same. On my right foot there is a tiny one right next to the cuticle of my big toe that is incredibly itchy. The sad thing is that y’all thing I’m exaggerating and I haven’t even started in the ones on my hands or arms.

Job to Stop Procrastinating: Putting mosquito repellent in my purse.

Moral of the Mosquito Story: When you’re out with friends, drinking beer next to a group of bushes and trees, and one of them offers you their mosquito repellent, don’t be polite and refuse. Take the darn stuff, spray it everywhere (don’t forget your feet!) and thank her. Itching all night is not fun, especially when the cortisone crème is downstairs.

Random Masters of the Universe Sighting of the Day: I happen to think its cool that Bush knows Skeletor personally.

Status of Unpacking: Why the freak did we bring so much stuff?!

Number of Times We’ve Cooked at Home: Does microwave popcorn count?

Number of Take-Out Menus Gathered and Used: Let’s just say that several of the delivery guys know us by sight on the street.

Weight Loss: Typ0 has lost between 10 and 15 pounds during the last month. Sadly, the only way to tell this was to find a battery for the scale. Long live the India diet!

Weight Gain: Buddha Belly Hubby has gained between 5-10 pounds during the last month. Because life is unfair, this too is completely unnoticeable to anybody except Hubby who has weighed himself about a dozen times in the last 24 hours to see if he has lost any weight.

Attrition Rate: Maid number two was asked not to return after yesterday. (She smelled. Ewww!) Maid number three starts today! We are still on driver number two and he seems to be working out very nicely.

Bad News: Our cable went out for about 30 minutes or so last night.

Good News: “Becker” was on at the time.

Unpacking Elves Apply Within

Anybody who knows me (and since you’re reading this blog I’m assuming you’ve at least heard of me) knows that I’m not one for unpacking. I’ve been known to leave things in suitcases for a week after returning from a trip. I normally wait until Hubby gets frustrated enough at me to either yell at me or, in a more devious and likely event, do it for me. Sadly, with him working and me... not working, I have to unpack everything myself. Darn it!

That brings us to what normally happens when I do finally get around to unpacking: it takes me forever because everything has to be perfect. I will stare at a shelf for an hour swapping photos and frame angles until I’m positive that every single item looks exactly as it should. Unfortunately, that means that most of our things are still sitting on tables, in boxes and strewn hither and thither throughout the apartment.

Meanwhile, Hubby has been stewing that I haven’t done a thing to clean up the (my) mess. Couldn't he see that I had been alphabetizing my trashy romances, arranging the cookbooks according to genre and selecting the perfect knickknack to anchor the shelf of diet cookbooks. (It turned out to be the hand carved mortar and pestle my brother gave me for Christmas a few years ago. Cooking... Diets... Mortar and Pestle... Perfect, huh?!) Besides, there was an all-new episode of "A-Team" on during lunch so I had to take a break to find out how Murdoch was going to irritate B.A. this week.

This brings us to my current problem: I still have so much junk to unpack!! *sob* I don’t have enough drawer space for my socks. Will Hubby notice if I dumped his t-shirts on the floor so that I can lay claim to that shelf for my own purposes? What photo should be put in the elephant dung frame? Does the china cabinet look too cluttered with its current arrangement of crystal?! There are simply too many issues to be dealt with and nobody saw fit to bequeath me with magical powers to do the work for me. (How rude!)

So if you've been thinking of flying in and paying us a visit you can either come in 2 years when I've finally put everything away. Or you can stop by in the next week or two and put it all away for me. =) See y'all soon!

Half Past the Hour in Newfoundland

Growing up in Canada whenever announcers on TV would give the times for upcoming programs they would always tack on, "And at half past the hour in Newfoundland." For those of you who don't know Newfoundland has its own time zone that Canuckians call Newfie time. The weird thing about the time zone is that it’s only a half hour off of Atlantic Time. I always assumed that Newfoundland was the only place weird enough to do that. I was wrong.

India has its own half hour time zone for the entire country. I'm probably wrong, but i seem to remember Hubby explaining that, quite literally, they just wanted to be different. I understand wanting to be different from the norm, after all I have been told that I'm quite different from normal people. I think that it was meant as a compliment... I think...

I never realized it prior to arriving in Delhi but I am someone who lives by their watch. I keep schedules, make plans, and show up early.. the whole kit and caboodle. Nothing in India is *ever* on time. It drives me nutty!!! ARRGH! Oh, so you think that I'm just being mean?! Bah! If its proof you want, its examples you'll get!

Shortly after our arrival in August Hubby and I purchased some furniture that needed to be delivered to the house. The furniture was supposed to be delivered to our empty apartment that Friday at noon. I naturally showed up a wee bit early just in case. Any guesses as to the time they showed up? 11 PM!!! ARRRGH!

Isolated incident you say?! Bah! This happens every time we want something done. Internet took three weeks to get even a call back and then an entire day and three teams of people to get installed. A plumber to fix the leak in our bathroom took two days to get looked at, then a week for somebody to show up to fix it! Our crate of things was "two weeks away" since mid-August. Getting the cable guy to install my TV took two weeks; and never showed up at the appointed times he told me he would.

Things that are on time: pizza delivery guy, Indian food delivery guy.. umm... Ok yeah that's about it.

Welcome to the new Newfie time.

Oh Happy Day!

I have wonderful news, everybody: our stuff has finally arrived! If you've been following my whinging... I mean blogs... Then you know that few things here ever go off quite as planned.

Hubby told me on Thursday evening that our crate was due to arrive at 9:00 a.m. Friday. Excited to finally have my own bed, books and DVDs so close to home, I cancelled my Friday plans. I woke up that morning eagerly awaiting the moment when the crate would arrive and be unpacked. I sat, quite literally on the edge of my seat as i watched TV and waited for the doorbell to ring. Nine o'clock passed. Eleven o'clock passed. Two o'clock passed. (Around this juncture, Hubby sent off a nasty email to the moving company telling them how upset he was at their inability to show up on time.) Two thirty passed.

Then, all of a sudden, the doorbell rang. Could it be? Is it possible? Yes! Yes! Yes! Still not willing to let late-gones be bygones, I quite sternly told the boss that I had plans that evening that I was not going to allow him to wreck. He had exactly two hours to unpack the crate and put everything in the appropriate rooms. A look of fear lit in his eyes so I relented and said that they could return the next morning to actually unpack the boxes themselves. (And y'all said I was a meanie.)

What followed was as much fun as Christmas Eve at my parent's house. I couldn't actually unpack the boxes and had to guess as to their contents. Ok that one seems to have books in it, "Second floor office, please." DVD's?! "First floor living room." A lampshade? "Well, send that to the living room also." And so the afternoon went.

They actually would have finished on time, if not for our oh, so comfy mattresses and the giant Ikea wardrobe that the wonderful ACES guys built for us. I chose not to watch as they hoisted the these items all the way up to the balcony above our second floor, then back down to the terrace on the second floor, and into the side doors of our bedroom. Stout rope and a few guys that didn't look all that strong are all that were between my having a good night's sleep and the gross, bug filled, dirty pavement.

If unloading was Christmas Eve then unpacking was definitely Christmas morning. There were a few boxes of things that were packed that we really didn't need to have brought with us. (See lampshade comment above.) For the most part; however, each box held a new delight and happy surprise: snuggly Frogger who will soon find his new home in the guest room; family photos that still need to find their proper places and much more. We definitely brought too much stuff with us, but I'm glad to finally have my things around me.

On the depressing side, two things broke from the entire shipment. All my Waterford is fine. All my drinking glasses and dishes are fine. Sadly, the oil lamp my friend hand made for me as a wedding gift had its handle broken off. And, worst of all, my Jemima Puddleduck night-light was shattered beyond repair. *sniff* I've had this since i was a kid and had been thinking how nice it would be to give to our unconcieved daughter. Of all the things to get broken...

Even with all the delays (two months and six hours, but who's counting?) and scary moments (peeking at the wardrobe suspended 20 feet in the air was a huge mistake) I a’m happy to finally have all our things.

Tonight, instead of watching "Becker," we'll pop in a Xena DVD, order some pizza and make a night of it! Life is definitely Ok.